by Dan Newman
Smiley shifted again and moved his shoulder to a new position. “Tristan De Villiers was a very powerful man on dis island. An’ I believe dat de relationship he had with Rachael was a very controllin’ one—if he tell her do sometin’, I think she had to do it. Otherwise…” Smiley raised his hands and gazed around the beautiful room they sat in. “Where you think all dis dun come from? It just dat simple.”
“You’re saying Tristan forced her to invite Des and Pip out on the boat?”
Smiley nodded once. He could see Nate making the connections.
“So Tristan was on the boat, too?”
“Um hmm.”
Nate’s face lit up as in revelation. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Tristan was the other one, wasn’t he? The other person who died on the boat that day.” His mind ran instantly back to the envelope, to the obituary. The timing all made sense now.
Smiley confirmed what he was saying with a single nod.
“But what happened?” Nate continued. “What happened to Tristan on the boat?”
Smiley shook his head. “Some mysteries will always remain so. But if I guessin’, I say at some point Des and Pip see what happenin’ out dere on dat boat. Maybe dem fight back. I think something go wrong out dere with getting rid of de two of them. Something go wrong and no one come home dat day. Police find de the Spice Rack floatin’ free, ’bout four kilometers off Ans Couchon beach down the coast. Dey find Des’ body an hour later about a kilometer down current, and Pieter Prisnloo’s shortly after dat. Tristan’s body was never recovered—just one of his shoes floatin’ ’round out dere.”
Nate leaned back in the soft cushions and stared vacantly ahead of him. “Jesus Christ,” he said again, shaking his head lightly. Finally, “What about Pip and Des’s death? I didn’t see anything about that in the clippings you gave me.” Across from him, Rachael sniffled silently. Behind her folded limbs, she was weeping.
Smiley looked at her and then at Nate. “De Villiers family is a major force on de island: politically, economically, and physically. If dey decide sometin’ not gettin’ in de news, it not gettin’ in de news. The family hush everything up. There was no public acknowledgement of the other two deaths. Des’s mother had all her expenses quietly covered, and the coroner had Pip’s body on a plane home in a matter of hours. Accidental drownin’ listed as de cause of death.
“Influence, man. Power is all about influence. It goes back to the plantation days, but the family wealth and influence was cemented in the ’70s, when Vincent De Villiers struck a land deal with Hersh Oil—now a major refinery on de island—and negotiated a piece of de action on every barrel of crude dat is refined here. You see, there was all kinds of protest ’bout an oil refinery here, on an island whose beauty was her real treasure. People worried ’bout spills, damage to de beaches, de reefs. Without tourism dis island would struggle. But Vincent De Villiers owned a large tract of land jus’ south of Castries, an area with a natural deep-water harbor perfect for industrial development. And somehow—there were stories about payoffs and threats—somehow, it was all passed an’ approved and then Hersh builds that huge refinery you see der today. It made the family wealthy at a scale…well,” he said, raising his hands and eyes again to the ceiling, “look around you.
“And with de kind of finances dey have, Nate, comes influence. The influence dey have here is far, far reachin’. And before him disappear out der on the Spice Rack, Tristan was at de helm of the De Villiers fortune. He held no political office, but he made appointments at will. Barristers, judges, civil servants, de police—all were beholden to him in some way. If you listen to popular tales, you gwan hear he was dirty. Up to his neck in it. But no one dared touch ’im.
“Now with Rachael here, I believe he was reckless. I know some of de constables at de station and dey told me, unofficially of course, ’bout de calls, ’bout de beatings, de black eyes. But nuttin’ ever get dun ’bout dat. Now, I jus’ guessing here, but I think Rachael escaped for a while when she went to de US to do her medical degree. She was married still, but keeping a good distance from dis place.” He looked again at Rachael, baiting her, hoping she would join the conversation. She stayed silent, save the occasional sniffle.
Smiley continued. “She was gone almost six years, and when she came back she worked at de hospital in Castries. But a few black eyes and few years later, I think she said enough, an’ tried to divorce Tristan. And den, all of a sudden, her local medical license get revoked. No more hospital work. No more doctoring. Influence, you see?
“She got as far as a separation. The De Villiers influence made the divorce proceedings drag and drag—and I believe dat was more Vincent De Villiers’s doing than Tristan’s. Anyway, when everything happened out on the Spice Rack, court say Tristan must be gone seven years before he can be legally declared dead. In the meantime, she got dis house, some money, and some kind of ongoing maintenance. Alimony, stipend—sometin’ like dat—but I fear she living something of a hollow existence. She still a De Villiers, but livin’ outside of them. Das a special kind of hell, for sure.”
Nate stared at Smiley in astonishment. “Jeez,” was all he could say.
“And even after these years dun pass, with Tristan more than three years in de grave, she still can’t get her license back. She dun try three times at least: denied, denied, denied. Even in death Tristan still controllin’ her fate. Now, Rachael and I,” he began, speaking gently as if addressing a child, “we have had many a conversation over de last three years. Well, maybe conversation is too strong a word. I have spoken an’ she has listened to my theories. She has been very gracious with her time, never turning away de ramblings of dis sad little reporter from The Word. But so far, no confirmations.”
Finally, it was Rachael’s time to speak. She wiped her eyes and let down her wall of limbs. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, it’s true,” she said. “And I’ve always listened to you, Smiley. But I don’t want either of you to mistake my silence as weakness.” She stood and walked briskly to the bar, fetched three crystal tumblers and a bottle of Bowmore single malt Scotch. She poured three liberal belts and placed them on the table before the two men.
Rachael drank deeply, then fixed her eyes on Smiley. “I know exactly why you called me when you found out Nate was coming to the island. You thought I’d collapse, that I’d go all weak-kneed and woe-is-me, and come gushing to you with confessions. Well that’s not me.” She drank again, and curled around the tumbler like a cat in a basket. “But I am sorrowful. I didn’t cause intentional harm to anyone. I didn’t set out to lure those men into a trap. I just did what I had to do. I did what I was told.”
“So you really had no idea anything was going to happen to those men when you invited them onto the boat?” asked Nate.
Rachael’s eyes dipped and a shadow of sadness ran across her like a dark cloud. She drew a heavy breath, and then stifled the answer that was coming.
Nate pressed on. “And why the meeting on the boat, anyway? Why would Des and Pip get on the Spice Rack? What did you say to get them on board?”
Rachael sat silently and ran her finger around the shapes in the crystal. “Rachael,” said Smiley in a tone sincere as a sharply honed blade, “dis thing, dis thing has been hanging over you for three long years. An’ for sure you can run from it. And I do believe you had no understanding of what you were really doing when you asked those men onto de boat. But now Nate is here, and it all starting over again—plain to see for everyone. Including you. An’ Rachael, if something happen to him, to me, as it happen to Des and Pip, well, dat blood will be on your hands for sure.”
Another set of tears welled up and Rachael buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders were racked once, then twice, but she gave up little else.
“Dis thing on the road earlier today,” continued Smiley. “You know who dat was, Rachael. You know dat was de De Villiers’s people. Most surely Vincent.”
Rachael’s shoulders shook again, this time more deeply. She
looked up at the two men and mouthed the words I’m so sorry through streaming tears. She cried silently, and then, as if to exorcise a demon, she began to speak. “I didn’t know,” she said almost pleading. “At least not really. I didn’t know what would happen to them.” And then, almost whispering, “maybe I should have.”
Nate sipped at the scotch and pressed the cool glass against his forehead. The fever was boiling again. “You know, something happened here thirty-odd years ago that destroyed my father’s life. And it was my decision that did it. When we left here I clammed up, kept my mouth shut tight, and you know what? My father never pressed me. He asked, I didn’t tell, and he just hugged me and nodded. But after that there were consequences. I guess I never really realized they were all tied to me, to what I did back then, until this trip. He refused to explain what I’d done, what had happened, to his superiors, never explained why he left the island so abruptly, and his career as a diplomat flamed out. He took me off the island and away from all the craziness that was going on here. And if I had just made a different decision.”
Nate stood and walked from the room and out onto the pool deck. The sun was setting now, and it reminded him of that daily ritual, all those years ago in his youth, in the house on Vigie. On the clearest days everyone gathered on the balcony as the sun slipped down below the horizon, watching and waiting for the green flash. As the last part of the orange ball dipped below the watery curve of the earth, a brilliant green flash would hang suspended for a fraction of a moment and then disappear. His dad would say it was the sun winking the promise of a new tomorrow. Had he ever really seen it? As a kid, Nate swore up and down that he did, but the debate between the believers and the nay-sayers would rage on and on.
As the sun set now on the postcard-perfect vista before him, he watched for it again. He watched for that redemptive flash, that promise of a new tomorrow. But the sun, burning orange with a waning blue sky overhead, simply sank uneventfully beneath the crisp line of the horizon so very far away.
“So what now?” asked a voice behind him. It was Rachael. Night was coming on, and the gloaming was bordered perfectly by the glow of the pool lights, the swaying palms and a softly backlit horizon in hues of gold and orange.
“Well, I can’t fix all the disasters in my past, but I’ve been hanging on to something for too long now,” Nate said plainly. “I need to go to Ti Fenwe. I have to set something straight.”
Rachael was pensive, thoughtful. “There’s just Vincent up there now in that damn plantation house all by himself. You know he won’t see you. And Smiley’s probably right anyway—what happened on the road, the Obeah, and what happened to Des and Pip, it has to be the De Villiers. It’s Vincent. He’s ruthless. And he’s gotten worse over the last few years. The family’s net worth is incredible, yet Vincent insists on living up in that old house in the bush. The place is rotting, falling apart, but he rarely leaves. It’s like he’s a shut-in, but still pulling the damn family strings.” She drifted off for a moment, caught in some private, unpleasant memory. “I never liked that place. I never fitted into the family, and when I began the divorce proceedings Vincent was incensed. He blamed me for everything. I think he was even angrier about it all than Tristan.”
Nate turned and looked into her eyes. He reached instinctively for her, gently taking her face in his hands, and she offered no resistance.
“Miss Rachael,” came her housekeeper’s voice from the glass doorway. “As you requested—Ma Joop is here.”
In the living room, Smiley and Ma Joop were talking quietly and when she looked up and saw Nate, it seemed this time her expression was something closer to pity.
“Come,” she said to Nate calmly. “Le’ we do dis now.” Nate looked toward Rachael and she nodded in approval, and so he followed Ma Joop down a hall and into what seemed to be a study. The large woman in the floral pattern dress pulled a chair from a beautiful roll-top desk in the corner, placed it at the center of the room and waved him to it, and then left. Nate sat and looked around the room, and concluded it was indeed a study, but one that was rarely used. The shelves were lined with books, many of them medical texts, and on the wall was a series of degrees and awards, one of which was Rachael’s Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of Washington. Ma Joop returned holding a small tray. She smiled and set it down, and began lighting candles and placing them about the room.
Nate felt awkward, and in truth, a little apprehensive about questioning Ma Joop. But it had been an eventful few days already; why stop the excitement now? “So, what are we doing?” he asked hesitantly, trying to sound as polite as possible.
Ma Joop smiled and snorted like a parent amused by a child’s naive question. “Mr. Nate,” she said slowly as she lit another candle. “We jus’ gwan try save your eternal soul, is all.”
Nate wasn’t sure how to react to this news. Having his eternal soul saved was new territory—even on this trip. “Oh. So you’re a practitioner in… this?” he asked, turning his palms up.
Ma Joop took a deep breath and brought her substantial girth down to Nate’s eye level. She leaned forward and put her face directly in front of his. “I know what you thinkin’. I know you look at us as foolish island folk and—”
“No, I—”
Ma Joop snapped bolt upright with an agility unexpected of a woman her size, and she jabbed a chubby fist toward him with an index finger extended threateningly. “I’ll t’ank you very much for not interruptin’ me!” she boomed, and Nate was sure everyone in the living room had heard. He dared not even say sorry.
Ma Joop raised a single eyebrow, waiting to see what Nate would do, and then snorted in satisfaction once it was clear he had been properly silenced. “As I was sayin’,” she said, scolding him one more time with a sideways glance, “I know you look at us as foolish island folk, but let me tell you dat what is upon you is absolutely real. Obeah is a powerful, powerful force, and someone has put a dark shadow upon you. Now, I can help you. But you mus’ not fight me on dis. You mus’ accept my help, or you doomed for sure. You una’stand me, boy?”
Nate nodded. He was ready for whatever she would do next. Blood, dead chickens, eyes rolled back into heads, rhythmic dancing and chanted incantations. Bring it on. He just wanted to get it over with.
“Good,” said Ma Joop, nodding once curtly. She then collected a string of beads from the tray, much like a rosary, Nate thought, and held them in her hands. She stood in front of Nate, closed her eyes and spoke silently as if to herself, her lips occasionally moving with the unspoken words. Finally she opened her eyes, put one hand on Nate’s head and began speaking. It sounded like a prayer, it had a rhythm Nate seemed to recognize, and after a few moments he understood why. He knew it well, and once his ear had tuned to her island accent, he could follow along easily.
“The Lord’s Prayer?” he asked hesitantly.
Ma Joop stopped and Nate realized he was about to be told off again. But she was calm this time. Her tone was sarcastic, just short of mocking. “You know something more powerful than Jesus Chris’?”
“No, no.”
And Ma Joop continued.
Fifteen minutes later, she lowered her great frame to the candles, blowing them out one by one, muttering something in Creole that ended in Amen at each, and then walked out of the room. Nate sat for a moment wondering if he was done.
A few minutes later, Rachael appeared at the door. “Well, that’s that,” she said.
“Am I done?”
“Ma Joop seemed satisfied. She’s gone home now so I guess it’s safe to say she’s finished. Are you okay?” she asked.
“Well, yeah. It’s just not what I was expecting. No charms, no throwing of bones.”
“That’s because you don’t know much about Obeah. It really is powerful stuff here, Nate. And it goes way back.”
“But everything she was doing—it all seemed based pretty much in Christianity. You know, rosaries, the Lord’s Prayer.”
Rachael linked he
r arm through Nate’s and walked him from the room. “You’re at the conflux of many cultures, religions and practices here, Nate. Depending on who you listen to, Obeah has its roots in Egyptian times, and goes back to Moses parting the Red Sea—if you believe that sort of thing.”
“And what about you? Do you believe in that sort of thing? In Obeah?”
Rachael guided Nate into the kitchen. “Let’s just say that I respect its power here,” she said, reaching into a cabinet.
“Even though you’re a doctor? Someone based in science?”
“Especially because I’m a doctor. You have no idea how many people I’ve seen in Emergency whose major complaint is Obeah.”
“And you treat them how?”
Rachael placed a container of pills in front of Nate. “Often like this,” she said, smiling.
He read the label: amoxicillin—more of what she had prescribed at the hospital. He popped open the lid and swallowed one of the pills. “And what about Ma Joop? Do you prescribe her also?”
Rachael smiled in a way Nate had not seen since they were kids. “If need be.”
Nate smiled in return, and the moment that had slipped away outside by the pool began to quietly reassemble itself. It swirled around them like a welcome breeze. They stood on opposite sides of the breakfast bar, watching each other, both secretly cursing the yard of polished marble between them. It provided a physical space that separated them, just enough distance to allow Nate’s mind the time to swing inevitably back to why he was there. He knew his next comment would ruin the moment. “I have to go,” he said quietly, but his eyes said otherwise. “I have to go back to Ti Fenwe.”
28
Tristan stood motionless in water up to his thighs, his back to the boys at the river’s edge. His arms hung loosely, the rock still held tightly in his right hand. After a moment he looked down, raised his hand slightly, as if somewhat surprised to see the stone set there, and then dropped it with a plop into the water. He turned slowly and began robotically sloshing his way back. Behind him, Richard’s form bobbed in the water.