by Jacob Ross
Before they wheeled on stage, Moose had gazed into their faces. His eyes were red; he barely shifted his lips when he spoke.
‘People,’ he said. ‘Don think about winning nothing. Just play – for all them nights ov shapin and polishin James’ arrangement. All James’ ole talk ‘bout fire, steel an love – put that in de music. Remember all de cuss I cuss y’all arse to do tings right and put dat in the music too. And if y’all can’t manage it, den play for de sake ov pan, for what it done to y’all – for what it still doing. Jus play.’
Calinagoes played to win.
Calinagoes won.
It mattered little to Simone that the days after their victory was a happy time for Moose and the others. Nights, she stared into the darkness, fretting over the minuet like a dog with a plastic bone.
J’Ouvert morning, while the amplified music poured down on the town, Mr. James walked the short distance to Market Hill with her and Nita. Herds of revellers were pouring into St. George’s. Jab-jabs, coated in oil and charcoal, stomped and intimidated throngs of sidewalk limers. The air shimmered and throbbed with the colour and chant of Vécoup, Powder Mas and Wild Indians. Ole Mass shuffled along with placards and props, scandalising politicians and priests, ministers and neighbours while the amplified strains of Beethoven’s Minuet wafted over everything, stopping only when the town withdrew to rest.
‘The violence ain’t finish yet,’ Mr. James had said. ‘Or the love…’
She’d wondered what he meant by that. The love was making sense; she understood that part. But the violence? She thought it was the bloodshed – the killing laws that had sought to abort the birth of pan music. Then she remembered Moose’s resistance to her joining his band and her struggle for his acceptance. That was violence too, not so? And dat music from de hill – what de hell was that?
Carnival day, another row. Mr. James was shouting down her mother, and all the adjoining rooms had gone silent. As soon as he drew breath, Simone cut in, ‘None o’ you can’t stop me!’
Mr. James stopped short and swivelled his head at her.
‘Y’all don’t leave me alone, I walk outta dis house and never come back.’
A shadow passed across her mother’s face. She opened her mouth a couple of times, then turned her palms up at the girl. ‘But Sim…’
‘What kind o’ modder you say you is – always tryin’ to tie me down. Eh?’
Nita licked her lips and stared down at her feet.
‘Okay,’ James said, ‘Is enough. We…’
‘Gimme a chance. You always butting in when I talkin with Nita. Is the last day o’ carnival and nobody goin’ stop me joinin Nagoes. Why you always tryin’ to stop me, Neets?’
Her eyes rested on her mother’s face and she felt a rush of softness for her. But there were things she would no longer accept from her, or anyone else for that matter.
The girl turned and strode through the doorway. She heard Mr. James’ quick footsteps behind her. She lengthened her stride.
The afternoon sun was hot on their necks when they prepared to roll. Busloads of masqueraders in glittering costumes passed along the Tanteen road.
It seemed as if the whole island was gathering its energy for the toss and tumble of late evening.
‘Arrrigght!’ Moose shouted. ‘Remember we is a people’s band – anybody could join us. Lissen to de strategy: we goin into the City silent. I don’t want to hear a note from nobody till I say, go. And when I say, go, we hittin dem hard. We de-vas-ta-tin them, and is non-stop we playin till midnight.’
Moose turned to the crowd. ‘Those of you who pushin the floats, remember: no fightin. De only war Nagoes makin today is with music. Any questions?’
‘Yeh.’
‘What happen now, Sim?’
‘I wan’t to make a request.’
‘Make it, den.’
‘On Lucas Street I want us to switch to Minuet.’
‘Mornin music? You crazy.’
‘We play it soca style!’ she said.
‘This is Carnival, yunno; is not…’
‘Soca-style,’ the girl insisted.
‘Well.’ A ghost of a smile crept across Moose’s face. ‘If erm, if de fellas – fellas, y’all want to play mornin music the last day o’ carnival?’
The band nodded, grinning.
They chose a quiet corner of St. Georges to dry out after the hot haul across the Carenage.
Moose slung words at them in salvos till they were snapping to break loose on the town. The church clock boomed; Moose gave the order. The pushers dug their heels into the asphalt and the floats began to roll.
Crowds poured in behind them, became a shuffling, gyrating whirlpool that spilled onto the sidewalks and sucked in bystanders.
This madness that swelled her hands, demanding and receiving thunder from the six oil drums; this surge of blood and rage felt like a response to every question she’d ever wanted an answer for. Now ,Simone thought she understood Mr. James’s word, Pan never make you tired…
Street lights came on, spilling a wash of yellow on the streets.
They’d been seven hours on the road, her body slicked with sweat, when they rolled onto Lucas Street. Above the heartbeat of the masquerading town, there came the amplified strains of the music on the hill.
Mr. James, his face glistening, looked up at her and nodded.
‘Awwwrright,’ he shouted. ‘The song – the song for Simone.’
Moose relayed the call, the others took it up and passed it on; and for a moment a lull descended on the players. The eyes of the band were on her.
Moose saw her hesitation; his voice cut in. ‘In this order, people: frontline first, then midrange; engine room follow; background come in last.’
Moose raised his cap and fanned his face. The gold tooth glimmered briefly. ‘Okay, Simmy-girl, we got de instruments and de muscle, is for you to give de mood. Ready when yuh ready.’ He turned back to his pan.
The girl took a breath, clenched her face, and beat a rapid tattoo with her sticks.
The steel-rims erupted; the kata-drums reacted; double tenors muscled in; then the rest piled on a dazzling succession of sounds.
Simone waited for the four-note bass and when it sounded, she gritted her teeth and rumbled in.
She began pounding out the rhythm in short, hot flushes; felt the faltering – a ragged wave of discordance – until Moose bellowed something and Calinagoes shifted gear. All hell broke loose in the crowd behind, and Simone stoked the pandemonium. The guitar pans were screaming, the steel-rims and the congas throbbing with a stammering outrage. Her six-bass and Steve’s four-bass, belching thunder, Simone played with a tight-lipped, joyful abandon till the churchbell sounded the passing of carnival.
When they came to a halt in Market Square, she was surprised to see her mother with her arms around Mr. James’ waist.
Moose came over, dropped a hand on her shoulder and made a show of fanning himself with the other. She soured her face at him, then grinned.
‘That’s what I mean,’ he said. He drained his beer bottle, dropped it in the gutter and strolled off.
Togo’s cart came and went; after him, the bin truck banged and grated until the sound of its engine faded. The church-tower struck the hour.
For the first time in her waking life the minuet did not come.
‘They tired,’ Mr. James said.
‘Don’ think so,’ Simone said.
‘You make for bass,’ the man said. ‘Moose say you de best. Bar none.’
Simone smiled and drew her knees up to her chin.
Nita left the house in a rush. It was mid-afternoon when she hurried through the doorway. She couldn’t understand it, she wailed. She had prepared everything for them people to pass the holidays on deir own. Had to call de hospital, who didn even wan to send nobody becuz dem was recoverin from carnival. The old man was just there, sitting on the floor, crying and soiling himself, same as any child. He done gone right off his head. Didn’t know where h
e was. And de ole lady…’
‘I tink I know what missin from that music, Missa James.’
‘Yeh?’
‘I talkin!’ Nita screamed.
‘Me too,’ James said. ‘You was sayin, Sim?’
The girl stretched, yawned, ‘De drum, yunno… blow down the flippin’ erm… de flippin’ erm, yunno…’ Simone sighed. Her eyes drooped and stayed closed.
‘What dis little woman sayin?’ Nita asked.
James rubbed his face, stood up and yawned. ‘Dunno about you, woman. But I wan to catch some sleep.’
2: DUST
LOOK WHO TALKIN
Nuh. Is a lie; is not so it happen.
The trouble didn start with Ambo and the boat. The trouble start with y’all – long before Ridley boy-child, Nimrod, come back from San Andrews and say what happen to his father.
He tell y’all that he walk the twenty miles to the prison on Edmond Hill. He say he climb the high stone wall, hang on to one of them iron pole that anchor the barb-wire fence on top of it and watch a man walkin his father to a post that bury in the ground. He talk about the cloth that they put over his father’ face, he say he hear his father cussin an protestin when the hangman hand reach out and drop the rope around his neck.
And then Nimrod stop talkin. He was lookin up at y’all face and gulpin like a fish. And all the words that Ridley boy-child know, leave him, jusso. Words lef him for good, and to this day that same expression stay on Nimrod face. No way y’all could forget that. And if is forget y’all forget for true, is time that y’all remember.
A bright wet mornin it was. The night before it had a full moon – a blood-runnin moon because it red no arse, like a pusson eye that bust, and people almos stiflin from the smoke comin down from them burnin charcoal-pit on them hills up there.
Miss Evie was the one who talk to Nimrod. True, she was a tight-face ole machete of a woman. Sh’was short and hard like a wood-knot, but that mornin she show she had a soft heart, even if the softness give birth to terrible words.
She stoop down in front of lil’ Nimrod, hold his face is her hands and look straight in his eye. ‘Your fadder gone,’ she say. ‘He not comin back. Forget you ever know him, becuz rememberin will spoil your life. Rememberin goin blight you. Make yourself forget your fadder.’
She shake him hard, like if she want to empty his head of all them tings he just done see. Nimrod body was floppin soft and loose in Miss Evie hands as if he got no bones. Then Miss Evie clear she throat, wipe she eye and went back to she washin by the river.
Lookin at the boy standin dere amongst y’all, it didn have a pusson here who didn know that the child in Nimrod was dead. It got kill by what he see. And the thing that replace it was so strange and frightenin, it follow y’all to bed and take over all-yuh dreamin. It wake y’all up next mornin in a sweat, becuz it didn make no sense how, chupid-so, Ridley dead; how a man could be so tall-walkin and alive one minute, and swingin from a rope the next.
Funny how you fellas here don’ want to talk about Ridley, and your wimmen refuse to forget him. Yuh see, wimmen round here quick to recognise a scarce ting when they see it. They realise straightaway that the world not full of man like Ridley.
He tall. He easygoin. He got beyootiful, rovin eyes and a smile that come generous and quick. Y’all wimmen use to love to watch him walk – with the promise of good lovin in every shift of his hips and shoulders. Uh-huh! Ridley was the kind of fella that make godfearing, Christian wimmen sin demself jus by lookin at him step.
You fellas couldn figure him out. The only thing y’all know about Ridley is what y’all see. Was like if he got no history past the fact that he come from the north with his one boy-child, no woman trailin after him. He rent a lil place by the beach, go snorkelin along the shoreline every mornin and bring back just enough fish to feed himself and his son. When a pusson ask him where he from, he point up past them hills and shake his finger. He never pick no argument with nobody, and he always with his boy-child. They laugh a lot; they hold hands when they walkin. Sunday evenins, when they comin back from catchin crayfish up the river, every woman raise she head and drop what she doin, just to watch Ridley returnin home, strollin in the middle of the road, whistlin some lovely tune, with Nimrod curl up fast asleep in his arms. As y’all know, the sight of a fella motherin his son so shameless and tender is a wundaful ting to wimmen in these parts, and a fuckin embarrassment to fellas like y’all.
Y’all couldn’ take it. That’s the truth. Nothing in y’all life prepare you for a man like Ridley who, jus by bein himself, make y’all feel worthless. It happen before and it goin’ happen again that a beyootiful man, who find himself ‘mongst other men, is a provocation. Is a big insult to the ordinariness of y’all self, even if that fella arrive holdin the hand of his one boy-child, build his house with his own two hand, and never pass a glance at all them wimmen who throw him sweet-eye while they goin about their business. Leasways, Ridley ignore dem, in the daytime for sure – since a pusson can’t vouch for what might happen nighttime. But like ole people say, if you didn see it happen, then it never happen. If everybody live accordin to that one commandment, they never goin have no problem in life.
But no! Not Ambo. Everybody know that Ridley neighbour, Ambo, never like him. School-chilren used to say Ambo so damn ugly, even ugliness embarrass to associate with him. Accordin to them chilren, his forehead take up most of his face and god plant his eye too near his temple. But yunno school-chilren! They see somebody they don’ like and they multiply everything they notice by ten.
To make a long story shorter, Ambo see the way Ridley draw the warmth out of his woman, how the sight of him make ‘er drop she voice soft-soft. He hate the fuss she make over Nimrod and couldn stand the brazenness in she laugh whenever Ridley pass by.
Mek it sufficient to remind y’all that eleven months later, Ambo woman make baby and Ambo say the colour of the infant not his. He say the shape of the baby foot not his either, and the hair too soft to belong to him.
Is after all that come to pass that we kin talk about Ambo and the boat, becuz, regardless of all the hate that Ambo hatin Ridley, and the furrin-lookin baby that he tell his woman is not his – all that might’ve pass as nothing if Ridley didn build himself a boat.
Remember the boat? It didn have no name. A beyootiful thing. A red-an-green twenty-footer, with a blue storm-bird on the prow where the name should be. Deep keel, yunno! A high bow and a new five-horsepower Seagull engine to push it ahead of him.
What refuse to cross y’all mind when Ridley start fishin was that some people got a gift for it; they got a natral intimacy with these waters. It go deeper than all the learnin-an-experience in the world. Was true that when Ridley rest his right hand on his tiller, it behave like it got a mind of it own. Some of y’all say was obeah. Ole people, who smarter than y’all, believe was Yemanja – the woman of the livin waters sheself – who watch that smooth-skin, sugarcane of a man and favour him. She guide him to the most unlikely places in the sea. First time, y’all laugh at him until Ridley beach his boat with more fish than a sensible fella could wish for.
Remember them days y’all come back empty and, couple hours later, y’all see Ridley returnin low in the water, laden with whatever the sea decide to offer him?
And is what the sea used to offer Ridley: yellow-fin tuna and mahi-mahi thicker than a man’ waist; grouper almos the size of his boat. More coevally, big jacks and bonito than he know what to do with. What he couldn sell, he give away. He never forget the ole people that y’all neglect or dem half-starve chilren who parents too damn proud to beg. Used to fill-up y’all woman cocoa-basket to the brim with coevally and flyin-fish.
But yunno, sometimes givin is insultin. It stiffen pride. It make a fella feel small in the eyes of his woman and his chilren when the man next door – who doin better – offer him someting. And is jusso that envy does turn round and murder gratitude.
And Ambo – the fella might be ugly, but he not chupid. Give h
im that. Ambo know eggzackly what goin on inside y’all heart, becuz he feelin it too and he feelin it worse.
In the evenins, in the rumshop, when the catch was magga and the drinkin make y’all head giddy, Ambo raise his voice. He want to know what make Ridley Bowen different from everybody else. What make him feel he better than the rest of you? What make him think he is Christ – givin away fish like he lookin for disciple? How come Ridley is the only one to bring back a full boat every time? That normal? That natural? Eh? Specially since everybody know that fishin is a gamblin game an’ God always have the upper hand. Weather is God mood, not so? And nobody kin change God mood unless that pusson got dealins with the devil.
Ambo take y’all mind back to the week Ridley launch his boat. That was when Miss Ellie pass away. True, the woman was ole when she dead – a pusson couldn deny that – but Ambo want to know how come she pass ‘way on the very same day that Ridley launch his boat. He ask if y’all sure is not her soul that Ridley sell to the devil, so he could empty the sea of fish.
He sit down there, chippin away at y’all feelins of wutlessness, sharpenin y’all suspicion of a stranger who come from somewhere else.
But to give credit, you fellas was harder to budge than Ambo expect. Why so? Becuz every one of you worried about what you might be knockin out of place if y’all lay hands on Ridley. Becuz the sight of him walkin with his sleepin boy-child on Sundays give him anchorage in the heart of every woman in this place. And like y’all learn later, ain’ got nothing in the world more frightenin than a bunch of hurtin women.
In the end, of course, Ambo didn need y’all because a tourisfella give him what he want. The touris-man was headin for Suhtyez along this road in a lil open jeep wiv a camera sling around his neck and restin on his big fat belly, like his belly was a shelf. Nobody didn pay him no mind when he stop on top of High Rise to point his camera at someting out there on the water: a boat p’rhaps, one of them lil islands out west, or just the blue of the sea on a ordinary day. Touris-man didn notice the drop to the water coupla inches from his flip-flop slippers, cuz all dem bush and vine and high grass rise up to the edge of the cliff and hide the danger.