Land of Love and Drowning: A Novel
Page 1
ALSO BY TIPHANIE YANIQUE
How to Escape from a Leper Colony
RIVERHEAD BOOKS
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Copyright © 2014 by Tiphanie Yanique
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Yanique, Tiphanie.
Land of love and drowning / Tiphanie Yanique.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-16880-0
1. Magic—Saint Thomas (United States Virgin Islands)—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Saint Thomas (United States Virgin Islands)—Fiction. 3. African American families—Saint Thomas (United States Virgin Islands)—Fiction. 4. Saint Thomas (United States Virgin Islands)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3625.A679L36 2014 2013044381
813'.6—dc23
Frontmatter map by Meighan Cavanaugh
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Beulah Smith Harrigan
Contents
Also by Tiphanie Yanique
Map
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
FREEDOM
Chapter 1
Chapter 2: ANETTE
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5: EEONA
Chapter 6
Chapter 7: ANETTE
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12: EEONA
Chapter 13
Chapter 14: EEONA
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19: ANETTE
Chapter 20
Chapter 21: EEONA
Chapter 22
Chapter 23: ANETTE
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27: ANETTE
Chapter 28: EEONA
BELONGING
Chapter 29: ANETTE
Chapter 30
Chapter 31: ANETTE
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38: ANETTE
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43: ANETTE
Chapter 44: EEONA
Chapter 45: ANETTE
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50: ANETTE
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54: ANETTE
Chapter 55: EEONA
Chapter 56
Chapter 57: ANETTE
Chapter 58
Chapter 59: EEONA
Chapter 60
A FREEDOM
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65: JACOB
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75: ANETTE
A BELONGING
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
DROWN
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
THE BOMB
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90: ANETTE
Chapter 91: ANETTE
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
LOVE
Chapter 96: JACOB
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
FREEDOM
The greatest hazard to sailing in the Virgin Islands—if not in the whole Caribbean—was and is Anegada.
—DAVID A. MELFORD
1.
Owen Arthur Bradshaw watched as the little girl was tied up with lace and silk. He jostled the warm rum in his glass and listened to the wind.
The storm outside wasn’t a hurricane. Just a tropical gale. It was the season for storms. Lightning slated through the heavy wooden shutters that were closed but unfastened. The thunder was coming through the walls built with blue bitch stone. There was no one outside walking in the rain. That sort of thing was avoided.
A scientist visiting from America had brought the lace and the silk. They were all at the house of Mr. Lovernkrandt, an eminent Danish businessman. Denmark was giving up on the West Indies and America was buying in, but Mr. Lovernkrandt was not leaving. The scientist was tying the girl up. He was demonstrating an experiment that had become stale on the Continent, an experiment of electricity. The little girl was very beautiful. And she was very little. And she was very afraid. She was also very brave.
Captain Bradshaw thought on his daughter, Eeona, who was not unlike this American girl. Only Eeona was more beautiful and at least as brave.
—
The people who had come together to make Captain Owen Arthur Bradshaw could be traced back to West Africans forced to the islands as slaves and West Africans who came over free to offer their services as goldsmiths. Back to European men who were kicked out of Europe as criminals and to European women of aristocratic blood who sailed to the islands for adventure. Back to Asians who came as servants and planned to return to their Indies, and to Asians who only wanted to see if there was indeed a western side of the Indies. And to Caribs who sat quietly making baskets in the countryside, plotting ways to kill all the rest and take back the land their God had granted them for a millennium.
Owen Arthur had been raised from a poor upbringing to a place of importance and ownership. He was the captain and owner of a cargo ship. And now he was among the important men who sat in this living room and watched through the haze of the oil lamps as a girl was hoisted off the ground via lace and silk and a hook in the ceiling. The little girl’s body jerked as the American scientist tugged. Her body jerked until she was a few feet off the ground, but she did not cry out. Owen Arthur Bradshaw was not sure how much longer he could bear to watch. But it was essential for him to be at this gathering. The host, Mr. Lovernkrandt, was a rum maker and Owen Arthur had always shipped rum. But with Americanness would come Prohibition, and Owen Arthur needed to e
nsure he was included in any of Lovernkrandt’s nonliquor endeavors.
He pressed his own earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. Success and solvency should have been on his mind, but Owen Arthur could not help but watch the American girl with a father’s tenderness. This little girl was pale-faced and blond, and Owen’s little girl, Eeona, was honey-skinned and ocean-haired. But still he looked at this strange little girl as though looking on his own child. The first half of him desired that he had created this little girl. She was a pretty yellow thing. The lower half of him desired the girl. How young could she be?
He put his mouth to his glass and tilted it until the warm sweetness met his lips. She will outlive me, he thought to himself. And who was the “she” he was referring to? Perhaps his wife, who was just then sitting at home doing the sewing that it seemed God had created her to do. Or perhaps he was speaking of his mistress, who was at that moment sitting in her home playing the piano he had bought her, making a music that only God or the Devil could bless. Or perhaps he was actually speaking of his daughter, whom he loved like he loved his own skin. Perhaps he was speaking of the little girl to whom the scientist was now attaching cords of metal. Perhaps the little girl was, in a way, all women to him, as all women might be to a certain kind of man.
Owen Arthur is right. All these shes will outlive him, though he cannot bear the thought of his women going on. He knows his daughter will live forever, in the way all parents do, simply because parents generally die first. But Owen will not die of old age. Owen will die of love. The Danish West Indies will become the United States Virgin Islands and then this patriarch will die. And perhaps these things are the same thing.
“Behold,” the American is saying in his strange accent. He hands the girl a glass ball and then whispers to her, “Do not drop it or I will punish you.” She does not make a move to suggest she has heard. She only takes the glass ball in both her hands. And then the first miracle happens—her hair begins to rise. The storm outside begins to howl.
“Christ, have mercy.” This is what the Christians whisper. The Jewish and Muslim men for whom these islands have been a refuge, mutter “Oy, Gotenu” and “Allahu Akbar” under their breaths respectfully. Yes, America will bring us progress. Here is progress before us.
Lightning claws through the window, as though hunting. And Owen Arthur watches the girl’s hair rise toward the ceiling until it is sticking up like so many angel horns.
Oh, the stories these men will tell of this night. How they will embellish one part, shrink the other. How they will make this night real again and again, some in Arabic or Danish or Yiddish or English, others in that Caribbean language that tourist guidebooks will call “Creole.” The story will become more real than the night itself because the story of it will last, while this wet night will soon be over. And here we are putting it down, so that it may last forever.
But Owen Arthur thinks on his firstborn. His only child, thus far, who has survived to life. His honey-skinned Eeona. Her hair, too, has a life of its own. He has combed it himself and knotted it into braids and found that he can get lost in its forest. He collects the pieces of her hair from the brush and burns them himself, so that no one can steal them and put a curse on her. Owen himself is not a hairy man, he does not even sport the sideburns so popular for men of this time and place. His daughter has the glorious hair on her head but otherwise she, too, is smooth all over.
Eeona is so beautiful that many call her pure and they think on the virgin hills. Or they call her pristine and they think of the clear and open ocean. Or they might use terms such as untouched or undefiled, but then they are cautious because they know that their words alone might spoil her. So on damp nights men imagine that they are angels and may touch her as they please, but when they wake, they sign themselves with the cross. And if available, they pat handfuls of holy water on their chests. They do not really wish to pollute little Eeona. They only wish to witness a bit and then return, like a tourist might.
The American scientist takes the ball from this other little girl in this parlor. Now he prepares for the real triumph. He will make the little girl into a miracle. The scientist raises the vial to the little girl’s face. The little girl is wise as little girls must be. She does not flinch, but she closes her eyes. The scientist touches the vial to her nose. White lights spark like lightning about her face. She cries out, but the men clap louder. They have seen electricity! They have seen the future!
“Mr. Lovernkrandt,” the scientist says, “you must try.” The vial is passed to the man of the house, who has been standing near a window that is fastened but not sealed—the legs of rain kicking at his back. He steps forwards, and with great hesitation that might be called trepidation were he not a wealthy man, he presses the vial to the brave girl’s nose. He feels the shock in his hand and up his wet sleeve and lurches away. “Mercy,” he exclaims so loudly that no one hears the little girl cry out again. His face is hot. For a moment he had thought he would be paralyzed. But he had survived.
Owen feels the rain sneaking through as kisses from a tiny mouth. Now he raises his hand. “I should like to try,” he says. The American scientist smiles as Owen Arthur steps forward. He passes Owen the vial. Owen walks toward the little girl. She is suspended so that he and she are level. Their eyes meet. He bends toward her and caresses her earlobe gently, for he enjoys the feeling of that soft skin. “Men are foolish when pretty girls are involved,” he says loud enough for all to hear, and then he dashes the vial onto the floor.
The great men snort. Many look away, ashamed that they had not had Captain Bradshaw’s integrity. “My apologies, Mr. Lovernkrandt. I seem to have broken the American’s instrument. I am afraid I have ended the game.” Owen thinks on the major shipping deals he must have lost now. Thinks on how his business has depended on Lovernkrandt’s rum for more than a decade. But then he thinks on something else. “I fear most that it is past this little girl’s bedtime.” He touches the girl’s hair then tips his hat and takes his leave into the storm.
Science is just a kind of magic, and magic just a kind of religion, and Owen Arthur knows all about this because Owen owns a ship and men who spend their lives on water know that magic is real.
Owen stands in the rain, the lightning brightening the way ahead of him. Lovernkrandt’s house, so well positioned at the center of town, is not far from the opening of the sea. Wherever Owen goes, the sea will be at his side either way. A small wall of stone has been built to block the bay. So it is no longer really a beach but a proper harbor. Still, it would be nothing at all for Owen to walk to the ocean right now. He has done it before. He swam in this harbor as a boy. The ocean, look now, is coming to him. The waves are bounding over the seawall, leaping, like animals, like little girls.
Owen cannot decide to which house he will walk. If he keeps the sea on his right, then he will go past the market square where entrepreneur ladies sell their produce and straw creations. There, Rebekah lives in a small house with her sons. None of these sons are his, yet.
If he puts the sea on his left, he will pass the smaller fish market where men haul in the catch of the day before dawn. Beyond, Owen’s wife, Antoinette, lives in Villa by the Sea. It is a wealthy but modest estate where their daughter and their cook, Miss Lady, and their groundskeeper, Mr. Lyte, all live. The house is at the shallow edge of the harbor. The living and dining rooms are separated from each other by a line of linen curtains, which makes the house feel like a ship at sail. From the Villa by the Sea balcony the captain can see his own ship docked farther into the bay.
Now Owen Arthur thinks of the little girl’s hair rising into the air and he faces the beach. He waits until his whole body has received the rain. Then he goes toward his Eeona, because the little orphan girl reminded him of her. Owen cannot see into the future, but he can see into the past, and this is a magic we all have. As he walks, the sea is at his side, but the rain is at his back, pushing him toward his only child. The waves slip over his shoes.
At this moment it is only the one child and she is in love with her father. It is no large thing that this daughter will, in time, kill Owen Arthur. No large thing at all. Family will always kill you—some bit by bit, others all at once. It is the love that does it.
In her womb mother Antoinette is carrying another child. But she does not want more children, so this child, like the three before it, will be made to know the island ways of washing the womb. But women do not always have their way. This child will survive and will be the last of Owen’s children. She will be called Anette.
Anette Bradshaw will be as different from her elder sister as water is from land. The elder sister will be so stunning that men will scare of her. But not Anette. Boys will stick to the younger sister like the slick of mango juice. A trinity of men will feel the love of her like casha bush burring their scalp in sleep. Anette’s own image will grace the silver screen. The islands will drop the BOMB because of her say-so. But baby Anette has not come as yet. Right now it is only Eeona and Papa, with Mama there watching.
2.
ANETTE
Don’t mind I ain born as yet. I is the historian in this family. Teacher of history at the Anglican school where all the fancy families does send their children. So is me could really tell you what happen on Transfer Day. If anyone know the history is me. Nowadays people think historians are stuffy types, but history is a kind of magic I doing here.
Is March 31, 1917. The islands of St. Thomas, St. John, and St. Croix, getting transfer from Danish to American rule. Denmark decide it don’t want we. America decide it do. One find we unnecessary because they way up in Europe. The next find we absolutely necessary because they backside sitting on the Caribbean. Just so we get pass from hand to hand.