by Gemma Weekes
‘This,’ Zed says, with a slightly ironic flourish, ‘is Eden. Eden, this corny asshole is Joe. The funny-looking one is Mikey . . .’
‘Hey!’ Mikey and Joe protest simultaneously.
‘And that’s Devon. Over there is Zahara, Rosemary, Melanie and Miguel.’
‘Hi,’ I say. People wave or tell Zed they’ve already met me.
‘Are you British?’ asks Joe.
‘Yeah. From London.’
‘Damn, I love that accent.’ He pushes out his lips and nods in approval. ‘So, you’re not the girl to finally civilise this guy?’
‘Nah. We homies,’ says Zed. And damn it! Wasn’t that pretty clear already? Why he have to say it so fast like the idea of us being together isn’t even a distant relation – five times removed – to being a possibility? And you know, Mohican Joe is actually quite presentable. He has this rakish thing going on and he’s so trendy it’s got to hurt (the boy has pointy shoes on for God’s sake). But then I look at Zed and he makes other boys disappear. Always.
Zed gets up and walks off.
‘. . . for a living?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was just asking,’ says Joe, ‘what you did for a living.’
‘For a living? Um . . . Breathe oxygen. That’s about it. I don’t do anything for a wage at the moment. I’m here care of Barclays Bank. And my mate Juliet.’
He and Devon laugh.
‘Well, what do you do when you do what you do, pretty girl?’
‘You know . . .’ Pretty girl. It’s been a while since I’ve been called anything but crazy by a man. Brandy doesn’t count unless she’s in boxers. ‘All the stuff that doesn’t pay. Photography mainly,’ I say, brandishing my camera.
‘Are you having your work shown anywhere?’
‘No.’
‘Right, well, you’re around the right crowd. Everybody here’s involved in some kind of art or another. A lot of actors, musicians . . . you should circulate at some point. You could take some portraits. Make some change that way?’
‘Yeah . . . cool! Thank you. I’ll definitely give that a try.’
‘No problem, sweetie. I know how it is with the suffering for one’s art. I’m a film-maker—’
‘Here we go. Spike Lee on crack.’
‘Shut up, Devon . . .’
‘So what brings you to our fair shores, young lady?’ says Devon, ignoring his friend’s request.
I shrug. ‘Just hanging out.’
‘How long,’ says Joe, giving his friend a dirty look, ‘you in town for?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘You’re here for a while then. Old Barclay must have given you the hook-up!’
‘I’m just cheap. I intend to make those dollars stretch like spandex.’
Joe laughs. ‘Hey, take my number. You gotta let me give you the, uh, guided tour sometime.’
‘Right. Yeah. OK.’
‘Man, she ain’t feeling you, Joe! Just leave the girl alone!’ says Devon, laughing.
‘Don’t be mad, chump. One day life’ll treat you better,’ twinkles Joe, obviously the one who’s luckier with women. ‘Hey, look who it is. The big chief.’
A new boy comes over and sits nearby on the African print fabric. Skinny, pale brown, with an unshaven face and fistfuls of little black curls; ripped jeans and a faded Hendrix T-shirt. He’s playing with a blade of grass. A few people seem to know him, give gentle smiles and nods, like he’s a soft-eyed animal they’re wary of scaring away. On his right is a guitar case with a worn-looking book on top of it. He must be the musician Bleak was talking about. I just feel it. He’s a ‘Hendrix-type motherfucker’ if there ever was one. Zed goes over and gives him a pound on the fist.
‘Young genius!’ he says by way of a greeting.
‘Gifted black! What’s up?’ The new boy’s voice is deep and raspy, an unexpected counterpoint to his childlike grin. Zed knows so many people. Sometimes I feel like I know almost no one. I have no crew, no team back in London. Just Juliet, and a disparate bunch of people who don’t know each other and who can mostly tolerate me. And I guess nowadays I have Brandy, but she’s not around that much. Less and less, in fact.
‘So how did you get interested in film?’ I ask Mohican Joe.
‘Well, you know, ever since I was a kid, really. It always fascinated me. I got a camcorder for my birthday when I was ten, and there’s been no stopping me since . . .’
But then the guitar is singing under the new boy’s fingers, one melancholy riff, round and round. And although he plays it quiet like he doesn’t want to disturb anyone, it changes the atmosphere.
‘Beautiful, huh?’ says Mohican Joe.
‘Yeah.’
Zed sits smaller than usual at the edge of the tablecloth, curved, with his arms balanced on his knees. He’s gone somewhere on the sad chords.
‘Spanish is one seriously talented dude,’ says Mohican Joe, playing with the stud beneath his lip. ‘Kid is sick. Between me and you? One time the guy brought me to tears. I was down at the Knitting Factory blubbing like a little girl whose Barbie doll fell down the waste disposal.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him, smiling, ‘I won’t tell anybody.’
‘Too late. I told everybody,’ says Devon.
‘Come on, lady,’ says Mohican Joe, ‘I’ll introduce you.’
The boy called Spanish has his hairy shins crossed under him, and on closer inspection I realise I’ve got exactly the same pair of Converse All Stars he’s wearing, except his are even more worn than mine. Mohican Joe has to say his name a couple of times to get his attention.
‘Hey Joe!’ Spanish says eventually, breaking off from his riff and playing the Hendrix song of the same name.
They laugh.
‘I’ll never get tired of that!’ says Joe with his wily smile. ‘I have a lovely young lady from London you need to meet. Photographer, artist, thinker and fulltime goddess. Spanish, this is Eden. Eden, Spanish.’
‘Hi,’ he says. His gaze is intense, and I get the weird impression it’s because he refuses to do the standard full-body evaluation. The almost golden eyes and dark irises stay resolutely north of my neck.
‘Hey. Nice to meet you! That’s beautiful, what you’re playing.’
‘It’s for your boy over here.’ He indicates Zed, who’s rooting around in his knapsack. ‘He’s got an idea for it.’
‘Cool,’ I say, but I’m thinking, your boy? How does he even know we know each other when he just got here? News travels fast, I suppose.
‘So we gonna get a preview of this masterpiece?’ Joe says to Zed.
‘No,’ Zed replies.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m a friend of Bleak’s,’ I tell Spanish. He’s so skinny. His sharp bones and wild hair make him look like an old man, but everything else about his face is painfully young and cinematic.
‘Cool.’
‘I went down to his studio on Wednesday.’
‘OK.’
‘So, why do they call you Spanish?’ I ask him.
‘Long story,’ he says. ‘But no, I don’t speak-a the language.’
I laugh. I didn’t expect a joke from him. He looks so solemn.
He stops playing for a moment, laying his fingers over the strings to stop the vibration. His nails are clipped right down, his hands angular and strong.
‘You sing, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘Uh . . . no I don’t. Joe just told you what I’m into.’
‘Yes you do. I can tell by the quality of your speaking voice.’
Is he crazy? I look around for some non-verbal back-up from Joe or Zed, but neither are looking my way. Joe’s talking to some girl about an event going on tonight. Zed’s staring into his notebook.
Spanish goes back to playing his guitar.
‘Listen, I can’t sing to save my life, OK? Plus you’ve barely even heard me speak!’
‘It’s not that you can’t sing, it
’s that you don’t sing,’ he says, somehow managing to look other than smug. ‘Only reason you don’t is ’cause it would probably make you feel too vulnerable and you don’t like that. There’s almost nothing more exposing than singing in public.’
‘Right. Whatever. A photographer afraid of exposure? That sounds kinda negative to me.’ I laugh. ‘Pun intended, of course.’
He shrugs. ‘With photography you have your lens to hide behind.’
‘You don’t know me from a box of fried chicken, Spanish.’
‘I know you about as well as anybody else.’ He smiles. ‘And if you don’t sing, what the hell were you doing in the studio? Forgive me, but you don’t look much like a rapper.’ He turns away, conversation done. I decide not to tell him about the schoolteacher skit. ‘Hey, Zed?’ he says. ‘You wanna run this through one more time, man? I’m gonna bounce soon. I was just passing through.’
‘Hey, does this mean we can all hear it?’ says Mohican Joe.
‘I said no,’ says Zed. ‘Damn, Joe! How you even know I’ve got something finished?’
‘Are you kidding? You’re the most prolific guy I know! I ain’t never seen you without a pen in one hand and a spliff in the other. You got a new track on that MySpace website every ten minutes!’
‘Look, ain’t shit for free out here but air and grass! You wanna hear my rhymes, buy the album.’
‘But the sun’s going down and the evening is ripe for the beauty of a soul exposed . . .’
‘Get the fuck out of here, man. I’m serious.’
‘Alright, alright . . .’ Joe shrugs and grins at me, unfazed. Walks off to talk to the others.
Spanish and Zed take their guitar and notebook respectively and start moving off a short distance from the rest of the group.
‘Can I come?’ I say.
‘Sure,’ says Spanish. I get up.
‘Eden, stay here,’ says Zed. Voice hard, face closed.
‘I said she could come.’ Spanish doesn’t even raise his voice. He’s quiet and impossible to contradict. ‘No need to get all aggressive, homie. Seems like she’d be a sympathetic audience. It’s good to test it.’
‘Fuck it. Whatever,’ says Zed, sloping off. I smile at Spanish. I’ve never heard anyone stand up to Zed like that, and he just met me.
‘Come on,’ he says.
When we find a quieter spot, Spanish starts playing his guitar again, louder than before. More resonant. He adds little flourishes to the chords, humming along with the melody. The sound tweaks my heart muscle. Even with all his mad talk, I didn’t expect him to be a singer. And so good at it. I feel all of this hope and despair swilling around inside me.
Then Zed begins to speak and the first line makes me shiver.
‘Mama – if I climb inside myself can I take you with me?’ he asks the grass in front of him. He’s never sounded so like himself.
broken.
I OFFER NO applause. Just breathe hard.
Avoiding my eyes, Zed closes his notebook. ‘So what you think, dog? You think it’s a good marriage?’
Spanish nods. ‘I think it’s getting there.’
‘It needs a bridge, right? Some kind of break down . . .’
I want to reach out, but I can’t. The chasm is still there, stretching away and away. His body is real, solid, sweating, only a few feet from my own, but I’m in prison. Something just happened to me.
‘Yeah . . . yeah. Maybe. Although I like it simple too, you know? Sincere.’
‘Right. I feel you.’
Spanish zips the guitar into its case and they both stand up so I do the same. Zed keeps talking about the track and the studio and a bunch of other stuff I can’t put together in my head. I’m thinking about what I just heard.
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ Spanish says politely, nodding his head at me. ‘Take care of yourself.’
‘Yeah, thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘You ain’t got time to chill for a minute?’ Zed says to him. ‘I got some more ideas . . .’
‘Band rehearsal, man. I gotta dust.’
‘Right right.’ They both start walking toward the group. Spanish raises his hand at everyone and keeps going, guitar slung over his back, off into the sun. Zed sits on the tarp. I sit next to him. He speaks to Rosemary about the weather. I don’t understand. I tap him on the shoulder.
‘Zed,’ I say, ‘Zed . . .’
‘What?’ he replies.
‘That was beautiful . . . I mean, I liked it a lot. It was more like a poem, right? Than a rap, I mean.’
‘Yeah it was,’ he says, face bland, voice limp. ‘Glad you liked it.’ He’s acting like I’m some tramp who just walked over to ask him for money.
Zahara is back. She sits behind me. ‘So . . . Eden! I went to London a couple of years ago—’
‘Sorry,’ I tell her.
I walk away and don’t say goodbye to anyone.
call me lucky.
ON THE OTHER end of a subway ride is City Hall and the river. The Brooklyn Bridge arcs majestically toward Manhattan in a haze of car fumes. I stand at the railings and watch the East River, sparkling with sun. In the shadows, the water looks implausibly deep. Lovers kiss on a park bench. I move as far away as I can, irritated by their arrogance. Nobody wants to see that shit.
The heat won’t let up. I wipe sweat from my face and neck, dry my hands on my shorts. I’m flaccid with weariness, sick with hope. Something about that poem Zed just recited, it sent me back to the beginning. It was the exact texture of those early sparks, feet touching under the table, fingers finding each other in half-empty movie theatres. He must be talking about me. But is he? Does he still feel it? I don’t know. I can’t know. Right now, it seems to me that a slim chance is a tougher deal than none at all.
Or the lyrics might mean that he’s moved on. In love with somebody else.
‘HEY!’ shouts a sudden voice nearby and my thoughts break out and scatter like a flock of pigeons. A young man walks up and stands next to me. ‘Good afternoon. Or is it a good afternoon for you? Mine is so-so. Definitely not fantastic. But maybe it will be now you’re here.’ He’s olive-skinned, with deep-set blue eyes, a shaved head and all the barely tangible signs of a broken mind. Or heart. Or both. ‘What’s your name? They call me Lucky. I come here to think too . . . you know, when I’m not at my job. It’s really nice here. The river and the lights. It’s really peaceful even though we’re right in the middle of the city. It feels like you’re far away from it all, the noise and cars and stuff, you know what I mean? Really far away, like in Europe or somewhere.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, and I’m thinking that cracked people are the most dangerous. Pain leaves them blind, deaf and drunk behind the wheel, driving in the wrong lane. And that’s why most are afraid of people like this boy, including me.
‘Really nice. I like the water. I like the sky . . . sometimes I write things about them in my little book.’ He lifts up a small leatherbound notepad. ‘I write about a lot of things. Stuff that affects me and makes me feel sad or angry or when I’m really scared and can’t do anything about it I write it all down and I feel better.’
‘OK . . .’
‘Yeah. Sometimes I write to my mom and dad, but I don’t send it though because I never really knew them and they’re bad, they’re not like you and me. I don’t know you really well, but I can tell that you’re a nice person and that you don’t try to hurt people. My parents aren’t like you. They’re empty. Bad people always are. They’re like, hollow. You know what I mean? Hollow. That’s why they do things that are wrong, because they’re trying to fill themselves up or something, I guess. My parents are in jail for things they did, but sometimes I still miss them. Human beings are like that. When we love people we still miss them even if they hurt us . . .’
‘I’m sorry but I’m,’ I say, feeling chained and ill, ‘I’m late. I’ve got to go.’
‘Where are you going? Can I come?’
‘No. I don’t know you.’ I have
to get away from him.
‘Can I take your number then? Maybe we can hang out sometime? Girls like the movies, right? Or to go to restaurants? We could do whatever you want . . .’
Quickly I walk away. I keep my face blank and unresponsive, refusing to acknowledge looks of sympathetic amusement from the lovers on the park bench and from a man walking his dog.
They may be laughing at the kid, but it feels as if they’re laughing at me too. And I can’t help but wonder how many times people have walked away from him.
wait—
Saint Lucia, 15 August
Cherry Pepper,
Castries never used to be so small or so achingly poor or rich or pretty. I walked by the deep harbour today, a steep drop from the road. There was still no kind of fence or barrier. I imagined that a person might jump without planning to, just for the oblivion of it. The market is a mountain of fresh produce. Music flows together seamlessly from a dozen sources, distilled by the sweet air. The children are neat and shiny, just like I was at eleven. This is where the first half of my childhood ended and the second one began, in the little toy-like house on Coral Street. Flaking pink and green paint.
I was sent here alone, with a light bag full of my belongings. I came up the front steps and stood in the doorway, gave my shy greetings. I had all the reserve of a child made aware of herself too early. Paul’s mother embraced me with a hard species of warmth. She was strong, fair, a real mother. I thanked her for having me and she shushed me with vigour, hinting at favours that had gone back and forth between our families for longer than anyone cared to remember. She took my bag away and replaced it with a bowl of soup.
I absorbed my new world. Hotter, dustier and smellier. The Hippolytes’ house was half the size of what I was used to. Cockroaches stalked the wooden floors like kings and only thin walls separated family from family, and nothing could ever be hidden. The sound of creaking beds, loud arguments, fights and laughter would provide nightly entertainment from the neighbouring houses. But it wouldn’t take long for me to realise I was happier here than in my mother’s silent, immaculate home. I felt alive for the first time, electrified by the newness of it, by the freedom I suddenly had to be myself.
