by Louise Penny
“I’ve never been able to change your mind once it’s set on something,” I said, feeding her fire. “Like a bulldog, you are.”
“Damn straight,” she said, looking confident as she stared off at the shotgunned sky, a spattering of purples and oranges and blues.
I gave Erick a good rub on his head, realizing I might not have to wait on Joe nearly as long as I’d first thought. And that pleased me to no end. Pleased me real good.
Brian Silverman
Breadfruit
from Mystery Tribune
I read somewhere that breadfruit is one of the new superfoods. They say it contains “high-quality protein.” Not that I have a clue what differentiates high-quality protein from low-quality protein. I do know that here on St. Pierre they have been eating breadfruit well before it was officially deemed a superfood. I’ve eaten it enough here myself, and superfood or not, I prefer a potato, which it resembles somewhat in taste, but a potato most likely has low-quality protein. So when I saw the two large green globes of breadfruit patterned with round bumps on its skin on the counter of my bar, I was not excited. I was, however, very much puzzled.
I was outside in the back of the bar I ran on St. Pierre called the Sporting Place. It was the middle of the day, a slow Tuesday, and I didn’t expect any customers for a couple of hours. I was working on the foundation for a small addition to my bar, adding another five hundred square feet. Since I had owned the piece of land and built the sports-themed bar five years ago, business had grown. There were times when I just couldn’t handle the overflow crowds, like when the Windward Islands All Star cricket team was playing Barbados for the Caribbean title—and when I held an impromptu fete for local calypso legend Lord Ram as he lay dying in St. Elizabeth Hospital. There was space in the backyard of the bar for the addition. I was overdue to expand and had put it off long enough, but I was in no rush. I was in no rush for anything, which was one of the reasons I was living on the Caribbean island of St. Pierre. There were other reasons, but the only one I cared about at the moment was that there was no rush to finish the addition.
It was when I took a break from my work and went inside to grab a bottle of water that I noticed the breadfruit on the bar. I looked around but knew there was no one in the bar. I hadn’t heard anything or anyone while I was working in the back. I took a step out of the front entrance and looked down the road to see if anyone was walking by or had just left. In the distance I saw a dark figure running down the slope of the road. The runner, whose face I could not recognize from the almost 150-yard distance, turned back toward where I stood and then continued to run, his pace quickening. I watched as he disappeared from my sight, turning right onto Victoria Highway, a fully paved, two-way flat of street that on St. Pierre constituted a highway and led into the island’s capital and main port, Garrison.
I went back into the bar and examined the breadfruit. Picked one up in my hand. Its flesh was pliant, and it seemed a little lighter than I recalled a breadfruit being. I ran my thumb over the circular bumps on the green skin of the fruit. I picked up the other. They were almost identical in size and shape, and its weight was the same as the other’s. Maybe they needed more time on the breadfruit tree to ripen. What did I know about breadfruit? I put them back where I found them.
Tubby Levett came in about an hour later. I was out in the backyard again, now cleaning the hollowed-out oil canister we used as a smoker. “You see the two breadfruit on the bar?” he said to me, one foot in and one foot out of the doorway.
I looked up from my work. “I did,” I replied.
He remained in his position straddling the back door. He was waiting for an explanation. When he realized he wasn’t going to get one, he went back into the bar to help set up for the rush-hour crowd. When I say crowd, I mean never more than half a dozen to a dozen in the bar for a Tuesday.
“You want those breadfruits?” I asked Tubby when I came back into the bar, where he was assembling clean glasses on top of the bar.
“What I’m gonna do with more breadfruit?” He shook his head. “My ma has a tree behind the house. The breadfruit fall all year from that tree. We don’t need no more breadfruit. But I wanna know who that is who bring you the breadfruit?”
“I’d like to know that too, Tubby.”
He looked at me as if I wasn’t telling him something or was playing a joke on him. I didn’t know what I could say to him to make him believe that I really didn’t know who brought the breadfruit into the Sporting Place. I didn’t tell him about the runner I saw. What was there to tell, and what did the man running down West Road have to do with the breadfruit? Tubby, who was usually very gregarious, went about his work close-lipped. He thought I was putting something over on him and wasn’t happy about it. He thought I was busting his balls, which, I admit, I did now and then.
“Seriously, Tubby, those breadfruits just appeared there this afternoon. I’m not making that up.”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, not looking at me.
The two breadfruit remained where I found them on the bar when Adolphus Grainey came in for his daily, excluding Sunday, afternoon beer. Grainey was a tall, very thin, very dark-skinned man who worked up at the base of the national park surrounding Mount Hadali, St. Pierre’s centuries-dormant volcano, as one of the groundskeepers. He was in his late sixties, I think, and lived alone in a small house about a mile down the road toward Garrison. His wife died several years ago, before I arrived on the island, and he mentioned to me that he had a married daughter who lived in Toronto and a son working in Trinidad.
He took his usual seat on the bar and examined the breadfruit while I opened a cold Carib beer for him.
“You want them, they’re yours,” I said to him.
He nodded, holding one in his hand. “A light one,” he muttered. “I roast them with a little butter and salt.”
“Do whatever you like with them,” I said.
“Thank you, Mr. Len,” he said to me as he put them in the canvas satchel he carried along with the sharp cutlass he needed for his work clearing the brush that was constantly encroaching on the groomed grounds of the national park.
Though my first name is Len, I had assumed the name here on St. Pierre by many as “Mr. Len.” No matter how many times I politely said just to call me Len, it always came out Mr. Len. I wasn’t sure if it was a sign of respect, the inability to properly pronounce my last name, Buonfiglio, or maybe the people of St. Pierre just were not comfortable calling me by my last or first name without a proper title attached. It had a colonial, plantation, antebellum feel to it whenever anyone addressed me that way, and it bothered me each time I was called that, but I had long since given up correcting them when they addressed me. Even Tubby, who wasn’t tubby at all—in fact there probably wasn’t more than an ounce of fat on his lean, muscular frame—and who was my right-hand man at the Sporting Place, called me Mr. Len. And he called me that later in the evening, when I was out in the back of the bar organizing what I planned for the bar extension work the next day.
“Mr. Len,” Tubby said, poking his head out of the back door. “A man here who say he want to have a talk with you.”
Tubby kept looking at me. He was gesturing in some way, trying to tip me off about the man, but I wasn’t picking up his meaning. I put down what was in my hands and went into the bar.
The man at the bar was our only customer seated at the bar; Thomas Griffin and Marvin Toon, two friends who worked at the Karime Rum distillery, the island’s lone rum distillery, were seated at a table, bottles of Carib in front of them, and deep in discussion.
When I entered, the man turned to me and smiled. He wore tinted glasses even in the dimly lit bar; his dark hair was long and lank and he wore it wrapped in a bun with a scrunchy like a woman would on his head. A man bun. I’d seen other men do that to their long hair in New York—especially in Brooklyn, for some reason. In my opinion it looked silly, but who was I, with not much remaining hair on my own head, to judge what a man does wi
th his hair. This man was very thin and wore a flowered, colorful short-sleeved shirt loose that hung over his beige khakis. As I got closer I could see that his yellowish brown skin was pockmarked. I also saw the tattoo near the back of his neck, just a bluish blur that looked more like a bad bruise than anything else. I couldn’t tell how old he was; anywhere from thirty to fifty. “Joseph Arjoon here,” he said, extending his hand. “And you are Mr. Buonfiglio, though from what I’ve learned also known as Mr. Len.”
“That’s what they call me here,” I replied, trying again not to make claim to how I was addressed. I took his hand; it was a small, bony hand, but I didn’t disrespect him by squeezing it too hard.
“Wonderful spot you have here,” he said in a formal Caribbean lilt. Like others I met from some of the islands, he was a mix of many races. I could see East Indian in him, Chinese, some remnant was there of an indigenous race, and maybe even a trace of Spanish nobility. But he didn’t look like he was from St. Pierre, where most of the locals were dark-skinned descendants of African slaves. And his very proper British Caribbean inflection belied his, to be frank, somewhat thuggish appearance.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Arjoon?” I said, moving behind the bar. He spun on his stool to face me, the smile still wide and revealing teeth that looked like they hadn’t seen a dentist in decades.
“I’m a businessman from Guyana,” Arjoon said. “Here on this tropical paradise of yours, or should I say, an island you’ve adopted, to do some business.”
There was excess water on the polished mahogany bar in front of him. I wiped it down with a towel. I wondered what more he knew about me. “And what is your business?” I inquired.
He sipped from a bottle of Heineken and then put it down. Adjusting his tinted glasses and looking me in the eye, he said, “Breadfruit.”
I froze for just a moment, and then realized Arjoon was studying my reaction to what he just said. I resumed wiping the bar, now trying not to look caught unawares, making sure my expression remained stoic as it was before he made his proclamation.
“I didn’t know there was much of a business in breadfruit,” I said, keeping my head down on the work I was doing.
“Oh, but there is, Mr. Buonfiglio. You would be surprised.” He swiveled his beer bottle with his fingers as he talked. “Breadfruit, which we have in abundance on Guyana, has been classified by some as a new superfood. The world is just now beginning to realize its many health benefits.”
“Yeah, I heard it has high protein,” I said with a smile.
He returned my smile, keeping the eyes behind those tinted glasses on me. “So you do know something about breadfruit. But did you know that breadfruit has more potassium than a banana? Do you know what that means?”
“I don’t, Mr. Arjoon.”
“The more potassium, the better the blood flow. It helps those blood vessels relax. In other words, Mr. Buonfiglio, breadfruit does wonders for high blood pressure.”
I tried to act amused and smiled back at him. “Well, if I have any problems in that area, I will make sure to load up on my breadfruit intake.”
He laughed into his beer. “You do look fit and healthy. Island life, it seems, has been good for you.”
I said nothing. This was getting a little too cute for me. He was talking but saying nothing.
Realizing my patience was beginning to wane, he went on with his pitch. “Now I’m sure you know that the climate here on St. Pierre is, as on Guyana and so many of these beautiful islands, also conducive to the cultivation of breadfruit.”
“Yeah, the trees are everywhere,” I said bluntly.
“And we can thank Captain Bligh for them,” he said.
I looked at him. “What?”
“Captain Bligh. The mutiny on the Bounty. You know the story, don’t you?”
“What’s the mutiny on the Bounty got to do with breadfruit?” I asked, vaguely remembering the plot of the movie of the same name.
“Well, if Bligh’s vessel wasn’t mutinied, maybe the breadfruit plants he went to fetch in Tahiti would have gotten to these islands sooner,” Arjoon said. “And maybe the fruit would have been accepted more readily in Western society. It’s a marvelous story. So good they’ve made three movie versions of it.”
“Yeah, didn’t they make one with Marlon Brando? And he ended up with one of those Tahitian girls?” I asked.
He sipped his beer and laughed into it. “That he did, Mr. Buonfiglio. It’s funny how the local girls seem attracted to the white westerner.” He looked at me. How much more did he know about me? I wondered. “Anyway, that was one version. Before that it was Clark Gable playing Fletcher Christian and the great Charles Laughton as Captain Bligh. The most recent, called The Bounty, starred Mel Gibson and Anthony Hopkins as Bligh. Can you imagine three movies where breadfruit is a central plot device?”
“I thought it was the mutiny,” I said, not knowing really what I was talking about but trying to make conversation about this nonsensical subject.
“That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Buonfiglio. I like to think that it was the breadfruit that propelled the action. There would be no voyage, no mutiny if it weren’t for the task of returning to the West Indies with breadfruit plants. And to show his resilience, after being tossed from his vessel by his crew and then navigating himself to safety, Bligh was promoted to captain and sent back to Tahiti once more for breadfruit plants.”
“He didn’t get mutinied again, did he?” I asked, suddenly actually curious.
“No.” Arjoon smiled. “He was successful in bringing back a few hundred plants to St. Vincent and then Jamaica. And now look. As you said. The trees are everywhere.”
I nodded. “They are. And?”
“And a man who can harvest the fruit and export it to other countries to meet the growing demand overseas can make himself a lucrative business.”
“Is that what you do, Mr. Arjoon?” I leaned back against the bar, my arms folded across my chest, now looking him in the eye. I wanted him now to know that we were communicating without the bullshit he was spewing. That I knew that he was playing with me.
“Something like that,” he said. He went into the pocket of his flowery shirt and pulled out a business card. “We can discuss my business further if you like, at your convenience. That is my mobile number. I will be staying at LuJean’s Guest House for the evening.”
“LuJean’s?”
“Yes, I hear she makes a delicious breakfast for her guests. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Breadfruit pudding?” Even I knew about her famous breakfast.
He laughed loudly, his smile again showing off those sorry teeth. “Oh yes . . . it has quite the reputation, doesn’t it?”
With that he slid his bony frame off the barstool and made his way to the front entrance. I thought he might turn around and smile again at me, but he didn’t.
I waited a few moments behind the bar to make sure he wouldn’t come back in and then I made my way to the door. Tubby was right behind me. Both of us saw the black Lexus SUV pull out of the small parking lot and head down West Road toward Garrison.
“Someone in that car waiting,” Tubby told me as we stood at the doorway. “It was running all the time that man in here.”
“I know,” I said.
Tubby saw the concern on my face.
“What’s going on? What that man say to you?”
“I’m really not sure.” I paced a bit, moving from the front entrance again to the bar and back, peering into the dark quiet of West Road.
Toon and Griffin stopped their discussion to look at me. Neither said anything. They were waiting for my next move. I was waiting for my next move. I had suspicions, but that was all. And even if my suspicions were real, this was all new to me. I was a bar owner. I knew cops back in New York. They came to my bars. I talked to them. But I wasn’t a cop. And those cops were not on this island. Something was pushing me forward here. I knew I had to act, but I didn’t know how, or really what to do or w
hy. In New York, even if I had suspicions of something not right, I wouldn’t have done a thing. Here, though, it was different. Here I felt a responsibility I never felt before.
“Where does Grainey live?” I asked Tubby, a sick feeling rising up in my belly.
“Grainey? The man was here earlier,” Tubby said, surprised by my question.
I grabbed the keys to my jeep. “Where does he live? Is he near the turnaround past the Blue Tyre Shop?”
Tubby sensed my urgency. He shook his head. “No, not that far down de road. Grainey, he live two house from the LeGrande Miracle Church. The house with the green door. Why you want to find Grainey?”
I didn’t answer. I was out the door and into my jeep. I could see Tubby, along with Toon and Griffin, standing in the doorway, watching. Wondering.
I was wondering too. I had no idea what I was doing. But I had an idea what I would find. And I didn’t think it would be good.
I saw the flashing lights in the darkness of a St. Pierre night from almost a mile away. All I had to do was follow them and I knew I would find Adolphus Grainey too. I had a feeling of dread that reminded me of what I anticipated that June morning back in New York. When I felt the ground shake under my feet.
They had just gotten him into the ambulance when I pulled up. A police car was next to the ambulance, and Superintendent Keith McWilliams was there talking to another policeman I recognized as Albert Haines. They stopped their conversation when they saw me arrive.
“What happened to Grainey? Did someone do something to him?” McWilliams, who was very tall, thick in the chest, dark-skinned with bloodshot eyes, said nothing for a moment.
“Why would you say that, Mr. Len?” he said to me in his deep, sleepy voice.
“The ambulance. This is his house, isn’t it?” I gestured.
