Those are some impressive cows, eh? Chris father say. What kind of food are they eating?
Must be hormones, Jasmine laugh.
Look like they chewing some grass too, though, Leroy say. When I was a little bwoi, I used to love watching cows chewing them cud.
You come from country? Jasmine ask him.
No, I grow up downtown. But at a certain time, a few cow and goat used to wander round. I wonder what happen to them? People probably butcher them for the meat. Or they got shot.
* * *
The visitor carpark is almost full when we drive into the Giverny place, and Féliciane have to circle round, looking for a spot big enough for the minivan. After she park, all of we get out and stretch, feeling the jet lag. Then we join up with a whole bunch of people heading down this narrow road. Everybody following signs for the entrance to the garden. We pass little shops that selling painting and souvenir, and Jasmine want to take a look, but Féliciane say we can do all of that later. The queue already have bout forty people when we reach near, and everybody talking some different kinda language. We line up too. Meanwhile, Féliciane is digging round in her knapsack for the ticket-dem. She tell us that she order them online and print them out.
Okaaay, she say, like she just win a prize. Here they are. I was getting worried. Maybe we can go right up to the front as I think these people are waiting to buy their tickets.
So we move to the head of the queue and stand waiting for Féliciane to ask one of the attendant-dem bout what to do next. Before she can say anything, though, trouble start. This big red-face man in the line is looking Féliciane up and down in a real facety way.
Hey, where are you from? he ask her.
Féliciane stare pon him, face cold. France, she say. The way she answer would give anybody the hint not to ask her anything else, but the man determined not to get the message.
And where is your boyfriend from? him ask. Him flash a look at Leroy, standing there close to Féliciane.
La Jamaïque.
Oh my God, say the the man, as loud as him can. That’s too bad. I feel sorry for you. You know, those Jamaican guys like to fuck around. And they always want to jump the queue.
All of us staring at him in shock now, trying to think of something to say. But before Féliciane or Leroy can react, Stephen jump forward and grab the man by the front of him shirt. Then him draw back him right hand and crash him fist gainst the man jaw. And is like I rooted to the spot as I watch him push the man so hard that the fellow land on him backside in the dirt. Meanwhile, people shouting and scattering. And Stephen getting ready to do more, but Chris and Leroy holding him back.
I hear mi voice saying, Lord have mercy, Stephen. What get into you?
By this time, two guard-dem in black pants and shirt come out from inside and start shouting at the top of them voice.
Ça suffit! Enough now.
Féliciane trying to tell them something while they helping up the fellow Stephen hit, but they not listening. And it look like the fool-fool man want to continue the fight, but with all of we standing round Stephen, and Miss Pretty lifting up her walking stick, him back way, cussing.
Idiot, Féliciane call out after him.
Now a woman with bright orange hair is talking to the guards. That man started it, she saying. He was being offensive. It’s not their fault.
Other people join in too, calling the man stupid and bigot and crazy and all kinda word.
So, the guard-dem let us go in. And we spend a good hour inside the place, looking at all the plant-dem, dahlia and rose and iris and more. And I see the water lily, all the different colour, with the reflection of the cloud and sky in the pond-dem, just like postcard. But still we not talking much, and everyone is kinda down, with Chris especially holding him face tight-tight. And I’m thinking that garden and flower not supposed to have this kinda effect. We silent even when we back in the minivan, until Jasmine all of a sudden start laughing.
Mister Ali, she calling Stephen. Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.
So then we all start laughing, except for Stephen. He barely smiling and I feel that maybe him hand hurting him. You can’t crack a blow like that without feeling pain yourself.
You cool, man? Chris ask him, and Stephen nod, still embarrass.
He avoiding looking at me because he know that is not how I raise him. And though I was laughing a little while ago, I sad to realise that the dark space in him that I think was gone is still there. But maybe I have one too, if I look deep enough.
What disgusting words from that awful man, Miss Pretty saying now. Utterly disgusting. You did the right thing, son.
Is the first time she speaking since we leave the hotel this morning. And I don’t want to disagree with her, but Stephen need to know.
No, he didn’t do the right thing, I say. Next time we just turn our back on fool-fool people like that.
Miss Pretty go silent again, and she draw her coat round her.
Then Féliciane say, Thank you, though, Stephen. I definitely couldn’t have handled it myself.
And Stephen look even more depress.
* * *
The day not finish with we yet, though. We run into big-big police barricade on the way back to the hotel, all the officer-dem bulk up in riot gear. Féliciane lean out the window to ask them what going on, and then she say “merde” in a loud voice when them inform her.
Sorry. The chemises blanches, she tell us. I completely forgot.
Then she explain bout all the demonstrator-dem that been taking to the street for weeks, all wearing white shirt and demanding that government reform things and stop raising prices because some people so bad off. She say the whole thing start with fuel increase, and this remind me of all the riot-dem and roadblock we used to have every time gas price go up.
My dad told me to watch out, Féliciane say. But I completely forgot.
What’s with the white shirts though? Jasmine asking.
Well, the demonstrators wanted loads of people to come out and they figured that everyone owns a white shirt or blouse. That way they stand out as a movement.
Hmm, I don’t think I own even one piece of white clothing, Jasmine say. Not my colour at all.
My mom and dad joined them the first few weekends because, really, some things need to change. But they didn’t like the violence, so they haven’t been back, Féliciane saying.
It take her more than one hour to find a clear route to the hotel, and all this time we can hear sirens screaming everywhere.
When we walk into the lobby, Mr. Cléber say, Well, looks like you chose a rather bad time for your trip. If you want to go out for lunch, I would stay around here.
Later on television, we see the report-dem of smash-up shop window, car set on fire, water cannon, and tear gas. I go to bed full of worry, expecting not to get any sleep. But I’m gone almost as soon as mi head touch the pillow. And in mi dream, I’m a young woman, walking on water, jumping from lily pad to lily pad.
I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering that second time I go to Hope Gardens and see the water lily–dem. It was the time when I was living with that man, the one and only boyfriend. Even now it hard for me to believe I stay with him for so long. The man used to act like I belong to him, like if I want to talk, I have to ask him permission, like if I put on certain clothes, he have the God-given right to tell me whether them suit me or not. When the two of us was in the little apartment, it always feel like him was a vacuum cleaner, sucking up all the air and leaving none for me to breathe.
I meet him on mi first job, after I move to town. Those days I was tired of being in country, especially after Granny pass away and leave me alone in the house. Maybe I was looking for somebody to lean on, and Derek musta fit the bill. Him was a big man, bout six foot, just a little taller than me. And him did look good and know it too. The supervisor assign him to train me when I start at the accounting office, filing things. At first, him seem so nice and gentlemanly. Is only late
r that I realise bout the nasty temper.
After a month, him ask me to go to see a show with him, and from then we was going out every weekend, to beach and thing. We go out for months before we start live together, planning to get married. And I leave the job because him say it was better that the two of us not working at the same place. It didn’t take too long for the constant quarrelling to start, though, even if me is not somebody who like to fuss and fight. But every little thing set the man off.
One evening, we have a big argument because him say mi cooking don’t taste good, when that is one thing I learn to do from when I little. Granny teach me everything bout food because is she raise me after mi mother go England. So I cooking like from the time I can walk. But that is the thing the man use for insult. When I tell him to start cooking for himself, him get up from the table and, bam, punch me in mi mouth. And the shock cause me to wail out more than even the pain, while him rubbing him hand like is him get hurt. I rush to the bathroom and see mi bottom lip split wide open and blood running down. I never so vex in all mi life. When I go back outside, him standing there, not even looking sorry.
That is what happen when you talk to me like that, him say.
I don’t answer. I just get ice from the fridge and wrap it in a towel and put it on mi mouth. And when him go to bed, I stay out on the couch, thinking that maybe I should take a knife to him in him sleep. But I banish way the bad thought-dem. And next day when him go to work, I leave the house, not knowing where I going, mi face still swell up but not so bad. Ice is everything.
Somehow or other, I end up at Hope Gardens, so quiet that time of day. I walk round, past all the tree. I take mi time, looking at the yellow blossom-dem from the frangipani, the bright orange queen flower, the bull thatch palm. I remember all the name-dem from Miss Fletcher, even the Latin one-dem that she did tell us. Plumeria. Lagerstroemia speciosa. Sabal jamaicensis. That palm was one of the few that originate on the island, she did say. I look at it, how it standing apart and sturdy like anything. I walk some more, past bougainvillea and nutmeg tree, until I get to the water lily pond. And I sit down by the side, not caring if mi clothes getting dirty, looking into the water, feeling the funny feeling like the first time. And clear through the quietness, I hear Granny talking to me: I didn’t raise you for man to come punch you. Take your backside out of there.
I go back to the apartment and pack up mi clothes. Then I throw a vase into the TV screen and fling all the glass and plate-dem onto the kitchen floor. The sound give me so much pleasure. After that, I take a bus to Parade and from there, another one to country, to the house and land Granny left me. The plant-dem provide nearly all I need. And after Stephen come into mi life, I never try to find anybody else.
Is a long time before I fall back asleep, just lying there listening to Miss Pretty snoring in the other bed. The jet lag must be catching up with me. I reach up and touch mi left breast. The lump not getting any smaller. I don’t tell Stephen anything bout it yet. No point in worrying anybody.
* * *
Next day at breakfast in the Cléber, Stephen break the news—the art exhibition off. The gallery destroy and burn up in the riot. Stephen tell us the owner call him first thing this morning, and although she sound vex, clearly she one of these people who know that life must go on.
These things happen, Stephen say, imitating her. Nothing to be done.
He ask her what happen to the painting-dem and all she say was, Gone up in smoke. So very sorry.
Except she didn’t sound that sorry, Stephen say. In fact, before she hang up, she make the comment that a little excitement could sometimes be good for everyone, and for art. At least that is what Stephen say he understand. A demonstration here, a riot there—life go on, and we have to go with the flow.
She must have a really good insurance policy, Stephen say.
And will we get reimbursed for our work? Jasmine ask him.
That might take a while, Stephen tell her.
Don’t worry, Uncle Alton say. We didn’t paint anything that we can’t paint again.
Yes, right, Jasmine saying under her breath. Then she announce, I’m going out for a walk. Anyone want to come?
Uncle Alton get up first, and him and Miss Pretty trail after Jasmine, like chicken following them mother out the coop.
I’m going back upstairs to take a nap, Chris’s father say. And him head for the tiny elevator.
So is just me and Stephen and Chris there now.
What is our plan B? Chris ask.
Look, man, Stephen tell him, I’ll take care of things here. You go to Italy a bit earlier with your dad and see Lidia’s parents. We’ll meet back here for the flight home.
Chris look at him like he really not certain bout any of this.
Don’t worry, Stephen say. I’ll make sure everyone has a good time. That was part of the purpose for bringing Auntie Della and Miss Pretty here, and they’re going to have the time of their lives. They deserve it. And this should’ve been just a vacation anyway. I work too much. I think I might even do a little sketching.
Cool, Chris say. You know, I’ve never seen any of your work.
He can draw good-good, I say.
Stephen reach over and hold mi hand and I squeeze his before he let go.
Auntie Della think I’m perfect at everything, he say.
Not everything, I correct him. And him and Chris bust out a laugh.
Okay. If you’re sure you can manage, Chris say.
You talking to Mister Fix-It, I tell Chris. Don’t forget.
As we go out the breakfast room, Chris is telling Stephen, with him voice low as if him think I’m hard of hearing or something, I hope it all works out with Féliciane.
And Stephen say, with false bravery: I can hear it. Oh, it will. She’ll stay with Leroy. He knows how to fix taps. And I scare her too much.
You scare everybody, Chris say, laughing.
No, not Jasmine, and not Auntie Della, Stephen answer him. So, what do you want to do today, Auntie?
I think I want to go back and see the water lily–dem, I tell him. Maybe just you, me, and Chris this time.
—The End—
acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Superwoman Tanya Batson-Savage, a wonderful editor and publisher, among her many roles; to the great Kwame Dawes for all he does, and for asking: “Do you have a novella?”—which turned into a novel; to Johnny Temple and the Akashic team; to G, Djav, and Jade for their love, support, and untiring encouragement; to sculptor Alexander P. for his art; to gardeners and painters of flowers everywhere; to my family and friends.
Photograph by A. Ba
ALECIA McKENZIE is a Jamaican writer currently based in France. Her first collection of short stories, Satellite City, and her novel, Sweetheart, have both won Commonwealth Book Prizes. The French edition of Sweetheart was awarded the Prix Carbet des Lycéens. Her other books include Stories from Yard, Doctor’s Orders, and When the Rain Stopped in Natland. Her writing has also appeared in a range of literary magazines and in anthologies such as Stories from Blue Latitudes, The Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories, Bridges, Global Tales, Girls Night In, and To Exist Is to Resist. She has edited two collections of contemporary short stories, and her poetry has been published in various international journals including The Caribbean Writer and the Journal of Postcolonial Writing. Her most recent novel is A Million Aunties.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Published by Akashic Books
©2020 by Alecia McKenzie
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-892-8
eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-895-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020935793
First printing
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