Foreign Soil

by Maxine Beneba Clarke

  Big Islan

  NATHANIAL ROBINSON lean out ovah de water, shake im head an look-look down pas im grubby dungarees an im heavy leather work boot, an inte de water below. Im a large man, Nathanial, big-big bone like im bloodline done come right down frum Goliath in de Bible or sometin’. Large, an iv ye nyah know how gentle de man is at heart, den maybe im even seem a likkle ominous, standin’ on de pier like dis, wid im black shadow castin’ down ovah de light blue-a de bay water below.

  Kingston Port nyah changed. It same-same as it always is in de easy affernoon affer im knock off down de docks. Same-same as it always is every weekday affernoon wen de young man stan on de edge ov dis beloved islan country-a his, look-lookin out te sea.

  Same blue ’pon green ’pon navy ’pon khaki water. Same flat-flat horizon line dat seem like it stretchin’ way-way beyon wat im eye can si, runnin’ an runnin’ forever an a day. Same familiar husky whisper-a de sea breeze, dancin’ an teasin’ aroun dem broad black shoulder dat hidden beneat im torn work shirt an im baggy overall. Same-same Kingston.

  Small air bubble travelin’ slowly up out de water, as dem fast-tail fishie flit jus below de surface. Wen Nathanial a-sigh-sigh an squint-peer past de ships, it de same seaweed shadow patterned out in de gettin-deep reaches. Same yellow affernoon glintin’ off de ripples. An dat same crazy-fresh islan air, so clear, despite de many cargo ship bout de place dis evenin’, dat every breath feel like it flowin’ down-down te de very bottom ov im lung an a-comin up new an reborn.

  Same everytin but yet, somehow, it nyah de same anymore at all. It big-big change. Since J fe Jamaica, everytin aroun Nathanial seem like it nyah quite de same. Since J fe Jamaica, de ocean bin callin’, nyah calmin’, de young man. Sun seem shifted somehow. Im used-a feel it blarin’ warm on im back in de hot season, coverin’ im gentle like an ole chilehood blanket, an makin’ im feel safe an protected. Now, more often dan nat, im fine de sun in im eye, an imself squintin’ away de sheer annoyance ov it. Evah since Nathanial learn J fe Jamaica de fishie dem seem a likkle less translucent, tiny schools-a dem dizzy-swimmin’ in circles, an nyah wid de same purpose anymore. Evah since J, dem fancy cargo ship bin passin’ tru Kingston, nyah comin’ to or leavin’ frum it. Evah since J fe Jamaica, much as im continue te tell imself nuttin’ change, Nathanial carry nyah small amount-a unease deep deep down in im own self skin.

  “One lettah per week,” im wife, Clarise, had insisted.

  Was twelve mont back. De woman was standin’ at de kitchen counter preparin’ dem Sunday meal.

  “We startin wid A fe ackee,” she seh, her fingers removin’ de blushin’-crimson flower frum outside-a de ackee, snappin’ off de cedar-black seed at de end-a de cream-color fruit.

  Im wife, she had im trace dat firs lettah. Hundred damn time, in de lounge room while she cookin’ up de food. Nathanial large frame was crouch down on de floor, hunch aroun de glass coffee table Clarise parents bought dem fe dem weddin’ present nat three year before.

  A is fe ackee.

  Im clumsy fingah clutch tight an awkward roun de gray lead. De likkle lettah a was a roun circle wid a stick attach on de right-hand side. De big lettah A, de capital one, she call it, was pointy at de top, like it some kinda arrow. An Lawd, im sure wan stab de woman wid it dat evenin’, she frustrate im so.

  A is fe acrimonious.

  Is ironic dat dem start it all wid ackee. Nathanial nyah even like de way Clarise cook up de fruit. She leave it so long in de pan it go all bitter an mushy. Serve it wid saltfish dat nyah bin soak ovahnight. Fish so damn salty dat im haffi drink a gallon-a water te get de ting down pas im throat. Leave a fuzzy film a-sittin’ on im tongue.

  A is fe acrid.

  “Let’s teyk our time wid dis alphabet, Nathanial,” Clarise insist. “Ye haffi learn each lettah properly, an start like ye mean te finish. Like ye gwan get so keen at readin’ ye gwan eventually be able pick up any classic in de city library, an nat bat an eyelid bout de level ov difficulty.”

  But it nat Nathanial idea in de first place. It Clarise dat obsess wid educatin’ im. Obsess wid de more money she seh it gwan bring. De big home. Sometime Nathanial look at im wife, an im nyah recognize de likkle pigtail girl dat used-a sit beside im in de Baptist school near twenty year ago now. Way back fore im fadda die an im haffi go inte de fields te help wid puttin’ de food on de family table.

  Dem reconneck wen im come back home one year. Only in de meantime, Clarise use dem intervenin’ year te grow spectacular. Wen im return, Clarise more stunnin’ dan evah im seen a woman. Nex ting Nathanial know, im puttin’ ring ’pon de woman fingah an she sayin’ she wan move te de city, she wan get out dis small likkle country nat-even-can-call-it-a-town soon as is possible.

  Affer A is fe ackee, dem had gone te de supermarket. Clarise’d made im point out de As on all de packages. Nathanial had oblige, sidle up te de brightly colored packets, quickly flick im fingah at de lettah so de udda shoppers nyah catch on wat im doin. Him gat it mostly correct, but wrong some-a de time. Pointed te M, an N, even a Y wen im start gettin’ embarrass an tired. Clarise was enjoyin’ herself. Was dere in de puddin—in de loud way she speak, makin’ sure everybody in de whole aisle listenin’ in.

  “Dat fantastic, Nathanial! Nex week we gwan get started on B. An by half-year’s mark, we gwan have de whole alphabet down. Si. It nyah so difficult affer all, dis readin’.” Each word-a praise like an open-palm slap on de back ov Nathanial head. Disguised rebuke. Only time since dem marry dat evah im feel like raisin’ im voice or im hand te de woman. Still, im guess she owed no small amount-a smugness where im readin’, or lack dereof, concern. Most likely im wife still smartin’ cause im conceal im readin’ problem till dem already wed. It was sneaky, true, but Lawd, im damn payin’ im dues now. Amount-a damn trouble it cause im since, im gatta be nearly done wid im penance, sure as im standin’ yere.

  In any case, it nat only imself dat was cookin’ up de porkies fore dem wed. Clarise, she swore im was de firs an only. But a few mont after de weddin’ im cousin foun out frum a friend dat de girl bin roun de track several time before. Nathanial too much a gentleman te raise it now an embarrass de woman. But sometime she push im so-so close te clumsy spillin’ dem beans all ovah de place. It nyah matter much te Nathanial who Clarise bin wid before, but im grown tired ov de woman’s growin’ righteousness. Act like she de only one never can do nuttin’ wrong.

  Nathanial pat down im Afro an close im eye, im work-filthy hand clutchin’ de railin’ ov de wooden pier. Wen im get home, Clarise gwan get on at im bout dem dirty hand. She like dem sof an clean: uncalloused. Like de men who work behind de counter in Jamaica Bank down de main street, Nathanial imagine. She wan dem hands, like im nyah seen a day ov honest work in im whole life. Nathanial fingahs, dem line wid toil. De grime ov de ports sink inte de tiny likkle skin-ridges ov im palm an fingahtip, pattern dem black wid grease an dirt. Clarise buy scrubbin’ brush an special soap. Send im out de house wearin’ heavy work glove one day. De udda men down de dock, dem had laugh demself te tears.

  Nathanial raise up im face te de warm, gentle wind. De breeze curl up an whisper roun im ear, like a chilehood sweetheart. Lawd, ain’t no smell at all like de salt, blowin’ off-a dis clear, clear sea.

  It almos a year now since Clarise teach im J fe Jamaica. Nathanial im has move far an fas beyon de lettahs, an on te de soun ov de words an de sentences.

  Laughter an faster.

  Dark an heart.

  Water an daughter.

  Love an grub.

  So many-many opportunity fe error. So many place te stumble an fall.

  On de day he learn J fe Jamaica, affer im practice makin’ de curve half-smile ov de lettah cross a page ov line paper, Clarise teyk de small globe down frum de bookshelf in dem tiny lounge room, point out de small cluster-a West Indian islan, ask Nathanial te look fe de J. Nathanial, im shock inte silence, starin’ at de small speck hoverin’ halfway down de world. Tiny-tiny it was. Im had te squint te si it proper. Clarise stood ovah de top o
v im, one hand on a hip, watchin’ right in close te de man’s face, makin’ sure im understood.

  “Dis a small, small islan we livin’ on, mi husban,” she say, an she leave im dere, sittin’ on de saggin’ lounge wid de whole world a-tremblin’ in im hand, starin’ at de likkle J fe Jamaica.

  Nathanial’s already done wid unloadin’ down de dockyard fe de week. It Friday so, as im always do, im rewardin’ im weary-tired bone wid an easy stroll aroun de port. Monday te Friday de hustle an bustle ov de place meyk it feel like it de center ov de world. Down de export yard, crates unpack an pack, ships move in an out. It Nathanial an im coworkers’ job te smooth ovah de process—meyk it run like de inside ov a clock, windin’ an turnin’ easy. Dem load up de banana boats wid wooden crate, imaginin’ de still-green fruit slow-ripenin’ te yellow on de journey, reachin’ de London market jus in time fe sweetest-ripe.

  B is fe banana.

  L is fe London.

  V is fe voyage.

  S is fe safe harbor.

  Crates ov coconut an tin ackee an sugar cane all load up on top one unudda, like dis islan produce feedin’ half de hungry world.

  Clarise bin naggin’ Nathanial te get a new job. Im bin wid de Port Authority ovah three year now an no sign ov promotion. Im nyah know why de woman relish rubbin’ it in—she know damn well why im overlooked all de time. Im workin’ on it every moment im get but it nyah easy, grown-up man like imself learnin’ te read well enough fe secure promotion.

  E is fe effort.

  A is fe audacity.

  I is fe impossible.

  In any case, dis harbor home te Nathanial now. Im nyah care dat it a tiny-small speck in de middle ov de world. Im cyant tink ov nowhere bettah im like. Im seh dis te Clarise yesterday, wen she start on at im again.

  “Mi nat gwan resign, Clarise. Mi love workin’ de port. It de center ov everytin comin’ an gwan te dis islan. Feel like mi know de workins ov de world wen mi at de port. Ye know, like mi own self is part ov de globality ov it all.”

  “Globality nyah even a word, ye great fool,” Clarise huff. “Jamaica a small-tiny islan, like dem always seh it is, an iv we stuck yere long enough, den small is de only ting our likkle minds evah gwan be.”

  Nathanial grit im teeth now, tinkin bout it. Im taken te ignorin’ de woman wen she get in dat way—shuttin’ off im ear an lettin’ im mind wander te udda ting. Soon as im put de ring ’pon dat eager slim fingah-a hers, Clarise busy herself up wid nag, nag, naggin’.

  But right now, on dis yere sunny Friday affernoon, de workin-week rush is slowly dyin’ down, an even de thought ov Clarise all up in im face bout travelin’ away frum dis place an climbin’ up in de world ain’t near enough te dampen Nathanial spirit.

  Most-a de big boat already pull out fe dem journey, but a big ship still hoverin’. It de largest Nathanial seen in some time now. Great hulk ov a ting, wid swirlin’ letterin’ on de side all black an fancy. Nathanial stare up at de hulkin’ sea vessel.

  “W . . . i . . . n . . .” Squintin’ inte de sun, im try te soun out de lettahs de way Clarise bin teachin’ im. “Windr . . . Windrush Three.” Nathanial shake im head dismal.

  W is fe Windrush.

  De name tell im all im need te know. De ship boun fe Inglan, no less. Nathanial bet im fellow citizen gwan scramble te get in line fe boardin’ an set sail te where dem true-believe dem streets jus a-pave up wid gold.

  E is fe Inglan.

  O is fe opportunity.

  Wen im look up Inglan on de globe, im surprise at how teeny it is. Likkle place like dat rapin’ an pillagin’ de whole rest-a de world. It a madness unheard ov.

  Nathanial young wife would have de two-a dem board big boat like dis, if evah de woman could be so persuasive. Night an day she carryin’ on bout how dem gettin’ on now in age, thirty only a few short year away. Clarise seh before de two-a dem settle inte children dat she wan go on adventure, chasin’ bettah dream.

  “Huh. De woman crazy. Bettah dreams!” De foamy wave cap rise up gainst de pier, sprayin’ onte Nathanial shoes. Im wife talkin’ like dat Kennedy on de wireless, whose government jus teyk office in America, cross de sea. Already, Kennedy an co have announce dem intent on sendin’ men te walk up on de moon.

  “Pfffft. Madness. De moon.” Nathanial step back frum de spray, shield im eyes wid im hand, an stare nasty back up at de Windrush III, suckin’ furious on im teeth. Im older brother depart six year ago, on de firs ship dat came te teyk Nathanial young countrymen away.

  F is fe foolishness.

  Dem-a call dat boat de Windrush too, de firs an original one. Used-a be banana boat, Nathanial hear tell. Still travel de same journey. Only now it exportin’ de people. It nyah matter, de cargo’s still a-gobble up abroad by foreigner—still peel back te flesh on arrival an swallow whole. Nevah te be seen again.

  Im brother Curtis was all dress up in im Sunday finery, standin’ anxious-happy an full up-a dizzy hope, on dis very same pier fe im Inglan journey.

  B is fe bon voyage.

  P is fe possibility.

  D is fe dreams.

  “Lawdy Lawd . . . seem like it so-so long ago now im gone.” Nathanial heavy sigh, jus tinkin ov de years dat gone by. Im move away frum de ship an stare out again inte de open sea. “It jus invitin’ hardship an trouble te go always a-seekin-seekin.”

  C is fe courage an carriage an change.

  S is fe steadfast an stubborn an staid.

  Out on de ocean, aquamarine meet cobalt, cobalt greet turquoise, an turquoise got itself all busy-up hailin’ good afternoon te de jadest ov greens. Some part de harbor so clear-clear green-blue dat it seem im could jus reach out in front im face an touch de sandy sea bottom. Light ray ripplin’ off true-gentle wave, like de ocean itself is carryin’ de sunshine inte Kingston Beach.

  “Oh, dis islan,” Nathanial Robinson whisper softly te imself. “Any red-blooded man on God’s own eart gwan get excited bout de view stretch out before mi.” Im nyah crazy fe wantin’ te stay on de islan. Fe refusin’ te budge imself, wen almos every udda young man im know wid de means fe doin’ so desertin’ de place sly-sly an quick like a fox de firs time opportunity come a-brazen knockin’.

  “Cha! Searchin’ fe bettah ting. May de Lawd shine down im mercy on de whole sorry lotta dem stuck in cold grimy Inglan!” Nathanial sigh, turn on im heel, saunter off down de boardwalk a-headin’ fe de Friday chicken an yam im know Clarise sure te be cookin’ up. De woman always burn de chicken black, cause she ovah-marinate de ting an den cook de pieces ov de bird too close te de grillin’ plate. Used-a bother Nathanial, but strangely nough im slowly growin’ inte eatin’ it like dat.

  “No way, no how Nathanial Robinson leavin’ dis islan,” de young man reassure imself. Im walk down de pier, cross de beach an onte de esplanade. De newspaper vendor give a nod-nod as im pass. Vera, de woman dat sell saltfish by de roadside, raise her hand up in polite salute. De road workers rollin’ out de bumps in de tar, dem smile an stop workin’ long nough te give a likkle wave cross de way. Nowhere, no how, Nathanial evah gwan leave Kingston, dust-tiny speck on de atlas or no. Nathanial already learn imself H, an dat lettah, wid dem two poles dat join up in de middle wid a likkle scaffoldin’, it always gwan stand fe home.

  * * *

  Nathanial sit at de small wooden kitchen table polishin’ off de last ov im butter yam. Out de kitchen doorway an in de lounge, im can si Clarise, sittin’ foldin’ clean clothes inte basket. She a-singin-singin as she smooth an turn de shirt, smooth an turn it ovah again. She singin-singin as she tuck de pairs-a socks inte each udda so dem gwan be easy te find in de drawer ov a mornin’.

  “Oh Lawd, wat a nite nat a bite . . . oooooh Laaawd . . .”

  Off-key strain ov de market song drift inte de kitchen an beat Nathanial bout de head.

  “Carry mi ackee go a Linstead market . . .”

  Nathanial cringe as Clarise again fall outta tune. It im own damn silly fault she singin’ so. In dem early courtin’ days, im used-a tell de woman dat voice she ha
d was big sexy-beautiful. Meyk de girl smile an swoon wen im say it, so im younger self keep it up. An now she wife te Nathanial, he cyant very well double back an say she soun like a donkey brayin’ an im was jus wicked-lyin’ all along.

  C is fe comeuppance.

  K is fe karma.

  J is fe just deserts.

  Clarise fole de clean clothes inte de laundry basket, one eye on de newspaper dat perch on her lap. Seem she big distracted.

  “Ye swoonin’ at dat Harry Belafonte in de Jamaica Gleaner again?” Nathanial call tru de kitchen doorway, a-teasin’.

  “It nyah Belafonte mi swoonin’ at,” come de big cheeky reply. “Matter ov fact, if ye haffi know, it de whole West Indies cricket team. An mi nat de only one goin’ all weak at de knee, tank ye very much, Mister Robinson. So don’t ye start comin’ across all smug an smart wid mi.”

  “Lawd, dis woman mi got miself! She nyah know de meanin’ ov loyalty!” Nathanial call back, chucklin’ big-loud as im remove imself frum de table an drop de crockery an de cutlery inte de sink. Movin’ inte de small lounge room, im a-plonk imself down in de armchair. De corroded springs, dem almost give out underneat im botty.

  “Ye want te practice readin’?” Clarise pass im de paper, stand, pick up de full washin’ basket.

  Nathanial stop Clarise readin’ de newspaper out loud some week ago now. Im couldn’t bear de news dem was reportin’: all dem fool politician squabblin’ bout independence. Wat on dis fine eart is left te argue bout wen it come te independence frum de British im never gwan figure out. All-a dem years since slavery, an still wen de master say jump, de islan jus gather roun debatin’ how high dem gwan lif dem feet.

  On de front-a de paper, de West Indies cricket team dem ridin’ up back a lorry truck, wavin’ dem cricket bat aroun fe de camera. Cheesy-big smile runnin’ cross dem face. Along de street, people cheerin’ wild-wild. In de nex photograph, a group ov young white women starin’ on at de team frum behin de security rope. Dem pretty girl mout so wide open Nathanial tink im can si dem tonsil vibratin’. One-a de girl reachin’ out te touch Wesley Hall sleeve, lookin’ like she gwan faint. De cricketer pay de girl no mind, wide smile cuttin’ in half dat big-handsome face ov his.