On the Way Back

by Montague Kobbé

  Glenallen Rawlingson had had to withstand Bacchus Stewart’s presence long enough to understand that his enthusiasm for a venture that was being spearheaded by his niece Sheila should send alarm bells ringing all around, but his world really turned on its head when Godfrey Ryan, the owner of the Arawak Cave, one of the island’s oldest and best hotels, expressed utter indignation at having to discuss any more of this white man’s fantasy. We talkin’ talkin’ talkin’ ’bout dis nonsense for weeks already in the HTA, an’ dey goan give dem plenty money just so. I ain’ wastin’ my time wit’ dem people no more, you know. This was the first thing Glenallen Rawlingson had heard about the HTA’s agreement to commit approximately half of its budget for the year to guarantee the longevity of an initiative that, if successful, could potentially bring about the most dramatic transformation in the island’s tourism industry since its emergence in the mid-1980s. This was also all Glenallen Rawlingson needed to know to understand that Sheila’s efforts to find independent means to fund Dragon Wings had far exceeded his expectations, that the Joneses would be able to press ahead with their plans with or without him. The time had come to act, and to act quickly, if he wanted to prevent the Stewarts from getting any leverage in the enterprise.

  Unbeknown to the Joneses, they had just landed the most important victory in their bid to turn a hypothetical airline into a fully operational business, because though Sheila’s application for a US $1,000,000 credit would not be accepted by the Indigenous Bank of Anguilla, the heated discussion sparked by it was a sign that a number of prominent players in Anguillan society had strong feelings about the prospect of Dragon Wings becoming Anguilla’s flag carrier in the immediate future, and that at least a portion of them were prepared to clear the way to make the process as simple for Nathaniel and Co. as possible.

  VI

  Oh, Dragon! Can’t it wait till Monday? I know it can’t but I’m just making it clear that I’m taking one for the team right now—one that I’ll make sure to redeem on a future occasion. After weeks of doing nothing, there are finally some signs that I might, after all, get to actually work on this island. I met this girl at The Velvet last Friday and agreed to go out with her tomorrow night. It’s our first date, Dragon—I swear I’ll make it to Antigua the day after tomorrow. There is, of course, nothing to do: the slot has been booked, sleeping arrangements have been made, I must go. My Venezuelan license is endorsed by the FAA, and we’re ranked in Category 1, anyway, so They should just give me a stamp and allow me to fly! I know I haven’t flown in over two years, I’m kidding. It’s just that I met this girl at The Velvet and . . . Oh, never mind, okay, tomorrow, first thing in the morning, departure time six forty-five a.m. Fine. I’ll be there at six o’clock. Don’t worry, I won’t miss my flight.

  The day will be a drag. I need to validate my license and pass the theory test of the ECCAA to get local certification. I promised Dragon weeks ago I would look into the rules and regulations to verify that standard procedure around here matches procedures in Venezuela. I’ll have to find the book, have a look at it on the way to Antigua tomorrow morning. Dragon’s still upset. He looks distracted, almost lost. Is he worried I might miss my flight? It’s not me you should be worrying about, Dragon. I have kept this to myself for weeks but maybe the time has come to get it off my chest. I don’t really care if this airline works or not, all I care about is my salary, and I’m getting paid, but if something doesn’t change soon I won’t be getting paid for long. Dragon, we need to talk. I’m not convinced about this airline, man. If I go back to my old job my boss might still take me back, you know. I don’t know if this was the right decision. He thinks this is a scheme. He thinks I’m doing this to get out of going to Antigua tomorrow. He doesn’t think I’m talking sense. Reassure me, Dragon. Convince me. Nothing. Dragon’s just lethargic, absent—in fact, disinterested. Answer me this, Dragon: How do you plan to make this business work? Why do you suppose anyone would go into that dreary office in the Business Center and come out of it with a ticket in their hands? Explain to me why anybody in Antigua or St. Kitts would fly with us? Do you plan to open one of our swanky offices on every island in the Caribbean? I didn’t really mean to be this blunt but at least I’m getting a reaction. Dragon is irritated. I can see it in his eyes, in the angle of his shoulders. He hits back at me with what might have been an insult but is in fact only a question. Of course I have a suggestion. I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t have a suggestion. I never wanted to be a businessman, Dragon, but I have become one. Our only hook in this market must be our prices. It seems clear to me that if we want to make this work we need to turn Dragon Wings into a budget airline. Forget about offices anywhere—run the business through the Internet. Contact travel agencies, speak to the major airlines we will be looking to feed off from, establish allegiances. Buy placards in the airports we want to service, get our name in the in-flight magazine of BA, or Air France. Forget about personnel and concentrate on advertising instead. This is your business, Dragon, and you run it however you want to, but it seems to me at the moment you have no prospects beyond fulfilling our most immediate needs, no plans for the future at all. This has him thinking. His attitude is no longer aggressive, his gaze, though thoughtful, no longer lingers idly. Dragon’s far away, entertaining thoughts that I planted in his head. Big point for me. You owe me, Dragon, but I won’t tell you just yet. I have some packing to do. I’ll be at home.

  Packing for what? Every island is the same, I’m sure. Same temperature, same air, same sea, same girls. A couple of days in Antigua, validating a foreign license, taking a certification test: another drag. Antigua, Anguilla, even Margarita, all the same. Charmaine, how are you doing, love? I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to make it tomorrow evening. I have to travel to Antigua for business. Yes, a pilot thing, you know. She tries to disguise her disappointment with a touch of boredom in her response but I can see through her pose. You wouldn’t have time for a quick drink tonight, would you? A man who can’t drink, can’t afford to pay for dinner, and has just canceled a date for the following day can’t expect to get much out of the evening but these are the kinds of things a pilot can get away with sometimes. Great! I’ll see you there at nine thirty.

  * * *

  A relatively early night becomes a very late one when you have to be at the airport at six a.m. And now I have to study the local rules and regulations. Thank God I stopped myself from having another whiskey. I don’t think I could handle a hangover today. Dragon Wings: a commercial airline in Anguilla. These people don’t have a clue. I swear, if this thing works out, no project in life should ever fail. And now they send me away precisely the day when I have a date. She’s hot, that little girl. And this is so boring: codes and distances and language and procedure. I’ll have to assume that safety regulations are more stringent in Venezuela than in the Eastern Caribbean. I’ll have to give that little girl a call once I’m back, try to get inside her pants. I should be okay for the medical—I hope my eyesight’s still fine. Fire and water drills: piece of cake. My IFR might be a little bit rusty but I should be fine. To be a certified pilot again— I’d forgotten the joy. I’ll have to go celebrate with that girl. But before that maybe I can catch up with some sleep on the way to Antigua . . .

  VII

  Art’s arrogance and his lack of tact initially put me off the idea, but I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since he mentioned it. It will undoubtedly be the cheapest, easiest, quickest way to set up this airline. It is absolutely crucial that we become operational by December 1. That is only two and a half months away. The HTA loan and government subsidy will only come to effect if we can provide services to Antigua and St. Kitts to link up to flights arriving from London. I don’t see how we can open offices and develop teams in both those islands in the next two months. We need two aircrafts, at least, with their respective crews. The negotiation with the Dominicans who own that Trislander have been stuck by our lack of funds. I absolutely refuse to keep draining Jo
nes Investments for the sake of Dragon Wings. But Sheila at least seems to be making some progress in her search for local funding. Where is Nathe? He is never late for a meeting—least of all a business meeting.

  The sun is particularly hot today. There is a breeze but the air is still sultry, humid, heavy. Everyone complains about September in Anguilla, everybody leaves the island. I asked Nathe to meet me in my favorite bar down in Sandy Ground but it turns out it has shut for the rest of the summer. Everything is shut. Just over a month ago we were celebrating carnival, partying all day and all night for two full weeks, and now, look at this: The Valley, a ghost town. Thankfully, we haven’t had a hurricane so far this year and none seems to be forming at the moment either. However, as you drive through the island at least half the buildings are hermetically sealed with hurricane shutters. The traffic has shrunk by half, and the people who have stayed are in no hurry to get wherever they are going. It’s the middle of September and suddenly there are no tourists on Anguilla: the expats, all gone; the restaurants, all seventy of them, shut; the hotels, all thirty-five of them, closed; and the ones that aren’t should be, because they are totally empty. Supplies in the supermarkets have been halved and a public service announcement floods the radio and the TV every half hour with warnings and suggestions of preventive measures in case of a storm. Somehow, it feels like everyone who has stayed here is patiently waiting for something, anything, to happen: for time to go by, for October to bring respite, or simply for disaster to strike.

  In the meantime, I sit alone in the Business Center, waiting for Nathaniel to arrive (late) to a business meeting in which I will put forward as an organizing alternative a proposition which, I know, doesn’t correspond with the original plan he envisioned for the airline. I have read the company charter, I have seen the business proposition Nathaniel showed Deianira Walker. What he had in mind was more of a little empire than a little airline. But Nathaniel is a dreamer, and this time his dream will have to be amended if it is to come to exist at all. Is there any other way of getting Dragon Wings started? Is there another solution? I got in contact with some specialists and apparently the process is quite simple: all we need is a specific application with its program and a server to support it. They seemed confident they would be able to set up the page and have it running within six to eight weeks. Art will be licensed to fly in nine weeks. We must make our first flight in eleven. There won’t be much time to test things but making the deadline would already be a major success.

  I can hear Nathaniel’s car pulling into the parking lot. Nothing else seems to be going on today, so I have no doubt it’s him.

  Two minutes later I can hear the echo of feet tramping up the stairs: Tuesday morning, and it is that quiet.

  What the echo didn’t tell me is that there were more feet walking up those stairs than belong to one person. Sheila walks through the open door first and suddenly the thick, soggy air inside the office is lifted by a gust of freshness. She wears a tiny turquoise strap top and a very short pair of shorts. She looks taller than she is on those high platform sandals she’s wearing. Nathaniel follows. The heat looks less flattering on him, his hair drenched and a visible trail of sweat soaking his white shirt from the bottom of his neck down the middle of both his chest and back. He has a wide smile, though, and a large dose of enthusiasm. Good news! He doesn’t even stop to apologize for his tardiness. His hands rub; Sheila looks at him victoriously. We’ve found a local partner.

  This, of course, is not only extraordinary but also unexpected news. What? When? Who? Sheila’s efforts to draw one of the wealthy families into the venture has finally paid off. I tell you all along dat somebody goan bite. In de end is Uncle Glen step up wit’ de money. Glenallen Rawlingson, the tower of a man with the boisterous guffaw and the disdain filtering through his smile, has suddenly, after weeks of skepticism toward the project, after months of antagonism against Nathaniel, come to the rescue of Dragon Wings. How come? What’s made him change his mind? The two lovebirds look to have renewed their vows. They speak over each other, they hold each other tight, they laugh at what the other is saying and fail to answer my questions, or to even finish a sentence. He musta seen de light, and just her sweet wide smile tells me everything I need to know. He wants more than anything to keep the Stewarts from entering the business. So much so that he’s prepared to put a quarter of a million dollars in cash for shares. We should listen to what the Stewarts have to say, that much is obvious to me. No, man, now Uncle Glen seen de light we no need no Stewarts, and the cackle that sends Sheila’s body into sexy little spasms again transports me to a land far away from the corporate world. We’ve already signed an LOI. He’s ready to move ahead, and so are we. We’re in business, Dragon. I cannot believe my ears. All of a sudden, and implausibly as it seems, Nathe tells me we’re in business. Dat ain’ even de best news: Uncle Glen tell me unofficially an’ all hush-hush de bank kyan’t give we cash but dey wan s’port de airline so dey goan make it easy for we to borrow for planes. Yessir, we is in business! One meeting, and Nathaniel and Sheila rediscover the enthusiasm that September has been draining out of all of us. Was there something you wanted to discuss, or should we just go celebrate somewhere? There is nowhere to go but Nathe will listen to no reason. Who cares! Let’s buy a case of champagne and celebrate at home. A case of champagne. In September. Wishful thinking. But Nathaniel is right: there is no point in working today. How could I possibly spoil this moment with what I have to say? How could we concentrate on the advantages and disadvantages of my new (adopted) idea? How could we consider anything objectively with the exhilaration of such a breakthrough hanging over our heads? What I wanted to talk about can wait till tomorrow. Let’s celebrate!

  Old pâté, bad cheese, and a lot of champagne is all we can muster for an improvised celebration at Nathe’s home in East End. But despite the poor provisions, the hot afternoon has turned into a beautiful evening and we enjoy it outdoors, in Nathe’s garden, on a hill, overlooking a small eastern lip of the island that winds into the endless sea. The effect of the champagne, the burning glow of the sun slowly nearing the horizon, trigger an urge in me to prepare a bonfire. I gather bits and pieces from all around the garden and before long we have a sizable pile of dry wood and branches ready to burn. We wait until the evening turns dark to light the fire and send the cork of another bottle of Moët soaring through the skies. Nathe and Sheila playfully dance to the tune of some old-fashioned melody and, for once, they look genuinely happy. I should be glad, but I’m not. I know this sounds selfish but she is so beautiful it simply cannot be helped. She looks even more beautiful in the red warm glow of the fire. I need to move away from them so I approach the flames, watch them soar higher than I predicted, sit as close to them as the heat will allow me, sip my champagne awed by the shape of the orange tongues, tracing the trail of the plume of smoke, trying not to listen to those two laugh with each other.

  * * *

  I have lost sense of time. The only chronological reference I can find is an empty bottle by my side. The night is still young and beautiful—the stars lay their claim to every inch of the clear sky—but too much to drink and too little to eat combine to make me sluggish. Sheila still dances like a dervish but Nathe has retired to his hammock and appears to be half asleep. A new song plays on the iPod and Sheila approaches—freshly poured glass of champagne in hand—with irresistible resolve. We dance two, three, four consecutive songs. I’m no longer sluggish but I’m tired and sweaty and thirsty. I go inside, pour us another round, and return. I can see Nathe has lost his battle against sleep. A slow song, a romantic song, slots into the machine. Sheila can’t stop moving anymore. She starts dancing to this tune as well and suddenly, here’s the nightmare I had not yet dared fantasize about. She stands so close to me I can feel her bosom against my chest. She is so beautiful. She is so graceful. She smells so . . . My hand around her waist, my nose, her breath. I can hear her breathing. I can feel her heart beating. Can I resist? Could anyon
e?

  Did our lips meet? Did our tongues? What else? Did anything? And what if they didn’t? Does it matter?

  I wake up, dressed, contorted and still slightly drunk, on Nathaniel’s white couch in his living room. He no longer sleeps on the hammock. In fact, he and Sheila are nowhere to be seen. The bedroom door is shut. I look for my shoes, a glass of water, my car keys. A clumsy note on the kitchen counter: We need to talk. But please don’t call until the afternoon. I should have mentioned it was business. I should have addressed it to him.

  VIII