by Nancy Adams
“These houses are so beautiful,” Sarah remarked.
“They belong to some of the most wealthy of Barbados. I believe the commissionaire of police and several prominent members of the government have houses along this street.”
Most of these homes had uniformed security at the gates, and Sarah asked me about this.
“It’s to protect them from the poor,” I stated frankly.
She went quiet for some time, and we continued along the rows of elegant dwellings, until we turned off and ventured up a hill that dipped gradually up, before zigzagging abruptly down. On the way up, we rode through beautiful little villages with much more modest homes bordering the road. It still wasn’t the slums, but it felt more real. Several children ran from their door fronts as we passed slowly through, holding out their hands for the two American tourists to high-five them. Sarah loved these little moments and would purposefully slow her bike down to a trot. Several times, a child actually jumped on the back with her and Sarah rode them along for a few hundred meters, before letting them off so they could run back to their friends and inform them of their brief adventure.
Down the hill was steep, quick, and less eventful, though needing much more attention to maneuver. The sharp, snaking road slithered all the way down to the back of the village where the market lay. At first we took our time with this, going easy as we turned the sharp, serpentine corners, the road winding like a squashed spring. I feared a little for Sarah here and decided it best to go very slow, expecting her to follow suit and stay behind. But soon she was overtaking me, clearly bored with my cautious approach, and allowing herself the joy of getting down the hill at a better tempo. She wasn’t going majorly fast, but I still worried, so I called out to her. She simply laughed out loud, crying something back that went along the lines of “Come and catch me!”
I let out my brake and tried to keep up with her without giving her the impression that this was a race. At the moment she was merely rolling the bike down the hill; I couldn’t hear her engine accelerating, so I just hung back from her. As she zigzagged along, I observed her excitement and was impressed by how much pleasure she appeared to obtain from everything she did. The delight that she got from the soft carpet at my house hadn’t gone unnoticed—the fact she always came barefoot beneath her shoes, and on several occasions I’d even glanced at her feet to see their toes playing in the fluffy, deep piles of the carpet. Then there was the horse this morning, how enthused Sarah was about it all and how that vibe was picked up by the dappled mare to the point where it would have happily followed her home. The children rushing out to the school fence or into the street placed a smile in her heart that erupted upon her face, as bright as any sun. And now, as I watched her fling the bike around the corners, her legs spread out at the sides, her cries of joyous whooping, I felt such wonder at seeing this sun-filled creature. I was like a lifelong prisoner, chained to the wall and listening to a bird sing at his barred window.
We safely reached the bottom and the market, parking the bikes up in a narrow side street that was already cluttered with parked bikes.
“I was thinking of cooking seafood,” she started gabbling the moment we were walking toward the market, her arm within mine, “but Chef told me that there’s none at the villa. Also we need peppers, turmeric, and rice. The rest is in stock.”
“Is that all we needed?” I asked her.
“Yes, but I really wanted to come back to this market. It was so pleasant trotting through here earlier today on Mary, and I just had to come back. Cooking dinner was just an excuse.”
“My word, Sarah Dillinger! You lied.”
“Not exactly; I merely made an excuse to come back. I’ll still be cooking dinner for us, and we’ll still eat it on the balcony as the sun fades in the background.”
I grinned at her, and she curled her nose up at me. So cute did she look to me in that instant that my head threw itself forward unannounced as my lips had to have her. We wandered off into the colorful market, and she let go of my arm before dashing off to the eclectic stalls, from one to the next. Seeing one with rugs, she sprung toward it, darting her eyes around at all the patterns, her fingers feeling the goods as though she wanted to make sure they were real and wouldn’t dissolve in her hand. Then her eyes would catch the stall next door and, before the rug seller could even approach, she was gone, darting her fascinated emeralds around at trinkets and other local handmade merchandise in the stall next door. Once again it lit up my heart to see her as she moved about with such energetic glee, my own slouched, casual movements looking almost forlorn in comparison.
I followed her from stall to stall and observed her. Never once did she ask me to buy her anything, or did she indeed buy herself something, and never once did she lead the man on with insinuations that she would. She simply enjoyed the mere existence of the place, the fact that it was so colorful and filled with such novelties to her foreign eyes.
Eventually, we made it to the food market and left the trinkets behind, much to the chagrin of the sellers who watched us leave empty handed. Here she once again appeared intoxicated by the place. The first part was the fruit and vegetable sellers, and the air filled with the citrus burst of fruits, a fresh, sweet smell. This was the first time she bought anything, a bag of cherries which we ate along the way, me holding the bag and her coming back every now and then from her trips to the stalls and grabbing a handful before shooting off again.
I’d never gained such enjoyment from just watching someone in their natural state. Never in my life did I feel what I felt when I watched Sarah Dillinger. It was though she were dancing in between those stalls, a radiant spotlight shining down upon her from the sun and lighting her up just for me.
Just for me.
SARAH
We returned from the market with the few provisions we needed, the ride back just as much fun as the one there, and I immediately skipped to the kitchen and went to work on a shrimp-and-potato curry with lemon-infused rice. It was the only Caribbean-ish recipe that I knew, and I thought it would be fitting for the occasion. Once the curry was simmering in the pot, I went off to quickly shower and get changed. I was originally going to slip into one of my own dresses, one that wasn’t too plain, however, when I walked out of the shower, I found a beautiful yellow Coco Chanel draped across the foot of the bed. I wandered hypnotically toward it, my eyes captivated by its presence. I had known it was Chanel the moment I saw its outstretched beauty. My mother had owned a similar one. It had a loose-fitting bodice, the neckline draped across the peak of the breasts, revealing the cleavage and nothing more. At the waist, it tightened in and held your hips like a lover’s hands, and from that flowed a pleated skirt that hung just above the knee. It was a bright shade of yellow—my mother’s had been navy blue—and, as I held it in my hands, its color appeared to represent my very feelings in that moment. I felt strangely yellow!
“You like it?” Josh’s voice echoed from the doorway.
I turned sharply to face him and let out a childish giggle, as if caught by my mother going through her closet.
“It’s beautiful,” I said admiringly, returning my gaze to the dress in my hands. “Chanel, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
“Another gift?” I let out, my heart anguished that I would once again have to reject it.
“No no. Just something from the wardrobe. You seemed to like the Dior so much last time, and I could see that it was hard for you to give it up. So I thought that it would be nice if you could enjoy spending at the very least one night wearing something as elegant as you.”
And with these final words of flattery, he grinned a river of pearl and the skin at the edges of his eyes wrinkled.
“I’d love to,” I gasped, and without a second’s thought, I launched myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck, the dress still clasped in my hands.
“Don’t crush it,” he gently complained. “That’s four thousand dollars’ worth you’re holdin
g there.”
I pressed my smiling lips to his and did my best to kiss him through a river of so much joy. Once I’d rejoiced enough in his arms, he left and I slipped the diaphanous material over my body, carefully doing the zip up and feeling myself encased in shimmering radiance. Standing in front of a tall mirror, I moved myself around, glimpsing all my angles in the luxuriant costume, swishing the hem around my knees as I did, and admiring how much a simple thing like a high couture dress could enliven my appearance. I hadn’t felt so proud in front of a mirror since I was a young girl and had worn this type of thing then. My father would often return home from his trips to Europe with couture clothing for me, my sisters, and mother. When I was nine and Lucy seven, he’d taken us to Paris to be fitted out in an actual Chanel parlor. All these memories and more were evoked by the simple act of wearing this dress.
Having admired myself for long enough, I ventured downstairs and found that Josh was sitting in the lounge. As my yellow haze flittered past the archway of the room, his head instantly turned.
“Hey, come back,” he called to me as I went on my way to the kitchen. “I wanna see how you look.”
I stopped where I was, beaming all over, and traipsed back to the arch. While I stood beneath it, his eyes appeared to expand beyond the capacity of their sockets, and his drooping jaw grew in weight. He shook his head as if he were shaking off the effects of a toxin.
“You look stunning,” he remarked at last.
“Thank you. I think the color suits me.”
“That’s why I chose it.”
I stood gleaming gently at him for some time.
“Do you mind setting the table on the balcony,” I said to him when I’d finished breathing in his admiring gaze. “I’ll fetch the food.”
“Of course,” he said, getting up from the couch.
Only a moment later, I’d finished and brought the food out to the balcony. The view was perfect, the sun now kissing the horizon. Josh sat at a little table for two in the corner, surrounded by the glimmering ocean and all appeared ideal. The only disappointment was the food. In my conceited eagerness to admire my reflection, I’d neglected it a little longer than I should and the curry had overstewed, the prawns now pulpy, a couple of them having completely disintegrated into the general mush of it all. When I placed his steaming plate in front of him, Josh appeared to wince back from it.
“It’s not exactly how I usually cook it,” I said apologetically. “I left it a little long in the pot. But the rice is good!”
Looking down at it, Josh grinned, returned his eyes back to me and, said, “Yes, the rice does look good!”
I sat myself opposite, and we did our best with the general mess that was the curry, picking through it as best we could.
“It’s not actually that bad,” Josh remarked.
“You’re being insincerely polite.”
“Honestly,” he let out, a look of wounded indignation on his face. “It’s not the best, but your putrefied prawns are splendid. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say that I’ve never tasted better putrefied prawns!”
He winked at this last part and made me laugh.
“We can throw it over the balcony to the gulls if you like,” I said to him. “Get Chef to make something for us instead.”
“I’m afraid I gave him the night off. If we want something else, we’ll have to make it ourselves, and I’m afraid if you go back in there we could have any manner of disaster come back out!”
“Hey!” I exclaimed as he burst into laughter. “So you were lying?”
Trying to restrain his laughter, he did his best to look serious for a moment.
“I was,” he admitted, grinning once more. “In truth: it’s shit!”
“Huh! It wasn’t my fault; it was yours.”
“Mine! How am I to blame for this debacle you claim is food?”
“You let me wear the dress. If I hadn’t spent so long in front of the mirror, I wouldn’t have overcooked the curry.”
“So I’m to blame for your vanity?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, before grabbing my plate and tossing it off the balcony with a flick of the wrist, the two of us watching it spin out to sea, the food dispersing through the air and attracting the gulls that sat along the cliffs.
“Whoa!” Josh exclaimed, getting up sharply from his chair and following the plate with his eyes as it crashed into the rolling waves. “That was an expensive plate. Part of an antique set.”
“Sorry,” I replied, hanging my head between my shoulders.
He turned back to me from the sea and slowly smiled.
“Wow! I really have changed,” he said, reseating himself. “Years ago I would have had someone frisbee it off the balcony while I shot at it with a shotgun. But now I’m actually concerned for its well-being.”
“I haven’t destroyed a family heirloom, have I?”
“No, nothing like that. Nothing more than an inanimate object. It was from the Victorian era of London and meant nothing other than its monetary worth. Watch.”
And with that, he picked his own plate up and tossed it over the edge, the two of us grinning wildly as the plate sailed down toward the water, the gulls swooping and diving for the airborne food. We watched the whole thing with our wild grins, another antique sent to the sea. Then he leaned forward and met me with a kiss.
The table now bare of food, we went down to the kitchen, where Josh made us a simple seafood dish using noodles, mussels, and the remainder of the prawns. I was impressed by his culinary skills as he tossed it all about within the wok, the thing angrily blazing away with flashes of blue-and-purple flame. We then returned to the balcony and ate his much better food, the sun now dipped below the watery horizon and a strange, crimson twilight cast across the sky, going blue at the edges where it dissolved into the night’s sky, welcoming the arrival of the cosmic blanket of stars.
“I could stay here forever,” I couldn’t help remarking while we ate.
“What about your people?” Josh asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, firstly, there’s your job. Then there’s the food bank. Then haven’t you got Christ Patrol? You give too much of yourself away to ever be comfortable living here for yourself.”
“Are you saying I couldn’t relax?”
“Yes,” he said pointedly with a gentle snort of the nostrils. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. The moment you’d spent more than a week doing nothing except living for yourself, you’d instantly begin looking for people to save.” He then pointed behind us, to the stretch of thick jungle that went on for as far as we could see. “You see that?” he went on. “In the center of that live many poor people who would have gladly eaten the food we just cast off this balcony.”
I felt the thorny knuckles of guilt rap upon the door to my heart and instinctively looked out to sea.
“I feel really bad now,” I couldn’t help stating.
“My point wasn’t that,” he said. “My point was that after one week of trying to relax, you’d be out there helping those people. You’d end up selling everything we had here to make their lives better there. You need to help people, that’s just who you are.”
I thought about this and realized that he was dead right. I did need altruism. It had filled such a large part of me for so long that to get rid of it would leave a gaping hole. Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t make me whole by a long shot. But it did fill a significant part of the void inside and allowed me a certain level of peace of mind. Lately, Josh had been filling another part of that inner space, and that wholeness was slowly coming into being, the void becoming full. However, just as much as I needed him, I also needed my “people.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “I need those people as much as they need me. If I know there’s suffering out there, it nags me, chews away at my conscience, and I can’t think straight until I’ve taken a piece of that suffering and done something about it.”
“That’s why you’d be out i
n that jungle within the week. And that’s why I’m falling in love with you.”
This last sentence shot an arrow of fire into my heart and lit me up in a storm of color that threatened to send me into flames. I lurched forward and found his simmering lips, grabbing the back of his head and running my fingers through his thick hair.
“I feel the same,” I repeated over and over as I zealously kissed him. “The same. The same.”
JOSH
When we’d finally eaten dinner, a pleasant lassitude permeated through us, and cuddled up on the sofa, we watched the starry sky from off the balcony. After half an hour of this, Sarah fell asleep in my arms, and I didn’t want to wake her, just wanting to remain like that until morning. But as the day’s heat began to wane and a chilly wind swept from across the sea, I had to wake her so that we could retire to our beds. The next day we would be leaving for the island of Cuba—Havana to be exact.
Next morning, we both skipped out of bed at almost the exact same time and met on the landing before breakfast. After eating, we showered and changed, and I rode us back across the island to Nassau, where the yacht was waiting to take us four hours to Havana harbor.
Back on the yacht, we came across a school of dolphin and stood up on deck watching them race the boat, Sarah almost leaning the whole way over the railing to get a better look at them. At one point, I had to leap forward and take ahold of her around the waist, scared she’d fall overboard. She turned to me then, and we kissed.
