“I get the point,” the younger son objected. “People are different, Daddy. Everybody can’t be the same. Will just needs a little bit of time.”
They’d gone around the square and passed beneath the arch that opened on the Queens, and the six cylinders pulled them smoothly up the grade between the former mansions and the median with the flowers and the trees.
“Time?” the father shouted. “Who has a lot of that these days? None of us have time. Black Well is a mess. They rioted again. Over what, who bloody knows. We have no bloody coconuts. They’ve all got bloody blight. The frigging Germans just might win the war. And the Chinese and the Lebanese are so deceitful and underhanded, they’re making wads of money trading while we sit on sugar that nobody wants, while we feed cows that can’t bring you ten pounds at the abattoir.”
“We’re part Irish,” said the older son, who’d just turned thirty-two. “Once upon a time we were new here too. But I know it’s not the same. The rules have changed. Now we’re the ones who make them.”
“Trying to be sarcastic?”
“No. More along the lines of sardonic.”
“The Lebanese are saints. Of course. Of course. But of course you know this. Your wife is one of them.” He stopped the car and leaned across his seat. “Where is she now? Do you know? How do you know she hasn’t left your house while you’re out here risking life and limb for King and country? The little bitch. Knowing her, she’s leaving footprints on your ceiling. Giggling in your bed.”
The man who held the rifle wiped his face. The car began to move again.
Estrella couldn’t see for certain, but she knew he’d wiped away some tears, and she felt obliged to take his hand and reassure him that he’d be okay, that she knew what it was like to hear that what you love is wrong and that your passions are just careless dreams, that she’d bought from Lebanese people and everything was nice, and that the Chinese them was nice ones too, and that a Chinese girl had helped her with her books…that you had to be a bright, bright man to be headmaster, that you shouldn’t listen when you family tried to put you down, ’cause that is all they do—try to give you bad eye and bad mouth and blight you ambition and bring down you will…that if you wife is out o’ order then is up to you to ask her why she always fooling round, ’cause woman ain’t just wicked so…they wicked when they feel that something wicked is the only thing that’s left to do…like how she, Estrella Thompson, had to pinch a little money when she had to buy a book because she ain’t grow up with people who understand that books is things that people have to have.
I had to thief from them when I run away, because I need to get a start in life and they ain’t want me reach nowhere. But they should see me now. In a motorcar…in a motorcar like those that bring the fancy English ladies to La Sala…see there, we just pass it now…the place where I see the man send the woman the note that make her face turn red like blood.
Look at me now. Driving in that kind o’ car. And look how the car just pulling smooth like them boat that have engine. And look how it feel nice when the breeze blowing right past my face. And look how my life turn interesting already, and I ain’t fully even reach where I going yet…and look now…I just pass Salan’s, where I going get my shoes.
Where you is, Grandma? And where you is, Big Tuck? Nowhere where nobody who have anything to think ’bout even care. A place that ain’t even have no name. A place that even other fishermen refer to as “back so” or “over so” or “under the cliff.” How somebody can be happy when they come from a place that ain’t have no name?
But I have a name. My name is Estrella Roselyn Maria Eugenia Thompson, and you see how I black so? And you see how my foot bare so? Is white man driving me, though, like how black man drive them English ladies. And I take that as a sign.
When I go back and see my grandmother and Big Tuck, people going know my name, and they will hear other people call my name and they will want to say, “That’s my granddaughter.” But how you could bring yourself to say, “That’s my granddaughter,” when is you tell me to leave? When is you turn me out like Joseph in the Bible?
And when I think about it now, I wasn’t going to really run away. But I have my pride. And when my own grandmother come to me and tell me I have to leave, and when none o’ my friends come to me and say, “Here, take this sixpence that I saving up,” or, “Don’t worry, I talk to my mother and she say you could come stay by we,” or, “I praying for you. I praying for you. If I was a big person I would put down my foot,” I had to make a move.
And if some o’ them had done that…if some o’ them had done what they bound to do as friends, then them evil people couldn’t go on with their stupidness. They couldn’t go on with their wickedness. They couldn’t do something as ignorant, worthless, ungodly, and savage like turning out a child.
I ain’t plan to tell nobody I was going to leave. Because I wasn’t going to leave. But they test my pride. They question my ambition. They put a dare to me.
But is jealous they jealous like Joseph brothers. And one day, one day—it might take awhile, but is sure to come—a blight going take this island, and they going have to come to Seville. And they going see me and ain’t even know is me until I tell them. That is how much I going change.
“Mister, don’t mind,” she whispered to the rifleman beside her. She tapped his shoulder through the heavy wool. “Mister, don’t you mind.”
Without looking, he removed her hand and gently squeezed it with condolence. For her. For him. For history. For life.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he muttered.
His father and his brother laughed.
“Is okay,” she said. “Is awright.”
At the governor’s gate they made a left and took the rising stretch of road that led to an exclusive area called Savanna Ridge.
The governor’s tall brick fence was on their right, and in the thinning darkness Estrella saw the shadow of the town becoming smaller, shrinking like a drought-afflicted lake. Out to sea, a golden razor sliced along the dark horizon.
She felt a nudge and looked at Will, the one beside her with the gun. He wrestled with a hook along his belt and handed her his water can. It was made of tin and dented, with a body like a wheel, and had a short, thick neck with a big, wide mouth. Around the neck there was a collar, with a chain that held the cap. And as Estrella tipped her head and sucked and gulped and swallowed, making loud barbaric sounds, the cap began to beat against the tin.
The water had a bad metallic taste, and on the rim there was the been-up-all-night odor of a soldier’s mouth. But she drank it with a grateful throat, and sloshed it round her teeth and gums and heard its falling change in pitch as it began to fill her stomach, rising from a bellow to a gurgle that was shrill, like a spigot spewing beer into a mug.
“It have more, please?”
She used her sleeve to wipe her lips.
Will leaned against the seat in front of him.
“Are you finished with your water?”
His brother and father passed him their cans and he gave them to the girl, who began to drink in spurts, tossing back her head and guzzling, then pausing to breathe deeply and think.
Ahead of them she saw the fork that led along Savanna Ridge, whose lovely homes she knew from all the times she’d been sent by her grandmother with deliveries from the market—times at which she’d trotted up the Queens with trays of fish packed up in ice and wrapped in plantain leaves and sugar sacks balanced on her head, and idled by kitchen doors and gazed down at the grand savanna—an imposing sward behind the governor’s house—while waiting to be paid.
When they came upon the fork, she thought they were taking her to one of these, a house that she imagined would be owned by one of them, because the owners of these houses on Savanna Ridge were white. She began to wonder if she’d ever seen their wives at La Sala; but she didn’t linger on this thought, which faded quickly as she wondered how and where she’d sleep…on a cot, perhaps, or on the floor…or squeeze
d into a wicker chair out on the porch.
As if how and where she’d sleep had been decided, she began to think about the coming morning, when she planned to go to town to buy her shoes. And if she didn’t have enough to buy an English pair, she thought, she’d buy whatever pair she could afford. Is not like the shoes would come with England stamp on it. And if England stamp on it, it must have something you could use to rub it off.
That decided, she began to see herself behind a house with a veranda as big as the deck of a ship, sitting in the grass and gazing through the mist at the savanna.
Her brows drew tight and wrinkled as she summoned all the details of the view—the little zoo and garden in the corner by the bridge across the Abuelito River…in the center, clouds reflecting off the pond, which was encircled by a ring of palms…at the racetrack, Queen Victoria Park, grooms and jockeys exercising horses, wheeling them around the final bend and easing as they came into the straight, the trainers in the grandstand watching through field glasses…beside the track, the cricket pitch, the Nelson Oval, where herons floated just above the grass like laundry, flopping on the stones that made a loop to mark the boundary line…and above it all, the smooth, unbroken rise of Mt. Diablo’s cone…and in its foothills, old estates.
If it was up to me, Estrella thought, the way I feeling now, there wouldn’t be another sea. If is me alone in this world, I’d dry up every sea it have and put the fishes in another place…like a river or a pond…so it would still have fish to eat. But there wouldn’t be a single piece for me. I ain’t going eat fish or nothing from the sea no more. Only chicken and meat and goat. Chicken back and cow foot and goat head for me. I done with the sea. And when it dry up, if it have anybody who have somewhere far to go, they could build a train along the seabed where the water used to be. I ain’t want to wake up and see no goddamn blue tomorrow morning. All I want to see is green.
When they continued up the hill and didn’t take the branching road, a mood of apprehension fell upon the car. Unconsciously, Estrella placed a hand against the lock and scratched her feet against the mat, her instincts dulled by lack of sleep.
“I thought we was going to a place that have a bed,” she said.
“Oh,” the father answered, drumming on the wheel and glancing at his younger son. “They have beds there, don’t they?”
“Where?” Estrella asked.
They didn’t answer, and she crossed her arms and wondered what to do.
“Where we going?” she asked the one beside her, kneeling on the seat. “Why nobody ain’t talking?” She put her hand against his shoulder. “Somebody talk to me.”
With a heavy sigh he mumbled, “We’re going up to Thunder Hill.”
X.
It was a citadel constructed in the 1800s by the British on a ridge a thousand feet above the town. There were many buildings there. Among them were the prison and the island’s only working fort.
“Will,” she said in disbelief, sinking in her seat, “is there you really taking me?”
“Hold her,” said the father.
Will looked at her and didn’t move.
“Will, I gave you an order.”
“Father, go to bloody hell.”
“You!” he shouted at his younger son. “Get in the back right now.”
“This is really stupid,” said the younger son, who did as he was told.
I lose, Estrella thought. I lose. I fucking gamble and I lose. I ain’t do nothing wrong. I ain’t trouble nobody. And look how everything was going good. They even give me water and let me drink. They ask me if I want a ride. I say yes. They ask me if I want a bed. I say yes. Is because I laugh? They ain’t still vex ’bout that? If is that, then I sorry. But it can’t be that. Maybe they change they mind and think I is a spy for true. But a spy for who? Maybe they telling lie. Maybe they ain’t even going where they say. Maybe they carrying me ’way to take advantage. I think is that you know. I think is that. In fact I know is that. I wonder if is that? What else they could want to do me but rape me off? ’Cause I ain’t do nothing.
Calm yourself, Estrella. Calm yourself. Don’t act like Pepper now. Is three o’ them and one o’ them is holding you. If you try to fight them with you body they will win. Play fool to catch the wise. Go on like you going to sleep. And when you feel his hand ease up then you bolt. One man take advantage already and you had the chance to use the knife. But what you do? You act like a fool.
Jesus Christ come off you cross and witness this today—if I get the chance again I ain’t thinking what to do. I ain’t guessing what to do. I know what I going do. I going jam them with this knife. And who dead—dead. And who live—live. Because I tired. Everything I touch is like I wrong. Everybody want to advantage me. From my grandmother and Big Tuck and them coolie people down by Speyside. Is what wrong with me so? Is what they see in me so make them think they could do that? Even Joseph. He nice and thing, but he just couldn’t gimme a blasted ride without wanting to feel up my leg. And that Simón Bolívar. He’s another thing. He going go down in history. I wonder if he know that? He going go down in history as the last fucking man who advantage me. Every rope have a end. And every hook have a point. And I at the end o’ my hook right now. And somebody going get hurt.
Thunder Hill had always seemed foreboding to the girl. She’d seen it many times by boat and had always thought it had an evil look.
Up close it was larger than she’d thought. It was also not a single building, but many buildings carefully emplaced on different heights, and every level had a scheme of thick retaining walls—some of them as thick as seven feet.
After coiling upward with the walls for miles and passing many ruins on the slopes below, they parked on the parade ground, which was grassy, and in width and length a little smaller than a soccer field.
“You’re not going to jail,” Will said. He pointed to another building on an upper hill. “We’re going over there.”
There was the citadel, a massive installation with an inner courtyard large enough to hold five thousand troops. It was sunk into the hill and surrounded by a trench, which had made it hard to hit in the colonial wars. Apart from the prison, it was the only portion of the complex that was still in use, and below the ramp that led toward it they could see platoons of U.S. soldiers doing calisthenics on a grassy rise.
“Daddy, why’re we stopping?” asked the younger son, annoyed.
The father answered, “Just to let her walk.”
“With all due respect, Daddy, I don’t have time for this. We’re the last ones back, I’m sure. We should’ve been here hours ago. You and Will can sort this out. Let’s go.”
The father cleared his throat and put the car in gear, and they drove along a ramp toward the citadel. At the gate, the father mumbled, “Rawle.”
On hearing this, the guard, who’d come on duty after they’d gone on their patrol, saluted them although they wore no signs of rank, and begged them for a chance to wash the car.
Inside, they parked adjacent to a line of trucks and armored cars. The cars had canons and machine guns sticking out.
Estrella’s real hope as she saw it was the diver. Would he remember her? After all this time? And if he did, would he talk on her behalf? Was he one of the men out there in undershirts and trousers exercising?
She was standing with her back against the car, and her detainers faced her in a semicircle, touching-length away. Their faces had expressions that she couldn’t read.
“So, smarty,” said the father, taking off his helmet, which he clamped under his arm, “what should we do with you now?”
He was tired, and he shook his head to make himself alert. Like his sons, who’d taken off their helmets too, his hair was blond with streaks of sandy brown.
“I have a friend,” she said. “A soldier man who do man hoovers in the sea …”
As she spoke, she slyly watched the gate. From here to there, she estimated, was a hundred yards. She also paid attention to their stance, how they moved
their weight, how sometimes they’d lean apart to stretch or gesture, creating gaps, tempting her to drop her head and run. And each time she thought of this but waited for a better time, her desperation grew, and she felt the urge to bet her life as would a gambler in the hole.
If I just run just like so, they could just shoot me, she thought. And I’d be too far to fight them with my knife. But if I have that gun, I could protect myself…and if that guard boy who salute them try to stop me, I would shoot that fucker too. I would shoot every last fucking one o’ them. Whatever amount o’ bullet it could have in that gun…how I feeling now…I ain’t ’fraid to use it.
Dawn was beginning to break by now and Estrella had an understanding of each face. Will, the older son, who was in his early thirties, had clear blue eyes. The father had a slim mustache. The younger son had freckles and a dimple in his chin. They were all of average build, and she could see from their faces that their heavy uniforms gave them added stock; but from their eyes, which were fatigued, she perceived them to be worn, and doubted that they’d have the strength to give pursuit.
“What’s your name again?” the older brother asked.
He leaned against the gun as if it were a walking stick, with the stock against the damp stone floor.
“Estrella,” she said, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “I told you once before.”
His body heaved, his mouth opened, then he stopped. He did this five more times, heaving then stopping, like a discus thrower warming up. Then finally, as everybody stared at him, he let it go.
“Look,” he said, embarrassed, “just get out of here. Go home.”
She began to walk in circles. The sudden shift in circumstances was a lot for her to bear, the lack of plot disorienting. There was no clear pattern. No clear link between action and reaction. Cause and effect. It didn’t feel like life.
The Girl With the Golden Shoes Page 10
