The Ex Chronicles

Precious sits in Brooklyn Moon, watching the parade up and down Fulton Street, so many beautiful people. Even though she knows the rent on her tiny East Village studio will shoot up in a year, she’s resistant to leave Manhattan. How could she? She’d have to take the train. But she, like every other sister living in the city, is starting to reconsider Brooklyn. Just look at all the gorgeousness. These days single black men are getting as scarce as cheap apartments in the city, and Brooklyn seems to be lousy with them.

It’s amazing—she came from Manhattan to meet Zenobia for tea, and she is on time. Zenobia is fifteen minutes late and she lives around the corner. The funny part is Precious does the same thing. When friends come to the East Village she’s always late to meet them. She long ago attributed it to a proximity-time-continuum warp that keeps you in your house until the last moment because you’re so close, then you end up being late.

Precious sees Zenobia crossing the street against the light, and the heads swiveling in her wake. Her deep ebony skin glistens in the afternoon sun. If she weren’t as nice as she is stunning, Precious would probably hate her. She’s so lovely, Zenobia: graceful, like a giraffe; impossibly long, slender neck. No. More like a gazelle, daintily picking her way among the detritus of her messy life.

At thirty, Zenobia has clear and unlined skin. Her waist-length locks are tinged red with henna, and her large doe eyes are fringed with thick lashes. She is gorgeous, drawing stares from both men and women. Z has been railroaded into a deeply depressing, irrevocably long relationship with an exceptionally unsuitable man. The unfailingly optimistic Z, who can find something positive about anyone, has let herself be sucked back into the vacuum of unemotional sex with her ex.

Malcolm is an artist, but Precious thinks him more autistic . Z met him five years ago while modeling in Europe. Half Dutch and half African, he’s as beautiful as he is arrogant. His present series is called Postcoital Nudes. Yep, nudes of women he just fucked. Oh how he slaves for his art. Prolific. God forbid Z should get pissed after walking in on one of his “sessions.” To hear him tell it, a Whitney exhibit was just around the corner. “Stop being so emotional!” he’d yelled at her before pushing her out of her own apartment, where he’d taken to staying and “working.”

Maybe Z puts up with it because she’s as mixed up as her relationships. Her father was a dirt-poor Jamaican Rastafarian and her mother the well-off English Red Cross volunteer who’d gone to build a dam in his village of Ocho Rios, but she’d ended up renting a dread—Z’s dad—for the summer. She’d gone back to London fuck-drunk and two months pregnant with Z. Her dad hung around just long enough to name her, then split after the meeting in Hampstead with Z’s upper-crust grandparents.

Z always says the only thing she has from him is the dreadlocks he started on her when she was young. Everything else is from her mum, even down to her penchant for self-destructive relationships that leave her emotionally trampled and spiritually bereft. That’s probably why she and Precious get along so well.

Z managed to stay away from Malcolm for a whole month, but everyone knows that she’s back to fucking him. It’s impossible to miss: She’ll disappear for the weekend, then return calls on Monday, with a bullshit excuse about cramps.

“Well, he should get his stuff. It’s been three months. Three months is get-over-the-hump time. And you should be on your way, as long as you haven’t . . .” Z paused. “Precious, you haven’t slept with him, have you?”

“Sweetie, that’s so disappointing. How could you? You were a mess when you caught him boinking that white girl. You swore you’d never see him again.”

“Of course I will, darling,” she whispered. Then she hung up and looked over at Malcolm sleeping next to her. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders and sighed, remembering how they met.

Zenobia was modeling in Amsterdam and had fallen in love with the narrow rows of sharply dressed houses pressed up tightly against each other. She loved the strange combination of orderliness and casualness that pervade the city, and the glittering canals and the cheery houseboats bobbing on the water, lit from within like fireflies in a jar.

She even loved the screeching seagulls flying in packs over the canals, playing tag and bodysurfing on the sparkling water. In the early morning, with the mists shrouding the canals that ring the city, it’s easy to see why Amsterdam is known as the “Venice of the North.”

The Dutch seem to enjoy life the most and feel the least guilty about its pleasures. Unlike the Germans, only an hour away by train, who take the least pleasure in life yet feel the guiltiest about it. And, unlike the awful French, who can speak English and just won’t, Amsterdammers all happily speak English. In fact, most Dutch speak three or four languages, so no matter where you’re from, you’re bound to find someone you can talk to. Z had fallen in love with the Dutch people. Actually, she fell in love with one Dutch in particular.

She’d just finished breakfast and was sitting with her morning paper when she saw the most beautiful man at the window. He was tall and thin, as many Dutch are, with a long face and narrow, sloping nose. Stop there and he’d be just one of the many beautiful people she’d seen all over Amsterdam, Rotter-dam, and parts of Belgium.

It was the potent mix of African and Dutch blood running through his veins composing his features into an odd and wonderfully poetic juxtaposition. He had skin the color of rich cream, with a sprinkling of nutmeg freckles across his nose. His eyes were the most astounding shade of blue. Full, thick lips offset his long nose, and above his prominent forehead was the biggest, most gloriously kinky dirty-blond Afro she’d ever seen. He was beautiful, like rain after a drought, the sun after a storm. He was a gift dropped at her feet and he was looking at Z as though she was too.

Z was surprised to feel an instant attraction to him. He was everything she was not, and everything she’d grown up wanting to be, every secret desire nurtured as a child and then discarded when she grew older—wanting to be popular, pretty, and light, like the cream in her Jamaican father’s coffee and not the rich brew her British mum drank black. He was every dream left on her pillow, every wish on a starry night. Everything she’d wanted to be for as far back as she could remember was standing in front of her, smiling.

“Thank you.” Z didn’t know why she left her hand in his. It felt natural to sit in the café talking to him. She could feel a rush of heat moving up from her fingers to her face. He was looking so intently at her.

“Yes. I moved here from Eindhoven in south Holland. I’m studying painting.” Then he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it before returning it to the table.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I love the color of your skin. It reminds me of the water in the canals at midnight. May I paint you?”

“I couldn’t believe my luck, getting a contract with Dries Van Noten. Do you know him? He’s a Belgian designer.” When Malcolm nodded she continued. “I’d had very few modeling jobs in New York. But I’ve been working almost nonstop since I got here.” Z shook her head, taking a sip of tea. “They love my looks here.” She shrugged. “It’s a big change from New York.”

Tar Baby, Coal Black, Darkie; the names had been endless and endlessly hurtful. That they’d come from friends and family had made it even more painful.

“‘Keep out of the sun, Z; you’re plenty dark already’ had started every summer as far back as I could remember,” she continued. “Though I’d grown up to be able to make a living as a model, at castings my dark skin always put me at a disadvantage.” She mimicked the bookers: “Your color is too harsh for this season.” “We don’t have work for dark girls like you.” “You’re so beautiful. It’s a shame you’re so dark.”

When she finished, she couldn’t believe she’d told him all that. She’d never told anyone. Not even Precious. When she looked down at the table he was still holding her hand.

“You are beautiful enough to do well anywhere.” Malcolm shrugged. “But I can see why you’d do well here.” He looked at her ebony skin, shoulder-length dreadlocks, and full lips and smiled. “Women who look like you are quite popular in the Netherlands.” He knitted his brow. “Popular—is that the word?” he asked.

Z laughed. “I guess so. Yes, you could say I’m popular here.” She thought about all the Dutch men whistling after her when she would ride her bicycle.

That night they sat in Odeon, the grooviest bar in central Amsterdam, curled up on a comfy couch. Z’s fingers were entwined with Malcolm’s. Earlier they’d drawn a number of stares on the dance floor, dancing until they were drenched in sweat and funky. They’d then pressed up tightly against each other, bumping and grinding their way into the early morning. Her white T-shirt was transparent from sweat. Laughing, Malcolm wrapped his long arms around Z and fit his hips into hers.

This was not a man Z had ever thought she’d be attracted to—or could have anything in common with—but they liked the same music and loved dance, art, and Marvel comics. They’d even talked about their color and the prejudices they’d encountered because of it. Z had thought things were bad for her, but some of Malcolm’s stories of growing up an only, mixed-race child in a small, all-white industrial town on the outskirts of Holland made Z rethink her London childhood.

Malcolm certainly hadn’t grown up privileged because of his color, nor did he feel that way. His father had often been away on trips to Africa. His mother, though she’d loved him dearly, simply hadn’t known how to celebrate his blackness, or even understand the West African dialect his father had taught him. He yearned to move to New York, where he wouldn’t stand out so much because of his looks or feel as if he didn’t belong.

As he spoke, Z tried to comprehend how it must feel to not be a part of your culture, to not understand the language, the gestures, and the unspoken things that connect you.

When they stumbled out the door, the cold air made them shiver as they walked to their bicycles, which were locked up along the canal on the Prinsengracht. It was early enough for a faint, rosy light to start to brighten the eastern sky.

In his bedroom, Z watched Malcolm take off his shirt. His skin was so light she could see the intricate pathways of bluish-green veins beneath it. His nipples, which were the color of melted caramel, were the darkest things on his body. He was lighter than any man she’d ever been with.

He dropped his shirt to the floor and stepped out of his jeans. Naked, his legs were slim and sweetly bowed. His chest was wide, and curly blond hair, barely discernible against his bronzed skin, tapered down to his stomach. Malcolm watched Z watch him. He smiled, walked toward her, then peeled off her wet T-shirt, and gripped her arms, pressing her into his chest. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he pulled back her head and exposed her throat. He kissed a moist trail from her chin down to her neck, and then explored her throat with his tongue. He breathed in her scent, and then exhaled deeply. Z could feel his smile against her skin. He turned her around, and pulled her skirt down to her ankles. He slipped her panties down to join it.

Malcolm pulled up a chair and sat behind her. She felt his hands on her hips, tracing the geography of her flesh. Caressing the curve of her ass, he gripped her hips and kneaded them. He turned her slowly around and breathed a sigh into the dark hairs nearly invisible against her skin. He rested his head there. His hair prickled Z’s flesh. He looked up and smiled at her.

“You’re a queen,” he whispered, pulling her onto his lap, her legs on either side of his. Z gasped as she tried to fit herself around him. After a few moments he lifted her hips up and down and started a long, slow, steady rhythm.