St. George’s, Grenada, October 15, 1983
The car came up the driveway too fast, squealing its brakes at the curb and throwing the painted gravel into the air behind it. Neville went to the window and said, “Shrimps.” In a second, Claude was beside him.
“Felicity,” he said. “Go upstairs. Quickly. Don’t come down till we come and get you.”
She understood now was not the time to ask questions, and she went. The first door she opened appeared to be Neville’s bedroom. It had large sash windows that overlooked the driveway. The immense four-poster bed, hung with sheets of gauzy white fabric and a mosquito net, looked like one where a king would repose. The walls were cluttered with artwork, likely gifts Neville had received, much of it depicting Black people. There were portraits of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King as well as traditional West African paintings and scenes in jazz clubs. There was one of a mother and a little girl, and she waited to see if she felt a maternal pang, but as usual, the thought of her children was painless.
She stopped in front of a painting that appeared to depict a naked man and woman, both with immense Afros, in bed together, and she appreciated the contours of their bodies for a moment. Her full enjoyment of the scene was marred by the fact that the pictures had been hung haphazardly, so that they crowded each other and much of their individual impact was lost. The bed was unmade. A bra and panties Felicity assumed were Alison’s lay on top of one of the pillows.
Felicity looked out of the window as the car door slammed and three men in suits with briefcases strode to the front door. She heard voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. She roamed the room, examining the paintings. Then she flopped down on the end of the bed. There was a pile of books on the nightstand. She recognized The Autobiography of Malcolm X. She still had the copy Claude had given her for their first Christmas together. The rest were a jumble of titles: The Wealth of Nations, Das Kapital, Soul on Ice, Africa Must Unite. Thick dust had settled on the covers.
While the living room where Felicity slept and spent most of the day overlooked the courtyard behind the house, Neville’s bedroom had a view of the harbour, ringed with pink, orange, and yellow houses, sandwiched between the blue of sky and sea. The beauty of Grenada never failed to constrict Felicity’s heart. She recalled Neville saying at dinner last night that the Americans had already invaded Grenada’s waters, and she squinted, trying to see if their warships were indeed patrolling the coast. The only things reflected back to her were the white fringe of the waves and the clouds drifting above. She placed her head on the underwear-free pillow and gasped aloud at the feel of a soft, welcoming place to sleep after over a week on a hard, cramped couch. She pulled the covers over herself and drifted off.
Felicity awoke to the ecstasy of opening her eyes a crack to see Claude’s face inches from hers.
“I can’t wake her,” said Neville’s voice. “Could she be on something? There’s nothing in here. She must have brought it with her.”
“Take it easy,” said Claude. “She sleeps that hard sometimes, if she’s really tired. She used to do it after she sang.”
Felicity opened her eyes wider. Claude’s eyes were dark and solemn as he bent over her. He still smelled musky. A faint aroma of cocoa emanated from him. “She’s awake,” he said.
During her sleep, the T-shirt Felicity wore had ridden up to reveal the ampleness of her flank. She left it that way and stretched and yawned in a cat-like, sultry manner. “You can come downstairs now,” said Claude, and the spell broke.
“What happened?” Felicity asked. “Who were those men?”
“Never you mind,” said Neville.
“Neville, I’m in this as much as you are,” Felicity said.
Neville looked over at Claude, who shrugged and spread his arms in a gesture absolving himself of responsibility.
“Fine,” Neville said, “if you must know, those were negotiators, sent by Mark Henry.”
“What did they want?”
“To discuss a power-sharing arrangement.”
“And what did you tell them?” asked Felicity. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the crisis ending. On one hand, she could return to her career and her social life, but on the other, she would lose contact with Claude. She had spent the past week refamiliarizing herself with the rhythms of his body, how his moods lodged in his eyes, his jaw, the movements of his hands. He demonstrated exasperation now as he stuck them into his towering hedge of hair.
“Neville’s going to think about it,” said Claude. “Certain concessions were requested and will be considered.”
“And if he agrees, we’re out of here?” Felicity asked.
“That’s right,” said Claude. The beseeching look he gave Neville was drenched with his concern for Pat.
“Mark Henry thinks we can fight the Americans. He says draft everyone, and if anyone complains, that’s what jail is for,” said Neville. “He says we’re not following doctrine. But my government has slashed unemployment, reduced poverty, raised literacy, improved industry. Isn’t that more important than some words in a book?”
Felicity looked at the dust-covered volumes beside the bed. “Yeah,” she said, “like religion. It’s better to just live your life than worry about what someone wrote thousands of years ago.”
“Felicity, that’s brilliant!” Neville said. “They do sound religious. They’re fucking Bible-thumping zealots using politics as their new church.”
Claude scowled at Felicity. “But remember what you’re supposed to be doing, Neville. You’re in favour of modernizing and opening up. We said we’d accept Henry on the condition that he agrees with us that we need to release all political prisoners. America will like that.”
“When are they going to release theirs?” said Neville. “Who made them the world’s policeman?”
“We can’t do anything about that,” Claude said. “Our message to America is live and let live.”
Alison stepped into the room. “What are you all doing? The food’s ready.”
“What did you make?” asked Neville.
“There wasn’t much today. They brought some flour and fish. I made hotcakes. There’s fruit, and some pear from the garden.” Felicity remembered that pear was what Grenadians called avocado.
Neville shook his head. “I’m all right.”
“Neville, you have to eat!” Alison’s voice fractured into a wail Felicity had never heard from her.
“I’m a dead man if I eat their food,” said Neville. “I’m a dead man if I don’t.” Felicity looked at Neville again and saw how the whites of his eyes had yellowed, how the edges of his fingernails had frayed. How the parts of him that had chased women and danced until sunrise had been rubbed away.
Claude tried to get Neville’s attention, shook his head at him, but Neville said, “They won’t stop till I’m dead.”
“Neville.” Alison pressed her hand to her mouth and moved her head slowly back and forth.
“I have an idea,” Claude said to Alison. He went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Come,” he said, and led her away.
Neville dropped onto the bed beside Felicity. “Do you remember London?” he asked her.
“Of course I do.”
“I thought I was in some colonial hell at the time,” Neville said, “but it turned out to be the best time of my life. Everything was possible. When we marched, it felt like there was only one way things could end, and it was with us on top. Do you remember that feeling?”
“Yes,” said Felicity. She hadn’t cared much about the politics. She had just wanted to be with Claude.
“And the anti-apartheid concerts,” said Neville. “That’s why I wanted to do this showcase, you know. To bring back that feeling.”
“Me, too,” said Felicity. Neville knew nothing of her memories. The best time of her life was private.