St. George’s, Grenada, October 10, 1983
Up in the hills, Grenadian mornings began with the cries of roosters piercing the darkness along with the first pale yellow streaks of light. But at Government House, the day started when tanks rattled into the courtyard to relieve the soldiers of the night shift. Their arrival was Felicity’s cue to give up on sleep. She sat on the lumpy couch and rolled her shoulders, cracking away the stiffness. There were so many things she longed for. A cup of hot coffee, ground from dark roasted beans, or a frothy cappuccino at a café in Rome and a plate of lightly oiled linguini, sprinkled with fresh parsley. A piano, and a pile of scores. The freedom to sing. And Jack. How she wished she could talk to Jack. But he was lost to Felicity now, cut off from the rest of the world. She wondered what news had filtered out to him.
Felicity initially expected to see Claude at the dress rehearsal, three days after she arrived on the island. But when the roosters woke her on her first morning in Grenada, she knew she couldn’t wait. She told her family she was going to find somewhere to practice, but as soon as she got to St. George’s, she called Claude’s former law office. She wasn’t sure if he was still connected to it, but it was a starting point. She was surprised when a young male voice answered, “Black Pearls of Freedom headquarters.”
Felicity pulled her courage to her like a shawl, and said, “I’m looking for Claude Buckingham.”
“And who might you be?”
“One of the performers for the showcase.”
“Oh, are you wanting to see where the showcase is going to be? I think Brother Buck is over there now. It’s at St. Thomas’s church hall. You know where that is?”
She did. When she got there, she stood outside, adjusting her clothing. Her underwear was damp from the anticipation of seeing Claude and her bra was saturated with sweat. Her curls were on full display, the way Claude liked them. She tugged at the skirt of her blue flowery sundress. She was thirty-six now — Claude had last seen her when she was twenty-four, if she didn’t count those few seconds in London. She wondered what changes time had wrought upon him. Upon them both. Calypso music boomed from the hall as she shouldered the door open.
The first person she saw was Alison, much bigger than she had been in London and now wearing glasses, conferring intensely with a heavily pregnant woman. She noticed several other people putting up decorations, or milling around, before her gaze fell on Claude. He was the tallest person in the room. He was directing the placement of large banners on the wall. “forward together,” “black power,” and “black pearls are the most precious.”
“Neville, what do you think?” he bellowed over the music as he turned around. Then his gaze rested on Felicity, standing in the doorway. He paused for a moment too long. There was no smile, nothing but a cold recognition. He walked towards her and when he reached her, he said, “What are you doing here, Felicity?”
The drums began pounding in Felicity’s chest. She reminded herself, I am Felicity Alexander. I am a bona fide star. I am a regular at the Metropolitan Opera, La Scala, and Covent Garden. Audiences go wild for me. I have been on the cover of Opera News thirteen times. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am every bit as much a success as he is, maybe even more. There is no one else as good as me in this showcase. He needs me more than I need him. She looked directly at Claude as she said, “I’m here to see the performance space.”
“Oh,” Claude said, “that’s right, you’re in the showcase.” His tone implied that this was a decision that had nothing to do with him, maybe even one with which he did not agree.
Felicity was in full diva mode, the one that had earned her the nickname “Alexander the Great” at the Met for using lines such as the one with which she had skewered a hapless tenor who dared to try to steal the spotlight from her in rehearsal: With a face like yours, you really need to sing and fuck much better than you do. The Met sold “Alexander the Great” T-shirts in its gift shop, decorated with a caricature drawing of her face, ringed by chaotic springs of hair.
“I was planning to do the showcase, but I expected a more professional venue.”
Claude responded, “We’re just getting ready. We’re not finished. We’re getting a nice piano brought in from one of the hotels.” His gaze floated past Felicity. “You should talk to Neville if you have questions. This is all his idea.” He gestured across the room, and Neville loped over, a slow smile simmering.
“Felicity!” he said, holding out his hand. Before she could take it, he withdrew it and enveloped her in a hug. “You look fantastic, as always. It’s been years!”
“Prime Minister Carpenter.” Neville’s smile grew broader.
“I told you it was going to happen!” he said. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“You did,” Felicity said, transported back to London.
“You’ve reached the top, too,” said Neville. “Everyone we called for the showcase, all the music students” — Felicity felt a stab of dismay that she was to perform with students — “they all couldn’t believe you were part of this. They say you’re big time. Really big time.”
Felicity nodded as her smile curved into a death mask. Claude had eased away from them. He was standing very close to the pregnant woman, his hand resting lightly on her lower back as he looked down at her and she leaned her head on his chest. Something about her seemed familiar. Felicity didn’t have to hear their conversation to know that she was complaining about her aches and pains and the heat, and he was giving comfort to her, the way he used to give Felicity comfort. The way no one gave her comfort now. She was too late. Claude had ended things with Marlene after all, but not for her.
She should leave now. But then it would be obvious she was a scorned lover slinking away. And, whatever was going on with Claude, Felicity believed in the Revo. Grenada was a tent with its pegs planted in her heart. She lay in hotel beds in one foreign city after another and remembered the true blackness of the nights, the sandpaper scratch of the cicadas, and the glowing red skies.
As she stood in the doorway, reviewing the frame of her leaving and the one of her staying, a convoy of Jeeps rattled into view. Neville grew rigid, staring past Felicity as the Jeeps stopped on the road opposite the church. Men in camouflage outfits, guns with metal teeth slung across their bodies, ran towards them. “Aw, shrimps,” said Neville. The camera in Felicity’s mind slowed down as the men surrounded the building. Two of them marched up to Neville, holding a piece of paper.
“Neville Carpenter, you are being placed under arrest. Norman Porter has seized control of Grenada and is now the leader of the Black Pearls of Freedom and prime minister of Grenada. All the rest of you” — he made a sweeping motion with his arm that included Felicity — “are under arrest too.” The paper trembled in his hand.
“You’re doing good, brother. Let me see that,” said Neville, plucking the sheet of paper from the soldier’s hand. He scanned it and said, “Come on, man.” Ripping it in half, he let it drop to the ground. The pieces fluttered forlornly, dying butterflies returning to the dust. “You can’t be serious. What does Norman think he’s playing at? The people will never accept him over me.”
The soldier stood his ground, though his voice now shook more than the paper. “You are under arrest. All current ministers not loyal to Brother Porter are under arrest. I — the paper say what go happen. We are to march you to your house and keep you there so you cannot interfere with Brother Porter.”
“Claude!” Neville shouted, still not sounding worried. Claude looked up. He had settled the pregnant woman in a chair and was now kneeling on the ground, rubbing her feet. He patted her reassuringly on one knee and came over, never even once looking at Felicity.
“Claude Buckingham,” the soldier said, his forehead now jewelled with beads of sweat, “I am placing you under arrest on behalf of Prime Minister Norman Porter —”
Claude shot Neville a look of exasperation. “Fucking Norman!” he said. “I told you to deal with him at the last Party meeting. We should have put him under heavy manners.” A whole story was exchanged between Neville and Claude in seconds.
Neville looked sheepish. “Maybe we can talk to him now.” The soldier and his companion, however, had decided that the time for talking was past, and raised their guns to their shoulders. Felicity had heard enough. She did not want to be caught in the middle of a Third World coup. She turned to slip away, but one of the soldiers on the outside of the perimeter spotted her, and stepped forward to meet her, pointing his gun.
“Stay where you are!” he yelled. He cradled the long metal tube as if he were curious to know what would happen if he used it.
“Let her go,” Neville said. “She’s just —” He paused, in response to a jab in the ribs from Claude.
With everyone watching, Felicity realized that all she had to do was identify herself as a Canadian citizen, and she could be on her way. Whatever quarrel these men had had nothing to do with her. She opened her mouth, but then she looked back at Claude. Their shared past hung between them and the limitless future she had once hoped for with him still stood in his eyes, along with something else. A warning? His body that had so often lain so close to hers, that she could still read, crackled with a message to keep silent. If she used her status now, there would be no more chances with Claude. Another more pragmatic thought nudged out the ones about Claude — her agent would not be happy for it to be reported that she was mixed up in this amateur coup attempt. She shrugged her shoulders and eased back towards the church. The soldier lowered his gun.
“Carp, your woman can stay right there,” said one of the soldiers, and Felicity realized they had taken her for Neville’s girlfriend. “Carp, Buck, you stand here. Everybody out! Let’s see who we have in here!” he yelled into the church hall, where the occupants crowded silently around the windows. They shuffled out at gunpoint, as their captor called their names.
“Melvin Cleveland,” he said. “Frank Potts.” That was the minister who had written to Felicity, and his assistant. “Lee McPhail. Lawrence Francis. Kingdon Miller. Alison Greaves. Patricia Jack.” Patricia was the pregnant woman, who was leaning on Alison as she shuffled through the door. And Felicity recognized that name. Patricia Jack was Miss World, the one she had seen coming out of the Albert Hall the night she and Claude had confronted Percy Tibbs in London. Her face had matured, the sleek hair was replaced with a large afro, her formerly slim legs now ended in swollen ankles, but she had the same fine features. The same mix of haughtiness and shyness that had stamped itself on Felicity’s memory.
“You don’t need the women, do you?” Claude asked.
“Are you loyal to Neville Carpenter?” the soldier demanded of Alison.
“Yes,” Alison said without hesitation, her voice carrying over the uneasy tableau. “Yes, I am.”
“Over there.” The soldier pointed to the line of ministers. “And you?” he asked Patricia.
There was a long silence before she said, “Yes.”
“Then, go.” He pointed to the group of Neville’s people and she trudged over, one hand still on her aching back.
“What’s your name?” the soldier asked Felicity.
The name, used only with Claude at the clinic, presented itself without thought. “Lydia Felix.”
“We will be marching to Neville Carpenter’s house where you will be confined,” announced the lead soldier, his confidence growing by the second.
“Can’t you drive Pat there in the Jeep?” Claude asked.
“It isn’t far,” the man said. They began walking. Felicity was aware of the sound of her high-heeled sandals clacking on the cobblestones, drawing attention. Alison and Patricia wore flat, serviceable shoes and she imagined them smirking at her. Even now, she could still say, “Actually, there’s been a mistake. I’m from Canada, and I need to get back.” But she walked on, a gun at her back. She didn’t know where she was going, but Claude would be there, and where he was, she was going too. She left Jack, and her mother, and her children, to go with Claude. This time, she would not leave Claude, and she would not leave Grenada.