A Brief History of Seven Killings (40 page)

—She’s not white.

—I need to lie down.

—Of course, baby, take your time, take your—

—Stop talking like you is my fucking doctor. Poor Chuck, didn’t think this was how it was going to turn out, did you? How many times you rehearse this? Two? Three? On the way over here? I at least deserve four rehearsals.

—Kim—

—Stop calling me that name. How about we shake hands right now and say nice doing business.

—Now look, there’s no call—

—You prefer to write a cheque and leave it on the breakfront?

—I never once called you a prostitute.

—Of course you were so fond of me. Bombocloth white man bullshit.

—This is not about white or black, my wife—

—Oh I’ve grown so fond of you. We’ve grown oh so very fond of you my dear, so very fond—

—She’s blacker than you.

—What is this then, black pussy contest?

—Kim.

—Shut up! You don’t get to tell me what there is no bombocloth cause for in anything.

—What? You’re not making any sense.

—Just take me to foreign.

—What?

—Just take me to foreign.

—What are you saying?

—Just take me to foreign, to r’asscloth. Leave me at the nearest bus stop.

—Kim, you’re not making any sense.

—Look, I just got to go. I just got to fucking go. I’m so ready to go. Chuck, please I’ll do anything. I’m so ready to go. I’m so ready to fucking go I’m so ready to go—

—Go where? I don’t understand what you’re saying, Kim, let go of my shirt, what the fuck? What has gotten over you? Kim, Kim, let go. Kim. Let. Go. Fucking hell!

—Ugh—

—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m . . . look what you made me do. Kim, it’s your—

—Just shut up please.

—But you might be bleeding. Let me—

—Don’t fucking touch me. Just give me the damn paper.

—But you never read the
Star
, you hate the news.

—Stop talking like you know me. You don’t know me, you hear me? You don’t know me. Makes me want to vomit. This half boyfriend, half daddy, paternal fuckmate bullshit. That’s what it does, it makes me want to vomit right here on your fucking floor. I don’t even like ackee. Give me that paper or, or, or I will start screaming.

—Baby—

—Please, please, please, please, please shut up. Just shut up. I’m going to go find my head.

I take his paper and I go into the bedroom and I slam it. Ring on his finger. Like me never see no ring on him finger. I did well and see ring on him finger. No I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. The fucking son of a bitch.

—You is a fucking son of a bitch.

Calm down, Kim Clarke. Calm down. You couldn’t even shout that out because you know you’ve got no cause. Remember why God lead you to this house. Remember why God lead you to this room and go back out there and love his hair. Tell him you don’t have to be his wife, you can be his whatever you like woman. Is distance him want? You’re a Jamaican woman,
you know how to give him distance. Go out there and say, Yes, baby, I understand. You have this world here and that world there, but those two worlds can’t mix, you know that. But look at us, look at us, we make two world work all the time and we don’t even live in a land as big as yours. Mr. Big has a wife in the hills and a woman in the clubs. The wife will never come down, the woman will never step up, so the man stays level. I can show you. And I don’t have to fly back on no Alcorp plane. I don’t have to live in Arkansas. I don’t have to set up no home. . . . We don’t have to, oh shut the fuck up woman. ’Bout you can adapt. That doesn’t make you a woman, it makes you a bacteria. The man samfie you. Steal from a thief and God laughs. The man samfie you good. Like you wanted to set up no fucking dolly house in Arkansas. You just want a way. You just want a light. You just wanted a piggyback to jump off and everybody in this room right now know it. Go out there and love his hair. You already have passport and visa. But with him I would have had a . . . a what? Girl, you need to get the fuck out of this simmering pot before time run out. You think you’re safe, but look underneath your dress and you’ll see concentric circles all leading to one bull’s-eye. You think that your forehead don’t still have the mark? You think they not still looking for you? . . . No. I will go out there and I will love his hair. Tonight was the night I was supposed to love his hair. But you spoil the ackee. You know how much he loves ackee and you spoiled the ackee. Maybe you should go out dancing, tell him it’s one last time before he goes. We go. You were going to land in God’s land with this man and just suck up the American colour.

You know what—

Shut up

Just shut up

You sound like two black American brats in a TV comedy, “you shut up.”

Shit, I don’t even smoke.

—Kim, you okay in there?

—Don’t come in here.

—Have you put a bandage on your cheek yet?

—Don’t come in here.

I should have known. What the r’asscloth him think this is, that every woman in Mantana’s rehearse this day from the day they set foot in that club? Clearly every woman but me. I can’t remember any other man in the club. I mean, I can remember them but I can’t remember their fingers. Poor Kim Clarke, by the time you got to Mantana’s your purpose already blinded you. Poor Kim Clarke, Mummy and Daddy weren’t there to teach you about the time when woman and man come to the crossroads with cross purposes and if you give a man a free hand he will rub it all over you. Poor Kim Clarke. You knew Alcorp was closing shop and setting to go from before you met Chuck. Alcorp was setting to go and you had set your sights. On somebody. Everybody. Anybody. How do you make a man love you harder? Did every man in Mantana’s have a wedding ring or the mark of one on the fourth finger? Think on your feet, Kim. Think on your feet.

—Kim.

—I am alright. Just don’t come in here.

—Okay.

Stand still. Stand still and know peace. I swear now is when Sunday school turn out to serve some use. No you will not think about God right now. Maybe I will read the newspaper after all, maybe I will read the
Star
, The People’s Paper. I don’t know why he reads this every day other than to remind himself how stupid Jamaican people can be, is that it? And yet I have heard of what happened in Little Rock. This stupid girl paid attention in history class when they talked about civil rights and Martin Luther King.

Three The Hard Way: Body Guard, Home Guard and Security Guard in Love Triangle. The
Star
understands . . . Twins for Miss Jamaica . . . Our Page 3 Girl Pulchritudinous Pamela, our luscious buxom beauty is training to be an air hostess and loves the long arm of the law . . . Counter Flour Shortage in Hanover. The
Star
understands that shopkeepers have been “marrying” Baygon insect spray, insisting that customer purchase one spray for every two pounds of flour. . . . Dupply Slaps Graveworker in May Pen Cemetery. Eulalee Legister was minding her business when . . . Return of Communist Menace Through St. Mary? . . . Eliminations and sashing of contestants for Miss Jamaica 1979. Shelly Samuda, Miss Marzouca, Arlene Sanguinetty, Miss Bobcat, Jacqueline Parchment, Miss Hunter Security, Bridget Palmer, Miss Sovereign Supermarket, Kim-Marie Burgess, Miss Ammar’s

Kim-Marie Burgess, Miss Ammar’s

Kim-Marie Burgess, Miss Ammar’s

Kim-Marie Burgess, Miss Ammar’s

Stacey Barracat, Miss River Road Cleaners
. Beauty Contest is foolishness.
Domestic Violence end in wounding with intent. Justice Patrick Shields in a ruling today . . . Four Killed in Shootout in Jonestown . . . April 20, Your Birthday Horoscope. You are an Aries on the cusp of Taurus and you will be guided by your emotions
. . . This is what you have been missing for almost two years. Turn the page.

FROM CONCERT TO COMMUNITY BUILDING ONE YEAR LATER

. . . back from fourteen-month exile after the attempt on his life, December 3, 1976. The concert was opened by HRH Asafa Wosen, the Crown Prince of Ethiopia . . . this was the reaping of two years of careful workings, said JLP political activist Raymond “Papa-Lo” Clarke. Too much war and tribulation in the street, time for unification. Proceeds from the concert will go towards all sort of projects in the community, first thing first a good public sanitary convenience and a new room for the West Kingston Clinic, said top PNP activist Roland “Shotta Sherrif ” Palmer. Central to the effort was the reggae superstar who flew home to the island after a nearly two-year absence
.

Enough. Stop reading, Kim Clarke.

Since the beginning of this year there has been three hundred murders that have been rumoured to be politically motivated.

Stop reading, Kim Clarke.

Photo inset: Political activists shake hands over concert proceeds.

Don’t look, Kim Clarke.

Left to Right: Minister of Youth and Sports Mr._______________, JLP political activist Raymond Papa-Lo Clarke, PNP political activist Roland Shotta Sherrif Palmer
. Kim Clarke, stop looking, stop reading, stop searching. Don’t look: Papa-Lo in his white top, his pecs popping like women’s breasts. Don’t look: Shotta Sherrif’s khaki pants, like a student’s, like a sol
dier’s. A black-and-white photo but you know it’s khaki. Don’t snake your eyes from face to face, to faces looking in the camera, faces looking away and faces looking beyond anything in this damn photo. Beside Papa-Lo is a woman. Beside the woman is a man. Behind the man is another man wearing sunglasses. You know the look, don’t you? He’s not hiding from you, you’re hiding from him. Close the newspaper now, Kim Clarke. There he is at the back not smiling, not looking, not agreeing to no bombocloth peace. He’s not looking at peace, he’s looking at you. Two years on the run and him find you. You is a fool. Him find you.

—Kim, what’s going on?

Kim?

Kim?

Two years of running in a straight line that turns into a circle. Walk up to the gate. Nothing stopping you now. Nothing pushing you but you walk right up to the gate anyway because what else was there to do, not walk forward? Walk up to the gate and rub your belly like you’re pregnant. Ignore the firecrackers even though this is way too early in December for firecrackers. Look at the man, face already going dark in the eight o’clock but coming towards you and you can’t move. He’s looking at you, undressing you, auditioning you. Listen to screams coming from the back and police siren coming from up the road and the gun right in front of your face. Once you started running you never stopped. You packed a purple suitcase and ran away from December 3, 1976, because fuck that day that the Lord had made and everything was terrible in it. You think you’re going to run to America, but the man has already worked out right down to the last rent cheque how he will soon run away from you. And this man, the man in the photo. He walked right up to you from the edge of this newspaper. He has a name—don’t read it.

Silly woman. You never ran from December 3, 1976, you ran right into the middle of it. You’ve never known December 4, you do not know April 20, you only know December 3. That day will never close until he comes to close it. December 3 is coming back for you, this picture is saying. We have unfinished business, this picture is saying. Montego Bay couldn’t stop it and
neither can America. I coming for you, Nin—don’t call her by that name, don’t ever call that fucking name. That is a dead name of a dead woman in a dead city. Keep running because she’s dead. Now light the cigarette with his lighter that he wants back and don’t give it back unless he asks. Light the cigarette and take a drag. Cough, cough longer, cough louder. Take another drag. Drag until your heart goes back to beating so slow that if you touch your chest you can count the beats. Now take the cigarette and burn out his head. Stub through to the back page, burn until you flick a flame brilliant with the paper and throw it on the bed.

—Kim, what the hell is going on?

Burn a way through the white man’s knocking and shouting and screaming and rapping and ramming down the door that won’t budge, and the cackling pillows and the hissing silk sheets and the laughing polyester curtains, watch the flame shoot up like under a skirt and expose the screaming window.

Burn a way to safe passage. The only way forward is through.

Barry Diflorio

S
hit just blew up
in Iran. Well, it blew up back in January, but fallout’s just reaching us now. Shit is blowing up all over the world. Chaos and disorder, disorder and chaos, I say them over and over like they have anything to do with each other, Sodom and Gomorrah, Gomorrah and Sodom. All these family pics go in my bag—not the briefcase, take them out of the briefcase and that folder I should give Sally to shred, but should I take some shots first? Jesus Christ, I think I’ve caught some Nixon fever. I spend so much time telling people that life is not like fucking 007 that I miss the times when it really is. What I really want to do is sit back in this chair, take my shoes and socks off and guess where shit will start flying first. Meanwhile, shit of a totally different kind blew the fuck up in Yugoslavia. And NATO boy didn’t even know. He’s the head of the fucking CIA and he didn’t even know.

Lindon Wolfsbricker. Now there’s a name where you knew the parents spent an awful long time trying to figure out what the fuck can precede Wolfsbricker. Seriously, it sounds like something you’d call a Nazi fetishist. Wolfsbricker the American ambassador to Yugoslavia. Don’t ask me how he got it but somehow Mr. Ambassador comes across a directive from within the Company. A directive from Clandestine Service to station chiefs worldwide to keep all major operations secret from all ambassadors. First thing I thought was, come on. I mean, it really makes sense. Some ambassadors get the gig because the President likes them, and a good gig in a good locale where you make a name for yourself, like say Cyprus, will set you up for senator, governor or vice president. Some get the gig because the President can’t stand the fucker and what better way to get you and your potential threat out of the way than to post you in the Soviet Union or
some place nobody gives a fuck about, like Papua New Guinea? Either way, an ambitious jackass on a power trip is not someone who should be kept in the loop about anything ever, because more than anything else, he’s a major pain in the ass. And here is Wolfsbricker, the shit-kicker on the phone, with Admiral Tunney, mad as hell that info is being kept from him, in violation of standing presidential orders going back seventeen years by the way.