Kingston Noir (2 page)
Still, each story is driven by its unique
why would
or
what if.
Why would a man sleep with a woman knowing she has HIV? Why would anyone throw a school girl’s corpse beneath a bus? What if a European photographer takes it on herself to document a neighborhood controlled by gangs? What if an American actress wakes up to find herself gagged and bound in a stranger’s bed?
Speaking of questions. As editor there were a few big ones I had to ask. Perhaps the most important one was,
How will I proceed?
Some editors think of anthologies as potluck dinners. They send out general invitations. Encourage everyone to bring a favorite dish.
I’ve been to that dinner party. I know how it goes. Some things are great. Some things are awful. But most things are so-so.
Now why would I want to do something like that? I thought. At the same time I thought,
What if?
What if I thought of
Kingston Noir
as a great LP? Ahhhhh …
As I did with
Iron Balloons
, my first anthology for Akashic, I began with a simple understanding: few writers would be called, and even fewer would be chosen. Because nothing less than a classic would do.
Colin Channer
May 2012
A
lot of people say they want to leave this city to go somewhere else. Not me. I love this place for what it is. Ugly and pretty. Rough and tender. Chaotic and smooth. Loving and murderous. All of it.
I love it like I love things you maybe shouldn’t love.
When I was growing up off Red Hills Road, on Whitehall Avenue, I used to wake up in the morning, step into the yard, hear rooster crowing, smell the wood fire burning, hear
Swap Shop
on the radio, and just smile and say, “Yes, my people. Yes, my country.” But I didn’t really know love till around ’78 when I remove to where I live now at the bottom of Stony Hill. Yeah man. Long time.
This is a house with history. The first time I see this place was in the early ’70s. That time no house wasn’t even here. It was just a little spot after you cross over the bridge from Constant Spring Road, and before you start to properly climb the hill, where a man had a small shop where he used to fix bicycle.
Most people, myself included, thought is squat the man was squatting there. After all, who would
buy
a piece of narrow land right side of a wide concrete gully and surround by macka bush and bramble, right?
But the man had bought the land. And soon he built a small cottage like one of them you find on a country road in cool Mandeville—tidy, nice filigree woodwork, and a full covered veranda. He paint the whole thing yellow and green. And the man live in that house even when everywhere around him they was building those flat-roof bungalow on the lower parts of the hill and the fancy house on the upper slopes. The man wouldn’t sell a inch of the property. So, what you have in the middle of the area is like a piece of the country.
Well, the man dead and his people decide to go to foreign with every other brown-skin Jamaican who was absconding to Miami in those days. And is so I get to buy this place cheap-cheap.
This is where I brought Deloris. She was my wife.
Kingston is rough. My work is dirty work. And most night, when I am driving northward from the congested city by the sea, through the crazy traffic and smoke and noise (with the window down cause I like to hear and smell my city—and anyway, I waiting for the right time to fix the damned air conditioner in the car), I am just thinking about the way the whole place start to get greener with trees and more residential house as we climbing the hill toward Constant Spring. Past the stoosh Immaculate Conception High School for girls, past the horse farm on the left, past the stretch of the golf course, past the old market after the traffic light, then past the plaza where my office is, and then turn left to cross the bridge, and right there so, right at the foot of the mountain itself, my cottage, my castle, my refuge.
As I am driving I feel the sweet heaviness of heartbreak and desire, like a great Alton Ellis tune seeping out of a rum bar around six thirty, when the sun going down—the kinda tune that make you want to cry, and laugh, and screw, and hug-up, and pray at the same time. Yes, this city will break my heart every time, and the city come in like the women—tough, sweet, soft, dangerous, pragmatic, and fleshy. This city is my bread and wine, my bitters and gall, my honey and milk.
Deloris gone, Cynthia Alvaranga gone, and the place feeling sadder and sadder these days, but it is what I have, it is my comfort, it is my familiarity. I will dead here. That is the simple truth of the matter. Right here. Right here.
When Cynthia Alvaranga came to my office that first time, she wasn’t coming to see me. She wasn’t coming to hire me. She was coming to see Deloris. See, that was around the time when Deloris decide to start her dressmaking business.
It was Deloris idea to set up the place—what she call a “one-stop shop.” You know, dressmaking, wedding planning, detective agency—one-stop shop. She said that is how they doing it in America now. Well, I never hear of it, but it make sense to me. So it was her idea, not mine. She said to me that if I did that I could start to branch out to more things—handyman finder (“If you can find people, you must can find a man to fix anything quicker than most people”), rent-a-house finder, that kinda thing—and she wanted to start a dressmaking place near me, but wasn’t ready yet, but said it was a good way to start a business mentality, and when a couple go into business partnership and work together, she say, it strengthen their marriage. If you ask me, she just wanted to keep her eye on me. You know woman.
Be that as it may, our place was at the corner of the plaza and my glass door was nicely shaded by a big pretty flamboyant tree. The people who used to have the space before had what they call a gourmet Jamaican restaurant—a place name Nyame’s that some Dutch couple used to own. It never work out—the woman find a rastaman and run away to Portland, so the man pack up and go back to Europe with the children. I get it cheap-cheap. Tragedy can be a blessing.
The way my office set up, it is hard for me to not see who coming in even if they are not coming to me. You see, I work in a cubicle to one side of the office, which use to be the manager office for the restaurant, I think. But in fact is not really a cubicle, because
cubicle
make it sound like it small. My door is open most of the time, so I can see when people coming into the office; and when the front door open, a buzzer go off so I can be ready for anything.
Deloris has her working area around the back where the kitchen used to be. It is a big space and she have machine and two big cutting table and whole heap of mannequin and that kinda thing there. She keep bolt and bolt of cloth in there too, and she have a rusty fridge and restaurant-grade stove so she can cook for us sometimes.
Be that as it may, Cynthia Alvaranga came in around two o’clock, so the place still smelling of oxtail and butter beans from our lunch. I see her hesitate at the door, but maybe it was me who hesitate. Maybe it was my head that hesitate, because I still remember that what I saw was a tall woman, a strong woman, a dark beautiful woman, who, I could tell, must have been some kinda athlete, because her body moved under what Deloris like to call a A-line frock, like a machine. Her face had that clean, fresh look. No makeup. Eyelash thick and long, lips full and pouting, and her eyes looked so tired, so sad, so broken down.
Normally for me, what I look for is a weakness in a woman, a flaw, a thing that can make me feel sorry for her. That is why fat woman was always my target when I was misbehaving.
And is not just because me fat too.
Most of the PI I know are fat like me, but they got fat recently, you know. I was always fat. And my fat is a fit kinda fat. I carry fat well. Them, is like they wear their clothes tight because they don’t know they are fat. For instance, they like wear their shirt tuck in. So their belly is always hanging over. And guess what? They feel they looking neat because they always used to wear their shirt in their pants from when they never had a belly.
Me, from I was in technical school, I was wearing my shirt out of my pants to hide my belly. So I know how to dress like a fat man.
Yes, I am a fat man, but don’t sorry for me. In Jamaica a woman like a big man. She can see he is prosperous, and that he can be in charge. People call you “boss” before they even know who you are. “Big man,” “Boss,” “Officer,” “King,” and my favorite, “My Lord.” When a woman call you “My Lord,” that is a sweetness.
Be that as it may, fat woman use to be my target. Though sometimes it is not just the fat, sometimes it might be something else. As I said, my secret is to find something in a woman, a limp, a sickness, something she ashamed of—a secret, you know, some nastiness in her life. When I can find that, maybe it makes me feel superior, but mostly it makes me feel that I can do something for her that she will appreciate, and that is how they come to love me, and that is how I can make a move.
I could see that Cynthia had a tiredness hanging off her. The expensive darkers on her forehead didn’t fool me. Yeah, she was wearing nice things. She even had a Prada bag in her hand. But the things had an oldness and a beat-up quality to them so I know she was a woman in distress. And I began to think: A wonder what she want from me.
But it wasn’t me she came to. It was Deloris. She came about a dress. I just happened to be the person she saw. Though I still wonder about this sometimes.
“The dressmaker is in here?” This is the first thing she said. She was standing at the door to my office. I had buzz her inside. She stare into my face like she was looking for something. Hard high cheekbone, almond-shape eye, and a small mole by her right temple. One second I register it as a flaw, next second I change my mind. Her hair cut low-low and neat and shining with oil. I wanted to touch it, feel how it feel on my palm.
“Yes, she in the back,” I said. Then I shouted, “Deloris, customer!”
She walk by, and I wait for a second and then stand up and walk to my door to see her from the back. Lord, what I thought I saw to be beautiful from the front was a joke. Talk about thighs. And bottom. Firm. Lift up. Savior!
I had to step back into my office because the way I was looking at her, I felt dirty, like I was violating her with my eyes. No, no. I didn’t want to do that. So I stay inside my office and blank out every other sound and listen. She wanted a dress. Black.
“It is for a funeral. I want it to be nice—stylish. Then I want you to make the same exact one, but this time for a eleven-yearold girl.”
Her voice tell me she went to a good high school, but I couldn’t tell anything else. I know she wasn’t a Stony Hills money woman. This woman was like me and Deloris. Poor, but with education, and she must have worked in a nice office or something. Or maybe she was one of those woman who went to America on sports scholarship.
Show you how good I am. On every one of those, come to find out later on, it turned out I was right. St. Jago High. Sprinter. One. Two and hurdles. I even knew her name. I remembered her name from Champs. Yeah man. Had seen her from the stands but never up close. Even see her run for Jamaica couple time a few years back. A vague memory came to me about how she got injured or something like that—that’s why she never made it big. Maybe I just filling that part in now. Yeah, but she was a big name in high school, for sure. Career done early. Promising for a while. A muscle tear or bone fracture break the promise, and that was that.
Be that as it may, as I was leaning back in my chair with my hands cross behind my head and listening, I began to wonder who died. Same time I hear Deloris say, “Sorry for your loss. My condolences.”
And then Cynthia, like she answering me too, say, “No one has died yet. This is for us. This is to bury me and my girl.”
I keep saying
Cynthia
, but it wasn’t until I took her out that I learned her name. Yeah, I took her out. But that was not my original intention. In a sense it was Deloris fault.
When Cynthia left, I felt very worried. From the footsteps and the buzzer at the door I could tell that Deloris had gone to walk her outside. But that is neither here nor there. I was worried because I was sure Deloris had somehow seen the way I was staring at Cynthia and even had some sense of the thoughts I was fighting in my head. Is like I felt the thoughts were so loud that anyone close to me could hear.
I feel shame to say it now, but somehow in that short space of time—the time in which the two of them went outside the door and Deloris come back by herself—I imagined one of them passing. Which one? I feel shame to say … my wife. Yeah, in that short space of time of listening to Cynthia and watching her, I imagined my Deloris passing, imagined Cynthia coming to give me comfort, imagined us finding a romantic connection, deep as the deepest ocean between us in our loss and need.
Yes, I even imagined what it would be like to make love to a woman with tall legs like that. How she would squat over me, how she would move, how different it would be to see her thighs ripple as she rose and sat on me.
Deloris, you see, have some short legs, and for a while she had stopped getting into acrobatics or anything that would make her sweat even a little.
And I don’t want to disrespect Deloris because she help build me in life and she teach me plenty things. For instance, is she who teach me about A-line dress. She used to say that they were flattering and forgiving to short woman like her who were well-endowed. Well, truth be told, by the time I met Cynthia not even A-line could help Deloris, if you know what I mean.
But she was my wife and I love her, so I never ever tell her anything like that.
But it kinda hard when you marry a woman and you think she going just get a little grayer and maybe get two wrinkle when she get old. Yeah man, when I married her, I was thinking that all woman with Indian blood would stay fine-fine like stick.