Here Comes the Sun(39)

Margot straightens one of the crumpled papers, the sound of the paper crackling in the dark shadows like sparks from a flame. She stares at it for a while. “You draw this?” she finally asks.

“Yes,” Thandi says. It’s a sketch of clouds moving across the sky at dusk in the form of a woman. The woman appears to be leaping or running as the sun sets in the background. Below is the sea that stirs with her movement; and the hills and mountains that fade behind her. Margot studies it, her face opening up all kinds of ways. When she looks at Thandi again, her eyes slide lovingly over Thandi’s face. “You’re really good,” she says. But then she folds the drawing and tucks it away inside her blouse. “School comes first. Leave this behind an’ focus.” Margot pats the left side of her chest where the paper is folded. “First thing in the morning I’m going to Sister Shirley and I’m going to tell her that I’m not paying for art. You’re doing only science subjects in that exam. Ah g’wan see to this. Delores doesn’t have to know anything.”

Thandi turns away from her, her body shaking.

“Look at me, Thandi,” Margot says, forcing her face back. The charcoal Margot wears has made its way into the pits of her eyes. “You’re only going to focus on schoolwork. No art. No boys.”

Thandi doesn’t respond to this. She thinks of Charles carrying her back to shore, telling her to hold on. Him lifting her up and out of the water, their bodies wet and touching.

“Is it really true?” Thandi asks, thinking of Charles and the trust he bestowed upon her like a cherished gift.

“Is it true about what?” Margot asks.

“That I was the only person to ever give you a heart.”

“Yes.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

Margot’s mouth opens and closes as though she has lost her ability to speak. She presses her hands and lips together. Then very firmly she says, “Go change off before Delores come home an’ see yuh looking like something a dog dragged in.”





10


THE LARGE BLACK AND GOLD GATES OF ALPHONSO’S VILLA OPEN for Margot to enter, and she takes confident strides down the walkway, through the courtyard. The sound of laughter floats toward her and swirls into the pitch-black sky. Margot runs her hands down the length of her form-fitting green dress before she enters. The door is always open when Alphonso is inside. During the day one can look straight through the front door to the back patio, where the turquoise sea is spread like a welcome mat at the end of the hallway.

Margot enters the villa, where the coral walls are decorated with Caribbean artwork. Alphonso likes to collect. The furniture is sparse, arranged to accentuate the airiness in all five rooms, where mahogany sculptures stand in corners (women with enhanced African features carrying children or baskets, couples bent in shapes that aren’t humanly possible, beheaded humans with sizable breasts and penises). Terra-cotta pots hold green plants with large leaves. The rustic Spanish tiles have a waxy shine, with strategically placed woven mats. When he’s not hosting parties, Alphonso rents the villa to tourists—those who would prefer its relaxed atmosphere to the fenced-in, all-inclusive hotels like Palm Star. Alphonso profits either way.

Margot moves toward the music—a bluesy, jazzy woman’s voice, singing something she has never heard. Four men are seated on the patio, smoking cigars and looking out at the pool that shimmers before them with floating tea lights. The sinuous smoke from the men’s cigars forms a translucent veil. Each man has a girl or two—local brown girls wearing talcum powder on their necks, large gold earrings, and tight-fitting clothes that look to Margot like they found them in the arcade deep inside the secondhand barrels. Their coifed hairstyles are caked in place with gel Margot sees smeared at their temples. Margot feels she could stand there by the doorway and listen to the singer’s voice for hours with her eyes closed, but one of the girls spots her, her face transforming with surprise. She regards Margot closely, perhaps trying to place her, perhaps hoping she doesn’t know a relative. She looks familiar, though Margot could have seen her anywhere. She could have been one of the hundreds of faces Margot passes by daily in Sam Sharpe Square on her way to work. A girl like that might be one of the young vendors in the arcade, selling cosmetics or clothes.

“Margot!”

Alphonso floats toward her and kisses her on both cheeks before pausing at her lips. “I knew you wouldn’t stay mad at me for long.” She pulls back when she sees he’s high, his pupils large. He rests one hand on the small of her back. “You look stunning . . .” he whispers.

“Thank you.”

“Here, come join us.”

He leads her to the group of men. She greets them with a slight nod of her head. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she says. They respond in a tenor chorus. “Evening!” They have the accents of moneyed Jamaicans, their English with the right edge of patois to sharpen their innuendos and help them appeal to the common men they exploit. Alphonso leans back on his chair, his leg up, a cigar in his mouth. He converses animatedly with the other men. He openly caresses Margot’s shoulders, rubs her back, and she leans into him without hesitation. The phone rings, and one man teases Alphonso that it’s his wife who is calling. Alphonso runs to take the call, disappearing into one of the five empty bedrooms for privacy. When he returns, the men laugh. “See! Ah tell yuh it was di wife!”