This One Sky Day, page 2
Not for this macaenus, said Xavier. His temper was gathering at the edge of his left eye.
Salmonie jumped as Moue swept past him with a sizzling pan of pink and purple octopus. Xavier nodded at three tentacles.
Five seconds more on two, and seven on the other.
Moue whisked the pan away.
The capsicum nose twitched. Salmonie looked beseechingly at Io, who was sitting in the corner on top of a very large upturned cook-pot.
Io gazed back. Vivid blue butterflies rustled in the milkweed bush outside the open window.
Salmonie began reading again. The Governor was enchanted that the holy macaenus had agreed to do a traditional walkround on the day before the wedding! Give the ordinary people a chance to choose the wedding-night feast ingredients.
What? roared Xavier. What you said about ingredients?
Io shook his head.
Salmonie spluttered. You know what a walkround is, macaenus! You journey through Popisho and buy food and recipes from the masses and from that you make a menu—
I know walkround!
Then you should be pleased the Governor choose to honour the tradition! Salmonie reached through the window and tried to catch an aqua butterfly. He missed, sucked his teeth and chuckled nervously. Governor Intiasar has decided the food for his daughter must come from the land and the people. He not interested in any elitist meal. He looked pleased with himself for saying so.
Get out of my place, said Xavier.
Your … The old man’s chin wobbled. What-what?
Xavier tasted the cheese carefully, scattered a handful onto his dough and added hot pepper from his left palm.
Get out of my place before I kill you dead until you die.
Your – your – this place was purchased for you by the government of the islands of Popisho. By the people who pay taxes!
Tell him no-one-skips-my-line.
You – but – I—
Get out!
The man scuttled away, glancing at the sharp knives hanging on the blue kitchen wall, forgetting his papers on the table.
Xavier passed his hands over the bread. Moue broke chicken joints, crack-crack, and plunged pieces into three different marinades. Io unfolded himself and picked up Salmonie’s notes.
Xavier tasted again.
Fool, he said conversationally.
Crick-crack.
Io tapped the papers.
He right, you know.
Crack.
It used to be part of a macaenus duty to walkround for all kind of rich wedding and celebration. The people’s contribution increase the chance of the young wife breeding. Io laughed. Ah, the fecundity of peasants! You been getting off light, Xavier Redchoose.
Xavier didn’t like people telling him things he already knew. Des’ree had dishonoured the walkround enough for one generation.
I told him ten years ago I wasn’t working for no rich people, he snapped. Why he bothering me now?
Nothing more than election he trying to win.
Crack.
Xavier oiled the dough and placed it on a baking tray. The smell of the bread would greet diners at the door and make them think of their mothers and aunties. Old tricks. Food, it was nostalgia.
Hm, said Io. I wonder why he trying so hard.
Moue grunted. Somebody coming for him. Twenty-odd years far too long for any man to be in power, but people don’t like try nothing new and clean.
That would be one hell of a change. Io squinted. You going do this foolishness, Xav?
Xavier sagged. Intiasar hadn’t put his mouth in macaenus duty once, not for all this time; many would say he’d gotten off lucky. A rebellion would look petty. People wanted the most romantic meal in the world.
Since you taking his money an’ thing, said Io.
He’d turned to retort, but his brother was gone, and all he could hear was chuckling down the hall.
So the next morning, when Moue ran out of tomatoes, Xavier had surprised them both by putting his knife down and stepping outside for the first time in seven months. Shuffling towards the tomato vines, skin throbbing in the sun, marvelling at what seemed like the garden’s new-green loveliness, he’d felt breathless and overwhelmed, as if peeled. He stroked a sandy almond tree. He’d seen Moue drying the leftover almond kernels, feeding them to the chickens and the staring school children loitering on the beach. Applying aloe to Chse’s fingernails, to stop her biting them.
Moue was one of many who stood for him while he broke.
When he got back, she snatched the warm fruit from his hands, her eyes wet.
About time, she said. Don’t stop now. Go down to the damn beach.
He felt as if his ankles were tied together, heart shrieking, perspiring ferociously, clambering towards the pink sand. He managed twenty minutes, the heat too bright on the back of his hands, astonished to be trailing through a gossamer sea he’d almost forgotten, when a man passed by, lugging a bundle of brilliant tie-dyed cloth. The colour so reminded Xavier of Nya’s favourite robe, he had to sit down in the shallows and pant.
*
He forced himself out every day now; had done, for nearly a fortnight. Men whispered, excited at his return. Women flirted shamelessly; he didn’t see them. The walks were longer each time, wading to his thighs in the sea, gulping the air and contemplating the old harbour where the local canoes had once delivered Leo Brenteninton’s toys. He remembered running down there as a young boy, pushing like the others to catch a glimpse of the unloading, scooting back to his parents to beg a few coins. The government put a stop to all that. These days, it was a vast operation: hundreds, even thousands of toys, the gossips said, straight from the factories, over to a big warehouse on the Dead Islands and the foreign ships swooped in three times a year to empty it. Some people didn’t remember it being any other way.
Had Intiasar never run to the shore and towards the boats, when he was small?
You going be alright, Io murmured each time Xavier staggered back to the Torn Poem, swallowing mouthfuls of thick, panicked spittle, rearranging his sweaty clothing.
Xavier attempted a laugh; coughed instead.
Absolutely, said Io firmly. You soon see. And when you go walkround next week, I come with you.
And still, Nya had not arrived.
Wah, the gossips said. Macaenus come back to us, but he wife still heavy ’pon him.
*
Dawn was due.
Xavier walked out of the garden and back towards the restaurant in the new light. The cod was calling: salt grains gathered in the lines of his palms. A thin stream of music echoed out towards the water. Three radio stations were playing the national anthem, seconds behind each other.
He only listened to the radio when he had to, but it was hard to avoid. There was one in every house and on every street corner, blaring noise and gossip; merry but dull interviews with local musicians; maddeningly obsequious chats with government officials, thanking the gods for this year’s crop and that year’s blessed Temple chorus. They used to try to get him on, these people, but his permanent answer was no; was he to be reduced to a recipe, asked what inspired him? How to answer these questions?
He knew he was being impatient: people did try to be honest and brave. They called up to complain about the way that things were all the time; old-timers rang to showcase their clever grandchildren. This child can talk, boy. Listen him! How many egg you give me for twenty word out of this child mouth? Fresh, mind you! Fresh! But discussions inevitably devolved. He could hear the exact moment an argument frayed, when it became about feelings, still pretending to be facts.
Argument was in his people’s blood, their history; they should do better than this.
Popisho
o islands we adore
every day and more
In the kitchen, he placed his hands on the fish. Salt thickened under his clean fingernails, sifting down his wrists and filtering out onto the fish belly. He closed his eyes. Too much: he must concentrate, to slow the flow. Take his time. He’d weight the flesh with a smooth, flat stone and leave it in the sun and wind behind the restaurant.
One whole cod side covered. Saltfish, like his ancestors made it, to preserve scarce protein sources. Salt grains falling from his hands, thick on the work surface, falling onto the floor, making it white, falling onto his bare feet. He flipped the fish.
Behind him, a crackling sound.
A tipping-tapping, creaking.
The hairs on his neck, prickling.
Xavier?
A wet sound, like something dragging its teats across the floor.
O, Xavier, come see me, nah.
He whipped around, fists salt-encrusted, crouched and panting. The fish slipped, hung, half on, half off the table. He gulped air; hiccuped violently.
The kitchen echoed back at him, empty.
Beneath his bare feet, he could feel the stones warming with the imminent heat of the day.
Xavier Redchoose sat down on his kitchen floor, closed his eyes and let his hands dangle.
He didn’t miss his wife at all. He thought of her, often. But it was hardly the same thing.
*
Everyone in Popisho was born with a little something-something, boy, a little something extra. The local name was cors. Magic, but more than magic. A gift, nah? Yes. From the gods: a thing so inexpressibly your own.
The Council of the Obeah Fatidique was made up only of women, who existed solely to curate magic. The gods made no mistakes, but they were notoriously mischievous, and their messages could be confusing. Obeah women were ancient, even when young, and they smelled conception, an instinct passed on through centuries. Some women only realised they breeding when a local obeah woman hintfully invited herself for supper; this same golden-robed woman might have come to their family for generations, mother after mother; would have identified their own cors, when they were small.
No one watched a pregnancy like an obeah woman: counting new hairs on the back of the hand; walking curious fingers up the thigh to new port wine stains; commiseration with early leaking nipples; bringing perfumed fruit for that metallic taste in the mouth; reassurance when orgasms turned the belly a pointy shape; melasma on the cheekbones. And oh! when that baby push out and navel string was cut, the hunt was on for cors.
Some kinds of magic were immediately obvious – multiple limbs and prodigious strength, an extra row of teeth or the kind of height you could use for a ladder. Other babies arrived with subtler gifts, to be deciphered slowly: permanently pleasant breath, hair like thick silk with never a tangle, the balance of a cat, or look, my child can turn coconut water into any other taste you want! Xavier’s old friend Entaly had musical earlobes and three buttock-cheeks. Moue got tipsy on butterflies one night and told Xavier her cors – a row of extra taste buds, and try as she might, she was immune to the nefarious effects of liquor. Xavier wondered which look-close obeah woman had found that on her.
Mental accoutrement was rarer, but it happened – the ability to tell the future; time-juggling triplets; toddlers moving objects with a careless thought or setting angry fires. All this mind-cors made good money, but parents had to use extra discipline in the rearing. One act of youthful rebellion could be unfortunate – a girl down Dukuyaie killed her mother with a spiteful thought after the mother banned her from dancing with her belly-skin out-of-doors. Thank the gods, her sister was standing right there with her cors to restart a heart like a putt-putt engine.
New mothers wept when the process was over and the cors named and the golden robe didn’t whisper through their rooms so regular. But Temple was open all day and all night, and the sound of obeah women singing was as perennial as birdsong.
It took the obeah women a long time to work out that Xavier could flavour food through the palms of his hands. At first he’d displayed no magic at all, despite everybody turning him over multiple times and peering into his orifices; much to his mother’s anxiety. His mother Treiya Redchoose was the pragmatic daughter of a clumsy fisherman and could calm storms at sea. No stranger to poverty, she wanted useful cors for her sons, more than most mothers.
Io’s gift wasn’t too shabby: he could change the colour of things with just a touch, and he was very strong indeed. By the time Xavier was born, his brother was already charging a few coins here and there, sprucing up the walls of people’s houses, refreshing the faded robes brought over by their mothers’ friends, and hoisting machinery, sugar barrels and shark carcasses. Their father, Pewter, was the proud owner of a long black-and-silver prehensile tail that fluffed up when he spotted injustice. He used it to build schools and temples and to climb scaffolding without a ladder.
When Xavier was nine, and still not showing a single sign of magic in any part of him, Pewter was underpaid by a crooked employer. Pewter whipped the man with his tail and then his fists until the fool bawled out. No matter the injustice, Pewter developed a bad reputation and work dried up. Treiya fretted about feeding her sons and let her husband know about it. Io missed school, changing the colour of putt-putts, old shoes and flower arrangements for anyone who could pay him. Treiya said her children needed education. No, said Pewter. They need to be men. Treiya sucked her teeth loudly and went to work long hours with the fishermen at the local beach. Pewter had no regular work, but he still expected supper.
I tired, said Treiya. Come here, Xav, let me show you.
So Xavier took over the family cooking. He surprised himself by easily mimicking Treiya’s movements over the fire, using the limited cupboard as she instructed, and enjoyed tending her modest but very well-kept garden. Pewter muttered about it being a woman’s work, but he sure did suck the bones in the fried chicken-back, make a pile of bone dust in the corner of the plate, and hug Xavier under his armpit. It was Pewter, belching contentedly, who first asked if anybody else notice that the fish have plenty flavour even when no hot pepper not in the house and wah, you don’t notice the honey jar never finish …?
He fell silent. The whole family sat up and stared. Xavier looked back solemnly. Io beamed and Treiya took a breath.
Go fetch that damn obeah woman, Treiya said to Io.
When she arrived, the obeah woman seized Xavier’s wrists.
You never notice?
What? said Xavier. The flavouring thing happened like any other bodily function. You didn’t report spitting or defecation to the obeah woman. It felt … private.
Oh my gods, said Treiya.
The obeah woman sorted through their pantry, taking out a pack of Treiya’s precious corn flour and sending an obliging Io to buy some very cold butter.
Quick-bread? asked Xavier.
The obeah woman smiled and nodded, cutting butter into lumps. She let Xavier rub it into the flour. Don’t add no salt, now. He had to think about that hard, to stop the cors. When the dough was done, the obeah woman rolled it out and cut five rounds. She greased a skillet, ignoring Treiya’s sighs at her temerity, just come take over people kitchen.
Alright, boy. Give me five different flavour.
Xavier hesitated then passed his left hand over the first quick-bread. Everybody squinted as the corners of his already brown hands became browner.
Cinnamon, Xavier said and chose another round. Cardamom, that big seed one. Um. He liked the sudden smiling in the obeah woman’s eyes.
The whole family gawped at him from the dining table.
Do crab, Xav, called Io.
Xavier snorted. I can’t do animals. What might an obeah woman like eating? Ginger, lime and sugar.
Well, kiss my neck, exclaimed Pewter.
Hot Jack pepper. He felt confident now. There was only one more piece of dough, so it needed to be good. Cocoa seed and mint leaves.
The obeah woman shook her head. Family sometimes spotted cors before the Obeah Fatidique; however it happened, it was wonderful to see magic reveal itself.
Look at the light in your face, she said.
Xavier said he could put garlic in a chicken’s bottom if she wanted him to, which was quite rude but also witty, because everybody knew that people who ate chicken bottoms talked too much. Io dissolved into laughter. The obeah woman cuffed Xavier playfully.
You going make an excellent husband for some lucky woman, she said. Cooking-cors rare as hell in a man.
Treiya snatched back her skillet and fried up the quick-bread. They ate the five rounds warm, murmuring at the clear, delicious flavours, but not before Io made each piece a different colour, so they’d remember which was which. Everyone seemed pleased, Pewter rubbing his son’s back and saying it was he seen it first you know, yes, baba! and his mother, her cheeks all swollen with pride.
Looking very thoughtful indeed.
2
Anise slept badly and woke to the sound of splintering wood. She rolled over to the middle of the cold pallet. The room was dark, and Tan-Tan was missing. She sat up.
‘Tan-Tan?’
No answer. Just the muffled sound of panting and sawing and the great mass of her husband on the other side of the bedroom. She knew it was him, better than she might have known herself; ten years lying back on this pallet, enjoying him moisturising his stomach and legs. He used to come over to her, smiling and nudging.
Do my back, Anise.
Gods, Tan-Tan! Make me sleep now, man!
Him, laughing: You not sleeping. You watching me.
Her arms outstretched: Come and kiss me.
Even during those early days, he rarely slid back into her arms once he was out of them. He was a self-contained man. Punctual in his work, and everything else. She’d admired his responsibility. It made her feel safe. But what might happen to the world, ’sake of a single act of spontaneity?
‘Tan-Tan?’
Scrape. Snap.
‘What you doing?’
She searched for the oil lamp next to the pallet. Struck a festering, weak light, applied it to the wick, and lifted the lamp so she could see him better.
