“Yes. No black and boring white. But don’t let them pile up awful flowers and wreaths on the, the box—”
“Casket.”
“I want that simple and white. No wreaths.”
“No wreaths.” Helen makes notes.
Marriette spreads the stack of small prints and sketches out on the floor. “Why you don’t use a nice photo instead? I sure you have some nice artistic portrait somewhere.”
“That’s an idea, what about a drawing, or one of Alan’s portraits of you?”
But he doesn’t want tradition. He had always found the face of the deceased on the funeral program morbid and haunting. He eventually chooses a detail of his church abstract — a cross, cut out of a wall, with bits of white in the blue, like birds. A piece of gray like a hill. Say …
Say the right words, please, hills. When the day comes, be gentle.
Nothing must spoil this petal moment. Ata watches the pollen flicker of Fraser’s face and lowers her lids.
But we shall welcome him softly, the hills whisper. And a small breeze ruffles the sketches, light as ashes.
“Cremation is out of the question,” Fraser says.
* * *
Night grows big and bold and still Pierre sleeps. The phone wakes him. He jumps out of bed now, out of sorts and panicked. Fucking Christ, what has come over him? He couldn’t have been that tired. Ata must be worried. What bloody time is it, anyway? Shit. He turns on the table lamp and his laptop is there, doors wide open as usual. Pierre scans the room quickly. Why is the deck so bright? He switches off the light.
The moon is still bright. Ata should have been here, he thinks, standing against the rail. The wind is quiet, making the waves downright loud. Pierre looks at them. White teeth appearing and disappearing. Hypnotic. The churgly chatter unceasing. What’s that patch of gray there — a current? Down the steps, the cicadas must be tucked into the hill itself. What are they doing, screeching at this godforsaken hour? Or is it frogs? A strong breeze picks up, out of nowhere. Pierre can see no rain cloud.
* * *
The raped and scarred earth drinks. Coupling a mouth to a breast. Ata broke out of her fitful sleep. Why hadn’t he called? Four a.m. He must have meant to but fell asleep. Stretched out on that damp bed. This guilty night, after such a day. Fraser had dismissed his staff but said he was too tired to see them. He glorified Alan as his savior to their faces and brushed off Vernon, like a servant, when he came in. Even Marriette was embarrassed for him.
At that ungodly moment, Alan was standing over Fraser’s bed, watching his friend’s sleeping limbs spasm. It’s a good thing Alan is here, though, Ata thinks. And Vernon too. As they were leaving, Fraser let Vernon lift him into bed. He hung on to his neck and stared up into Vernon’s strong face.
What day of the week is it?
* * *
Isn’t this also the night the poets were having their spoken-word thing? They had invited God of Design too, with a formal arty card instead of the casual bring-a-fren’ guerrilla marketing. But would he show? Would he bless the early days of their yardart initiative?
Slinger was duty-bound on his way, being driven past the unavoidable Savannah. They were preparing the place for Better Village, he noted — Best Village, best chutney dance, stick-fight dance, best choir, best “cultural performance”—so sickening. As if everyone doesn’t know that only Black party — stronghold villages won every year. I love this country, but God, what a long, long way to go. Everything so substandard, mediocre, insincere. No gumph in people, only in commercial competition. Maybe there isn’t enough poverty for artists, like in Haiti, Jamaica — Guyana, even.
“Did you hear that they really going to hang Dole Chadee?” the manager asked, steering them down Henry Street.
“Yes. I read the newspapers this morning.”
Crime is the most compelling art form. The drug lord’s contract killers had popped off the witnesses while he paid off the jury. Empty downtown night streets gave Slinger the creeps.
“So you saw the other headlines?”
“Yes, Charles, we don’t have to talk about it, thank you.”
They entered the little alley leading down the side of an office to the artyard and small performance space. Modern yet Caribbean touches, quite nice. Slinger instantly recognized which artist directed it. He respects the guy and there was a quiet, healthy little distance between them. Slinger likes to keep that so.
“Sling, yuh reach.”
All his crew were there and the performances already started. Somebody produced a chair for Slinger and he thanked them overdeeply in theater sign language, sat his holy tail down, and drew on his mask of composure. The whispery ripples round the standing edge of the small crowd dissipated, now that Slinger seemed alive and well.
Is revo-lution
times we trodding
Ah, revo-lution
Luther King so-lution.
The young man had the part down pat — the beard, deep solemn tone, Black Muslim look about him. Others nodded, some wearing army-colored T-shirts or fatigues, a lot of rasta tams passing for revolution-cool berets. A stenciled red star over there. Che Guevara must have another renaissance, again. Slinger glanced around to see if he could actually spot the iconic print anywhere.
The spoken-word artist, rapper, rapsonian, and poet continued and the selection of beautiful, intelligent young people — a few women wonderfully ethnically adorned — were nodding even more. They like it, this youth who is popularly claimed by the media to be “prophetical.” Slinger was sure that this boy came from some protected or privileged middle-class home, like many of them did. Okay, maybe he had really come from a humble, or even rough, background — but what’s this juvenile obsession with the word “revolution”? This little gathering of the “conscious” Port of Spainian few? The police wanting their thousand dollars more?… The question should be asked whether the police deserve any salary increase, based on a low level of crime detection and charges, for instance.
Slinger spotted Che Guevara’s face finally, on the top of a checkered canvas sneaker, peeking out from under a hem, near him. Cool. There is something in the new range of style and design …
The quiet artist-director watched God of Design’s amused observation and smiled to himself. He could barely keep up with the new talent and hunger for something different, so how could this isolated man relate? A few artists were making it to biennale participation and waves of good work were beginning to build. Ebbing and flowing in a world-music modern kind of way. Making way.
Slinger tolerated the performances well. He even had some good words to say, before his manager whisked him away back to his garden hideaway.
* * *
Ata sits out with the sunrise and her notebook. She will call Pierre when it’s late enough. Dawny words tease her, naming beauty and ugly. Husbandry is animal rearing. Peach in the sky is sometimes called gold. Names tame almost every living thing — none for the thousands of fragments in me. She asks the hills, Beyond the colors and the differences, what do you see?
“IT IS HE.” Sam takes the early-morning call and speeding on his way, bringing Father McBarnette to see Fraser. He had a few things well lined up to ask the priest, but maybe now is not the time. Father looking calm and cool as normal, though, and too-besides, he must do this regular, ’cause is his job, blessing people in they last days. And is still a good half-hour drive to go. Better not to talk about matters at hand.
“Father—”
“Yes, Sam.”