‘‘And then what?’’
‘‘Then you go to hell. I go home and retire.’’
‘‘You’re retiring, all right. See this wire on my baby blue jacket? And see those young women and that jogger coming our way? They’re FBI. If you looked behind you, you’d see a few more, including a sniper in the bedroom window of that nice house back there. He’s aiming at your head, so don’t think you can take a shot at mine. I just made my last sale, Mr. Comedian. And you’re the product.’’
He stood up, slowly, heavily, and then turned and looked down at the fat man with the gun in his pocket.
‘‘You should have paid more attention to history when I was trying to tell you.
‘‘You want to know why the Confederates lost? Because the greedy fuckers stole a farmer’s old gray mare, which pissed him off, and so he told the Feds where they could sneak over that ridge.’’ He pointed north and a little west, as the first two agents laid hands on the shoulders of the other man. ‘‘It took the Rebs completely by surprise. Then they got surrounded, and they never had a chance.’’ The agents hoisted his audience to his feet. ‘‘Just like you were going to steal my life, which pissed me off, so I told the Feds how to sneak up on you, so they could surround you, and you wouldn’t stand a chance. You know the old song? ‘The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be’? Your life and mine, they ain’t what they used to be, but my life is still mine.’’ He banged his meaty right thumb on his chest. ‘‘I’m hanging on to it, like that farmer and his old gray mare.
‘‘You know what they say about history,’’ he called out, raising his voice to make sure the other man heard as they led him away. ‘‘If you don’t pay attention to it, you’re bound to repeat it!’’
Maubi and the Jumbies by Kate Grilley
A roach coach is the closest St. Chris comes to an after-hours joint.
When the restaurants and bars in Isabeya are shuttered and silent, the last of the weekend revelers- mostly local boys-going-on-men in their late teens- head for the waterfront parking area near Fort Frederick to cluster around a shiny aluminium-sided Grumman Kurbmaster step van labeled in foot-high red letters, MAUBI’S HOT TO TROT. The Os sprout dancing yellow and orange flames like the garish hair colors favored by MTV punk rockers, a hairstyling trend rarely seen on our tiny patch in the Caribbean.
A construction worker forced into early retirement by an accident that shattered his left leg-leaving him with a permanent limp and occasionally dependent on a cane-Maubi sells cold sodas, homemade ginger beer, and maubi from ice-filled coolers, and takeout platters from the foil-lined containers of West Indian snacks and fried chicken kept hot under infrared lamps.
Late one Friday night in early April, I stopped for a take-home snack. Maubi sat inside his van, elbows resting on the serving counter, chatting with a handful of lingering customers. Michael’s voice crackled over the airwaves from an old boom box radio sitting up high on a back shelf. Maubi ended a ribald story with a thigh-slapping belly laugh to greet me with a warm smile.
‘‘Morning Lady! What carries you to town so late?’’
‘‘Last-minute parade stuff and the memory of your wife’s pates. Got any left?’’
‘‘Beef or saltfish?’’ I never ordered saltfish, but Maubi always asked just the same.
‘‘Two beef, please.’’
‘‘I got beef roti tonight.’’
‘‘I’ll take one. And a chicken leg for Minx.’’ I knew from experience a cat will forgive any slight if there’s a food bribe involved. In the five years we’ve been together, Minx has become hooked on Maubi’s fried chicken.
‘‘Something to drink?’’
‘‘Your specialty,’’ I said, smiling. ‘‘A large one.’’
Maubi grinned. ‘‘Brewed it fresh myself this week in my big enamel kettle. Best maubi batch ever.’’ He kissed the tips of his fingers as a sign of his own approval, chortling as he packed my food and drink in a cardboard box.
‘‘Is your quadrille group ready for the Navidad de Isabeya parade next weekend?’’ I asked, digging in my fanny pack for cash.
‘‘My band’s been practicing every evening with the dancers at the legion hall.’’
‘‘The parade wouldn’t be a success without you. I’ve put your group at the end of the lineup.’’
‘‘Saving the best for last,’’ said Maubi with a broad smile. ‘‘Where you parked?’’
I pointed to my ten-year-old hatchback a short distance away.
‘‘That’s too far to go by yourself. The jumbies could get you.’’ He leaned toward me, lowering his voice. ‘‘It’s not safe like the old days. We got drug dealers and lowlifes limin’ around the fort. That’s why I come to rest my van down here so late. Keep my boy and his friends out of trouble.’’
‘‘You’ve done a good job,’’ I said, putting the change in my coin purse. ‘‘He’s a fine boy. He’s graduating this year, isn’t he?’’
‘‘First in his class.’’ Maubi beamed with pride. ‘‘He got a scholarship to Cornell to study hotel management. He works at Harborview on weekends, they want him full-time this summer.’’
He called to his son. ‘‘Quincy! You take this food and see Miss Kelly gets to her car safe. Then come back and help me close up. It’s time we go home.’’
Quincy and I were at my car when we heard a clopping sound like horses’ hooves, followed by Maubi’s cry, ‘‘Jumbie be gone!’’
We quickly turned toward the van to see Maubi throwing salt in the air through the serving window.
Maubi pointed at Kongens Gade in the direction of the Anglican church on the western edge of town. Quincy sprinted up Isabeya’s main street against the sparse one-way traffic while I stayed at the van.
‘‘Maubi, what happened?’’ I asked.
‘‘I feel a chill. A sure sign there be a jumbie about.’’
I looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The salt under my feet rasped like sandpaper against the rubber soles of my flip-flops.
‘‘Why the salt?’’
‘‘Jumbie cure. If you throw salt on the skin of a jumbie, it can’t harm you. I always keep my salt close.’’
I thought of my grandmother’s tales of spirits in her native Ireland, and the luck stone with a hole in it she’d given me when I was a child that now hung from a leather thong over my bed with my collection of dream catchers. The Irish tradition said if anyone looked upon you with an evil eye, looking back at them through the hole in the stone would ward off any harm they might wish you.
Quincy jogged slowly back to the van, panting from his fruitless exertion.
Maubi took his cane from a hook and pounded it against the floor of the van. A sound reminiscent of horses’ hooves. He began to laugh. He laughed until he was gasping for breath and tears were streaming down his face.
‘‘I fool you,’’ Maubi said when he was able to speak.
Quincy and I were not amused.
The next afternoon I took the ferry from the Dockside Hotel on the Isabeya waterfront over to Harborview on Papaya Quay where Quincy was working at the water sports pavilion.
The history of Papaya Quay includes a ghost.
Until the fire that destroyed Isabeya in 1764, Papaya Quay was uninhabited.
After the fire, the Danish government was homeless with only Fort Frederick left standing to house the soldiers and dispossessed town residents. Temporary Government House quarters were established on Papaya Quay.
When the first phase of the new Government House at the foot of Kongens Gade was completed five years later, Papaya Quay became the governor’s private retreat.
Island legend tells us that the governor had a mistress-an enchanting beauty who claimed descent from the original Arawak Indians-whom he stashed at Papaya Quay until her death one night during an early spring yellow fever epidemic. She was buried on the quay, but her grave has never been found.