Along with my guidebook to Bequia,
which I will never finish, I’ve been working on a series (OK, one so far and it
is far from done) short stories set on the island. I finished a very long first
draft of the first, which was to be titled “Island Girl,” after the Elton John
song. I was tremendously pleased with it and ready to ship it off to the New
Yorker who I was sure would take it despite its great length and first draft
status, because obviously I am a prodigy, or whatever the prodigy moniker is
for an old women.
Then I read it again and realized
that (1) there were a lot of words and not a whole hell of a lot of story
(though that is not usually a disqualifier for a New Yorker piece); (2) the
characters were not that compelling or even necessary, and I couldn’t imagine
anyone really caring what happened to them (as long as they just shut up and
got off the page); and (3) these dull characters were actually in the wrong
story. They may have a story some other
time or place, but not here.
Which left me with several pieces
of shrapnel from my original piece – some descriptive writing that I still quite
like and think captures the feel of the island well, and a decent ending in
search of the correct characters to play it out. The latter is my problem and I
am working on it. The former is, if you are still reading, your problem,
because I think I will pull a couple of the descriptions I liked out and put
them here. Below is the first one and introduces Christine, the now furloughed
main character of Island Girl.
Christine
on the Belmont Walkway
Christine made her way to the
hotel’s outside restaurant and lowered herself onto a brown-lacquered picnic
bench under a wooden awning. She stretched her legs away from the table,
pushing ridges into the sand floor, and contemplated her mosquito bites,
sunburn, and chipped pedicure.
Just a few
feet beyond her legs ran the Belmont Walkway, an uneven path that separated a
line of small guest houses and outdoor bars from Admiralty Bay – certainly the
most stunning natural anchorage in Bequia, and probably in the entire Grenadine
chain. The car ferry from St. Vincent cut a path toward the port at the bay’s
mouth, the hulking steel rectangle creating surprisingly little wake to disturb
the private sailing yachts, gleaming white and flying vaguely familiar European
flags, and local fishing skiffs, painted carnival hues of purple, yellow, and
orange, emblazoned with names like “Fat Man,” “Muscle Flex,” and “No
Complaints.”
Resting her back on the table edge,
she watched two older Bequian women standing waist deep in the mottled
turquoise water past the walkway, modest one-piece swimsuits and bathing caps.
They laughed at a friendly remark from a shirtless, sculpted young black man on
the shore. Christine wondered what it would be like to live in a place where
you could step off the sidewalk of what was essentially the main commercial
drag into a bathwater warm, crazy clean sea, and bob companionably as neighbors
passed by on their way to work.
Christine
wondered what it would be like to live in a place where being fat was an asset,
or at least no big deal. The two women, one with jiggling arms raised high,
joined a debate that had sprung up between three young men on the sidewalk
arguing about the best way for a befuddled German tourist to maneuver his dingy
into the small dock.
“They are
fat,” thought Christine, practicing using the word, because the women were her
size, and she was not used to calling herself “fat.” She contemplated why the
island women’s fat looked so much better on them than on her. Was it because
they were so very black and, especially in the water, looked sleek, like sea
lions? Her own pale white skin was mottled – with uneven sunburn, scabby bug
bites, weird, teeny bruises that appeared in new spots each morning -- like she
spent the night being beaten by an enraged elf -- and shadows in various places
where her skin bulged, folded, or puckered.
“Good
morning, love, have they brought the coffee round yet?” A heavy (not fat,
thought Christine, like me) woman, doughy face surrounded by a halo of graying
brown hair, groaned as she maneuvered in the picnic bench. “Wouldn’t you prefer
a proper table for your breakfast, love? I am afraid I will rip my shorts
getting in here.”
“Good
morning Sybil,” Christine didn’t turn to face the older English woman, not
ready yet to leave her imaginary participation in the saga of the German guy’s
boat, which now involved a lot of rope, three more people in the water, one a
fully dressed, possibly drunk or, more likely, high, Rastafarian complete with
machete and knit cap, and several school children massed on the sidewalk,
white, button-down shirts untucked from black pants and skirts, alternatively
offering incomprehensible advice and shouting “Squid! Squid!” at what must have
been a squid hovering around the small craft. The German, who, if he understood
English at all, certainly did not understand the patois spoken on this
particular island, sat in his boat, nervously scanning the water where the
children pointed (what did he think they were saying?) and limply holding one
end of a rope that the Rastafarian was inexplicitly wrapping around the engine.
A loud splash and excited chatter
and laughter from the dock heralded the tableau’s inevitable conclusion and
attracted a young waitress close enough to their table for Phyllis to snag her.
“Do you think we could order
breakfast, dear?”
The waitress, “Stacey” according to
her nametag, stared at the couple with the languid, slightly amused detachment
that seemed to come standard issue to the young women on the island. Phyllis then began her morning ritual of
describing in great deal how their meal should be cooked (“coddled, dear, then
you must let it drain in a slotted spoon – you’ve have those here don’t you –
for a least a minute, then slip it next to, but not on, one buttered piece of
wheat toast…”).
“Did you get that dear?” Phyllis
pressed. Stacey smiled slightly and widened her eyes with a look that said both
“Do you really think I am that much of an idiot?” and “Nope.” The eggs would
come, as they always did, over easy, yolks cooked solid, toast in a basket on
the side, butter for the asking, if Stacey could be found.
