Nalo Hopkinson: Midnight Robber

Come morning time Abitefa didn’t show up. Trying not to worry, Tan-Tan had shared with Melonhead her breakfast of smoked tree frog and dried halwa fruit. Things were awkward between them, shaped by the silences she insisted on. He said he had to get back to his shop. She walked him to the edge of the bush, made clumsy small talk the whole way. Before stepping back out into Sweet Pone he took her hand and said, “You going to be moving on soon?”

“Yes. Nuh must?”

“I not convinced, but if is so you want it. Come and see me before you go?”

“I promise.”

“Don’t promise, just do it.”

True, her promises were no good. Sadly she watched him thread his way through the corn. She had disappointed him again.

When she got back to the camp, Abitefa was waiting. *You partnering with that tallpeople now?*

No, she wasn’t. But she found herself back in Sweet Pone two days later, looking for excuses to keep passing and repassing the front of Melonhead’s shop, too jittery to just walk in. She stared wistfully at the people who did: the old man in the anachronistic suit; the bongo toughy little girl who was clutching a rubber ball in one hand and holding the torn seat of her dungarees closed with the other; the preoccupied-looking young woman who had a bag full of either cloth or mending. She was pretty, that one—fat and firm with a high, round behind. She stayed in Melonhead’s shop too long for Tan-Tan’s taste, left with too big a smile on her face.

And who was she Tan-Tan to care? Standing there in patched-up, leaf-stained clothes; no pot to piss in, no roof over her head. Who was she to be scrutinizing who Melonhead was entertaining?

She was preoccupied, that’s why he caught her. Another day and she would have zwipsed into the shadows as soon as he set foot out of his shop. Damned baby was slowing her down, yes.

“Tan-Tan!” he called, waving. She gasped. He was coming over, face alight with joy. “You come to see me!”

“Ahm, yes, I suppose so.” She couldn’t meet his eyes for long. She felt dirty, plain.

He looked glum. “Is ’cause you moving on?”

“Soon, yes. Not right now. I come, I come… because I want you make me some clothes,” she continued, happy to have thought of something that would make her feel less homely. “I need a new outfit that would hide this belly.”

This time his smile had some mischief in it. She knew that smile well. That smile had got her behind warmed for her one time when she had gone along with his suggestion that they knot all Compère Ramdass’s yellowed singlets together as they flapped on the clothes line behind his cottage. “If I going to sew for you, I have to measure you,” Melonhead said.

Her ears were burning. She just nodded. “Let we start then, nuh?”

She followed him into the shop. Pity that having clothes made would slow her down, waiting for him to finish them. She’d have to delay moving camp.

Melonhead closed the door. “You could take off the cape, people know not to come in while I measuring.”

Thankfully she shucked the heavy unbleached fabric she wore all the time now if she was among tallpeople. She should wash it soon; it was smeared with leaf and road stains. She rolled her shoulders luxuriously, stretched her neck.

Melonhead sat at his workspace and started pulling things out of a press beside his sewing machine: a tape measure, a pencil, some scraps of paper. “Why you want to hide that you making baby, Tan-Tan? Begging your pardon, but who go care?”

“I can’t make nobody…” she started, then stopped. No words to speak about Tan-Tan the Robber Queen. That was another self, another dimension. “I alone on the road. If people know say I pregnant them might try to take advantage.”

He looked disturbed at that. “True thing. Maybe you could stop here little bit till the baby born. I don’t think Janisette will find you. Come, stand over here.” He draped the tape measure over his neck and stood to face her. His hair smelt of sweet oil. Cheeks flaming, she let him take her measurements and write them down. She looked round the room to distract herself.

To stop in one place. Sweet Pone was nice. With a start of surprise, Tan-Tan realised that she hadn’t played Robber Queen on the Sweet Pone people yet.

There was more fabric in Melonhead’s shop than there had been the last time. Plenty more, and bright bright colours too besides. Her sister Quamina would have loved it in here, all the shiny needles and gorgeous cloths. “Like somebody give you a big job, eh?”

He laughed. “Sweetness, you been in the bush so long you ain’t even know what time of year this is?”

She did. Time for the mako jumbies to migrate to the poles. Time for the foot snakes to moult. She was trying to work out a way to tan the shed hides they left behind. Maybe she could make wallets with them to sell. She frowned. What did tallpeople do this time of year?

He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him. “Tan-Tan, Carnival is three weeks from now. What you going to wear?”

Tan-Tan stopped for a minute behind the new Sweet Pone Palaver House before turning the corner into the town square. The Robber Queen cape felt good on her shoulders, a comforting weight. Melonhead was a genius, oui? He’d pieced together precious ends of black velvet, made style by outlining the joins with iridescent shell buttons. The cape was edged with brightly coloured ribbons, ends left long and fluttering. It fastened in front with ornate brass frog closures, had two long slits through which she could thrust her arms. The round jutting collar had a support under it that also served to hold the cape away from her belly. Her soon-to-be baby was well-hidden.

And there was more. Melonhead had made her a fine Robber hat from goat wool felt that he’d dyed black and blocked into shape. There was a belt, extra-large to extend round her belly, with two holsters and sheathes for her knife and machète. He’d even found cap guns and caps! She did an experimental turn. The cape flared out satisfyingly. She wished Melonhead were there to see, but he’d stayed at his shop to make some last-minute adjustments to costumes. He’d said: “I catch up with you later, doux-doux. In the square, all right? Girl, you looking fine too bad!”

She’d leaned over her baby belly and kissed his mouth, gratified at the pleased look of surprise on his face before their lips touched. “Later, yes.” She’d waved happily and left, her body tingling from the contact of his skin. She stopped, stood knowledge-struck in the street. Touching Melonhead made her feel good, an unalloyed pleasure untainted by fear or anger. So different than she’d ever felt before.

But the feeling of well-being deserted her quickly. She didn’t belong here, amongst people like this. As she approached the square she could hear the music. A steel pan band was playing what should have been a sweet, sweet road march. The bass pans-them were beating out their deep, low notes like heartbeats: Boom, boom-boom-boom-boom. How come it sounded to her like “doom”? Over the beats, the tenor pans were working the melody hard: pure, tinny notes dancing up into the sky—a tune to make you want to wind your behind, shuffle in time, and take a swig out of the flask of red rum in your back pocket— Ting ting, ting te-ting ting ting. And all Tan-Tan could hear in the music was “Tan-Tan; doom, doom-doom-doom-doom.”

The square was full up with people. Even with the music she could hear the shuffling feet, the laughter, and every now and again, a joyous voice shouting out, “Koo fête, Papa! Wind your waist!” Melonhead had been busy these past few weeks, making costumes for those who couldn’t make their own. She saw Jab-Jab devils cracking whips, sporting horns on their heads; the Fancy Indians jumping up in their soft moccasins, hanging on to their feather headdresses so they wouldn’t fly off; the bats, silent and scary in skin-tight brown and black, waving their huge ratbat wings to and fro through the crowd; even the occasional Midnight Robber wearing a velvet sombrero, brim a metre wide, trimmed with pom-poms and papier-mâché skulls all round; leather chaps with plenty fringe; a noisemaker and fake guns. The Robbers carried sacks to hold the Carnival pounds and pennies people would throw them if they speechified well. Some of them were even pretending to be Tan-Tan, New Half-Way Tree’s Robber Queen. She was hiding in the best possible way, masquerading as herself! The smile that cracked onto her face was nearly a foreign thing, a half-forgotten thing. Just join the fête, stupid gal. When last you have a good time?