Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Jamaican.

— You don’t say. I’ve been to Jamaica.

And all I could think of is, Oh Lord here it comes, another white man about to tell me about how much he enjoyed Ocho Rios, but would have enjoyed it so much more if it weren’t for all the poverty. And the country is so beautiful and the people so friendly and even in all this tragedy everybody still manages a smile especially the bombor’asscloth children. Although he looks like the Negril type.

— Yeah, Treasure Beach.

— Wah?

— Excuse me?

— I’m sorry, Treasure Beach?

— You know it?

— Of course.

The truth was I didn’t know it. I barely even heard of it. I wonder if it was in Clarendon or St. Mary, one of those parishes I was never in because we didn’t have no granny still living in country. Or one of those other places you have to be a tourist to know about, like Frenchman’s Cove or something. Whatever.

— So unspoiled. Granted, that’s what everyone says about a place they’re busy spoiling. Let’s put it this way; nobody there was wearing a Jamaican Me Crazy t-shirt. I asked this one guy because he was in a white shirt and black trousers if he could get me a Coke, and he says, Go get it your bombocloth self. Imagine that. Loved the place right there and then. Anyway, you—

The Miz finally come out of the room clutching her bag and touching her hair.

— Papa, be a dear and show Miss Palmer around, will you? Just don’t overexert yourself this time, okay?

— I’m sorry, Miss Palmer, but is there a fucking kid behind you? In the doorway somewhere.

— Papa.

—’Cause I have no idea whose kid she’s talking to.

— Oh for heaven’s sake, Papah . Anyway, your son is going absolutely bonkers over the new apartment just because I want a microwave, saying it’s too expensive. So I have to skedaddle. Do show her where kitchen is, Papah, and Miss Palmer, do you mind me calling you Dorcas?

— No, ma’am.

— Peachy. Cleaning supplies are under the sink, be careful with that ammonia business, the odor has a way of sticking around. Dinner is usually at five, but you can order pizza this once, just not Shakey’s pizza, they’re way too salty. What am I forgetting… hmmm. I dunno. Anyway, toodles, bye, Papah.

She closes the door, leaving me and the father in the house. Should I tell him I’m not a maid and God Bless is not a maid agency?

— I think there must be some mistake.

— You’re telling me. But my son married her anyway, so that’s that.

He stands up and goes over to the window. Tall too. The more I look at this man the more I wonder why I was here. I could pretty much assume there would never come a time when I have to clean this man of his own shit, or put him back to bed after I change out all the pissed-up sheets. He was really tall and now leaning into the window, one leg straight, the other bent like he’s trying to push out the glass. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an older man who still had a backside.

— You’re the second one in a month. I wonder how long you’ll last, he said, still looking out the window.

— I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know why I’m here.

— You don’t know why you’re here.

— God Bless is not a maid service, sir. That might be why the other employee didn’t work out.

He turns around, with his back now leaning into the window.

— I don’t know anything about a God Bless and please, please, please stop calling me sir.

— Mr. Ken.

— I guess that is as good as it’s going to get. What time is it? You hungry?

I glanced at my watch.

— Twelve fifty-two. And I packed a sandwich, Mr. Ken.

— Know any games?

— What?

— Just kidding. Though I far prefer your wah, to your what. One of the few times I feel like there’s a real Jamaican in the room.

I tell myself, This is bait, don’t bite, this is bait, don’t bite, this is bait, don’t bite.

— And what am I if not a real Jamaican, Mr. Ken?

— I dunno. Somebody on the make. Or maybe somebody performing. I’ll figure it out soon.

— I don’t know about that, sir, since your daughter clearly called the wrong agency. I don’t do maid work.

— Oh please relax, that dumb cunt thinks everybody here is the maid. I’m sure it was my son who called your agency, not her. Usually she ignores me, but I’ve been talking to my lawyer a lot lately so she’s probably worried I’m modifying my will. Somehow she convinced my son that I have come to the point where I need to be taken care of.

— Why?

— You’re going to have to ask my son. Anyway, I’m bored. Got any jokes?

— No.

— Oh for God’s sake, are you really this humorless and dull? Fine. I’ll give you a joke. You look like you need one. Okay, here goes. Why do you think sharks never attack black people?

I was just about to say look, this is one Jamaican that can swim when he says,

— Because they always mistake them for whale shit.

Then he laughs. Not a hard laugh, just a chuckle. I wonder if I should get all black American and scream offense, or if I should just let the silence hang until the moment dies out.

— How long does it take white woman to shit? I say.

— Oh whoa. I… I dunno.

— Nine months.

He goes red just like that. One long second of silence and then he bursts out laughing. He laughs for so long that he almost having a fit, heaving and coughing and eyes wet. I really didn’t think it was that funny.

— Oh my God, oh my dear Lord.

— Anyway, Mr. Ken, I should leave. Your son needs to call a maid service and—

— No no no, hell no. You can’t leave now. Quick, why do blacks have white hands and feet?

— I’m not sure I want to know.

— They were on all fours when God spray-painted them.

He laughs again. I try not to laugh, but my body starts shaking even before the laugh comes out. He walks over to me now, laughing so hard his eyes almost disappear.

— On all fours, eh? I say. What do you do if you’re being gang raped by a bunch of white men?

— Oh sweet heaven, what?

— Nothing. Unless you worried about being fucked by a pimple.

His hand is on my shoulder now, and he’s laughing so hard I think that it’s for support.

— Hold on, I’ve got one for you, and it’s a white joke this time. What does a white woman and a tampon have in common?

— I don’t know. They both suck blood?

— No! They’re both stuck-up cunts.

Now my hand is on his shoulder and I’m the one who cannot stop laughing. We both stop and start again. I don’t know at what point my bag fell off my shoulder and landed on the floor. We both sit down in facing armchairs.

— Please don’t leave, he says. Please don’t.

T hree doors down the kitchen was all bacon smell, crackle and pop. Dark wood cupboards went all the way around, one of which opened up to show Wheaties, Corn Flakes and Life cereal. A man, not much different from Brown Suit, was at the head of the table like Big Poppa or some shit, reading the newspaper and making lines with a red marker. Two boys on either side of him, one looking older with a moustache he was spending too much time Vaselining. Boy was cute and could’ve sworn he winked, but his ears were Alfred Neuman Mad magazine big. The other boy made me wish I had a dad who didn’t call me a fucking fruit every time I tried to grow my hair long back at twelve.

— Yuca! Yuca! Yuca!

— Arturo! How many times I say no shout at the table, she said. Her back seemed to sigh out every word. Her ribbed sweater gave her too many Michelin man curves, but her white slacks pulled it off, that tacky rich feel of men who bought but couldn’t sail boats. She had tied her hair tight in a bun, which made her eyebrows seem pulled when she turned around. Dark eyes, plenty mascara this early in the morning, and lips shinier than a teenage girl going down on a Lip Smacker.