Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— Flushing Cemetery. 46th Ave., Flushing, New York.

— Huh?

— Flushing Cemetery. It’s where you will find her if you care to look.

— Who?

— Dorcas Palmer. Dorcas Nevrene Palmer, born November 2, 1958, Spauldings, Clarendon, Jamaica. Died June 15, 1979, Astoria, Queens. Cause of death, tragic circumstances, the obituary said, meaning she got hit by a car. Can you imagine, somebody getting lick by a car in New York City?

— Licked?

— Hit by a car.

— And you’re using her name just like that?

— Claudette Colbert was starting to sound obvious.

— Not funny.

— I wasn’t joking. Claudette Colbert was starting to sound obvious.

— You can’t just use a dead person’s name. Isn’t that pretty easy to trace?

— This might come as a shock, but the department in charge of death certificates is really not the largest in the municipal government.

— I’m more shocked by your consistent use of irony. Not what I remember about Jamaicans. Don’t look at me like that. If you insist on dropping bombs every five minutes, I insist on giving this shit some levity when I need it.

— Right. You really want to hear this.

— You sound like you really want to tell this.

— No, not really. I’m not into this confessional fad thing going around at all. You Americans and your “you wanna talk about it?” I mean, Jesus.

— Anyway.

— Anyway, this is New York, because this is New York, not many people who died here, born here. And states don’t have some grand national record for everybody. In fact, the department for birth records, and for death records, really don’t have nothing to do with each other, they’re not even in the same place. So even if there is a death certificate, there is no—

— Birth certificate.

— And if you can get hold of a birth certificate—

— Then you have proof that you are you, without the real you coming after you. What about her family?

— All in Jamaica. They couldn’t afford to fly up for the funeral.

— Social Security?

— Oh she’s collecting that now.

— She wasn’t—

— All you have to do is get a birth certificate. Yes I just called the Registrar in Jamaica and asked for a copy of my, well, her birth certificate. Can’t even remember how much I paid for it. People are always ready to believe the worst more than the not so bad, so why not give them the worst? You’d be surprised how many places you can say, I’m sorry but I misplaced my passport, or just say it was stolen. But I do have my birth certificate.

— Guess you’d have a slight issue if your name was still Claudette Colbert.

— Or Kim Clarke.

— Who? When were you her?

— Long time now. She’s gone. The next thing I did was contact the census bureau requesting whatever information they had on Dorcas Palmer.

— Oh right, and they handed it over just like that?

— No. They handed it over for $7.50.

— Jesus Christ. How old are you?

— Why you need to know that?

— Oh right, you’re keeping that one a secret. Social Security didn’t think it a little weird when you applied for a number so late?

— Not if you’re an immigrant. Not if you have your birth certificate but can’t find your passport. Not if you have a story long enough and boring enough that they will do anything just to get you out of the line. Carry these two with you and you can easily get a state ID. After that thirty-five dollars can get you a passport, but I didn’t get one of those. That’s in chapter two.

— But you’re not an American citizen?

— No.

— Not even a resident?

— Well, I have a Jamaican passport.

— With your real name?

— No.

— Christ. What did you do?

— Me? I didn’t do anything.

— Says you. Come on, you must be on the lam. This story is already the most exciting thing I’ve heard since I can’t even remember. What the fuck did you do? Who are you running from? I must say this is quite thrilling.

— Who knew that when you opened your door that your day would come to this? And I’m not on the lam. I’m not the criminal.

— You got a son of a bitch for a husband who used to hit you.

— Yes.

— Really?

— No.

— Dorcas. Or whatever your name is.

— It’s Dorcas now.

— I hope you thanked her for her generosity in sharing her name.

He stands up and goes back to the window.

— Since you migrated here under a false name, I’m right to assume that the person you’re running from is in Jamaica. But they clearly have the resources to track you here, hence the false names.

— You should be a detective.

— What the hell makes you think you’re so damn safe?

— You’re blocking the moon. And I’m living here since 1979 and he hasn’t found me yet.

— So it’s a he you’re running from. Did you have to leave kids behind?

— What? No. No kids. Good God.

— They aren’t so bad until they start to talk. Who’s this guy you’re running from?

— Why you want to know?

— Maybe I can—

— What, help? Already helped myself. He’s far away from New York City. And probably have no reason to come here.

— You’re still hiding though.

— Lots of Jamaican live in New York City. Somebody might know him. This is why I don’t live near Jamaicans.

— But why New York at all?

— I wasn’t going to spend my life in Maryland, and Arkansas was not going to work out. Besides, a big city is better overall. Public transportation, so you never need a car, you never stand out unless you’re with a white man on a train uptown, and jobs where nobody asks anything. And even in between jobs you still have to appear to be working, so leave your home the same time every day, come back around the same time every evening. When I’m not working I just go to the library or MOMA.

— Hence knowing the difference between Pollock and de Kooning.

— R’ass, I didn’t have to go to MOMA to know that.

— Don’t sound like much of a life if you’re still watching your own back. Don’t you get tired?

— Tired of what?

— Tired of what indeed.

— Right now life is having a place and establishing credit. Pretty much everything here is on a payment plan even though I could very well have paid for all of it up front. That’s from chapter four. Look, if this is the moment where we have the big catharsis, I’m very sorry to disappoint you.

— Oh disappointment is the last word I would think of when I think about you, darling.

I really should have said I’m not your darling. I really should have said so. Instead I said,

— It’s getting late. You should go home.

— How do you propose that a distinguished white gentleman of a certain age get himself out of the… Where are we?

— The Bronx.

— Huh? Strange, I totally forgot. And how did we… Never mind, nature calls.

He closes the door. His jacket had slipped off the chair and I pick it up. Heavy, too heavy for a summer jacket, I’m thinking. It’s even lined. I would have sweat off these hips in this jacket. I’m folding it over when I see writing way up in the left shoulder, which does not look like cleaning instructions. It’s in handwriting, like somebody wrote it with a Sharpie.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS AND ARE NEAR THE OWNER OF THIS JACKET PLEASE CALL 212 468 7767. URGENT. PLEASE CALL IMMEDIATELY.

The phone rings three times.

— Dad! Dad! Jesus Christ, are you—

— This is Dorcas.

— Dorcas who?

— Dorcas Palmer.

— Who the fuck… Hold on, you the woman from the agency? Hon, it’s the woman from the agency.

— Yes, from the agency. Mr. Colthirst—