Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— What are you doing?

— Not doing a thing.

— If you keep staring at it like that, it will shrink away from you.

— I just waiting for it to burst into flames.

— Black men don’t have pubic hair?

— How would I know?

— Dunno. I mean, you’re a modern woman, right?

— Modern woman meaning slut?

— No, modern woman meaning you’ve been going to Mantana’s for months. And having fun.

— How you know what kind of fun I’ve been happening?

— I was scoping out the scene in Mantana’s long before you took a look at me, Kim. Seriously though, you’ve never slept with a black man? Not even with a Jamaican?

Mind, do a check of what situations this man calls me babykins and what situations this man calls me Kim. This is important, Kim Clarke. Men marry their babykins. Yes they do. Maybe I should be glad the man hasn’t called me sexy bitch in a while. When last? Can’t remember. Think harder. No, I can’t remember. I need him to move from I love you, but only enough for a tearful goodbye to I love you so much let’s get married right now, right here, so that you fly back to Arkansas as Mrs. Chuck. Isn’t Arkansas one of the places that hate black people? If I can get him to marry me, can I get him to move to New York, or Boston? Not Miami, I want to see snow. Yesterday I stuck my hand in the freezer for as long as maybe four minutes to feel what winter must feel like, and almost stick my head in as well. I grabbed a clump of frost and squeezed until the cold started to burn and the ache reached all the way to my head. I rolled the clump into a ball and threw it at the window. The ball stuck for a second then dropped and I cried.

— Baby, I never leave anything up to chance .

I wonder if that means me. He wasn’t about to risk me leaving and never coming back to Mantana’s, even though I was there every night. Looking. Or if it means that he has already bought tickets or the company has given him tickets back to America. Tickets. Ticket. They gave him only one to come here, why should they give him two to leave? Charles, Charles, we can’t be giving extra tickets to every man who falls in love with the local wildlife, what do you think this is, South Pacific? Oh stop thinking, Kim Clarke, believe you me, you’re going to drive yourself crazy. Back in church youth group they used to say that worry is sinful meditation because you are choosing not to trust God. I used to think that if nothing else, the one thing I knew in high school was that at least I was going to heaven and not all those nasty girls who let boys feel them up because they said their titties were growing fast and the boys said we don’t believe you. Had to move all the way to Montego Bay to make sure I never ran into any of those bitches again (no that’s not why, stop lying, like it matters now). At least I didn’t have no fucking child making my titties drag down to my kneecaps, Jesus Christ I used to hate those bitches.

Should I pack? Do it… Kim, yes, Kim Clarke. Do it, I dare you. Pack your suitcase, that same purple one you took with you to Montego Bay. Pack it now. I really should buy a new suitcase for America. I wonder if he will want to take the towels. I only bought them last week. Fuck the towels, we should leave everything behind and don’t look back. Don’t go turning into Lot’s wife, Kim Clarke.

Do it light, do it through the night. This deejay not letting Andy Gibb go. I want to hear “You Should Be Dancing” right now. That’s what I want to hear. Baby let’s go dancing, I will say once he comes through the door. We’ll go dancing, not at Mantana’s, maybe Club8, and when we get him drunk I will say, Baby I know you didn’t ask me yet, but I started packing to save us both the trouble. What you Americans call it? Pro-active. See, I was being pro-active because you men always wait until it’s near too late to do anything, including propose. No, I won’t say propose. No man wants to feel tricked into a marriage. And when he ifs and buts I’ll take out his cock and show him that I learned exactly what I was supposed to learn when he put on the reel of The Opening of Misty Beethoven .

— I dunno, I didn’t expect Jamaican women to be like black American women.

— You weren’t expecting us to be black too?

— No silly, I didn’t expect you to be so sexually conservative. I swear, growing up in Arkansas you get the wrong idea.

— Why do you always use plural when you talk about me?

— Maybe I have a thing for black women.

— Uh-huh. I must be the black woman delegate.

— I hear Mick Jagger does too.

— You hear me talking to you?

— But I have all that jazz, right, babe?

— What you talking ’bout?

Come to think of it the only other man to put his mouth anywhere near my pussy was a white man. And American too. And, no I can’t think about that. Something scared the gulls away. How long have they been gone? Didn’t even realize I was thinking out loud. They wouldn’t be gone unless… better check the living room.

— Oh, hi hon.

— Uh. Oh, Chuck.

He answers with a wide grin.

— I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t even hear you come in.

— Yeah? Sounded like you had company in there. Was taking my shoes off to come in and join—

— I’m alone.

— Oh really? Talking to yourself like some crazy chick?

— Thinking out loud.

— Oooh. About me?

— Can’t believe you came in the house and I didn’t hear you.

— It’s my house, baby, I don’t have to make a scene just because I entered it.

No that didn’t sting, brush it off, Kim Clarke.

— I was about to cook dinner.

— Love how Jamaicans say cook dinner instead of make dinner.

— What’s the difference?

— Well, you could just boil some mac and cheese, and there, you’ve made dinner.

— You want mac and cheese?

— What? No, baby. I want whatever you’re cooking. What is it that you’re cooking?

— I can’t believe you just came in like that.

— It’s bothering you? Rest assured, darling, nobody is going to come all the way down here to assault you. What’s for dinner?

— Ackee.

— Lordy.

— With corned pork this time.

— What’s corned pork?

— Like thick pieces of bacon.

— I love me some bacon. Well, you go back to that, and I’ll go back to this Star newspaper I was reading. I swear this shit is a riot, not at all the bummer that’s the Daily News .

I hope he doesn’t start telling me what’s in the paper. Getting harder and harder every day to dodge him telling me the news. It sweet him so to tell it back to me, more than it sweet him to read it in the first place. Last Tuesday I saw him coming to me in the kitchen and said I already read the paper, thinking that would shut him up, but the whole thing backfired. As soon as he heard that, the man wanted to discuss things. I really can’t stand the news. Most times I don’t even want to know what day it is. I swear the second I hear of something, or if I realize I’m about to hear something, my heart just starts to pound and I want to do nothing more than run to my bedroom, cover my face with a pillow and scream. Even in the market all I need is one higgler saying, Then you no hear ’bout Miss so and so? and I start walking away without stopping. Without buying a single thing. I don’t want to hear nothing. I don’t want no fucking news. Ignorance is bliss. I know him, he’s going to walk through that door — get the oil hot, get it hot, Kim Clarke, so hot that as he steps in just drop the onion and the skellion and the PSSSSSSHHHHH will drown out what he says. I’ll say whaaaaat? And he’ll say it again, and I’ll say whaaaaaat? and drip some water so that the oil pops loud and scares him and he’ll forget the subject, maybe. I wish the gulls were still here because then he would rush outside to drive them away and I could ask one of those dumb questions like do they have gulls in America? One of those questions that make white men just love to smile, nod a little and answer. Do they have bicycles in your country? Do they ride on the highway? Do you watch The Munsters in America? Do you watch Wonder Woman ? How tall is the Statue of Liberty? Do you have a dual carriageway?