Nicole Dennis-Benn - Here Comes the Sun

MARGOT FOLLOWS MISS NOVIA SCOTT-HENRY TO ONE OF THE on-site restaurants where the woman often dines alone. She knows this because it’s the fourth time she has trailed Miss Novia Scott-Henry here. Margot pretends to have things to finish up at work so she can be the last one to see the woman leave, the click of her keys sounding in the whole lobby. It’s one of the best restaurants in the hotel — one that requires guests to make reservations days in advance. It’s a fancy place with white tablecloths, sterling silver utensils wrapped in red cloth napkins, and violin music playing “Redemption Song” in the background. But Miss Novia Scott-Henry doesn’t need reservations to dine in the company of visitors, mostly couples. Alphonso has promised to take Margot here, but that promise — like the other promise he has made — has never come to pass.

Here, the waiters are graceful, carrying trays on upturned palms, necks dutifully elongated, chins jutted upward, and smiles pasted to their faces like ivory-colored masking tape. Miss Novia Scott-Henry is led to a booth in the back. Tonight the patrons are dressed down, but still regal — men in nice light-colored shirts and women in long maxi dresses with floral patterns. Miss Novia Scott-Henry is dressed as though she’s going to a business function, in a severely tailored red pantsuit. She is tall, a hibiscus in a weed garden. The waiters fuss over her, and other diners look to see what all the fuss is about. They are excited to see up close for the first time the big hazel eyes that light up the tourism billboard ads, and the golden-honey-toned skin on every moisturizing commercial, including Queen of Pearl crème, which is all the rage. Some of Margot’s girls use the crème, against her advice. Why would anyone want to permanently damage their skin to look like a beauty queen who was born that way?

Margot sits by the bar with Sweetness, and they observe Miss Novia Scott-Henry together. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Margot says to Sweetness, who has kept her eyes down.

Miss Novia Scott-Henry looks very much alone sitting there by herself while everyone else has a partner, their cheery voices carrying to the front of the restaurant. The waitstaff busy themselves pouring water into glasses, placing on the tables baskets of bread and saucers with butter. Each waiter has a task, a specific routine. Like a well-rehearsed performance made up of a cast of country boys groomed to be British gentlemen with bow ties, tuxedos, and plain accents with British inflections. “ How yuh do, madame? How is yuh meal, sah? May I get you h-anything else? H-anotherrr drink, perhaps? ” Margot cringes on the inside as she listens to them. For she’s sure they don’t speak this way at home.

“Yuh need anyt’ing fi drink, Margot?” Foot, the bartender, asks. They call him Foot because he has only one leg, the other one a rounded stump that he favors. Nobody knows what happened to his other leg, but rumor is that it blew off in the Gulf War. This doesn’t slow him down. He mixes drinks at the bar, delivering them with ease — from Bloody Marys to rum punch to just opening a bottle of ice-cold Red Stripe beer.

“A glass of water will do,” Margot tells him. But she orders a drink for Sweetness, something strong, because Sweetness has been jittery since her arrival.

“Why yuh didn’t tell me dat it’s her?” Sweetness finally speaks, her eyes darting nervously around the restaurant, her voice a sharp whisper. “Yuh putting me in a real bad situation. She was ah beauty queen. People love har!”

“Jus’ drink,” Margot says.

She returns her attention to Miss Novia Scott-Henry, who takes her napkin from the table and places it on her lap. Another waiter comes to the table with a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle, spinning a metal opener into the cork, which gives a small pop when it’s released. Miss Novia Scott-Henry lifts her glass, swirls it, puts it to her nose, then sips. She takes another sip. And another, smiling as though the wine is making her reflect on a shower of pink cherry blossom petals kissing her shoulders. So this is how she dines , Margot thinks— three-course meals and wine every night . Margot considers the wine list. The cost of a bottle could be Thandi’s lunch money for a week. A month, even. Clearly Miss Novia Scott-Henry makes a lot of money and spends it on herself. No children. No word of a husband. The glass in Sweetness’s hand is almost empty.

“Foot, gi har anotha one!” Margot orders.

Foot works his magic, hobbling from one end of the bar to the next on his crutch, pouring various hard liquors from the shelf into a silver mixer. He shakes it like a musician in a mento band and pours the drink into a tall glass. He slides it to Sweetness with a wink.

“Dis will mek yuh nice-nice.”

Meanwhile, Roy, Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s waiter, takes her order. He dutifully writes down everything like he’s supposed to, nodding politely and making suggestions. He makes eye contact with Margot, who nods. When he enters the kitchen she can see right inside: the chaos of men dressed in white hovering over pots under which blue and yellow flames blaze, and yelling in patois over crates of food. “G’long wid di food before it tun col’!” “Rattry, annuh your ordah dis? Why di food come back?” “Tek yuh time wid di oil, ’less yuh waan gi di people dem heart attack!”

She hears all this when she gets up and follows Roy, pretending to be on her way to the bathroom. He’s by the corridor waiting when she gets there. A young boy from May Pen with a beautiful face and an ugly past. He sneaks furtive glances over his shoulder as he whispers to her.

“Di food soon come. Me will sprinkle it jus’ a likkle, since me nuh want to overdo it. Me can’t afford fi go back ah prison.”

“No one will know seh is you. Pour everything.” Margot takes money from her purse and hands it to him. “Dis is half ah yuh pay. Yuh get di othah half after yuh empty di whole bottle.”

Just then the chef calls the order. Serge, the assistant chef, emerges from the heat and manages to blow a kiss Margot’s way. Margot returns it and waves.

“Ah haven’t gotten any samples in a while,” she says to Serge.

His face lights up like the kitchen flames behind him. “All yuh haffi do is ask, beautiful,” he says, taking the time to lean against the wall with one arm over Margot’s head, his ankle crossed over the other, appraising her. Margot strokes his chest with a finger.

“My feelings get hurt when ah don’t get nuh special taste. Is like yuh done wid me.”

Meanwhile, Roy doctors up the order, sprinkling every last bit of powder on to the food. Serge, too caught up in Margot fingering his collar, doesn’t hurry him along. He leans closer to Margot. “Ah promise I’ll mek yuh taste di chef special tomorrow, ’bout noon?”

“Sounds delicious,” she says, waving him back to work.

“It done,” Roy says after Serge returns to the kitchen, holding up the empty glass bottle for Margot to see. Margot pulls out the other half of the cash and gives it to him. She watches as Roy goes out with Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s entrée. He places the food in front of her with a slight bow. Before the woman can take a bite of her meal, someone passes by and she pauses, lowering her fork. The woman engages Miss Novia Scott-Henry in light conversation, pushing a calendar and a pen to her face. Miss Novia Scott-Henry graciously signs it, and the woman leaves. Margot waits for Miss Novia Scott-Henry to take a bite of her food. She leans forward to watch her eat, watch her chew and swallow. Every muscle in her tenses as hope rushes in. A mento band begins to play the Wailers’ “Simmer Down,” replacing the violin music. Simma down, Margot , she tells herself, thinking of the promotion Alphonso will have to give her, the tragic loss of a beauty queen to scandal, the cheery faces of admiration turning to disdain. Margot makes her way back to the bar as Sweetness lifts her glass to take another sip of drink. Margot stops her.