if I care whether Russia and the States go to war. Why should I care? I can do nothing about it, and it will affect us in no important way. If the States blew up tomorrow, a lot of us would starve. We have starved before. Somebody always survives.”
“But it’s your responsibility . . .”
“What is? To see that a man in a sailor suit has a nice holiday? No. I am in charge here. One tiny island.” Makepeace tapped his foot on the floor. “Like the flies are in charge of the dungheap. That’s what we are, you know, a dungheap. Most of the world doesn’t know we exist, and the ones that do think we’re ignorant jungle bunnies. It’s not our fault. We came here as slaves, and they kept us slaves and beat it into us that that is our destiny. I escaped as a boy; my mama sent me up to Nassau, to learn. I learned. I learned that the best job I could hope to get was as a waiter or a bartender or a taxi driver or, if I had influence, a construction laborer. Then the Bahamas got free and everybody got hope. Hope!” Makepeace smirked. “White-power people were replaced by black-power people, who had to prove how proud they were, how independent. They nearly sank the whole country.
“So I said to myself, ‘Birds, you go back to the Caicos and show them how it can be done.’ I came back and rounded up some chummies. We threw Molotov cocktails here and there, and the British they said ‘Good-by.’ So here I am, a commissioner, chief fly on one small patty. I have a few hundred people. Most can’t read. Them that don’t work for the government, they fish—so many that the grounds are being fished out, and in a few years that will be gone, too. They got no hope of anything better, not ever, not anywhere. We give them the vote, and they vote, but they got nothing to vote for. They got all the freedoms they want, but you can’t eat freedom.” Makepeace paused. “And you would have me care whether some fat-ass Yankee gets himself killed?”
“Tourism,” Maynard said. “It’s an old answer, but you can eat off that.”
“It is happening, a little bit, but we don’t have much to offer. Loneliness and clear water. Bugs. We are a hundred years in the past.”
“People will pay for that, that alone.”
“I know.” Makepeace smiled. “We get a few. And there is always talk of the big Yankee companies coming down and building golf courses and tennis courts and beach clubs. If it ever happens, there will be money for a little while, and then someone will take over the government and kick out the Yankees and put locals in charge of everything. In five years, it will be a dungheap once again.”
“You have a cheerful perspective.”
“Realistic. This place has no business being populated, let alone being a nation. Nature didn’t populate it, except with bugs.”
The waitress brought their food—fish chowder and conch fritters and, for Justin, a thin gray square of chopped meat topped with a smear of cream cheese and enveloped in bread.
Maynard looked to the beach and saw Justin appear around a corner of the cove and paddle a rubber raft swiftly toward shore. He whistled through his teeth, and Justin waved.
“You won’t get answers about your missing boats,” Makepeace said, “not down here. Most everybody either don’t know or don’t care to know. It does not pay to ask about things you cannot do anything about. I don’t say that a few folks might not suspicion, but they got no reason to talk to you. If a couple people do know something, they know because they got a stake in it, whatever it is, and they get nothing from telling you. Personally, I doubt there is anything to know. Things happen. Good things, bad things, things no one understands. They happen.” Makepeace shrugged. “Life goes on.”
Justin came to the table wrapped in a beach towel. He gazed, horrified, at the slimy puck on the plate before him. He whispered to his father, “What’s that?”
“You asked for a
“But it’s your responsibility . . .”
“What is? To see that a man in a sailor suit has a nice holiday? No. I am in charge here. One tiny island.” Makepeace tapped his foot on the floor. “Like the flies are in charge of the dungheap. That’s what we are, you know, a dungheap. Most of the world doesn’t know we exist, and the ones that do think we’re ignorant jungle bunnies. It’s not our fault. We came here as slaves, and they kept us slaves and beat it into us that that is our destiny. I escaped as a boy; my mama sent me up to Nassau, to learn. I learned. I learned that the best job I could hope to get was as a waiter or a bartender or a taxi driver or, if I had influence, a construction laborer. Then the Bahamas got free and everybody got hope. Hope!” Makepeace smirked. “White-power people were replaced by black-power people, who had to prove how proud they were, how independent. They nearly sank the whole country.
“So I said to myself, ‘Birds, you go back to the Caicos and show them how it can be done.’ I came back and rounded up some chummies. We threw Molotov cocktails here and there, and the British they said ‘Good-by.’ So here I am, a commissioner, chief fly on one small patty. I have a few hundred people. Most can’t read. Them that don’t work for the government, they fish—so many that the grounds are being fished out, and in a few years that will be gone, too. They got no hope of anything better, not ever, not anywhere. We give them the vote, and they vote, but they got nothing to vote for. They got all the freedoms they want, but you can’t eat freedom.” Makepeace paused. “And you would have me care whether some fat-ass Yankee gets himself killed?”
“Tourism,” Maynard said. “It’s an old answer, but you can eat off that.”
“It is happening, a little bit, but we don’t have much to offer. Loneliness and clear water. Bugs. We are a hundred years in the past.”
“People will pay for that, that alone.”
“I know.” Makepeace smiled. “We get a few. And there is always talk of the big Yankee companies coming down and building golf courses and tennis courts and beach clubs. If it ever happens, there will be money for a little while, and then someone will take over the government and kick out the Yankees and put locals in charge of everything. In five years, it will be a dungheap once again.”
“You have a cheerful perspective.”
“Realistic. This place has no business being populated, let alone being a nation. Nature didn’t populate it, except with bugs.”
The waitress brought their food—fish chowder and conch fritters and, for Justin, a thin gray square of chopped meat topped with a smear of cream cheese and enveloped in bread.
Maynard looked to the beach and saw Justin appear around a corner of the cove and paddle a rubber raft swiftly toward shore. He whistled through his teeth, and Justin waved.
“You won’t get answers about your missing boats,” Makepeace said, “not down here. Most everybody either don’t know or don’t care to know. It does not pay to ask about things you cannot do anything about. I don’t say that a few folks might not suspicion, but they got no reason to talk to you. If a couple people do know something, they know because they got a stake in it, whatever it is, and they get nothing from telling you. Personally, I doubt there is anything to know. Things happen. Good things, bad things, things no one understands. They happen.” Makepeace shrugged. “Life goes on.”
Justin came to the table wrapped in a beach towel. He gazed, horrified, at the slimy puck on the plate before him. He whispered to his father, “What’s that?”
“You asked for a
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