Excerpt from Every Bitter Thing Sweet
Rory of (A Thirst For Rain) is all grown up now, and trying to fend for himself after getting entangled in a dangerous affair with the predatory Zenobia. She's invited him to her Christmas party, but he's not too comfortable with the idea of being there.
The largest platter was easy: a good-sized young wild boar lay on its side, eyes glazed, fangs bared in a death grimace, most of its flank hacked away, stuffing spilling out of its abdominal cavity, raisins and capers in abundance. Bowls of stewed lappe, stained red with roucou seeds, and curried agouti stood on either side. Guests helped themselves to piles of red crab simmered with coconut milk and ground provisions like dasheen and eddoes, green bananas and ripe plantains. They elbowed each other to get at the meats, tearing pieces of flesh off the hog, cracking crabs’ legs, exclaiming over the quantity and variety of the fare, jostling like corbeaux at the La Basse dump.
Zenobia proudly lifted a heavy platter to his nose. “Manicou. You have no idea how much a pound I paid for this. When you eat by me, you eat good.” She was right. There was no doubt thousands of dollars’ worth of wild game here, hauled in fresh from the forest, most likely the day before.
Under his nose, the possum’s rankness made him recoil, in spite of its heavy seasonings: chadon beni, garlic and French thyme. He had been hungry when he came in, but he wasn’t sure if he still was. He wasn’t much of a meat man, and when he did eat it, he ate it sparingly. The preponderance of flesh made him giddy.
Zenobia was waiting, still holding the heavy platter. “So, what you want to have?”
He backed away from the table, through the crowd, trying to put some distance between himself and the smell. Hastily, she dropped the dish onto the table with a thump and hurried after him.
“What?” she asked, partly anxious, partly irritated. “You not hungry?”
“Not right now, but definitely later,” he lied. He wasn’t sure he would be hungry again for a long time. The little half-Spanish singer had finished her solo and the band was striking up a more raucous melody, the polar opposite of her devotional to the Madonna and Child. This song was about debauchery and excess, Christmas drunkenness and indulgence. The other side of the Parang coin. Guests clapped even more loudly that they had the first time, singing along to the more ribald hook lines and laughing out loud.
Too many people. Usually, he could hide in a crowd, mask himself with them and pretend he wasn’t there. This time, the sounds and smells and perfume hemmed him in rather than offering escape. Zenobia trailed behind him as he withdrew.
At the edges of the room, she poked him in the ribs, slightly annoyed. Don’t tell me you sick or anything.”
“I’m not sick.” He scratched his head. This was a mistake. He wasn’t a party man and never would be. The noise was too much. The music was too much. And all these people…. Maybe there was a graceful way to leave without offending her.
She read his thoughts, and hastened to intervene. “You not going anywhere.”
“Zen, I—”
She grabbed his wrist, nails digging into them, and dragged him with surprising force to the bar. As before, guests parted to allow her passage. The bartender who had served Rory before immediately found a glass, swished it in a large bucket of water, and poured Zenobia a shot of bush rum.
She looked at it on the counter without bothering to pick it up, lifting an over-plucked brow. “That the best you can do?”
“Pardon?” The bartender clasped his hands in front of him, waiting politely, in the manner of one used to complaints about service from the rich and the spoilt.
“Double it up, boy. This is a big woman you dealing with, not a child.” She shoved the glass at him, folded her arms, and looked mulish.
The man doubled the order silently, not even daring to suggest that maybe she had already had enough for the night. Then he turned to Rory. “Anything for you, Sir?”
Rory was a little taken aback, not used to being addressed as ‘Sir’. He looked down at the bottle in his hand, a little surprised to discover it half-empty. He didn’t remember drinking from it. He declined politely; another drink would mean that for the sake of good manners he would have to linger at least long enough to finish it, and he knew he had reached his limit as far as this party was concerned.
Zenobia gulped the rum as she would have a glass of water, leaving a stain of red around the rim, handed the glass back to the bartender without so much as a ‘thank you’, and addressed Rory. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Where?” Something told him where, though. Excitement mingled with dread.
Her lips curved. “You know where.”
He protested. “Zen, the room’s full of people.”
“So?”
“Your guests. You’re supposed to…I don’t know…entertain them or something.”
“They got food, they got grog, they got music. What more they want?” She was already headed for the exit.
He tried again, catching up with her easily. “But they will see us leave, and wonder where…or what…”
Zenobia turned to look at him, eyes clear, excitement shining from them. The bush rum on her breath reminded him of his father. She spoke carefully, enunciating each syllable the way people do when their tongues have been made thick by drink. “Fuck them.” She sailed before him to her office.
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