A Trip to the Beach (2 page)

He pulled up fifteen minutes later, his battered blue Chevy station wagon chugging serenely past the long double rows of royal palms and under the gracious white portico that greets Malliouhana guests. After we'd exchanged long hugs, we climbed into the back of his car and headed for his house on Rey Hill, near town. The ride was a jumble of talk. His son Lincoln was working at the airport, Bernice was a concierge at Malliouhana, and Griffith was now a policeman. Vernal was about to become a father. Evelyn, his wife, was still plagued by arthritis. I handed him a neck brace and a tube of cream that I'd brought her from an American doctor.

“Daughter, you and we is one,” he boomed gratefully, setting the items down on the seat next to him.

The fact that we had sold most of our interest in Blanchard & Blanchard came up repeatedly in conversations with Joshua and provoked a thundering tirade. How, he demanded, could we sell what we'd created with our own hands? He had worked for almost fifty years to build his businesses, fishing during the hard times to feed his family. The sea had been good to Joshua Gumbs, and his businesses had flourished. To sell any one of them would be an
offense.
You might as well build your own house and then burn it to the ground! Bob and I looked at each other meekly; I squeezed his hand.

“You'd feel differently if you knew the people we did business with,” said Bob, who proceeded to paint a dramatic portrait of Blanchard & Blanchard as we knew it.

“Gangsters!” Joshua swore. He began to lecture us again, this time on the subject of lying down with dogs.

Relief came as we pulled into the agreeable chaos of his front yard. Their house never changed. Two scrawny island mutts slept tied in the shade of a rusted car on blocks. A few feet away was Joshua's fishing boat, out of the water for repairs. Bundles of fish-pot sticks that had been brought in from St. Kitts were neatly stacked and ready for assembly. A garden plot of half-withered pigeon peas in desperate need of rain lined the side of the house, and the garage was filled to the ceiling with enough paper towels and canned goods for an entire militia.

Evelyn embraced us on the porch, two salt-and-pepper braids pinned on top of her head. She was hunched over with arthritis, but that never seemed to affect her mood. No time for it. She led us into the living room, where we settled into comfortable velvet-covered chairs. As usual, the television was tuned to CNN, and a newscaster spoke of the day's events in business: everything we wanted to escape.

“What would you think of us moving to Anguilla?” asked Bob with no preamble.

Joshua grinned. “You loves Anguilla, don't you?”

Evelyn chimed in, “Yes, they loves Anguilla.” They sounded like proud parents.

“Yes, we love Anguilla,” Bob returned obediently. It was our ritual, a call-and-response that affirmed our faith in the island. “We love it so much, we think we should never leave.”

That went beyond our usual exchange, and Joshua grew serious. “What would you do?” he asked. “I don't think the government would let you fish. They saves that for the locals. See it?” He paused. “Unless you wants to fish with me.”

Fishing had been such a part of Joshua's life—it was what held all the other, disparate activities together—that it must have seemed the most natural thing in the world to suggest to someone seeking a new livelihood.

Bob remembered the day a year earlier when he and Joshua had gone “fishing”—which turned out to mean hauling up fish pots by hand. Bob recalled Joshua bellowing out to his son in his deep voice, “Vernal, come up to the pot. Come up to the pot.”

Vernal, perhaps fifteen at the time, had navigated the outboard motors with precise skill, maneuvering the open boat alongside each buoy so Joshua could reach out with his hooked stick, grab the rope, and pull it in. Then Joshua and Bob would haul up the rope hand over hand, each pulling in turn, until the huge wire fish pot surfaced and could be dragged up into the boat. Bob balanced it on the gunwale as Joshua unlatched one side, dumping the wriggling contents onto the boat's deck. Lobsters, parrot fish, grunts, and pufferfish came pouring out, and once a bright green moray eel slithered around the boat.

“Whatever goes in there, I catches,” Joshua had proclaimed as he killed the eel with a sharpened stick. Bob had gained Joshua's respect by not complaining, but by the end of that day his hands were raw and he could barely stagger up the stairs to our hotel room.

But the more we talked, the more obvious it became that Joshua was too old to go back to fishing full time. We told him about Mac's call and Bennie the landlord and our beach bar idea. Joshua frowned.

“The government in Anguilla is not interested in allowing foreigners to open any new restaurants,” he said. “They wants to save that for Anguillians, see it?”

We saw it; Joshua explained that the island only has nine thousand residents, with that many more living abroad. There are thousands living in Slough, England, and a large contingent in New Jersey, many of whom would love to come home if they could earn a living here. When Joshua saw our faces fall, he took pity. Exceptions were always possible, he said, but his tone wasn't encouraging. I was glad we had the backup plan for making Caribbean sauces.

He studied us for a moment. “Bennie Connor,” he said almost to himself. “I'll call Bennie and tells him you good people and that he should rent to you. He can help you with the government too.”

Joshua turned his back to make the call, so Evelyn ushered Bob and me into the kitchen and gave us spoonfuls of a delicious fish stew that was simmering on the stove. We tried to listen to Joshua's conversation but could hear only snatches—enough to know he was telling our story, but not enough to get the drift. When he rejoined us in the kitchen, he told us simply that Bennie Connor was a decent man and was ready for our meeting the next day. We wanted to pepper him with questions, but we didn't want to make him uncomfortable. The island was wary of outsiders, and we realized we were lucky to be getting a personalized introduction to Bennie.

That evening we sat outside, gazing at the stars in the dark quiet and wondering whether we really had the nerve to move to a small island in the Caribbean. A lone yacht anchored at sea was the only object in sight. Were we being hasty? Overreacting to the idea of escaping to a new life? How would we fit in to this tiny West Indian community, where all the inhabitants were of African descent? We spent a nervous night.

Breakfast was served on our balcony, surrounded by pink bougainvillea in bloom:
pain au chocolat,
muffins, croissants, and assorted jams, along with tall silver pots of coffee and a pitcher of steamed milk. Tiny yellow birds snatched single grains from our sugar bowl, flitting happily as if thanking us for their breakfast. There were crispy, apple-smoked slabs of bacon. Conversation was scarce. In between bites Bob called for another order of bacon. “A next one?” the woman from room service asked. “I send it right up.” I had never felt so hungry in my life.

It was on our way to Bennie's that we realized we had no idea what kind of rent we'd be expected to pay. Five hundred a month? A thousand? The first number seemed high for a run-down little shack, but the location, we had to admit, was too spectacular to warrant less. It depended on what kind of negotiator Bennie was. We could always start at five hundred and work our way to the higher number if it turned out there was a market for grilled burgers and piña coladas.

“Maybe we should have called a lawyer,” I said.

“No,” said Bob. “No lawyers. I've had enough of lawyers.” The appeal of doing business on a tropical island was the informality. Other people's lawyers had tortured us for months at Blanchard & Blanchard, and our own hadn't saved us from financial piracy. Bob thought Bennie sounded like the type who would be game for a handshake agreement. I said I thought so too.

The young man at Bennie's Grocery said that Bennie was upstairs. He walked outside and yelled toward the balcony over his head, “Dada, some people here for you!”

Bennie's office was one flight above Bennie's Grocery. It was also Bennie's living room. It was also, we soon realized, Bennie's theater: Welcome to the Bennie show. Stout but moving quickly for an Anguillian, Bennie gestured grandly toward the couch, where a hulk of a man was staring down at his bare feet: cousin James, the owner of the building and the land.

“Good morning, James,” said Bob, and James said, “Yeah.” His focus remained on his feet.

“James doesn't talk much,” said Bennie. “I do the negotiating for him.”

He swept his arm toward another couch and we sat. “I understand you would like to rent the property on Meads Bay and open a restaurant.”

“That's right,” I said, suddenly feeling as if I were Bennie's pupil. He remained standing, pacing, swiveling from Bob and me to James and then back. Bennie clearly relished the role of negotiator.

“We like the location,” I continued, vastly understating the case. “But the building would have to be bigger, and we'd also need to do some landscaping.”

“James,” said Bennie, turning to his cousin. “Is it permissible to enlarge the building and to do some—” There was a long pause, whether for dramatic effect or translation I wasn't sure. “—planting?”

James stared at his feet and said nothing. Fifteen seconds passed, and he gave a small nod. We took this as a yes.

“Okay,” said Bennie, who had turned his back to us. “You may add on to the building. You may plant. But you must go to Lands and Surveys and obtain a copy of the site plan that shows the property's boundaries, whereupon we can legally address setback requirements.”

Bob asked whether Bennie was a lawyer.

“Not really,” said Bennie with a laugh. “But I study law in my spare time.” He turned to me. “If you would care to take notes, I'll dictate the terms of the lease and you can have the document typed.”

Bennie disappeared into the next room, leaving us with James, who stared out the window as if he wished he were somewhere else. It occurred to me that he probably wasn't being rude, that he was just extraordinarily shy. Bob and I met each other's eyes but didn't speak. From a nearby room we heard drawers opening and closing vigorously, papers being crumpled and tossed aside, and something that sounded like dozens of ball bearings rolling on a tile floor.

Bennie re-entered with a legal pad and pen, handed them to me, and began to pace. His short legs stretched as he marched dramatically across the room, twirled, and reversed direction, dictating along the way.

“This lease is made—” He stopped himself in midsentence. In conversation Bennie was a tenor, but for purposes of dictation he became a baritone. He turned to James and his voice rose an octave. “When would you like the lease to begin?”

James said nothing. He stared at his feet.

Bob cleared his throat and said, “We'd like to have it start when we open.”

Bennie scratched his head and continued to pace. “In that case,” he said, “I would recommend that the term of the lease commence now, and perhaps James will grant a grace period on the rent until you begin to do business.” He looked at James expectantly. No response.

“James, how does that sound with you?” Bennie prompted. He seemed mildly annoyed.

Bob tried to help. “James,” he began, “what we're saying is, the lease would start on, say, June first. That's in a week. But the rent wouldn't start until we open.”

His eyes focused somewhere over our heads, James finally spoke. “When you gonna open?”

Bob and I looked at each other. The conversation had suddenly gotten very serious. We hadn't even made the absolute decision to move to Anguilla, yet here we were negotiating a lease. Things were happening too quickly, I thought. But in retrospect, maybe that made the decision easier.

“It will probably take us three months to do the construction,” said Bob, calculating out loud. “And we'd have to get building materials before we even start. Then we'd need equipment and dishes and . . . All the hotels are closed in September, so I guess . . .”

He glanced at me; I gave him a reassuring nod.

“We'd shoot for an opening in October.”

Bob looked at me. I looked at Bennie. The three of us looked at James. After thirty seconds or so, James again shrugged and gave a little nod.

Bennie smiled. “That sounds good to James,” he said.

Resuming dictation, his voice dropped an octave and he strode the length of the room, as if pacing off the distance. “This lease is made between James Maxwell, fisherman of Blowing Point, parenthesis, hereinafter called the lessor, which expression shall, where the context so admits, including persons deriving title under or through him, close parenthesis, and . . .” He instructed me to fill in our names and address.

We didn't have an address, said Bob. Not yet.

“We'll just leave that blank for now,” Bennie continued. “But you will need a local address to make the lease a legal document. You should find a house as soon as possible.” He looked up, smiled. “I may have something for you, but we'll get to that later.” I could see that Bennie was delighted at the prospect of brokering another deal.

He went on to cover the term of the lease (five years with an option for five more), insurance, utilities, maintenance, improvements—all of which, it became clear, would be paid for by the lessee, that is, us. He used words such as
covenant
and
hereinafter.
The idea of a handshake seemed far away.

Then he came to the clause about rent.

Bennie gave James a significant look. James raised his head so that his gaze just skimmed the tops of our heads, then locked eyes with Bennie. This time there was no hesitation.

“Five thousand a month.”

My heart dropped through the floor. We thought it was outrageous. We
knew
it was outrageous. Bob gave me a look I recognized from the time he'd had the wind knocked out of him on a ski slope. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.