Remy: A Short Story
Tuesday 15th October 1985
Wickie Wackie Beach, St Andrews, Jamaica
The Earth’s breath was a tender warmth over the night fallen skies. Though hot with weariness, the air was relieved with lightened sighs from the sea, the ripples a rush, an echo among the ambient extravaganza ensuing behind Kamala’s back. She stood in silence, watching the soft tides flowing with ease into the shore, the luminous full moon reflected in the darkened water. A band played at the bar, a member urging spectators to gather around the makeshift dance floor, where the saxophone and bongos began a salsa number. Kamala sat on the stool behind the bar, ordering a fine rum punch. She ought to ease the depletion within her, for her father reprimanded her for rejecting a proposal. Indeed, she tried to lighten the heaviness within, still reeling from the loss of her mother, who had passed away six months prior, leaving her and her father to be deserted. The very father who very so stubbornly maintained his Indian traditions from when he was uprooted from India to work on the plantations in Jamaica by a British colonel. He decidedly settled down on the Island once he encountered Kamala’s mother, Jhanvi. In utter delight, he was to have found another Indian amidst the African descendants with whom he was cordial. With promptness, he married her, and though he lived in Jamaica for many decades, Kamala’s father, Laksh, upheld the Indian traditions and values which were sent down to him from his parents. For him, it was his way of staying connected and grounded to his ancestral roots. It was true that marriage held significance within the Indian household; it was believed that it protected the family’s honour and dignity while continuing to plant more seeds to enrich the Indian culture and heritage with future generations. Kamala believed marriage was simply the Indian’s way to cast their children aside once they had grown into maturity, especially women. It was presumed so when in witness of how children caused friction with their parents when they were adults, thus creating a clash in the hierarchy. It was deemed shameful for women to live alone or move away from home unmarried; thus, marriage was perceived as the way to maintain a woman’s dignity and honour. Certainly, Laksh pondered that it was Kamala’s time to marry and embark on a life of her own. The burden fell arduously over him now that Jhanvi had left them. He felt it to be his duty to set his daughter up with a decent man from a good family, assured that he would be reprieved and at peace once he settled his only child down in life. This had dejected Kamala; in vehemence, she declined such a proposition, for she believed it was in her fate to fall in love. She surmised that the person she fell in love with was the one she would be tied to in matrimony. To hear her father speak so callously of her life compelled her to tears, moving her to depart the house in an instant, upon which she found sound relief near the waters. In the bar, she mulled over the scene with the drink tipping on the edge of her fingers, her shoulders sagging as her head roamed among the heads of dancers.
His eyes were a darkened brown. Upon catching her in the crowd, they became fixated. The room zoned out of focus with a tunnel vision on her. He thought her to be a beautiful woman. During the course of the set, Remy and Kamala locked eyes, and once they had concluded, he set the saxophone down gently near the leg of the stool and with a charismatic smile, he approached her. When the bartender shouted, whether he craved a drink. Very kindly so, Remy said, “no, thank you, Darren.” In brazen confidence, he settled on the stool beside Kamala and said, “you’re beautiful.”
Kamala chugged the rest of the drink and shot back with sass, “is that what you say to all women?”
“No, only you.”
“Is that so?”
“Very much so.” In a fore, his hand drew to her border. Kamala took a gander at the hand with mild caution to look back up at him. He patiently awaited her move until she put her hand on him, and when she did, he firmly held onto it, caressing the back of her hand, enticed by the softness. “I’m Remy. What’s your name?” His lips edged close to her ear. Such a brass move from him had her mouth part, her breath shortening in pants. His proximity to her provoked a swell to expand in her womb, and her fingers tingled from Remy’s tender touch.
“Kamala.” Her voice was breathless. “My name is Kamala.”
Remy beheld her gaze, keenly regarding her eyes to have darkened. His face a reflection before him on the twinkle of her brown eyes. “Care for a dance?” He said, his blood pulsing unevenly upon her response to him.
She tightened her grip on his hand, her heart flogging her chest when her skin continued to sparkle from the touch of his. Indeed, she felt abnormal and feverish, for she hadn’t known such sensations to be. She pert her head in an indication of a yes, then he led the way into the dance floor, finding a small space in the middle. Though their set had finished, the members of the band played lastingly into the night. Remy had seen her before. She would sit near the waters, scarcely ever coming into the bar. Quite frankly, she intimidated Remy, which caused hesitation to sink into his bones in the manner of approaching her. He found her to be a wonder, her beauty to be a marvel. He knew how Indians perceived African descendants of the Island. Despite his many efforts to restrain himself and discard those feelings, he felt the gravitational pull towards her, and when her eyes caught his and sealed her gaze on him, he was assured that she felt something for him too. Such a sombre act was an indicator to him to go to her, and like tunnel vision indeed, he drew close.
With the brass and drums in play, the Caribbean night enlivened into gladdened elation. Remy pulled Kamala staunchly against his body; chest on chest, pelvic bone on pelvis, their breath a synthesis of a kiss with lips utterly inches away. With a hand on Kamala’s lower back, their hips began a rhythm in beat with the music. Kamala followed Remy’s lead; his feet shifted in a forward and backwards motion just as their hips moved to the music. With their fingers interlocked, Remy pushed Kamala down, her spine jolting in surprise, flutters swarming her stomach from his proximity to her. Their eyes fixed on one another. She felt his presence had enamoured her. Her heart rendered to a relentless throb pulsing in her chest while her teeth bit her bottom lip upon feeling the unsteady heartbeat of the man before her. Kamala leaned her head on his chest with her arms reaching over his shoulders to run her hands through his braids, binding her fingers behind his neck as they moved with the slow music. Remy’s face buried deeper into the curve of her neck, providing her reprieve from the heat of the night with his breath. He nipped her neck when she ground her arse on him. Soon after, she turned around, rather lethargically, bringing him closer. She was so close she saw the black irises of his dark brown eyes; her nose turned upwards for a brush of skin. She enjoyed the vision of his laughter, for he laughed with the entirety of his face, and such imagery warmed her heart. However, now the air was stiff between them with a mystification of thickened passion. She felt a delicious sensation twining around her bones when he tightened his grip on her body. An emotion so severe washed over her upon perceiving an expression of contemplation on his face.
“I’m going to make you my wife,” expressed Remy in severity, pressing his forehead to hers.
She thought such words would be revolting; however, a sense of serenity devoured her, and such a response to such frank words hadn’t scorned her to a scare. “Come to my home. Ask my Baba for my hand in marriage. Get with you trays of gifts; bridal clothes, jewels, and Indian sweets.” Kamala said in an airy voice, for she felt that she had entered another dimension with the one surely to be her one and only lover.
by Kalina