Clear Water ~ Dark Woman ~ Sweet Rum

It’s Just Business

The first portrait in today’s gallery introduces the audience to the profundity created by the artist. The background depicts a beach. Three wind-bent coconut trees interlock on the left-hand side, with gusts tugging the branches. On the right, a weathered-wooden dinghy, digs into the sand, fraying-line harnesses the bow to a pile on. The depth of the horizon is apparent as the shadowed-blue sky mingles with the choppy turquoise sea. The portrait focuses on Lucifer—larger than life—sitting behind a dark desk; the once-splintered legs are carved intricately. The point of view comes as if the audience is standing, looking down on the devil. A dent sinks into the middle of its broad forehead; piercing horns extend from either side of its furrowed brow. Its pupils expand into black swirling storms. Two less-purposeful horns emerge from its cheeks. The creature’s narrow chin highlights its effortless frown. On the desk, a dagger pierces Jamaican charts, the edges flutter with the wind.

Alvarez removes two shillings from his pocket, flipping them onto the bar: just enough for the drink. His mother’s parting words, as he left for the New World, stagger to the forefront of his mind.

“No matter their beauty or brilliance, do not fall in love with a slave as I did; it’s a death-sentence.”

With the warmth of rum in his veins, Alvarez dreams of the masterpieces he will create next—to bring back to London for his final test. Following both his artist’s intuition and his ancestral roots, he traveled to Jamaica. His mother promised she witnessed his father’s last breath. Alvarez left to find himself, although he never admitted it.

A small man with a hat slick from the mist hanging in the air outside and a cane of plated gold, shuffled through the bar door. He signaled the barmaid on the way to his seat; she grabbed the top-shelf bottle of rum and placed it in front of him—the whole bottle. Alvarez knew Maroon Isle rum was no more in cost than the other bottles, but because the taste was far superior, the bar robbed the tourist: the locals knew better. The barmaid returned with a stack of clean glasses and prepared a cubalibre for everyone in the bar.

“To the free men who made us this rum,” Mr. J. Freeman toasted, the crystal glass glimmering in his lifted hand, “And to the abolition of slavery.”

Everyone yelped and cheered, more than likely for the free drink.

“My rum’s yours tonight,” he added. “Drink up!”

More gayness erupted from every table in the establishment.

“I own The Maroon Isle company,” Freeman said. “But not a single of you.”

Everyone’s eyes and ears focused on the generous man; taking turns relieving small gulps of their rum.

“I come with an offer: food, shelter, and fair compensation for your labor,” Freeman said, his voice bellowed from beneath his small chest. The man’s right fingertips rested above his heart, adding depth to his gesture. “I invite you businessmen to join me, Maroon Isle’s most esteemed tycoon, in creating and mass distributing the finest rum in the whole Caribbean.” His arms spread, welcoming the crowd, bit by bit as he spun. “Surely, an offer none of you can refuse.”

Thus, men were recruited in three waves: the gamblers and the homeless were first, most of them illiterately signing the line; then the financially troubled husbands, nagged by their wives, too tired or lazy to gaze the contract; lastly, the fools who wandered drunkenly to the booth and scribbled on the sheet, absent memory and thought. On slower nights, Mr. J. Freeman often reminisced on his younger days—courting women at the bar—as he smooth talked men into signing their lives away.

“Merry spirits tonight, aye?” Mr. J. said as he slid onto a wooden stool leaving an empty seat in between himself and Alvarez.

“Certainly—as on most nights.” Alvarez held up his glass, “To the end of my formal education.”

Mr. J. met his toast with a nod, but not his eyes, and Alvarez drank.

“Why don’t you come work for me, then?” Mr. J. scrutinized Alvarez’s patched clothing. “Some extra money would be nice, aye? Maybe some informal learning.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alvarez said after a respectful moment of consideration. He burped and tasted his last gulp of rum again. “But I sail home in a month.”

“Requiring more seasonal work then?” Mr. J bargained with an enticing and welcoming smile. The lies hid in his charm. The contract was the same for everyone: five years minimum service, all under the protection of the law of the land, and a binding signature.

“I am a painter, sir,” Alvarez said with his chin lifted, despite his appearance. The preceding week of studies left his face untrimmed; patches of coal black formed around his chin and cheeks, met by his current mane collecting around his ears. “I’ll spend my remaining time here with my art.”

“Explains the clothes,” Mr. J. murmured to himself before drawing deeply on his glass. “I see,” he said. “The offer remains open. Time to paint will be plentiful once your daily work is finished.” If only Alvarez knew, how naturally the embellishments spewed from his lips. “Come find me, aye? If you decide not to leave or if you go broke first.”

Mr. J. raised and hobbled off as subtly as he arrived.

“Aye—aye—aye,” Alvarez mouthed the slang.

The following month, Mr. J. made dreams come true for every outsider that traveled to the island. Men coming from nothing would acquire work, a place to live in the accommodating Jamaican climate, and food would be provided for them.

“Drink some tea, aye. It’ll clear your head.” Mr. J. paused and removed his hat—used in the bar, to acknowledge the validity of Alvarez’s story; before he found the drunken painter, passed out beside a mahogany bench, a few blocks from the establishment. “Come home with me,” He extended his hand out toward the adolescent.  “I’ll take excellent care of you.”

He and Alvarez now sat across from each other at a small motel room table. Alvarez, oblivious to his location and company, rubbed his eyes and accepted the tea.

Alvarez’s back stiffened as he sat straight. His head rolled loosely around his neck before it too tightened to purpose. Who was this man, sweet-talking him in a motel right now? He recognized the shrunken man in his clearing vision, but his head continued pounding.

“You missed your ship home, aye?”

“I’m not ready for home.”

“I can—”

“I can’t go home,” Alvarez corrected himself. A tear fell on the table in front of him, he admitted, “I haven’t painted a god-damned thing. I’m to host a gallery upon my arrival: what I’ve learned.” His elbows stabbed into the tops of his knees, he stared into the depths of his palms. If the answer was there, he would find it.

“No paintings, aye?” Mr. J. kept Alvarez talking.

“On what I’ve learned,” Alvarez continued. “My memory is blind.”

“Come work with me,” Mr. J. said as he presented a contract. “It’ll give you time to straighten your mind—here, this here’s the smallest one I’ve got.” He tapped three fingers against the ink with purpose. “Follow my one rule, gain shelter for the upcoming stormy season, paint all your heart’s desire—it’s your best bet.”

Veiled by his tears, Alvarez signed the document without first reading the script. The binding form wasn’t more than a paragraph, yet no one had the effort to glance over the details.

Maroon Isle: The Free Man’s Rum.

I ALvrz Solsonn agree to the terms of the Maroon Isle Company contract, as they are presented below: for a minimum of five years, I will loyally serve the company, with a chance to re-sign, with wage improvements, after every-three-years; I will follow the one rule presented to me upon my arrival at the farm, I understand this rule is the law; at no point will I become violent with my bosses or co-laborers; I dedicate myself to creating the most-perfect rum. This contract is binding, beginning on the date July 2, 1827, and ending July 2, 1832. Mr. Eugene J. Freeman witnessed the signing of this document.  Eugene Johnstone Freeman.

Most of the Mother Island’s population was unaware of the isle’s existence. Maroon Island is still absent on ninety-nine percent of the world’s maps. Its history lies under “the hills” of Jamaica. To date, scholars around the globe doubt its existence. The believers have either seen the Daughter Island directly or the art of someone who has lived among the hills.

From the sea’s point of view, the coast of Maroon Island blends with the southwest curve of Jamaica’s beaches and only a select few of the island’s residents would voluntarily face the unknown nature in the rolling region: none knew another who had. Alvarez, like most, believed its presence was a sailor’s tale.

The Great Maroon War plagued the first half of the eighteenth century on Jamaica. In 1739, the remaining Taino people and run-away slaves survived their extermination; the Maroons gained recognition as an independent sovereign.

Days before the treaty, the Maroons plunged through briars, brush, and trees making their way to the beach. The diminishing army of survivors gathered in awe as waves crashed against their ankles.

“God gives us a home,” a voice cried out in the back.

Murmurs rose in response; to swim such a length would be suicide. They all bled—if not from wounds suffered in the war, the jagged brush tore the color from their skin as they escaped capture. Out of the more than five hundred swimming participants, just over a hundred felt the sand of the Daughter Island; those who plead for mercy, met a firing squad of red coats.

Peace was presented with stipulations: the isle would be kept a secret, the news reported the Maroons elected to remain peacefully, out of sight, in the hills, and any run-away slaves in the future must be returned. Countless fugitive slaves withered away, hoping help was behind each next tree, or dissipated between beaches as if they themselves transformed to the sugar they harvested.

Humanity

There is a circle of chair-size stones surrounding a man, whose eyes wrinkle and teeth show with laughter. He wears an agbada, hand-spun with a diverse combination of yellow, green, and red; gold embroidery decorates the pockets and collar. A stack of books constructs his chair. Around him, all but one of the rocks are accented with children, filling a wide range in pigment differences. Each one sleeps on, besides, or leaning against a rock. One student, a mulatto man, remains attentive; his gaze locked on the teacher, a paintbrush in his left hand—on top of his thigh. He sits in front of his rock, left leg straight; his right foot plants the ground near the left knee. His clothes compare to the robe as rags.

Mr. Ubuntu Freeman was highly intellectual. He was the first to escape slavery on Jamaica and survive to share his tale. Mr. Freeman could speak in over ten African tongues, Spanish, and the Queen’s English. His tenure wasn’t even long enough for his master to recollect his depiction.  Ubuntu claimed relation to Sundiata’s griot, and had an easy time building a following among the Maroons. He educated the youth by reviving story gatherings, reciting the truth of their families, their culture, and Africa—the Garden of Eden.  “The People’s Prince.” His ideas revolutionized the industry of agriculture and gave his people hope.

No freed slave would return to a plantation by choice—even as a free man. Farming was all many of the Maroons were practiced in and Mr. Freeman had the brains to capitalize. He began the Maroon Isle Company, explaining to everyone: if on their own land, they farmed sugar cane as well as their provisional foods, they would create a rum empire—together.

Mr. Freeman’s recipe was the epitome of Caribbean rum and he sold it to the white Jamaicans. Each person was justly compensated for the sugar they contributed. He built trust in his laborers and monopolized the cane production on the island. Most important, the oppressing Jamaicans became drunker and drunker, their wits hibernating. It was his way of ensuring those still bound in chains had the advantage.

Throughout the latter half of the eighteenth-century slave revolts on the Mother Island, numerous plantations were set aflame. The British government refused to forfeit the throne of the world’s sugar production; with losses to miles of cane, they looked to “the hills”.

The way of life known by the Daughter Island halted. Fair wages plummeted, and the certificates of land ownership were ignored. Mr. Freeman disappeared, and the working conditions crept back toward those of slavery. In 1795 the Maroon population was once again facing annihilation; they withstood attack after attack for five months.

When peace again settled over the isle, the legacy born in the good spirit of Mr. Ubuntu Freeman was forever tainted. Indentured servitude came forth in the wake of his reign.

Maroon Isle Company—now a plantation—occupied half of the island; the Maroons were not forced to work, but—their land.

Following Ubuntu, every man who held the position of leader for the Company was white; however, they all adopted his name. It was the business scheme. Freeman’s rum: made by free men, for free men. The men in the fields were as free as their master’s birth name.

In 1818, Mr. Eugene J. Freeman took control of the “family” business. The production numbers scratched the moon under his leadership, but given the choice between their positions as “free men” or slaves on the Mother Island, it is a tossup to which way their answers would lean.

During Alvarez’s time on the plantation, he did not complete a single painting; anything personally brought to comfort the laborers was destroyed within their first month of work.

All the paintings presented in the gallery, Alvarez brought to life following the dissolution of the life-wrenching contract.

Sunset Savior

Each sunset’s magnificence breathes in its unpredictability; an assortment of pink, orange, purple, and blue passionately dance over the sugar-cane horizon. There is a light-skinned mulatto man working the cane beside a woman whose skin holds deep-African roots. She appears to be stronger than the man in every way; her broad back muscles and shoulders are well defined, as are his ribs and hip bones. She wears a sleeveless dress, obviously well-sewn, with embroidered flowers decorating her collar; her machete previously found the fabric, relieving the detained heat from around her knees. The only thing covering the man’s privates is a tethered potato sack, fashioned with leg holes and a draw-sting belt. They both wear straw hats and pile sugarcane into wheelbarrows; his weakness is apparent in his lacking stack.

Lee-Mo’s muscles shivered, her skin crawled, and her hands tightened into fists. She saw Mr. J. Freeman by the edge of the property; he wasn’t welcome on the Caridad’s land. Wind whipped past the window of the kitchen, whispering through the slats of wood; she lifted the window, opening space between the frame so she could hear the men reasoning.

 “Ahhhh, Raymon,” Mr. J. said, Dr. was left absent. “Good evening.” 

            “Had I not been granted your prese—”

            “The air’s indeed lighter on this side the island, Ray, is it not?” Mr. J. barged forward.

            Dr. Raymon nodded, it was not yet his time to speak. Mr. J ventured onto the porch, where he found refuge from the hearty island gusts and settled into the chair opposite Raymond. Their voices battled around the corner of the shack, upwind, to Lee-Mo’s ears.

            “How is my boy?” Mr. J. cut to the chase, now, as he did with Tiny, Asir’s birth mother, nearly six years ago.

            “That boy’s as much yours, as Maroon Isle is mine,” Dr. Raymon said, his previously-steady rock came to a halt. “He’ll be staying here.”

            Lee-Mo smiled with his reassurance.

            “You’ve mistaken me,” Mr. J said. “The boy’s got my blood; by law, he’s mine.”

            “Tiny come to me—starved to death—her child mute and blind,” Dr. Raymon said, his hands gripped the armrests as he leaned toward Mr. J. “She spoke stories of deliberately skipping meals, for weeks, up to quitting your company.”

  Mr. J. tried to work his way into the conversation while Dr. Raymon found his breath, but was unsuccessful.

“Her death’s yours to own.”

            “I loved Tiana,” Mr. J. pled.

            “You raped her!” Dr. Raymon continued. “You love only power, robbing liberty of those weaker than you.”

            “This is the story she fed you?” Mr. J. said in defense. “Fuckery!”  

            “Her last words,” Dr. Raymon said, “Her dying wish, was for me to keep Asir far from you and your business.”

            “Asir—my boy’s name is Asir?” Mr. J. replied. “I’ll be taking Asir with me; he’s my son.”

            “The child of a rape victim has no father,” Dr. Raymon demanded. “The boy will remain here.”

            “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Mr. J. said; he removed a piece of folded paper from his pocket. “The bitch ran off with seven hundred and eighty-two days left on her contract.” His eyes lunged toward the ceiling and his head rocked with the motion of his mind. “It seems she is never coming back to work off her debt; so, the weight falls on the boy’s shoulders. It has been one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-eight days since she ran off—times one point five, plus seven-eighty-two, the boy owes over three thousand, five hundred days.”

            “To rass!”

            “You don’t have to send him home with me today.” Mr. J. added, “But each day he misses will be repaid with an additional day and a half.”

            Lee-Mo could no longer hold her tongue, “He never signed the contract!” She screamed through the thin walls but delayed a moment before showing her face.

            Tiny’s stories would’ve frightened a bull shark. She was one of many housemaids Mr. J. molested, but the only one to nourish his seed.

            “He will pay for his mother’s mistakes. She never should’ve run away from me.” Mr. J. said, he was getting up to leave the premises when Lee-Mo emerged. “I hope I never find myself here—”

            Before Mr. J. finished his departing words, Lee-Mo interrupted, “I’ll do it.”

            “Do what?” Dr. Raymon responded, his glare matched his daughter’s.

            “Give me my boy?” Mr. J. turned back with a nefarious grin.

            “You will never much as see Asir,” she said, correcting him. “I will work Tiny’s days—in the cane. I’m no one’s housemaid.”

Leomaresa, “Lee-Mo,” is the third daughter of obeah-medicine man, Raymon Caridad. When her stars led her to the fields of the Maroon Isle Company, she was the first woman to ever do so. She forfeited the laid-back lifestyle of her family farm in an act of humanity for her “little brother,” Asir.  

Alvarez’s contract was down to its last year when Lee-Mo joined him in the Maroon Isle fields. Then more than ever, Alvarez was uncertain whether he would make it until July.

Devil in Us All

The orange-yellow flames leap into the night, away from the cool, pinkish-white sand; their reflection swims in the breaking surf. A thin, old, mulatto man skips circles around the flames with a bottle of rum secured in his hand; his path is marked dense with footsteps and his finger-tips are white due to lack of blood circulation. In the bottle—mostly empty—a miniature red demon fights for liberation. Its shadow cast on the backside of the label.  A motionless body—either dead or asleep—lies in the shadowed background; this man’s bottle is broken and the inhabitant long absent. Both men are wearing familiar pants, potato sacks. The lively-man’s face portrays mixed emotions, as if he is excited to have the devil trapped, but he empathizes with how it must feel; his eyes are heavy and fixated on the bottle.

Alvarez’s memory separates his time with Maroon Isle: before Lee-Mo arrived, the time he spent imagining her to be a goddess, then she saved him. Upon arrival to the Daughter Island, Alvarez’s hope of painting anything, faded with the setting sun each night. Once the work day was over, only the stars and moon aided in sight. Each servant was given a choice—cash in every other day for a single shilling, or cash in daily on a quarter liter of the Caribbean’s finest rum. Every man to scribble their name on one of Mr. J. Freeman’s contracts elected to drink rum each night. Life on the plantation became easier to accept as the days bled together and desires for anything but rum withered.

            The servants waited by the rum barn door, kicking dirt over the nearby flowers and spitting on the ground where Mr. J. would be standing any minute. Alvarez joined in line with the other stragglers; he was exhausted. His feet scuffed the ground through the entirety of his steps. The advice Alvarez gathered—intentional or otherwise—shaped his experience on the Daughter Island.

            “Our coin is twice its weight in rum.”

Alvarez recognized the speaker as the old man who had been chopping cane two stations ahead of him, all day.

“Plus, it keeps order in the fields.”

            After polishing off half his bottle, Alvarez found Mr. Thompson—the man from line—to inquire further to his meaning. 

            “The devil travels in the heat to us, in the fields,” Mr. Thompson said, before turning the base of his bottle to the moon, relieving the last sip. “He whispers to us, speaking out against Boss.” Saliva leapt from beneath his tongue between each slurred word. “Mr. J. pays us with rum; not for our enjoyment—to trap our devils.”

            “Seems the rum unleashes Satan more often than we are able to catch him.”

            “For those of us strong in mind, rum creates temporary contentedness, while we work off our mistake—signing that damned contract,” Mr. Thompson explained. “For the weak minded, it allows a painless death.” He dragged his thumbnail across his throat.

            Three months later, Alvarez witnessed a fellow servant lash out toward one the guards. The young man’s night ended early with the termination of his servitude contract, and his life. With a bullet to the chest, his alcohol-thinned blood raced from the wound. There was no evident pain in the boy’s face, only peace; the corners of his mouth edged toward his ears as the last bit of energy was released and his countenance flattened. The boy’s children were lucky to not yet be conceived.

Hungry? Drink Up!

Once again, the man depicted is mulatto—like Alvarez. He sits naked, slouched in front of a barn door, his privates hidden by the shadows. The man appears sick; his skin stretching around his bones, especially his ribs and joints. The man’s legs are being pulled toward his chest, his arms bracing them, his temples are tucked between his knees. The final drop of rum builds at the lip of the bottle (turned over beside the man) as it searches for the bravery to jump. The barn door the man is leaning against bulges from its hinges. Not with sugar cane, but an assortment of fruits and vegetables. The color scheme peeking from within the barn is immaculate, making the darkness surrounding the man more evident. The outline of the large brass lock is barely visible above the man’s head.

            The Maroon Isle Company has only one rule; the servant who harvests the least amount of cane, does not eat until he (or she) no longer holds the title as the weakest link. Before Lee-Mo’s arrival in the fields, Alvarez became skilled in being the second weakest worker. He knew the amount of effort to exert each day to ensure a meal with his rum. Working hungry made it more difficult for his frail limbs to remain functional with the sun.

            For the first few weeks following Lee-Mo’s arrival, Alvarez studied her, as she worked beside him, never speaking. She was fifteen or twenty stocks into her day by the time the men arrived, and never waited with the moon and stars once the sun departed. She did not live in the servant-quarters and received her payments every other week. She did not speak to anyone. All day long—she would grab the cane in her left hand, bend the stock, and chop through it firm to the soil. Her system seemed polished; it was uninterrupted but slow.

Alvarez lessened his pace with fear of what might happen to the girl—Alvarez recognized her vulnerability (imagining her skin ripping beneath the fierce slash of a bullwhip), ensuring it was never so. The probability of his survival dwindled by the day; he failed to deduce the relevance of her family’s local farm.

            “Poor bastard,” Lee-Mo said. She plowed her harvest onward in the loose sand, stopping by Alvarez’s side.

He snoozed, the Caribbean Sea’s melody of waves crashed within his ears; the empty wheelbarrow’s evening shade blanketed him. She trudged toward the cane barn.

            “What punishment is there for a man who desires neither food nor shelter?” Mr. J. said to a group of servants as he handed out their daily bottles. “A night in the canes should be motivation enough, aye?”

The men cheered. No one cared enough to notice Lee-Mo walking back into the sugar rows.

  She latched beneath his arms, pulling him into the wheelbarrow and began the trek home. Her daily yield was much harder to deliver than the hunger-struck man. If—for whatever reason—Mr. J. caught her, he would be more upset over the stolen equipment, than the missing excuse of a laborer.

The Harvest

A character comparison between two farmers, white and black, plantation and family farm. The first farmer sits on a stool in the doorway of his barn, rotten odors drift above head. Starved servants line up for rations; each one’s basket decorated with a swarm of flies. The fruit is bruised and the vegetables mush. The thought of food—any food—brightens their eyes. Scars welt from the backs of a few men as they shuffle from the scene. In contrast, the second farmer’s yield is freshly sliced and diced, and presented on an exaggeratedly long table. The farmer, sits back in his chair at the head of the feast, recently ended. The dishes remain on the table, mostly empty, along with sparse scraps. The farmer’s seat is the only one still filled; his plate holds shredded steamed saltfish, and a few small vegetable nubs, the ones no one else wanted. Confident his family ate their fill; the farmer refuels alone.

Half a kilometer from the Maroon Isle Company, Lee-Mo dumped Alvarez into the cart-path and stashed the wheelbarrow. There was no way she could have driven the self-propelled cart up the hill to her father’s land. Before Alvarez grasped his whereabouts, he awoke and stumbled against gravity, Lee-Mo along-side. She led him to the corner of her father’s property, where a stream had no choice but to dive off the ledge of stones, creating a steady fall of water.

Alvarez came to more with the aid of the natural shower. He noticed a small boy—alone, kneeling in the squash. The boy’s hand traced along the stems as he filled a basket with vegetables.

            “Welcome to the Caridad Farm,” Lee-Mo said.

            Alvarez wiped hair from in front of his eyes, drying his face.

            “What is your name?” Alvarez planned to sound smooth, but balked over the lines in his mind.

            “Lee-Mo,” she replied. “Well, Leomaresa—but just Lee-Mo.”

            “Alvarez,” he paused and noticed for the first time, how proportionate her face seemed. “This is your farm?”

            “My Pops’,” Lee-Mo said, “but us kids been working it our whole lives. Growing all our own foods. You look starved.”

            A lightening shift in Alvarez’s cheeks, along with a nod, was the answer.

            The bountiful spread was more than Alvarez’s imagination could conjure; he had never fed on such a meal. Jerked chicken, steamed saltfish, and fried plantains were the main courses; all the variety Dr. Raymon’s garden offered, and rice-and-beans, were the sides. The food seemed limitless as Alvarez ate and watched the dozen others eat as he did. Dr. Raymon cooked as-long-as someone continued eating. With no more mouths to feed, he picked at the left overs.

            “I am never hungry once I cook,” he claimed. “As the chef, my pleasure is watching my family enjoy my meal.”

            Alvarez thought of his art, in relation to Dr. Raymon’s meal; this was the first-time painting crossed his mind, since his first months working with Maroon Isle Company.

            “Thank you, sir. For the food, sir,” Alvarez said. Once again, the words snagged on the path between his brain and his tongue.

            The table overflowed with food and diners, moments before, but felt empty now. Dr. Raymon sat at the head, finishing his last few bites of saltfish; Lee-Mo and Asir—the boy from the garden—sat to each side of him. She reached across the table and held Asir’s hands. Alvarez settled deeper into his chair next to Lee-Mo.

            “You are welcome anytime,” Dr. Raymon said. “Why are you with us tonight?”

            “Leomar—I mean Lee-Mo—rescued me. She brought me here,” Alvarez said. It was the truth, but an unsatisfying answer. Sounds of children’s laughter and running filled the atmosphere outside and Alvarez pictured the closet his mom fashioned into a studio, for him, when he was nine.

            “She is good for such things,” Dr. Raymon said proudly. “But why do you need rescuing in the first place?”

            Alvarez thought of Maroon Isle before Lee-Mo arrived; he never needed rescuing then. He was tricked into a dirty contract, bullied away from art, and convinced he could survive on binge drinking rum. At least he ate each night too (for the most part). He never blamed Mr. J. for his deceptiveness; rather himself for his inability to expose the sly behavior.

            “I’m a painter,” Alvarez said, making it sound like an excuse. He had not admitted his passion—to even himself—in almost half a decade.

            “A painter?” Lee-Mo said, her head drew back.

            “Which is no excuse not to care for yourself,” Dr. Raymon said in response. “We only have one temple for this life time. You best start taking care of yours.”

            Alvarez’s face was motionless as he nodded in response. Why was he here? He filed through this mind. What was the vulnerability that exposed his life to this danger?

            “I think it’s the rum,” Alvarez admitted. He gave his best attempt to back his actions with the story Mr. Thompson told him, on his first night with Maroon Isle.

            “Bombaclat!” Dr. Raymon said. “All it does, is make you drunk. When you are drunk, you become dumb and forgetful—and more drunk. There is no other option.”

            Lee-Mo left and returned with pre-rolled ganja. Jaysun and Teodore, her older brothers, kept a tray full on the bookshelf, in the other room.

            “This’ll chase the devil out,” Lee-Mo said, her simple smile sewed its way into Alvarez’s memory.

            That night—his belly full and his mind in the clouds—Alvarez slept better than he had in years.

Chosen

The concentration is a young boy, painting himself; the version of himself he is painting, is painting the globe. The light skinned boy is around ten years old, with well-developed locks. His facial features are bold and strong. The boy’s dark hair makes his skin appear transparent. The globe is melting. The oceans’ water collects around Antarctica, forming a peep-hole for the artist—to peek into other realities. The entire background is white, as if the artist sits in an empty studio, working on his premier portrait.

            “I dreamt of Asir last night,” Alvarez said sheepishly. He helped Lee-Mo wiggle the cart from behind a tree, where she had hidden it.

            “He visited in your sleep?” Lee-Mo said and stepped aside for Alvarez to take the cart.

            “I would’ve rather you visited.” He appreciated the slight distance she kept in front of him and contemplated whether she knew how he watched her hips.

            “Did he speak? What’d he say?” She said. “All the doctors say he is mute—even Pops—they say I’m only coping, or I’m crazy, if I believe he speaks through my dreams.”

            “He asked to see my paintings.” Alvarez paused as birds sang in the canopy. “But as in real life, Asir was blind.”

            “He carries universal truths,” Lee-Mo said. “What message did he bring?”

            “At first, it was unclear whether he could see—he could speak—he asked to see my art.” Alvarez said. His skin glistened with perspiration in the mornings first light. He continued, “I held portrait after portrait in front of his face. He would add commentary about how much he like this one or that one.”

            Their walk drew closer to Maroon Isle Company.

            “You said he couldn’t—”

            “I guess he heard me switching ‘em out. I asked if he could see the canvases or not,” Alvarez continued. “He replied, he didn’t need to see the paint, to appreciate the art. ‘Your energy shifts with each portrait. This one, this one’s the one you are most proud of—your heart beat quickens as you glare into the depths of yourself.’ I asked if he wanted me to describe the paintings, the best I could. We agreed—even though I’m not the best speaker.”

            “Which paintings did you show him?” Lee-Mo said, turning back as if they were in his pocket. “May I see them?”

            “I have no paintings. I haven’t for a while,” Alvarez said, his countenance heavy. “Each painting was merely a blank canvas; I hadn’t realized it until this part of my dream. I felt awful, what was I going to do?”

            “What did you do?”

            “The only thing I could think of,” Alvarez said. “I held the blank canvases and let my imagination free, practically painting portraits on dust particles, with my words—the truest liberty.”

            Lee-Mo and Alvarez began on opposite sides of their respected stations and worked toward one another. As they reached around half way, they were within range to talk. They did so as they chopped cane.

            “Asir left your dream, joining mine. Late this morning—just before I woke.” Lee-Mo continued, “He came with news of you.”

            “What’d he say?”

            “You are art,” Lee-Mo replied, grunting a little with art; she splintered the cane with an uneven blade. She pinched a clip between her teeth and locked her jaw the best she could—sweet nectar.

            “I am an artist?” Alvarez stood distracted while he spoke.

            “Yes—but you are also the art.”

            “What is the meaning of this?” Alvarez said, pausing to get a stock. “What else did he say?”

            The distance between Lee-Mo and Alvarez became too broad; he was left alone with his thoughts.

            “I am the artist, but also the art.” Alvarez spoke to himself in moments when he couldn’t meditate. It often illuminated different sections of his perspective. “I’ve been created by some magnificent god, yet I am the creator of my own life.”

Alvarez never bought into everyone else’s religions. He saw the world as it was—art. There is no “good” or “bad” only lightness and darkness.

“God couldn’t have known ambition and pride would be murderers,” Alvarez said, though he knew Lee-Mo still couldn’t hear. He thought of a single, definitive stroke of paint: how it could compliment a portrait perfectly or ruin it entirely. He thought of himself as the stroke—life around him the masterpiece.

As the distance between them closed, he felt handicapped by his verbal communication; again, his thoughts were bound.

“Asir confirmed, you are art,” Lee-Mo said, she tried to help pull the words from the back of his throat. “But what makes you an artist?”

Alvarez had no idea; he always just knew he was.

They touched the topic every day without failure, until Alvarez’s contract expired.

Artist Redemption

Through this visualization of the Mother and Daughter islands, an overwhelming undertone of care giving is represented; the way a mother rocks her baby daughter to sleep each night, later to be rocked to sleep by her daughter—in old age. The islands’ landscape is breath-taking from the ship’s starboard view. Maroon Island blends with the protective hills and strong palm trees of Jamaica’s bliss beaches. A crowd, of family and friends, wish the vessel bon voyage. This is the closest evidence of Maroon Island’s existence there has ever been. Under the surface of clear water, a woman, dark in complexion, with broad shoulders and defined muscles, is chained to the seafloor. There is nothing to be done for her. The schooner is leaving.

Alvarez paused and stood on the deck of the schooner, as the rest of the crew stowed the last bit of cargo below. Jaysun’s childhood friend mated the vessel and arranged Alvarez a position loading and unloading—on each side of the Atlantic. His left hand caressed the folded paper in his pocket and his eyes darted toward the guests’ platform. Lee-Mo was the only one not waving; the rest of them expected their loved ones to return. Her hands rested on Asir’s shoulders, in front of her. Alvarez was gracious Jaysun covered her shift and Mr. J. let her have the day, so she (and Asir) could join him.

Mr. J.’s schedule kept him occupied—too occupied to consider his scheme—Alvarez hoped.

“All-aboard!” The captain called from the helm and men jolted into action.

Alvarez was the only one trying to get off the boat. With the gangway full, he jumped the railing to the dock below. He ran to Lee-Mo. As he approached, he noticed her eyes were closed and welted with tears. He stopped. He remembered his mother’s advice and didn’t say a word, but slipped the paper into Asir’s pocket, rubbed the boy’s head, and returned to the boat.

Leomaresa Caridad,

The correct words have not yet been thought of to depict my heart’s attachment to you. To say, “I love you,” is not just; I have told many girls these words. My feelings now are unparalleled. My decision to leave you behind is regrettable. Your presence hasn’t been absent a day in my mind, since you saved me. I have conversations with you—though I know they are not. I reassure myself, I am making the right decision—for my art. I will dedicate the time, the passion, and the desire that is yours, to my paintings. Your spirit will decorate my gallery, as it does the corners of my heart.

I realize, I never answered your question: what makes me an artist?

The answer is scripted into my being, my breath, my soul. It’s my purpose to create art, for art’s sake, as I live life, for the sake of life’s opportunity. The world will benefit with the visions I hold. I know, if I don’t follow my intuition, life will be darker than even hell—more terrible than the Company at its worst. Like Asir, I see myself as a messenger of the truth. I do not paint for personal desires of popularity, money, or recognition; I paint to give my art breath. The majority won’t understand—this is required to reach the one, maybe two, people each portrait is meant for.

 I have never been more confident than when I say: I will see you again, either in this life or the next.

From Across the Globe:

Only Yours, Alvarez Solomon