Send Out You Hand

E. O'Marde Dorbrene

Description

Send Out You Hand follows the intersecting lives of business men and women, socio-political activists and academics across the Caribbean as they attempt to chart a course to regional unity. Though it is a work a fiction, this story brings to light many issues faced by Caribbean people. The characters are examined around issues of love, sex, health, race and relocation as it relates to this tumultuous social and political climate. It takes place across six Caribbean countries, providing a galloping travelogue through the region.

Informations

• Publié par: Hansib Publications
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910553152
• Langue: English

Extrait

Send Out You Hand
A contemporary Caribbean political love story
by
Dorbrene E. O Marde
Published by Hansib Publications in 2013
Hansib Publications Limited
P.O. Box 226, Hertford, Hertfordshire, SG14 3WY, UK
Website: www.hansibpublications.com
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-906190-56-9 eISBN: 978-1-910553-15-2
Copyright Dorbrene E. O.Marde
There is no claim of copyright to the lyrics of the calypsoes quoted in Chapter 17
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Designed by
Print Resources, Hertfordshire, UK Printed in The United Kingdom
To:
Ingrid, Kaloma, Jason, Kayode, Khari

My Caribbean family
Uniting these West Indies lands / may take us generations But independence in this region don t mean one damn If we can t be independent as one
Illusion , King Short Shirt 1977
1
Ralf Tarver shook his head and smiled to himself. The lyrics of a song he had heard on some strange FM station this morning spun around in his head - it s a dance, it s a balance . He did not know the singer; he did not remember the melody, but the tag, open to so many interpretations, made sense at this moment. Why, he was not sure. The airline staff was pleasant and accommodating this morning. The female dreadlocked Immigration officer actually smiled with him and wished him a good flight. The security officers seemed apologetic that he had to remove his shoes to cross the cold tiled floor through their scanners - all in the interest of North American insecurity. The Coffee Shoppe coffee actually tasted like coffee. No problems. Even the over-aged flight attendant seemed to have had a good night last night somewhere.
He took a thick folder from his computer bag before stowing it in the overhead compartment of the 777 Caribbean Airways jet. He was headed to New York for a meeting with a new energy consortium International Energy Resources that had expressed interest in the everlasting Caribbean sun, a source of energy that few politicians in the region had taken seriously. Their newly found coalition with the Venezuelan split-personality Chavez and his oil wealth and oil resources had again forced them away from thinking of new sustainable sources of energy and re-locked them into fossil fuels - fossils locked in fossil fuels.
Debra DeeDee Gornsten recognized him as soon as she entered the cabin. He knew - he saw the flicker and withdrawal of recognition. But she was in control - of her emotions. A quick glance at her boarding pass confirmed that the single vacant window seat in first class was her seat - D2, next to D1, where he sat. The walk down the aisle was short.
She flashed him the-fancy-meeting-you-here cheerful semi-smile as he eased his five eleven frame to a standing position, respectfully welcoming her and offering free passage to her seat - to four and a half hours of potential unease. She would not make that happen. Her reach for the in-flight magazine was automatic, her jade ring and pearl bracelet flashing through the bright incandescence of the overhead light.
She knew him as one of the male golf club group that drank hard after supposedly exercising, revelling in hearsay and innuendo, most incredibly loud and extremely stupid. All, as far as she was concerned, were sexist. Word had floated back to her that the club house came alive with snide putdowns and old maid jokes when her impending marriage to Bagley Gornsten became grist for their testosterone. She wished them all pot bellies and failure. Ralf was present that evening, so her informant told her.
And in addition she just did not like his style. He was one of those who made a style of having no style - always exuding confidence and certainty - what her friend Skyl Anthony had called a sort of non-offensive arrogance . She and Skyl shared a friendship since school, evolved out of contest for the first place in class after class and developed as partners on the school debating team. She suspected that Skyl secretly liked the son of a bitch, though appearing to share her resentment - as any good friend should.
Ralf did not know this, none of it. He was not a member of the golf club although many of his friends were. He had been there a couple of times including one evening to meet a visiting colleague for a beer. He had overheard the hard heckle about Debra s last chance but did not find it funny. But he did not speak out against it except if one considered a sub-breath murmur of disapproval as vocal dissent. As a matter of fact, he left the club house steaming with resentment at the behaviour of big, supposedly intelligent men - many, our leaders or at least aspiring leaders.
Later though, he would become drawn into the public chorus of both men and women proclaiming her aloofness since her return from studies and even more so since her marriage. He noticed but did not try to bridge her withdrawal of their acquaintance. They had known each other since secondary school days - she a few years older. One of his best friends and her younger sister played at boyfriend and girlfriend in their teens at school binges and bazaars away from the knowledge of her father, head teacher Barnes the Stern, as they called him.
Her husband was Bagley Gornsten, Chairman and Managing Director of CleanEn - his boss. He liked Ralf, she knew, openly jealous of his zeal and energy. He described him to anyone who asked about his management team as one of his best managers - destined to go places, Bagley s words. She remembered the praise her husband showered on him at a company dinner years ago, thanking him for the exceptional work he had done in reforming the supply system - an achievement that had eluded the group think of the older managers.
She was one of five managers of CleanEn, a company formed by her husband s deceased father to provide alternative energy consulting services to the Caribbean private sector and Governments. The consulting company expanded into manufacturing - CleanEn Enterprises - designing and building or assembling at least a dozen solar products, and the manufacture of solar water heating systems. The retail outlet, CleanEn Imperatives came only five years ago and can now be found on every Caribbean island. She was its Manager, headquartered in Johnstown, Oualaldi. She knew that he, Ralf was one of two managers under consideration to replace Haklin, the General Manager who was due for retirement next year. She was the second.
It was her second appointment to the company. She had worked there as an assistant to the Finance Manager for six months before her husband - then her managing director - convinced her, immediately after their marriage to leave the workforce, to rest her MBA in Finance and Accounting from Tulane University in Louisiana, to coax his bachelor house, the one he moved into after his wife s death, into a marriage home.
She did not believe that she would, but she became comfortable with the new role - living in interior decoration catalogues, roaming New York and Miami bed-and-linens, befriending Evah Morris, an events coordinator and interior director whom they engaged, and her husband Dr Nat Morris, a psychiatrist in the newly opened hospital. They rekindled her dormant interest in bridge, establishing a weekly session that rotated through their home, hers and that of her friend and partner Skyl Anthony.
She took to gardening, spending much of her mornings under a broad straw hat, in leather gloves and running shoes, reviving garden spaces that had become mini-jungles. The results of her work gave her pleasure - crotons, roses, bougainvilleas, orchids, hibiscuses of many colours, ficus, lady-of-the-night and dwarf palms decorating the sunlight and on occasion perfuming the nights. It was the pains of gardening in her legs and shoulders and back, long unexercised beyond the weekly obligatory and routine marital romp that urged her to the gym where she shaped and unveiled her inner image - size ten, toned, energetic, surrounded by precious metals and stones.
Boredom eventually overwhelmed her when the need for creativity in her daily tasks evaporated. There was no longer joy in seeing flowers bloom - she had sown the seeds or slips and cared for the plants already; no achievement lurked in dusting the huge ceramic vases - she had already chosen them; no trials and tests hid in the shining of stainless steel stoves and refrigerators; no intellectual challenges emerged from spending her days with the help polishing brass or changing curtains. She knew she would find little satisfaction in volunteerism, a route Bagley suggested she take in his resistance to her growing need to restart the practice of her profession; to escape to work.
Her life was good. General Manager of CleanEn would make it even better. It had nothing to do with money - she did not want; but she had no fear of challenge, she had no dread of power. She understood why the Board - including her own husband, she guessed - would have problems with a husband and wife team as Executive Director and General Manager. Bagley simply explained it away as one of the downsides of having gone public . The rules changed - the stability and nepotism of the family company, abridged.
Cheers... Ralf said after he had poured for them both the complimentary champagne served with breakfast. He thought champagne pretentious - but what the hell. The reach of his crystal was tentative. One second can be such a long time. She yielded and adroitly proffered a feather-light touch of her crystal to his. Her swift movement slowed as she raised the glass to her accurately painted red shiny lips.
to life... she muttered in response to his cheers . Corny, she thought. They had not spoken beyond the coi