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Obeah on Sunday Island: Fact or Superstition Cont'd

Roseau, Dominica (TDN) – Finally, I felt comfortable enough to explain the reason for coming to see him. After I'd finished, Wallace sat back in his chair and contemplated me for what seemed a very long moment.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asked.

"I think so. The place is doing well, from everything I've seen. It could do even better with our tour operation as a partner. It's a natural fit."

"That's not what I meant. Are you sure that you want to get involved with Mr Byron?"

His question had caught me off guard. "Why do you ask? Is there something I should know?"

Wallace didn't respond immediately. He rose slowly from his chair, shuffled over to the edge of the verandah, and glanced toward the mountains. "Looks like we'll get rain tonight," he mumbled; more to himself, it seemed, than to me.Then he turned to face me.

"Sir, it was only a question which you need to ask yourself. You're a white man, a foreigner. You don't know our ways and how we think. Or what we believe in. Or are afraid of. We, as mortals, cannot cast judgement upon others, because we are all sinners."

Here comes the sermon, I thought to myself.

"On the other hand," he continued, "I cannot deny the right to my own instincts-just as you, sir, have to yours. Questions reveal truths as well as lies. Although still young, you are obviously a man of the world and must know that".

" I still quite don't understand," I persisted "Have you had problems with Byron? Has he not paid you the rent?" "He has always paid. And on time. No,sir. Personally, I have never had a problem with him."

"That's good to hear," I said, relieved. Still, the way he'd phrased his question had left me a little uneasy. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Know?"

"About Byron."

Wallace was silent for a moment, obviously contemplating how he would phrase his answer.

"Let's just say that he's special. Not like others."

An odd answer, I thought; then decided not to pursue the subject. We moved on to more general things: the upcoming election, rising import taxes, the need for better hospital equipment, and concerns about rising crime. As it turned out, we agreed about a lot of things. And, in the process, got to know each other a little better.

In the end, just as Byron had predicted, Friendly Wallace agreed to provide me a formal lease for two years-but in my name only-with renewal rights subject to mutual consent.

The terms were extremely reasonable. He would ask his lawyer in Roseau to draw up the necessary documents.

As for his comments about Byron, they were already fading from my memory. I eventually put them down to a combination of Wallace's own eccentricity and, I suspected, his disapproval of Byron's renowned un-Christian lifestyle. Besides, I reminded myself, I was an entrepreneur. Entrepreneurs have to be willing to take some risks, don't they?

That's how it started. Within weeks, Coconut Oasis was busier than ever. Deliveries of food supplies went as smoothly as we'd anticipated. I also had access to a 12-foot Glastron speedboat in Roseau; this was used once a week to bring up the more perishable items, especially our own imported (and very expensive) Angus steaks, along with wine and liquor.

Using this method of transportation, the trip to Portsmouth took less than 45 minutes, which guaranteed that produce would still be fresh, and meat still frozen, upon arrival.

Over the next two months, business became better than ever. We now had so many reservations that we had to invest in new tables and chairs, beach umbrellas, and a third refrigerator.

About once a week, I would overnight in Portsmouth and help Byron behind the bar. I began to notice that, oddly, none of our customers were locals, not even at the bar.

In fact, apart from Byron and our employees-or the occasional paid musician-one hardly ever saw a black face in Coconut Oasis. When I queried Byron about this, he explained that it was because our prices were considerably higher than those of other local establishments. But then, he added smugly, so was the quality.

I accepted his explanation and never gave the matter a second thought. Until much later, that is. By then, it was too late.

The other thing that struck me as a little strange was that, whenever I mentioned Byron's name to local merchants, they seemed to not want to talk about him, or suddenly became too busy to carry on the conversation.

The same applied to others whom I'd met casually on the street. Most likely, I told myself, locals weren't all that eager to share gossip about their own with strangers. Another subtle warning which went unheeded.

February passed, and then came March. Although the northern winter would soon come to an end, the first part of April was still considered high season for Caribbean tourism.

As night fell, Portsmouth harbor became alive with bobbing masthead lights. And the reservations just kept coming. By now, we found ourselves completely booked almost every night.

Once a week, Byron would escort me to his back office, lock the door behind him, and together we would sit and tally receipts, expenses, cash, and bank deposit slips.

After the final numbers had been crunched, we would split the previous week's profits , as agreed, straight down the middle.

Some weeks, I would return to Roseau with over a thousand US dollars in my pocket, a small fortune in those days. And our employees were doing well, too.

Some guests were even leaving US hundred dollar bills as tips. No question about it: business couldn't have been better. Coconut Oasis had finally come into its own.

But the bubble was about to burst.

Toward the end of April, Peterson Angol, one of our senior drivers, relayed an urgent message to me from Byron. There had been a power outage two days before in Portsmouth which, unfortunately discovered too late, had damaged one of our freezers.

More than a hundred pounds of prime steaks had been ruined. Could I please rush up replacements as soon as possible?

This translated to a huge loss-just the import taxes alone came to several hundred dollars-which also meant that almost two weeks' worth of profits had instantly gone down the drain. But I had no choice.

I delivered the replacement steaks by boat the following morning. Byron shook his head despondently as he showed me the faulty unit which, he said, had already been repaired by a local electrician. A bad fuse, he said. None of our kitchen staff had told him anything.

By now, the season was slowly winding down. The majority of yachts whom we relied upon were preparing to transit to the Mediterranean for the summer season, or had already left.

Still, Coconut Oasis had a decent number of customers, although, by now, profits had declined significantly. The same situation applied to the Safaris.

That's how it was in the Caribbean, I reminded myself; make hay while the sun shines, then tread water as best you can and wait patiently for the return of the next winter season.

About three weeks later, I received a second piece of bad news: another power failure. But this time it was far worse. Our largest freezer had been severely damaged after its motor had caught fire.

Not only were the contents contaminated, according to Byron, the unit itself had been burned beyond repair. We would have to find a replacement.

Again, I was faced with no options. Any kind of appliances, especially freezers, were notoriously expensive in Dominica; not only because they were imported, but because of the taxes which the government slapped on.

In fact, new freezer units could be costlier than some used cars. And there were seldom, if ever, second hand ones on the market.

This time, practically everything I'd managed to put aside over the last four months vanished in a single transaction at J.E. Nassief's appliance counter. What I'd hoped would be every entrepreneur's dream of success had somehow turned into a nightmare. How, I asked myself, could we have been so unlucky?

Another speedboat ride to Portsmouth. The new freezer delivered. I didn't see Byron, nor did I wish to. I didn't want to see anybody, in fact. I was utterly depressed and just wanted to get back to Roseau as fast as I could.

At least there I could mope in the privacy of my own room. Steering past the mouth of the Layou River, oblivious to the beautiful sunset, I found myself wondering why I hadn't listened more carefully to those words from behind Friendly Wallace's mask.

I couldn't pinpoint it, but looming somewhere in the back of my mind, vague premonition had become reality. But I couldn't yet see its shape.

All that changed a few days later, when Isaac Newton Shillingford stopped by the office to say hello in the course of one of his infrequent visits to town. Shillingford, one of Dominica's wealthiest and most prominent businessmen, owned Syndicate estate, a vast grapefruit plantation high in the hills above Portsmouth.

He was also the father of our office landlord, Ivan, which is how I'd come to know him. Unlike many Dominicans I'd met, he was well traveled and easy to talk to. And, as I'd discovered on several previous occasions, always willing to offer sound advice if you asked him.

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