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Obeah on Sunday Island: Fact or Superstition Cont'd

Roseau, Dominica (TDN) – Even Doug Robertson, our English mechanic and a personal friend, seldom spoke to me these days. As for Dominica Safaris, it had suddenly become a burden I no longer wanted to bear. An almost overwhelming sense of pessimism, entwined with self-pity, had taken hold of me. I wanted out.

One day, Lionel Pinard, the scion of a wealthy local family, dropped by for friendly chat. I knew that Lionel owned a small derelict-looking freighter which he kept moored off Roseau, Most of his voyages were to the neighboring French islands, usually to bring in certain delicacies for the larger supermarkets.

But he also transported regular freight , as well as occasional tourists on fishing trips to Bird Island. His mother, Teresa, often prepared lunches for our Safari guests.

Finally, Lionel Pinard revealed the real reason behind his visit. Had I ever considered selling Dominica Safaris, he asked, casually.

His question had come straight out of the blue and had caught me off guard.. "Well", I replied, as nonchalantly as I could."I have to admit that the thought has crossed my mind a couple of times. Why do you ask?"

Lionel went on to explain that his family had always thought that taking tourists by jeep through Dominica's jungles was a great idea. In his opinion, the business had a lot of potential, especially if it were locally owned.

For one thing, overheads would be reduced dramatically. Doing business in Dominica, he added, was tough at the best of times. And it was very important to have connections.

He was certainly right there. And I knew that he wouldn't have come to see me without his parents' blessing. After all, they were the ones with the money.

And that's how it happened. Three weeks later, I had packed my bags and was on my way to New York City and another life. Doug Robertson, when I had told him the news, had decided to return to England to resume his career as a freelance marine engineer.

The final payout had been pathetically small, with almost nothing for the goodwill side of the business itself, only for the agreed value of the vehicles, tools, and office furniture. Still, I considered myself lucky. I was finally free. It was time to move on with my life.

Once in New York, I went back to my old profession as a photojournalist. But it was a struggle . I was an unknown in America, and there was a lot of competition.

To make ends meet, I even resumed my former work at the opposite end of the camera lens, as a bit actor or extra-sometimes even as a male model, (which actually paid far better) something I'd had moderate success with in London. (There, in a rare stroke of good fortune, I'd been chosen to replace Roger Moore as the Brylcreem Man after Moore had moved from commercials to stardom as the Saint, a popular television series which would eventually land him the role of James Bond.)

But here, in New York City, the majority of advertising agencies preferred to work with established people they already knew. It could be dog eat dog at times.

Every one in the profession, including myself, was hoping for that lucky break. For most, it never came. To make matters worse, I had never been able shake off my feeling of depression, not even with prescribed medication.

Why was I feeling like this, I kept asking myself . I was in excellent health and had a lot to be thankful for. But, deep down inside, I had little or no confidence in myself, and this must have shown.

Even simulating a convincing laugh at some audition was difficult. I soon began to realize that most studio and ad executives would immediately sense this during the course of an initial interview. If they didn't feel comfortable, I knew, they'd just give the job to some one else. That's how it was in New York.

Still, somehow, I managed to survive. Now, let's move the clock forward , to more than four years later: a dismal wet afternoon on East 66th street in Manhattan.

I'd stepped under a bus shelter, waiting for the rain to stop. Just behind me was one of the city's numerous psychic reader establishments, often referred to as fortune tellers parlors.

The psychic herself was sheltering under her basement canopy, a tall, colorfully-dressed woman, probably in her early forties, with raven-black hair and long, brightly-painted crimson fingernails.

Judging from the the style of her clothing, I guessed that she was originally from somewhere in eastern Europe. Maybe even a gypsy.

We eventually became engaged in conversation. She was from Romania, she said. Her parents had died in a Nazi concentration camp. She'd come to America as a young child, sponsored by an aunt who had since passed away. And so it went. After a few minutes, she asked me whether I'd be interested in having my fortune read.

"No thanks," I told her. (Anyway, I had never believed in such things). "Why not ?" she insisted. "You can give me whatever you wish. Anyway, what else is there to do on a rainy day? Come on down ."

I did, She gestured for me to take a chair at a small wooden table in the middle of the room. I thought that I could smell a faint scent of incense. Then, after closing the curtains , she sat down at the opposite end of the table .

"Let me see your hands," was all that she said. Not once did she ask my name . Nor for any other personal information.

Then, under the faint light from an overhanging lamp, she proceeded to examine every line on my palms and fingers. The silence was only occasionally broken by a grunt or an "uh-uh", sometimes accompanied by a nod of her head.

The reading took almost fifteen minutes.

Finally, she released my hands and sat back in her chair, eyes closed, as if the experience had exhausted her. By now, her expression had become serious,

"I can see that you once lived on a tropical island," she began, her eyes still closed."An island with many mountains and many rivers. I can see green, green everywhere."

I stared at her in disbelief. "I see that someone has placed an evil curse on you ," she continued. "They took something that belonged to you and placed it inside the coffin of a person who died in great misery. That misery has now come to you ."

There was more. "I can see that someone now , just barely," she went on. "He has gold in his mouth and is married to a light-skinned woman. But he himself is dark ."

I sat straight up in my chair, as if a bolt of electricity had hit me. Byron, I remembered, had at least four gold teeth in his mouth. And he was married to the Carib chief 's sister.

"And your life has been miserable ever since ," she continued . "You are alone. You do not know where your life will take you . You do not even know who you are ."

Her words were followed by total silence. A few moments later, the psychic opened her eyes, as if emerging from a deep trance . As for myself, no words could have adequately described what I felt at that moment. Shock, disbelief, and, above all, fear, all rolled into one.

When I finally rose from the table, I could actually feel my legs trembling. I dug into my pocket and placed a hundred dollars on the table.

"I think that the rain's stopped. I'd better get on my way ." I started to move toward the door, then paused. I had to ask her one last question. "Can you remember anything of what you just told me?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "Not a word. It was the spirits talking to you through me. I was only their voice." I didn't sleep that night. Nor the next. It took me two more days to finally reach Peterson on the telephone.

"Peterson, this is important. Do you remember if anything that belonged to me ever went missing when we were in Portsmouth? Anything at all? Please try to remember " His reply came almost immediately. "Sure I do. That brand new bathing suit. On the beach in front of Coconut Oasis. Someone must have stolen it, you told me. You never found it, you said."

The line had suddenly become poor, with a lot of crackling and static. Peterson's voice had faded in and out, but I had still heard what he'd said.

"I need you to do something for me, Peterson . It's urgent." "Tell me." "I need you to find someone on the island who can remove a hex from me . I don't care what it costs, as long as it 'a somebody who really knows about those things. As soon as you find that person, I'll fly down to Dominica. Can you do it?" Page 1|Page 2|Page 3|Page 5