accepted. The Paleolithic was past. It was time to get over that.
Roy settled in comfortably, helping Crash with his small fishing
business and sleeping a lot. His benefactor’s appetite made sure
there was always plenty of good food and wine in the sprawling
house. Roy began to grow fat and happy and simple. He gradually
unloaded his life story to Crash, tossing it out like superfluous
baggage on an overloaded airplane.
“Hey, if you’re interested,” Crash said one morning over coffee
and hot rolls, “I’m heading over to check out a concert in a few days.
Apparently it’s quite a show. This is the last week. It’s on a private
island just off the coast of Jamaica.”
He handed Roy a page torn from a Caribbean tourist magazine.
“The Caribbean’s Newest Island,” it read, quizzically. As if something
didn’t exist until given a name. A large photograph of the performer
lay under a headline which Roy hoped contained one typographical
error, not two.
SAMMIE DAVIS, JEW NOIR
SINGS “THE BIRTH OF THE BLUES.”
COME SEE HIS LAST PERFORMANCE
BEFORE HE RETURNS TO LAS VEGAS!
“I can’t go,” Roy lamented, “I’ve lost my passport.”
“No problem. The US Embassy here can issue a new one.”
“Crash. I’ve jumped bail.”
Flakes of bread fell from his lips as he said reassuringly, “I’ll
arrange something.”
Crispin Ashley Winfield and his associate James Reginald Perry left
Trinidad on a flight three days later. They sat toasting each other
with gins and tonic as the Captain’s voice squawked over the radio.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a soft
Caribbean lilt, “On our left-hand side we can see the mouth of the
great Orinoco river emptying out of Venezuela into the Atlantic
ocean. The enormous river creates a series of canals there and this is
why Spanish explorers named it Venezuela. Venezuela means ‘the
little Venice.’”
“The past is inescapable,” Roy sighed, slurping his cocktail.
“Oh, but it is Reg old pal,” Crash said, tapping the small book in
Roy’s breast pocket. “New passport, new name, new destiny.”
ABYSSINIA
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