Nicola’s important long-distance phone call takes place this afternoon. At 13,10 to be exact. She heads into town with plenty of time to spare. Perhaps too much time. She later tells me how she paced the streets like a mad woman and she even found the time and inclination to have a ti-punch before dialling Dublin. At least the internet café is open so she doesn’t have to stand in a battered telephone cabin at the top of our hill with traffic, goats and nosey neighbours adding to the sound effects. David was in town to give her some advice and support while I was in bed or later doing housework. I had already given plenty of advice and encouragement and I think space and time for reflection was what she needed most today.
But of course an interview would not be complete without a post-mortem. It’s a scorcher of a day and I’m not surprised to see Nicola dying of the heat later that afternoon when Chief Masaille, Gwendal, J.V and I pick her up in town en route to the beach. I am surprised however, to see that her back is burnt. I didn’t think she’d want to get burnt again so soon.
Ludo, Seabastian, Alex and Lionel are already at the beach at Anse Mitan. We must look a strange sight; two pink chicks with seven muscular men in various brown hues. I settle down to read The Island, by Victoria Hislop, which my friend Michele sent me. But between the sea and the sand I have neither the time nor the inclination for reading. Lionel and Alex head for the horizon on their jet skis while the rest of us rest.
It’s Will’s birthday today so we decide to give him a celebratory, and reconciliatory, call. Marjorie, Bea and Jasmine appear as we’re finishing singing Happy Birthday to him. We’re soon lost in conversation with the girls. The girls soon roll up their beach mats and head for the navette while the lads roll up their tongues; there’ll be plenty of time for that as we arrange to meet up in town later.
For the moment however we content ourselves with the wining and dining facilities around Trois Ilets. Beers in the swanky beachfront lounge are first on the agenda. The Jet Ski duo appear with grins pinned from ear to ear by the rush of water and wind. Lionel has a hard time holding unto his glass as he’s still shaking from the excitement of the wild waves. We soon wave goodbye to the daredevil duo and Ludo and Sebastian as they head to Point du Bout for the navette. Zoro, Chief Masaille, J.V, Gwendal and I are peckish. Since we have the car we can afford to stay about the swanky resort a while longer. Savoury crêpes, merguez and chips are ordered and eaten. J.V and Gwendal decide to save their appetites and airgead as they will eat later at the regiment. J.V, however, has the thirst and his initial ti-punch almost becomes three.
When we’re dropped home we invite the lads in for a drink. Of course they oblige. We’re delighted to see that our neighbour Fred is back. We introduce everybody but these damn French dudes can’t even feign an interest in one another. The lads soon leave but Oliver tells us he’ll be back later to bring us out.
Little did we know that Oli’s late night run up the mountain would end up with a run-in with the police. I’m in the back texting away. I glance out the window every now and again and I do think that the group of people we’ve just passed have given us a strange look; it must be because they’ve spied two blanches in a car with a local. Also, I don’t remember ever going along by this cemetery wall nor do I remember approaching Rue Emile Zola from this side. Anyway, I’m sure that both le conducteur and la co-pilote are doing their jobs. Au contraire, we’ve just gone down a one-way street. Lights are soon flashing behind us as we’re flagged down by the police. They flash their torches in at us. Oliver gets out and deals with them. It takes four cops five minutes to give him a caution; there are probably four guys around the corner selling smack while we were in the wrong lane. We’re lucky town is so dead and that nobody was pelting along towards us. We’ve gone past that street everyday but according to Oliver a lack of markings and an abundance of nattering from Nicola were to blame. He tells the police this. One female flic shines her torch in the passenger window and tells Nicola not to distract drivers in future.
We eventually arrive at the Mayflower to find the guys tapping their watches. The story is retold and we reload. Marjorie and Bea are in Oasis upstairs and we shout up that we’ll soon join them. It’s 100% Rock night in the Mayflower but somehow we manage to chat above Michel’s blaring beats. Marge and Bea soon descend and join us. A new military member has also joined our posse – Bertrain the sailor. Soldiers and sailors usually stand on wobbly ground but he’s sound, unlike the other yobos who try to chat us ladies up. Lionel is baring his teeth but there’s no need to flourish fists. Has he gone a bit loopy? A bit yo-yo perhaps as Yo-yo is his nickname. Sebastian is Babas. Christophe’s surname is Malgâche and so that has stuck as his surnom among the lads.
It seems like we’ve only just settled when the music stops and Michel tells us to make tracks. The girls suggest going to Oasis upstairs. A good group soon forms. The prices are decent, there’s some new company and the tunes are mellow even if they aren’t moveable.
Oliver’s Martiniquan friend William engages me in conversation after insulting Bea by saying that she’s got an aggressive look in her eye. She goes a bit ape and spits out her Spanish retort. William and I retreat to the corner seats to talk about mindsets and skiing. This guy has been all around the world with the army. He commutes to and from the regiment from Rivière Pilote every day; it’s not protocol but it’s tolerated. He almost breaks his back laughing at my Créole interjections and I have to go mingle with others before I cause him severe harm. Roman, with his long greying locks, is floating around the bar, José, the barman, is busy at the bar and a pretty street looking duo are propping up the bar. I get talking to one of them, a Parisian called Ali. He’s a marine. Our conversation about travel touches every continent and we soon become profound and philosophical as we talk about life.
Nicola and I head to the terrace for a breather. We meet Nicolas and Jean-Alain there. Surprise, surprise - they’re marines. It turns out that Nicolas plays rugby in Diamant and he knew Gethin. He’s a deeply tanned, Italian looking, short winger who speaks perfect English. It seems incredulous that he learnt his English in school. But he seems a bit put out to have met a girl with the same name as him!
Jean-Alain is also short but he’s built like a tank. He’s a boxer, and a tattoo-artist’s palette. Three tattoos are evident. One is thick Celtic band. He tells us that half the Caribbean was discovered by our Celtic relations and that’s why so many Bretons are here in Martinique – to lay claim to their heritage. A huge orange flaming sun takes up his full bulging bicep. It’s for the island of Antigua which he dreamed of visiting as a child. Odder still his smallest tattoo is the Chinese symbol for caravan. Caravan, eh?! Why so? Jean-Alain’s life is like something out of a film. He grew-up in Brittany, in a caravan, with his adoptive family after he was orphaned. He didn’t go to school – and this he regrets. He took up different trades but he stuck with building before joining the marines. He met an Irish guy called O’Connell, from Dublin, on a project and their friendship was such that they visited one another after the job was done. It was through this relationship that he first started to learn English. When O’Connell moved to Glasgow Jean-Alain was on an assignment there as a marine and they met up. It happened that Jean-Alain had three-day weekend. He decided to extend his holiday by a day but in fact he delayed the boat and was put on punishment duty for three months. Supposedly the one day was worth the other ninety of hardship and hard shit. He’s gas. He loves all things English. Words such as Bentley and Bobbies keep cropping up. He has a good grasp of English though he’s very tentative and needs to be encouraged constantly.
Lionel, Alex and Sebastian soon decide to depart as they have work in the morning… well in three hours actually. Oliver drops them home but he returns. By this stage I have started talking to Jonathon, a marine from Venezuela. I glance over to Nicola but she’s deep in conversation with Nicolas. Oliver has disappeared. He just left in a flash. I didn’t see him leave but Nicola tells me that he just got up and left without saying goodbye or otherwise. I text him but he doesn’t reply. It’s very odd but we continue chatting, presuming that he’ll be back. However, once dawn comes we start to yawn. Nicolas offers to drop us home. We fear that the bottom of his car will probably drop us on the street before he drops us home as it’s as bashed up as bangers come. There are no back seats – just a tire and lots of empty water bottles. The first bus will leave in a half hour but we decide to avail of the lift with himself and Jean-Alain.
We do indeed get dropped home but not before we traverse the whole of the city. Nicola is not a very efficient co-pilot today at all at all. Firstly we drive up by Schoelcher unto the Rocade instead of going directly to Route de Balata, then we miss the turn and end up around Mont Gerald where I give private lessons. Next thing we know we’re in Godissard on narrow little roads with bin lorries appearing from every entrance. Half an hour later we eventually turn up the hill to Post-Colon. Jean-Alain and I have to brace ourselves at every turn. I suggest a few cushions or a couch with truncated legs for future passengers. My bladder is about to burst as we crawl out of the boot so we make our goodbyes as short as the two lads who brought us home. We descend into the garden past Fred’s illuminated apartment. The poor divil is getting up for work and we’re just coming home. I don’t linger around to greet him as my mind is set on the toilet seat. Toilet. Teeth. Tranquility.
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