All the signs indicated that Amarelle was moving away. After the first weekend absence, when she met her sister in Manhattan, there was the evening she phoned to say she would be spending two weeks at her sister's place. The reason? Sammy D. had flown back to his island on vacation. Aschelle was all alone in the house.
She arranged to come to the Bronx for one evening. She cooked a pot of food and a tray of chicken cutlets which was stored in the refrigerator; all he had to do was heat it up in the evening, make sure he bought fresh vegetables; and he'd be fine.
She stayed that night with him, fussing, asking questions about the neighborhood as if she'd been away for months: did they catch the crazy man with the gun? you mean, he's still out there waiting to shoot at people in their doorways? And the Spanish people – still hanging out on the stoop at night? In bed her hips hinted at readiness; then the following morning she was off to work; and that evening she was back at her sister's in Peekskill; leaving him his books and his silence; not understanding why anyone, give a chance, would prefer to spend more days and nights in the Bronx.
Radix didn't complain. He'd been self-sufficient ever since his college days.
Living with him in the Bronx was at first a daring modern move for a girl from the islands. Back home her parents were telling islanders their daughters were having the time of their lives. One lived in a nice house in upstate New York; the other had chosen to live with someone in rather dangerous circumstances in Harlem. ("Daddy thinks you've moved in with someone in Harlem," Aschelle announced, delighted at the stir the sisters were creating back home.)
One Saturday afternoon, unusually bright and mild for mid-October, Radix went into a store and bought a bicycle. It was a slender-bodied American bike with multiple gears and bright colours. The store owner gave him a reasonable price since summer biking was over, and the young man spent some time inspecting the frame as if it were a horse. He tried to persuade Radix to purchase trimmings and accessories. Radix settled for a helmet. He rode out the store into streaming traffic which to his delight treated him fairly as another road user.
The following morning he stepped out his building; fellows on the stoop made room for him to pass. They commented on the bike and watched him, curious and respectful.
He thought they'd be less traffic to contend with so early in the morning as the city still slept. He crossed a bridge and rode all the way into Manhattan.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 