Here Comes the Sun (18 page)

“It answer mine.”

“Mine too.”

“Ah thought so. Now I'll go on,” Margot said. “Do not accept clients without me knowing about it. I call the shots. If ah don't think you're the right girl for the job, then I won't use you. Because these aren't just tourists we dealing wid. Like ah said, they are also the men we want to invest in our hotel. Our clients will be able to request their favorites on a regular basis. But it's mostly my discretion. Lastly, yuh duty is to serve. So yuh have to be willing to do anything that the client asks. Anything. Even if is to lick di dirt off him shoes. I don't want to hear any complaints from them about stubborn girls. Remembah you're disposable. One slipup an' yuh gone. Yuh must be able to satisfy di clients an' walk away in good standing.”

All fifteen recruits signed the contract, and it was this cohort that Margot introduced to Alphonso and the potential investors of his hotel empire. On the night of this private gathering, she paraded the girls like virgins through Babylon, having them walk out in veils and long cloaks with nothing underneath. Margot turned to Alphonso and his guests. “Gentlemen, I present to you our queens of the night.” One by one the girls dropped their cloaks and lifted their veils. The men were visibly pleased. Privately, Margot admired them, content. She told them what Alphonso told her: “
Mek me proud.
”

And just like that Margot became a boss lady. A boss lady can be counted on. Does the dirty work. The men dig into their wallets for pleasures pure and deep. Margot's girls can't be rivaled. Their customers exit the hotel with long, conquering strides, whistling softly through the lobby. Days later they might return for another round, another hour with an island girl who has them biting their pillows, curling their toes, and swallowing moans that rise from their throats. They're baffled by their own helplessness when Margot tells them that a particular girl they requested isn't available. No one has ever made them feel so dependent—not barmaids, not servants, not assistants or secretaries, not tailors of fine suits, not expensive bottles of scotch, not their wives' silences, not even God.

But even with all the money coming in, Margot isn't satisfied. Something about her new role feels fake. Though she has been selling herself since high school, there is something dirty about selling other broken women, especially girls as young as her sister. She hardens her heart again. If she can succeed with this—between the money it brings and the secrets she'll know—Alphonso will have to give her the manager job at last. She's lived with regret before. Delores once made her break a chicken's neck so that she could cook it for dinner. She will never forget the screaming bird, the drops of blood on dirt, the dangling tendon. Yet, they were all satisfied that night.

Margot watches Miss Novia Scott-Henry, the new general manager, closely: The way she floats around the property, barging into people's conversations and telling them to work: “
Leave idle chatter for later . . . we have a hotel to run, people to attend to. Chop, chop!
” Even the way she unpacks her salads at lunch (who eats only salad as a meal?), wielding a silver fork and chewing contemplatively, her eyes trained on a document before her. Once in a while a piece of leaf or a bit of salad dressing would fall on the way to her mouth and she would pick it up with a napkin or brush it away. She's not a clean eater, this woman. Sometimes she hands Margot documents with coffee stains on them.

Miss Scott-Henry leaves her office door open at all times. Margot knows the woman takes frequent bathroom breaks because of all the water she drinks. She also sucks her teeth when in deep concentration and likes to take the bottom of a pen to her mouth and chew. Margot even listens in on the woman's phone calls; hears her friendly chatter to a business associate or someone from the
Jamaica Gleaner
or
Observer
calling to interview her as the former Miss Jamaica Universe winner, “
the new face of the tourism industry.
” Margot rolls her eyes at this, because she believes Alphonso hired the woman for that very reason, to bring publicity to his hotel. Just put a high-profile beauty queen in charge—one who shaved her head of beautiful locks to donate all her hair to cancer patients and who left the modeling industry to pursue a business degree—and people will flock to the property, though Margot believes foreigners couldn't care less about that.

There are other surprising things about Miss Novia Scott-Henry. In the two weeks since she started, she has learned everyone's names. “
How yuh doing, Brenda? Take care, Faye. Don't work too hard, Rudy. Let me see dat hose, Floyd. Nice hairstyle, Patsy.
” She converses with the lower staff as though they are all the same rank as her—another trait Margot regards with mild suspicion. Margot became skeptical the minute the woman arrived on the scene with her turquoise blue cowrie-shell glasses, her closely cropped hair (all that's left of the long hair that once cascaded in waves down her back, which was seen on all the 1980s calendars), and her sharply tailored pantsuits. Her beauty is indisputable, and she's as sweet as she is tall. So sweet that she leaves a bitter taste on Margot's tongue. Something sinister lurks behind her bright beauty-queen shine, the “Good mornings” and “Good evenings” she gives so freely, and the openness of her face. It's the custard-pudding face of someone who will never have to work hard for anything; someone who enters a room and knows all the men's eyes will be on her, yet plays it off by complimenting other women, no matter how frumpy. It's the face of a snake who will accept a plate of food or a glass of water at your house and, when you turn your back, throw it all away. Margot wants to know what she's hiding and what's behind her power over Alphonso.

“How long yuh think she'll last?” Margot asks Kensington.

“Longer than Dwight, fah sure,” Kensington says while stapling some receipts together. “An' definitely longer than dis drought! Is like we ah roas' in hell.”

Margot looks in Miss Novia Scott-Henry's direction. She's outside, talking to Beryl, the voluptuous female security guard who never smiles. Their heads are lowered in conversation, sneaking furtive glances around the property as though whoever they speak of might ambush them. Margot wonders if they're talking about the girls who've been coming around as of late. Beryl prevented one of them from entering the premises last week because she didn't have proper ID. This infuriated Margot, because the girl couldn't get to her client on time. Beryl has complained to Boris, the head of hotel security, about the young girls, but Boris already knows about Alphonso's scheme. He promptly removed Beryl from front gate duty and put her in charge of the parking lot. Since then, Beryl has been more miserable than ever. Margot worries she's a threat to their business. She watches Beryl and Miss Novia Scott-Henry huddled together. They are laughing about something, both throwing their hands up as though in surrender to the joke rippling through them. Margot is surprised to see flashes of Beryl's teeth.

“Something is fishy 'bout her, that's all,” Margot says.

“Fishy?” Kensington asks, lowering the stapler. “Is dat why yuh haven't been doing work all week? 'Caw yuh jus' waan watch fi see if she slip? She's really nice. Bettah than that crow we had for ah boss. Alphonso did good by firing Dwight an' hiring her. An' besides, ah still have her old calendar. I want her to sign it. She did mek Jamaica proud di year she won Miss Universe.”

A ball of fire rises in Margot's belly. She turns to Kensington. “Yuh is a good Christian woman, right?”

Kensington nods so hard that Margot fears her neck might snap. Margot often rolls her eyes whenever the girl comes to work in the morning with her stomach growling, explaining to Margot that she's fasting yet again for her sins and therefore would not eat for the rest of the day.

“So can I ask you a question?” Margot says, scooting closer.

“What?”

“How is it dat yuh tolerate her?”

Kensington shakes her head. “I'm not following.”

“When Alphonso introduced us the first time, she held my hand an' stroke it.”

Kensington jumps out her chair. “Yuh lie!”

“Yuh calling me a liar? Look at her. The way she dresses, the way she wears her hair—what self-respecting woman wear har hair cut so close to har head without di decency to put on a wig? An' yuh really t'ink any woman wid nice hair would shave it off like dat?”

“Is fah the cancer patients.”

“Cancer patients, my rear end. Something else is behind it. Yuh notice that we've never seen her in a dress? Look how mannish she is. A far ways from her days as a beauty queen.” As she says this with authority and a conviction that she never knew existed within her, a shock of excitement runs through Margot's veins, taking hold of her tongue. “Plenty people know about di rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“That she's a undah-cover.”

Kensington is silent. A moment passes before she speaks.

“But she was a beauty queen. Those girls too pretty fah dat. And dey 'ave morals.”

“That was jus' fah show. If yuh don't believe me, jus' ask around. Better yet, watch her.”

Kensington studies Miss Novia Scott-Henry in this new light—the way she talks with her hands, touching Beryl often on the elbow. A dark soot fills Kensington's eyes, obscuring the whiteness. Perspiration beads form above her mouth from the humidity.

“How yuh know fah sure that she's
funny
?”

“Jus' look at her,” Margot says. “She flaunts it.”

Kensington makes a sign of the cross. And just like that, Margot knows she has planted a seed, perhaps the only one that has the potential to thrive in this drought.

The next few days are more bearable in the office for Margot—not because the hotel has installed new air-conditioning to ward off the unbearable heat, but because of Kensington. Kensington's budding suspicion of Miss Novia Scott-Henry keeps her so occupied that she's not able to focus on anything else—like the reservations being made to certain rooms on the sixteenth floor under fake names, the local businessmen who check in, then check out hours later, the girls who prance solo in a diagonal line across the marbled lobby straight to the elevator.

When Miss Novia Scott-Henry comes to the front desk to request the receipts and vouchers, Margot pretends to be busy with reservations, so she directs her question to Kensington. “I'm not sure what is going on here. Can you please explain what these ‘special services' are on some of the bills? And why there are astronomical charges to rooms that were only reserved for two hours?”

Kensington has a genuine look of confusion on her face. She's mouthing words that aren't coming out.

“Am I speaking to myself here?” Miss Novia Scott-Henry asks.

Margot thinks fast. “We—well—Kensington and I are still working on the other vouchers. There might have been a slight mix-up in booking. But when we're done sorting things out we'll get to you right away.” She is a bit concerned that Alphonso hasn't shared his underground business with his hotel general manager. Shouldn't she be the first to know what's really happening and where the extra revenue's coming from? This just proves her incompetence. Or is it Blacka who is feeding her these figures, forgetting to eliminate the miscellaneous profits? Alphonso should fire that pompous pest of an accountant. But when Margot clicks on an unopened file, she realizes that it was her error. She gave the woman the wrong file. What if she calls them to inquire about the charges? What if she finds out and reports it to the authorities?

“Please have everything to me by the end of the day,” Miss Novia Scott-Henry says. She glances at Kensington, who is sitting stiff and mute at the desk. “Is everything all right, Kensington?”

The girl nods, her eyes sliding into her lap, where Margot notices a small Bible tucked discreetly between her palms.

“She's jus' a likkle undah the weather,” Margot says.

“I see.”

Miss Novia Scott-Henry glances at Kensington. “You may go home, if that's the case. Wouldn't want our guests to get sick on their vacation. Margot, has a Mr. Georgio McCarthy checked in as yet? We have a meeting at four.” Margot pulls up her reservations files on the new computer, though she doesn't have to. “Yes, checked him in at two.”

“Perfect. Also, can you please remind the guests not to leave towels that they only used once for laundry. Remind them that we're in a drought and our goal is to conserve water.”

“I sure will.”

When Miss Novia Scott-Henry walks away, Margot waits until the woman is out of earshot before she turns to Kensington. “What's di mattah with you? You lost yuh tongue?”

“No.” Kensington begins to put her Bible away. “But if yuh say she is what she is, then it's a sin. An abomination. I don't want to be around it.”

“So what yuh g'wan do? Quit? Because she'll be here fah a very long time. You said so yuhself.”

“Maybe ah should mention it to him,” Kensington says, her eyes getting big.

“Who?” Margot asks.

“Alphonso.”

Kensington's eyes are crazed like old Miss Gracie's whenever she preaches on her soapbox in the square. Or when she stops people to give them a prophecy. (“
Yuh g'wan conceive t'day in di name of Jeezas!
” “
Yuh g'wan win di lotto!
” “
Yuh g'wan haffi prepare fah di third funeral tomorrow.
”)

Margot leans forward in her chair. “You don't have access to the owner of the hotel like dat. None of us do. And besides, the man is very busy.”

Kensington stares at her for a while, blinking rapidly like she's trying to regain focus, one hand clutching the strap of her handbag. “Him need fi know what going on undah him nose. Yuh nuh notice anyt'ing else funny 'roun here?” Kensington asks.