What Happened In Paradise?

Second Visit: A Day on the Beach

The soldier shoulders Maxwell's weight and carries him through the centre arch and onto the stone steps.

“A little fresh air will help.” The soldier’s words are heavy’ thick with the Water Islander accent. “Feel better?”

Maxwell frees himself from the soldier. The soldier’s shoulders are broad and his arms are as thick as Maxwell’s head. He could’ve thrown Maxwell over his shoulder, carried him like a sack.

“Marfus,” the soldier says, extending his arm to Maxwell. Maxwell reaches out; the soldier's hand swallows his. Marfus is the first soldier to introduce himself. Maxwell didn’t find it strange until this moment. “You should leave here,” Marfus says.

“Excuse me?”

“Check out the beach. I will drop you.”

“I thought you were WIC, not a transport service.”

Marfus tightens his brow. “Pardon me?”

“The other soldier...she said... never mind.”

***

“I hope you find your way back before dark,” Marfus says to Maxwell as he exits the vehicle.

“Can’t you...can’t you take me back?”

Marfus shakes his head. “I will not be around. You must find it on your own.”

“I guess I’ll take a taxi.”

“Be vigilant. The island is not safe.”

It’s Maxwell who is the danger. Somebody should have warned his friends about him. He waves goodbye to Marfus and walks to the beach. Sand enters through the sides of his sandals. He quickly sheds them, allowing nothing to stand between his feet and the warm yellow sand. There is the beach, as far as his eyes can see. The sand is littered with people: sunbathers. Next to a section of rocks - stacked high above the water and jutting out to sea - fishermen are hauling a boat out of the water. At the tip of the rock structure, someone has dived into the sea. Back to the sunbathers, the bodies on the beach vary in shade and colour - like the WIC soldiers and the drivers at the airport. His mother did say that race was no longer what separated the residents of Water Island. She never told him what is responsible for the divide. Maxwell had assumed money. If it were not race, it had to be money. On his way to the beach, he had spotted zinc and board shacks which were all leaning in the direction the wind had swept them. They contrasted greatly with the plantation house and some of the other houses in the vicinity of the plantation. Definitely money.

As Maxwell walks the beach, he tries to identify foreigners like himself; anyone who seems to struggle with the warmth of the sand, or is overly fascinated with the blue of the water. He has walked for over an hour when he comes across a section of beach where there’s nothing but a single palm. He walks over to it, sits beneath it. He throws his head back, closes his eyes, and listens to the wind dancing through the palm leaves and the waves washing up to shore. He senses a shadow; something is towering over him. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for what comes next.

“Hey, Max.”

The voice sounds vaguely familiar; he opens his eyes. “What...What are you doing here?”

“I had some vacation days,” Detective Guber says. “I thought we could take a little trip together.”

“Did you follow me here?”

Detective Guber offers Maxwell a hand. Maxwell pushes Detective Guber’s hand away, uses the trunk of the tree to pull himself up.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough. We did not finish our conversation.”