Back then, my mother, my sister and I had travelled down to the West Indies, our first trip together since well before my father had died in the 1970's. We'd gone to a resort that we'd stayed at when I was a child, but in the intervening years it had changed from a small and private retreat to a wildly expensive and exclusive club, a place where uniformed doormen with guest lists stood guard over the long, white beaches, keeping the riffraff out.
I realized how much the place had changed when, that first afternoon by the pool, I watched a balding man with a large pink belly flag down a passing waiter. Lying on a deck chair, his belly and his ever-expanding forehead both glistening with sweat and sun tan oil, he snapped his fingers twice at an elderly waiter making his rounds.
"Boy. Over here, boy."
The waiter stood stock still for a second, his eyes hurt and flashing, and then, with enormous dignity, turned towards the deck chair.
"Sir, do you think it's right to call me 'Boy' when I'm old enough to be your Daddy?"
The balding man didn't even have the grace to be embarrassed.
"If my father was still serving drinks at your age, I'd call him 'Boy' too," he shrugged. "Bring me a Daiquiri."
I had not been looking forward to this trip. My sister, fifteen years older than I, was just getting out of a long and very unhappy marriage, and I was just trying to get into some sort of a career. My lifelong affair with music was turning out to be a platonic relationship, my devotion to it largely unreciprocated, and I showed an extraordinary talent for finding the most incompetent, unstable and pyschotic managers and agents available, quickly turning down anyone with the slightest degree of savvy or experience.
By constantly haunting nightclubs, and the hallways of record labels and publishing companies, I could count on usually coming up with the bare necessities: a gig now and then at a downtown club; qualified interest from a major label (such interest mostly translating as: If someone else seems about to sign you, we'd be happy to take you on); work on the soundtracks of independent features and industrial films (often with such promising titles as "Frostbite!" and "Is This The Beach?"); and the occasional expense-account meal with a record executive whose more prosperous or eagerly-anticipated lunch-date had cancelled at the last minute. Any way you looked at it, it was a pretty shoddy existence.
None of which seemed to bother my girlfriend. Herself perpetually unemployed, she had a far more romantic view of life on the fringe than I did (her view no doubt bolstered by the fact that as a young and beautiful girl, with dark Latin looks and an artist's hands, she would always have piles of admirers to take her out to dinner or to parties if I was indisposed or out of the picture).
On our last holiday, we had gone to Paris together and, riding the Metro, been confronted by a couple of ragged Americans with guitars round their necks. They staggered on at the Odeon stop, pushing their way through the closing doors, and began to sing and play terrifyingly out-of-tune versions of Neil Young songs, trying to simultaneously keep their balance, remember the words and pass around a worn leather cap. The combination was clearly beyond them.
A tiny Arab child in a red snowsuit stared at them open-mouthed; an older lady with bags of groceries in her arms pushed past them angrily, stepping on one of their feet for good measure; other than that, the remaining passengers studiously avoided and ignored them, turning to their papers with a renewed interest or looking even more carefully at the colorful, ever-present posters advertising dating clubs and dermatologists. My girlfriend squeezed my arm.
"Listen," she sighed, "don't worry. If things get really bad, we can always give up the flat in New York and come over here. Travel. You could play guitar in the subway, and I could pass a tambourine around or maybe accompany you on the flute. It would be an adventure!" I don't think I'd been so depressed in years.
A few days before, I'd stopped in to visit Leonard Cohen, who was passing through town, and I'd noticed that he didn't have his guitar with him.
"Oh, I never travel with a guitar anymore. I have a little keyboard now." He pulled out a small Casio, just a little larger than a good-sized paperback. "It's great for hotel rooms, and I can even work out ideas on planes if I need to. I can wear headphones. And it's got a built in rhythm box, so you can find the right tempo. See?"
What I saw was an odd glint in his eye that said: At least I no longer have to walk through metal detectors at airports, through train stations in foreign cities, past sidewalk cafes and fountains, the looks of beautiful women and the stares of unlovely bankers, saddled with a guitar case, all my weaknesses exposed, all my hunger showing.
For there is a certain romance and dignity to wandering through the world accompanied by a cello or double-bass, the solidity and weight of the instrument giving its owner an unexpected depth or gravity, a presence; and a violin or viola case bespeaks a dark sensitivity, a many-sided soul with a copy of Rilke on the bedside table. Even an electric guitar, sheathed in a soft case and slung over the shoulder or tucked in a hardshell and held at the side, comes with the promise of voltage, of eventual power and volume and noise.
But for a grown man to wander through life with an acoustic guitar case by his side is an open admission of failure, of needs that will never be filled, of sadness and desperation, a kick-me sign on the back of the coat, a feed-me sign at the back of the eyes. It signifies poverty of the spirit, of the pocket, of the imagination; it suggests that the road not taken might have been the right road after all; and it presupposes a life lived at the back of the line, at the close of the party, at the bottom of the glass.
There were exceptions, of course. Segovia had someone to carry his guitar; the Delta bluesmen were natural aristocrats, as were Spain's flamenco players, men all of them, not weepy overgrown boys, but adventurers, poets, and thieves, standing tall and sly. Mi corazon, mi corazon. The men don't know, but the little girls understand. But I was not one of them, and I had already pictured a disastrous future for myself: my hair greying or gone, my whiskers just coming in full (for I would spare my friends and family the indignity of having to recognize me and ask how it was going by cultivating a thick black beard), I would wander the streets of Mediterranean seaport towns, guitar by my side, while orphans and cripples gathered and threw lira and drachma and crusts of bread at my feet.
Yet even my own premonitions of doom and despair were pleasant compared with the fate my girlfriend was suggesting. I clearly had to make some decisions.
My mother's wise and merciful silence on the subject didn't alter the fact that she clearly harbored very different ambitions for me and, just as clearly, communicated them to everyone BUT myself. At each family gathering or party I'd attended in the past year or so, at least one or two cousins or uncles would sidle over and boom, "So, how's it going in law school?" After seeing the confusion and embarrassment in their eyes when, the first few times this happened, I told them what I was actually doing, I took to muttering, "Fine, fine," and asking if I could freshen their drinks.
Overeducated and underqualified for most positions, I had boxed myself into a corner, professionally, and I knew that one of the reasons for this trip to the Caribbean was to talk some sense into me, to show me clearly that--for better or worse--this vacation was something that I would never be able to afford on my own if I were to stay in music; that I'd have a hard enough time looking after myself, much less a family, should I ever marry and should my wife not wish to play tambourine in the Paris metro.
There would be talk about the wisdom of going back to school and getting another degree, about the possibility of setting up interviews with friends of the family who were in publishing or in public relations, along with the old, comforting lies about music being something you never really lose, never really leave, that you could always enjoy it in the evenings or on weekends, keep it in a box behind the barn and take it out and wax it now and then.
"For God sakes, look at Ted Hood!" my sister had offered once, in the midst of a similar conversation.
"Who's he?"
"HE used to be a musician!" she'd said, making everything clear.
Unfortunately, if it got to that again, I had no new plan or counterproposal, nothing up my sleeve, and I knew that, in case of a war, I was already beaten. It was going to be a very long week.
That night there was a buffet outside by the poolhouse, with Japanese lanterns hung around the sides of the pool and long tables spread out by the steps. Thin black waiters in white uniforms and tall chef's hats stood proudly over enormous trays of broiled lobster, grilled shrimp, fried cuttlefish, salmon mousse, large tureens of saffron rice cooked with peas and ham, plates of cold asparagus and bowls of quickly-wilting lettuce. A little girl in a pink fairy dress jumped up and down by the dessert cart, pointing at everything in sight; and the guests, most of whom looked like prosperous golfers, retired executives, or your better class of mafia don, all accompanied by their second or third wives--very blonde and very tan--happily sat in groups of four or six, drinking cocktails, downing shrimp and trading Krueger rands. The balding man from earlier in the day was now in a white sport coat, blue chemise lacoste and plaid pants and was negotiating with the Captain for a particularly well-done piece of roast beef from the sideboard. There was a sound of laughter and of clinking drinks in the breeze. My mother, sister and I sat at a small table close to the pool, a short distance away from the crowd and the groaning buffet tables. The Japanese lantern nearest us continued to blow out throughout the evening, and an ever-attentive waiter continued to re-light it, always looking over and smiling at us as he did so.
"Island breezes," he winked, by way of explanation, the first time. And then, because it sounded good, he repeated it at each relighting.
My sister had found a new bathing suit in the Golf Shop, my mother had gone for a swim in the ocean, but the water had been too cold to stay in long and, coming out, had run into her old friend Mariel DuPoisson, who had a house nearby and who had invited us for drinks and a swim the following evening. Information was passed back and forth, and I nodded diligently, having little news of my own to offer, occasionally getting up to get my sister a new fork (she had dropped hers during a grand gesture in which her sleeve had swept across the table) or my mother or myself more of the saffron rice and shrimp.
There was a sound of conga drums, and in the midst of the trays and tables, a limbo bar was erected, and three young, brightly clad West Indians--all with floppy straw hats on their heads, oversize shirts in a patchwork of reds, greens and golds, white pants, and bare feet--began pounding out an exotic, if unsteady beat on the drums. The Japanese lanterns were gradually shifted, carried over, surrounding them and making it look like they were in a ring of flames, as if they were caught in an age-old ritual that had nothing to do with tourists or money or resorts, but were appeasing a local god who clearly loved fire and was not overly concerned about music, one of those deities who can take it or leave it.
The middle player, at the proscribed moment, peeled off his shirt and, moving out from behind the conga drum, picked up a pair of shakers, rattled them good-naturedly, and, bit by bit, edged back onto his heels, his skinny body arched into limbo position. My mother, delighted by pageant and ceremony, began clapping along to the rhythm (her time, I noticed, no worse than the drummers'), and my sister wrinkled her nose at me conspiratorially. At least, I thought, at least this will forestall any conversation or discussion about the ever- lowering limbo bar of my possibilities, my career.
In the midst of the lanterns, the dancer was arching back to ever-more improbable depths, now drinking a beer while slinking under a height scarcely taller than the beer bottle, now holding a lighted torch between his teeth as he just squeaked under the pole, pretending failure, a slip, almost a fall, then a graceful turn and shiver of the hips and, Voila!, home free, while the drums continued.
The obligatory chant of "Limbo, limbo like me" was taken up, only to be abandoned and started up again a few minutes later, and various drunk or lighthearted guests began slipping out of their shoes and jackets to try their luck beneath the now chest-high pole, making jokes about each other's bellies, sashaying and shimmying and wriggling their butts for the supposed benefit of their wives and girlfriends, most of whom stood back, holding the men's sportcoats, quietly comparing the bodies of the lean black drummers to the more generous yield of their hammy, red-faced protectors, trying not to think too much about it.
Meantime, the dancer, a thorough professional, had spotted the little girl in pink, and, taking her by the hand and leading her under (the pole resting a good six inches above her tiny golden head), proclaimed her that night's Limbo Queen amidst shouts of approval and applause.
And then the rhythm skittered to a halt, the drummers wandered over to have words with the Captain, trays of shrimp and rice were carted off, the party lanterns flickered out, and the crowd melted off to their rooms or to the bar, leaving the pool area with the torn and tawdry look of an abandoned fairground, bits of streamers and colored paper and lobster claws scattered about, a pair of shakers left lying on the diving board.
"Wonderful," my mother said, eyes shining as she closed her handbag and started to rise. "Wasn't the music wonderful?"
After walking my mother and sister to their room at the Main Clubhouse, I headed over to the Bachelors' Quarters, a small, recently erected block of cubicles near the staff housing, where single guests who are content to holiday without room service or much of a view can stay at a greatly reduced rate. There was also an inference of raciness and madcap frivolity implied in the name and, indeed, when I'd first checked in, the receptionist had given me the room key with a wink and a knowing smile, implying that I was moving into a bona fide house of sin, where the residents, to a man, drove fast and stolen cars, stayed out all night in the casinos, winning and losing vast fortunes with each roll of the dice, while sultry blondes with dubious reputations peered over their shoulders, whispering gentle obscenities and promises into their waiting ears. With dawn approaching, these merry bachelors would head for home, stopping briefly to desecrate a few churches, dump toxic waste in the pure blue waters, and find suitable companions---native girls on their way to convent, usually---to bring back to this secluded outbuilding, where the most fervent cries or protestations would be casually overlooked by the discreet and worldly staff. Sadly, the Bachelors' Quarters was notable only for its antiseptic seediness, as if it were constantly disinfected and hosed down without ever being properly swept or cleaned, and the only other resident I ever saw was a small, sad-eyed man who carried several rolled up copies of the Wall Street Journal and a pint of milk to his room, just down the hall from me, closing the door slowly with a heart-rending sigh. At the time, however, I wasn't much concerned with him, but with sorting out and looking at my own future.
That night, like many other nights, I drew a blank. It wasn't even a matter of coming up with bad ideas; there were no ideas at all. I gave up, took my clothes off and slipped into bed. The sheets smelled fresh and clean.
Mysteries, I've learned, are too important to treat mysteriously. Haunted prose and sudden changes of light, exotic sounds, distant chimes and wavy lines in the air, signalling that you're not in Kansas anymore, can only cheapen and weaken the power of something simple and real and other, outside of everyday experience, that has its own shape, its own particular rules. Mystery, like love, has its own agenda, it drives in its own lane, and it's best to respect that.
So.
When I awoke, it was still dark, and in the quiet I could hear drums coming in through the window, floating in as if on a breeze, though the air was thick and still. At first, just coming out of sleep, I thought I was still hearing the drums from the limbo party, but as I listened, and as I woke, I heard the difference. There was nothing frantic or showy about these drums, the beat was darker, quieter, but somehow more insistent, like a light but constant tapping on the windowpane.
Without thinking, I rose, put on my jeans and a t-shirt, and headed off in the direction of the drums, down the beach. In no sense was I sleepwalking; I was awake and knew precisely where I was going, though, in a larger sense, looking back, I seem to have had no choice in the matter. The drums called, and I answered.
There were no lights and not much of a moon, but I could just make my way, stumbling (as I often do in broad daylight), stubbing my toes on bits of coral and driftwood, slowly acclimating myself to the night. A cloud passed overhead, and, in passing, released half a sky full of stars, and now I could make out vague outlines and shapes: a rowboat beached on the rocks, a deck chair or part of a deck chair collapsed and abandoned in the sand, a starfish, another starfish. The drums continued with the same beat and the same insistence, though they never seemed to get any louder, and though I somehow knew that I was heading in the right direction, going the right way, the drums seemed to come from everywhere at once, filling the air.
Far down the beach, maybe a mile or so, I could make out the light of a small fire, a bonfire, maybe, and that's where I assumed the drums were coming from. And so I walked.
Later, the next day or days after, I was told that that was a particularly dangerous stretch of beach, that it was unwise to walk it in daylight and madness to walk it at night, that latter day pirates, violent men with knives and hatchets, lurked among the rocks and slept within the caves, and that men who had nothing waited for those who had something to come along. But I was told that much later. At the time, I knew that I was on unfamiliar ground, that I was moving as directly as possible toward a rhythm that seemed to fill my head, that seemed already a part of my blood, that not only knew my name and where I lived, but what I did there, inside that name, within that body. But there was never a sense of fear or of danger, just a light chill from the night air and a vague longing that I'd thought to wear sneakers so that each step needn't be a new adventure, a full exploration of seaweed and coral and driftwood and sandcrabs and the remains of their dinner, bits of dead fish and sea creatures.
Up ahead, I could see the fire more clearly and make out shapes and shadows. Ten or eleven men were gathered around the fire, crouched around a variety of drums and empty oil cans, which they beat with small sticks or with the flat of their hands. As I approached, I saw that I'd miscounted, that there were probably fifteen or sixteen men, but some were huddled close, partnered around the same drum, their hands moving together so smoothly, in such unison, that two together seemed like one unit, one creature.
In contrast to the limbo dancers and drummers earlier, there was no sense of show or ceremony, and apart from the fact that it was the middle of the night, and that I'd somehow been summoned from my sleep, there was nothing exotic about the scene before me. These were professionals at work, doing their job--whatever that was--and it seemed as odd and impolite and inappropriate to stand there and stare at them as it would be to stand and stare at workmen out digging a ditch or fitting pipe.
And yet I stood and I stared, just back from the circle, as the drums continued the same, constant beat, no louder, no softer, no faster, just a deep throb that seemed far away and close at the same time, that seemed to encompass an entire world of notes and melodies and messages within a simple pulse.
It's hard from this distance not to glamorize it, put a voodoo spin on the scene, shadows dancing in the fire, dark drums of passion laughing in the night with the urgency of a heartbeat or the soft and steady sound of sleep coming at last, approaching from way down the street, like a taxi. But the scene was as simple and unchanging as the beat. None of the men acknowledged my presence, no one seemed to notice I was there, but no one turned me away or, by sign or gesture, asked me to go. And, looking back on the scene now, I see myself as as much a part of the picture as the drummers, a lone figure just outside the circle, at the edge of the firelight, barefoot, wide-eyed, asleep and awake, watching, waiting.
And then the drums stopped, and the men slowly got up and stretched, brushed off the tops of the drums, rubbed their hands together, and, without a word, kicked sand into the fire, leaving little more than a dull glow, picked up their instruments and melted back into the darkness. One man, one that I hadn't noticed before, stayed behind, crouched by the fire, as though making sure it was put out properly. He glanced over at me for a second and then returned to watching the embers, but the glance was enough. I felt that I could approach now, and I did.
"Why have you stopped?" I asked.
"Because it's finished," he said slowly, still staring at the last light of the fire.
"Why is it finished?"
"Because now you're here. Now we've done our job," he said simply, looking me in the eye for the first time and nodding to himself. And then he rose, threw a handful of sand onto the fire and walked off into the woods. The sun was edging up over the ocean, the sky just starting to lighten, and I sat up with the dawn, not thinking, just staring into the water. When I walked back, the chill was gone, and the sand was almost warm against my feet.
Brian Cullman is a writer and composer living in New York City. He spent much of his childhood growing up in the Bahamas.
HOW TO PREPARE FOR THE PAST is part of a work-in-progress, OPPORTUNITY HOUSE, due out from Atlantic Monthly Press sometime after I finally complete it. Any year now.
(c) Brian Cullman, 1996 all rights reserved