chapter two

She woke up knowing that she’d dreamed about Fire. What, though, she couldn’t recall. But he’d been there. She could feel him in the sweet ache that washed her navel … the phantom pain of something that had filled it … rubbed it … a lubricated pinkie or a tongue perhaps.

Sitting on a side chair, her elbows on her knees, she tried to recall the shadow that the sun had wiped away. Her toes rippled the dhurrie—ruffled it like a sheet on a trysting bed.

Why did he affect her so? She furrowed her brows, setting a trap for the answer. He was handsome, but that wasn’t it … she’d met more striking men. And he wasn’t professional—or didn’t seem to be—which for her was a basic requirement.

Had she ever heard of him?

She had. From Ian. But what, though? There was a rumble in her head, a distant one, as the answer lumbered toward her, coughing and wheezing like an old steam train.

She tried to define him in the meantime from the little that she knew.

He was Jamaican, obviously. Educated and middle class from his accent. And had spent some time abroad—at college perhaps—most likely in the States.

Age-wise he was thirty, thirty-two … and lived where now? Well, that would depend on what he did. He was involved in the arts somewhat—but not to the point where it paid his bills. If it did she would have heard of him. The black art world was too small. Too inbred. Too incestuous for her to not have known him. Especially in New York.

But which art?

There was a thing about him—a sense that dirt didn’t disturb him—that made her think “sculptor” or “painter.” He wasn’t a dancer, for sure. His posture didn’t say that.

Graphic designer was a maybe … Web sites and that kind of thing. Those guys often dressed like that. She was sure he always dressed that way. There was nothing contrived about it, like a diving watch or an ostrich belt, that would have marked him as a poseur.

She considered “writer” briefly, then chucked it away. If he were a writer, she reasoned, he would’ve had a say about Brazil. Even if he hadn’t read it. Writers were like that. At least the ones that she knew. Arrogant and opinionated.

Then she remembered.

He was a musician … or did something related to music. The conversation was like ashes now, finely ground, with glowing shards. He was connected to The Wailers somehow. How, she couldn’t remember. But there was a connection. She thought about his hair … and it made more sense. But then again it didn’t. What did he play? Then she remembered: his uncle used to play with The Wailers.

She was back where she’d begun.

Why did he affect her so? The not knowing made her queasy. Made her anxious to clear her mind.

She tried to distract herself with cleaning. It was a roomy apartment, a one-bedroom with cream walls, and a kitchen divided by a breakfast counter from a front room with bay windows.