Authors: Nancy Loyan
Chapter 2
“
Madame Montcherry,
we have a deal,” the young man with the cracked-tooth smile and cocoa skin said in Kreol.
Victoria hid her own exuberance by keeping her lips in a thin, firm line. She had purchased her first plat of Seychelles land.
She shook the man’s perspiring hand, closing the deal. This had really been more of a steal than a deal. The selling price was a bargain for her, but a large sum for the man, a husband and father working two jobs to make ends meet in an expensive local economy. Settling his father’s estate eased his money woes and created an investment for Victoria. Fair by island standards.
“
Merci, Monsieur Vidant,”
In Kreol she added,
“
I will do your father’s land proud.”
“I’m certain you will. I didn’t want to sell to just any Seychellois. Since your mother was a friend in my youth, I trust you.”
Victoria released her hand from the man’s grip. An uneasiness settled over her.
Trust
. A faint tingle, like an electrical shock, ran up her spine. So much for the values she had been taught as a child growing up in a simple closed society. She was not the right person to trust.
Her mother had feared her becoming a
Bonnfanm dibwa,
a woman of the woods, a witch. Instead, she became a woman-of-the-world.
“Was there any difference?” she mused
Returning to the Seychelles meant far more than recapturing the simplicity of her youth. After having a successful career that had taken her to the world’s greatest financial districts, she had enough money to buy whatever she pleased. Like the 49’rs in the San Francisco of old, she was prospecting, speculating. Land was gold. It was only a matter of time before commercialism met the Seychelles. All the Islands needed was a leader who put Island economy ahead of nature conservancy. One day, Island development would increase, and she would possess the mother lode. Re-selling the land for commercial ventures at a substantial profit would lead to a tidy sum. She might just develop a property or two herself for more immediate investment income. Build it and they, the tourists, would come. Look what happened in Hawaii?
Her second island land deal was as easy to close as the first. The elderly gentleman who sold her the beachfront property had been a friend of her grandmother’s. Once again, she bristled at the mention of trust.
Victoria filed away any guilt over gaining the Islander’s trust for personal profit. Only on a remote island chain would people actually put any credence in trust. She had worked in enough large corporations around the world to know that there was no such thing as trust. Trust was for fools. She had just purchased two valuable tracts of land from naïve fools, she thought on the taxi ride home.
“So tell me, Victoria, what are you to do with two plats of land? You only need one to build your home, and far less land than you purchased,” Bessye, her mother, asked, while the two dined on grilled tuna in the tiny kitchen of Bessye’s modest block and concrete home.
“I have my reasons.”
“Is this why you returned home? For reasons?” Bessye’s thick brows arched.
Victoria glanced over to Bessye, whose ivory smile contrasted with an ebony complexion that had lost its glow from hard work and illness. Lines creased her lips from hours of forced smiling. She watched the way Bessye fluttered around her home trying to make Victoria’s return pleasant as if on duty and on the clock. Hours on her feet as a waitress at a tourist resort on Beau Vallon Bay Beach had taken their toll in swollen ankles and hunched back. Bessye was forcing herself to put on a healthy front, though Victoria knew otherwise. Her mother’s letters in recent months had hinted at a decline in health and had made the decision to return home more urgent.
“Isn’t it bad enough that people are calling you, ‘proud of herself’ by returning home with white ways? Must you act white as well?”
Victoria choked on her food and coughed. She took a sip of Seypearl, the sweet local soft drink she had missed while away.
“When has buying property become a white only endeavor?”
“When one buys more than one can use.”
“Property has value.”
“One home, like this, is all you need,” Bessye waved her arms.
Victoria paused for a moment, lifting her forefinger to her lips to ponder an answer. She glanced about the simple one-story cottage with its whitewashed walls, cotton curtains and unfinished wood floors with hand-woven scattered rugs. A carved crucifix on one wall and a framed faded photograph of Victoria as a young girl offered the only adornment. The upholstered furniture sagged from wear and the wood tables were scratched. The home grew older, as had her mother. As had she.
“You are never content with what you have, Victoria,” Bessye said. “You always want more.”
Victoria swallowed hard. “When I accompanied you to work as a teen, I observed the tourists with their designer fashions and listened to their stories of cities where buildings reached the sky, where stores were enclosed in large buildings, where every description of hard goods and food were available at all times and where women were educated and equal to men. A world beyond the Indian Ocean. Is it so bad that I wanted to be a part of that world?”
“You have always possessed a will of your own, a will so strong it could not be contained on an island,” Bessye said with a sigh. “Yet, you have come back. Perhaps the world is too big and one can get easily lost?”
When Victoria left the Seychelles Islands, friends and family predicted she would never return. They were wrong. Life had literally taken her full circle and around the world as well. Though she had sworn never to return to Mah’e, life had a strange way of altering one’s direction. Victoria knew the time had come to return and reconcile with her past. Her mother was part of that past.
“Not lost. Found.”
Bessye met her gaze. “You or golden opportunity?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong. The Seychelles government encourages private investment, especially in the tourism market.”
“Ah, so you are willing to sell out your own homeland and people for Rupees. You are willing to sell your soul and the spirits of your ancestors for money.
Larzen i bon, me i-tro ser.”
Money is good but it is too expensive.
The heat and the conversation in her mother’s house were stifling. Victoria rented a taxi and headed to the north side of Mah’e into Victoria, her namesake capital and only town in the Seychelles Island chain. Overlooking a natural harbor, protected by the inner islands of Ste. Anne and Ile au Cerf, it was a picture postcard island town. Definitely not a city. The nearest big city, Nairobi, was an ocean away.
She peered out of the taxi window at the landmark Clock Tower at Albert Street and Independence Avenue and past the pastel painted Indian-owned stores lining the streets. The British colonial influence was still prevalent, though the nation had won its independence in 1976. Her destination was the colorful Sir Selwyn Clarke Market.
In Mah’e, resources were limited. On an island, everything must be imported. Only fruit, fish and tea were plentiful as evident in the local market.
After paying the driver, Victoria entered under the archway and wandered about the market, taking in the scents and sounds of a life she had left behind. Spices wrinkled her nose and the mixture of French and Kreol spoken was like an ancient tune rediscovered.
Vendors hawked everything from paw paw, breadfruit, bananas, to exotic spices like saffron and vanilla pods, and colorful batik fabric. She passed the fresh fish stalls. Mackerel, job fish, tuna, parrot fish and octopus glistened in the strong daylight. The pungent aroma of salt fish lingered in the air. She fingered jars of fiery chutney and pickled chilies. Deeper inside the market, she passed stalls displaying local crafts like baskets and pottery, rows of colorful vegetable stalls with eggplant and palm heart, and the meat stalls with crates of squawking chickens. Snowy white cattle egrets perched above, observing the raucous activity below and awaiting handouts.
The giant supermarkets in the States couldn’t compare to the colorful animated atmosphere of the island market. Though they offered a wider selection and convenience, the personal selling and pride had been absent.
In coming home, Victoria knew the transition would be difficult. So much that she had taken for granted in the United States and Europe had yet to exist in the Seychelles. The simpler way of life, though, was an oddly refreshing and welcome change
.
Part of her reason for returning was to escape the treadmill of metropolitan life. After all she had experienced in New York City, she sought an escape and a link to her past. Seeking solitude and what she had left behind were as much her mission as seeking profit.
She picked up a large pineapple and sniffed its sweetness. Though grown on the island, it was an expensive delicacy. Her mother would probably appreciate it. As she paid the vendor, a voice from behind startled her. Though it was in accented Kreol, she recognized the speaker and it gave her pause.
She turned to be met by the sparkling amber gaze of Daemon Wells. Attired in khaki shorts and yellow polo, he was still a sight to behold. The sun glinted off
the gold in his sandy hair and his tan as he towered over the locals like a golden statue. A broad smile dimpled his face and chin. Victoria rolled her eyes. Hadn’t she come to the Seychelles to avoid devastatingly handsome and tempting men?
“
Mademoiselle Montcherry,
we meet again,” he said in an overly cheerful voice.
“So we have,” she answered.
“Islands are like small towns, you can’t run and hide.”
“Unfortunately,” she mumbled.
“Shopping?”
“Reliving memories more than anything.” She swiped a hand across her dewy forehead. “I keep forgetting how close we are to the Equator.”
“Perhaps I can interest you in a cool drink?”
“Ginger ale?” She tilted her head.
“Or something stronger?”
“I really don’t know if that’s a good idea.”“Why not?” he asked. “If you choose to live on an island, you should get to know all of its inhabitants.”
She sighed, thinking. The temperature was too hot for strolling the market. Only her mother awaited her back home. Her old friends were only interested in discussing men and children. Sore subjects. At least Daemon Wells appeared to be intelligent and interesting. He was also easy on the eyes. There could be worse ways to pass some time.
“Okay. There are some cafes here in town,” she said.
“I was thinking of a location with a view.”
Victoria surveyed the bustling market. “Is there a helicopter hiding somewhere?”
Daemon chuckled. “Sorry, not that kind of view. And after your last experience …”
“I’m grounded?”
“Afraid so. My car’s in the car park down the street.”
For being a helicopter pilot, Daemon had a fancy set of wheels. On an island filled with over-priced used cars, his bright yellow Jaguar convertible stood out like a bee on black velvet. He drove like a native, taking the hairpin curves like an Andretti. Victoria didn’t know whether to grab for the dash or her blowing hair. The high rate of speed and lack of guardrails on the mountainous roads overlooking the ocean made her stomach churn.
Did the
man have to drive as if he were piloting a damn helicopter?
She wondered whatever possessed her to agree to accompany a near stranger in the first place. Had she lost her
wits since leaving the States?
The car turned into the entrance of one of the island’s most exclusive resorts, The Shangri La. Renowned for its clientele of reclusive movie stars, rock musicians and political dignitaries, it had a reputation around the world for pampering at a price. Not the sort of place for a helicopter pilot to frequent
.
The resort resembled something you’d find in Palm Beach, not in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The stucco and stone walls and red clay tile roof of the main building was of colonial Indian design. The curve of the archways, metal railings and mosaic tile along with the lush landscaping of towering palms and lacy ferns lent it exotic flair. Daemon drove under the porte-cochere and parked.
He hopped out the car and walked over to the passenger door, opening it. He held out his hand and Victoria grasped it, alighting from the car. For a moment she felt special, as if Daemon could change the atmosphere.
A Hindi doorman attired in crisp white tunic and slacks with a turban wrapped about his head, approached. Daemon tossed the car keys and the man caught them with a nod and a smile.
“I didn’t know pilots had so much clout,” Victoria said, surprised, as she followed Daemon into the open lobby.
“Apparently, you just don’t know pilots,” Daemon replied with a wink.
She definitely didn’t know anything about Daemon Wells. As they strolled through the lobby with its ornately carved reception desk, fine rattan furnishings with silk cushions and pillows, scattered Indian rugs, brass and ceramic objects d’art, swirling ceiling fans, mosaic tiled floor and squawking parrots, the resort staff stood at attention. Each uniformed man and woman nodded and smiled in acknowledgement. She had dated some very wealthy men who were not treated in as high regard. Why was Daemon treated like a dignitary?