Stanley had been passed out right inside the front door for some time. Black T had to jump over him to get in the house.
He opened his eyes and mumbled, “I’m not goth. I’m just a fag!”
In the afternoon, Black T came back with a sports bag.
“Take this,” he said.
He handed Derdâ a piece of paper.
“Here’s the address. They’re going to give you an envelope. Don’t open it. Have a look on the other side of that.”
He waited for Derdâ to look.
“You’re going to take that envelope to this address. That’s it. That clear?”
It was clear. Black T pulled out some cash and gave it to Derdâ.
“Take a taxi.”
Then he leaned over and whispered into Derdâ’s ear. He pointed to Stanley.
“Tell him to forget all that stuff I said about being Jamaican. OK? And that goes for you, too.”
The first stop was Notting Hill. The taxi could only get so close. Every year the Trinidadians, Tobagonians, and Jamaicans organized a carnival in Notting Hill. It was in full swing. Roads in the area had been shut to traffic. Derdâ got out of the taxi and checked the address. Hundreds of people were moving down the street chugging beers. No one seemed likely to be able to stop and give directions. So Derdâ gave herself up to the crowd. As she moved closer to the carnival, the drums got louder. Ahead of her, she saw a group in the parade wearing red T-shirts, pounding furiously on drums. Derdâ made her way to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned against the police cordon, waiting for the drummers to pass. Then an open-air bus playing West Indian music out of massive speakers rigged on its top loomed into view. A group of topless girls gyrated to the music behind the bus. Derdâ smiled.
People on the back of the bus threw confetti into the crowd. Every so often the women would stop dancing to wildly shake their hips. They wore colorful bikini bottoms, and some had enormous feathers attached to their waists that made them look like peacocks. Spectators seemed less interested in the dance than in their bodies. Eyes were riveted on their quivering hips, their breasts, and the sweat glistening on their bodies. Most of them were men but not a few were lesbians. It was a feast for the eyes. Everyone was getting their fill.
Derdâ remembered she was there to do a job and began to feel restless. She forced herself through the crowd and turned down the first open street. Music was blaring there, too. A reggae band was performing on an open stage and a crowd was dancing to the music, marijuana smoke hovering above them like a low cloud. Derdâ stepped into the crowd and noticed a policeman and a policewoman absently surveying the scene. As if the only duty they might be willing to perform was helping someone find an address. Derdâ was no longer afraid. She held the address out to the woman, leaned toward her ear, and shouted, but the music was so loud that she could hardly hear her own voice. Body language was the only option. The policewoman pointed to the opposite street and shook two fingers for the second street on the left.
The street was relatively quiet. Two-story town houses with front stoops lined both sides. Derdâ could easily read the house numbers. The street seemed completely deserted. Then she noticed a group of people lined up in front of one of the houses up ahead. At least ten people all patiently waiting in the line. As she got closer, Derdâ realized it was the house she was looking for. No way they’re selling drugs like this, she thought. And she was right: these people weren’t lining up to buy cocaine or heroin.
Ignoring the people in line, Derdâ walked straight through the front door and held up the card with the house address to a Jamaican standing inside. He understood that she had something to deliver. “Come on in,” he said and he was pleased to tell Derdâ why all the people were queuing up outside.
“Dese people are just a waiting for the toilet. One person, one pound. Not too bad, eh? Not too bad … Dey drink like animals and den dey don’t have no place to go, man. Every year we take more money like dees dan we do selling fried chicken. And you know how? Wid a hole, man? We just renting to dem a hole!”
They went up a narrow staircase and into a room where three Jamaicans and a pit bull seemed fast asleep. But they were just listening to music, from time to time looking up at the ceiling, at each other, or just into empty space, as they bobbed their heads up and down to the rhythm of the music. Not too fast, not too slow. A record player in the middle of the room was playing Desmond Dekker. The king of ska. “Rude Boy Train” blasted out of speakers in all four corners of the room.
The Jamaican from the front door left to run his
