Based on extracts from The Guadeloupe Diaries, 2000-2001
It was the third week into my stay in Gwada, when one Saturday night, Marie went out to some party or other and I stayed at home experimenting making myself a little treat of curried green bananas. I was quite surprised when Marie came back before ten.
“Kate, you’re never going to believe who’s there! Leila and the English assistants. You’ve got to come, I want to see the look on her face when you arrive!” I could not resist. I got myself glammed up and off we sped to Prise d’Eau.
Leila made little secret of her irritation that I was there, trying every trick in the book to exclude me from conversation. At one point she actually turned her back on me and practically waved a fan right in my face to obscure my view of the group.
“So Leila, how’s life in Gosier?” I inquired with forced conviviality. “Oh it’s absolutely fabulous!” she gushed. “Jenny and I are sharing a room. We’re like sisters!” Jenny, I noted, smiled weakly, but remained silent. A silence which said more than words ever could.
“Pete not with you tonight?” Stating the obvious, I knew, but I would have bet a million that there had been some kind of bust-up. I was right. “No, he’s decided to stay in his little boarding house.“ Leila barely concealed a scowl. This was obviously a sore point. She changed the subject. “Have you met the other assistant? The one with all the piercings?” “Who’s that?” “Amy or something. You’ll know her when you see her,” Leila added with a superior smile which I wanted to swat like a fly.
It reminded me of a comment M had made about J several years earlier. “You’ll know him when you see him.” “So what’s he studying, this J? Music?” M paused and a grin spread across his face like an infectious disease. “He’s doing French.” M, being one of the few people who could read me like an open book, saw the split second my mask slipped, “You’ve already met him, haven’t you?” The cute guy with the ripped jeans. I’d just assumed he was one of the returning fourth year students. It had rankled that he knew me so well. How did he know I‘d fall for J? Was it just speculation? Or, and by this point I was becoming truly paranoid, had he set the whole thing up for his sick amusement? God, here I was three thousand miles away and M had managed to worm his way into my thoughts. Urgh! I’d come all this way to escape the past four years, only to find that I had more time to obsess about everything than ever. I had never loved M. Obsessed by him, lusted after him, of course, but love wasn’t really part of the equation. I will admit that I was quite crazy over the guy in the worst possible way. He was my Achilles heel, a drug I couldn’t get enough of. Years later, he would enter my dreams at night, and I’d then spend the following day thinking about him at inopportune moments. He had become merged into my psyche in a twisted kind of way, like the devil on my shoulder. By the time I had got to Guadeloupe, M was ancient history as far as I was concerned, but I was rapidly discovering that when you’re alone with your thoughts, time and distance make no difference to the ghosts in your heart. I could close my shutters against the glare of the street lights and the usual cacophony of sounds which punctuated the dark hours. But they could not protect me against my own dreams. Scene: the stairs in the Main Arts building. “I wouldn’t say I regret taking the Sartre module,” J was verbally doodling. “Well don’t regret it then. Never regret anything. You go crazy that way.” I didn’t just mean Sartre. I needed to take some of my own advice. There seemed to be so many stairs, we went faster and faster, down and down. It’s not the fall that will kill you, it’s the landing. Scene: The Crescent, after closing time. Here I am wearing a pair of black, faded too-tight Levi’s and a tie-dye top I’d bought in Dublin. But somehow I am outside myself, looking on. I notice that J and I both have really bad posture. “See you Kate,” he said. I swear I can hear M laughing in the background. I woke up. When I said goodbye to J I thought I would never see him again. After that dream I didn’t believe that any more. There was a weird feeling I had, of unfinished business. I needed what people I don’t like very much call “closure”. The hum of the fan in the corner of my room lulled me back to sleep. Strangely, I felt peaceful knowing I would see J again. What would be would be.“She’s at the Lycée Classique,” Leila continued her character assassination of the unfortunate Amy, but I wasn’t really listening. She was boring me, to be honest. Luckily, someone appeared with more drinks and I took the opportunity to attempt to make conversation with the insipid Jenny (a totally unrewarding experience) while Leila went to find the poor gimp she’d suckered into giving her a lift.
I was rescued when they all went off to a club somewhere. I wasn’t invited, but that was just fine by me. I spent the rest of the evening drinking and smoking way too much. Ho-hum.
