At marbles some of the boys would cheat, and say, "if you don't like it, then lump it! Chumbo! Perro!" Some of them'd seize his taw or the marbles he had put up and walk away, daring him to follow. In the presence of all this, he'd draw back, far back, brooding....
Sea on top of sea, the Empire mourned the loss of a sovereign; and to the ends of the earth, there sped the glory of the coronation.
Below Gerald's porch there spread a row of lecherous huts. Down in them seethed hosts of French and English blacks. Low and wide, up around them rose the faces and flanks of tenements high as the one Gerald lived in. Circling these one-room cabins there was a strip of pavement, half of which was shared by the drains and gutters. But from the porch, Gerald was unable to see the strip of pavement, for the tops of these huts were of wide galvanize, which sent the rain a foot or two beyond the slanting rim.
But it wasn't raining, the sun was shining, and it was the day of the Queen's coronation. On that galvanized roof the sun bristled. Flaky, white—the roof burned, sizzled. The sun burned it green, then yellow, then red; then blue, bluish white, then brownish green, and yellowish red. It was a fluid, lustrous sun. It created a Garden of the roof. It recaptured the essence of that first jungle scene. Upward, on one of the roof's hills spread the leaves of banyan tree. Fruit—mellow, hanging, tempting—peeped from between the foliage of coffee and mango and pear. Sunsets blazed forth from beyond the river or the yellowing rice hills on some fertile roof.
All day, the day of the coronation, Gerald stood on the porch, peering down on the burning roof. It dazzled him, for up from it came sounds; sounds of music and dancing. Sounds of half-drunk creoles screaming, "Sotie, sotie!" Flutes and "steel" and hand-patting drums; fast, panting music, breathless, exotic rhythm; girls, with only a slip on, wild as larks, speeding out of this room, into that one. All day, the day of the coronation, the music lasted, the dancing lasted, the feeling mounted.
A slippery alley connected Bottle Alley and Bolivar Street. Through it Gerald tiptoed, surreptitiously, to see the bomberos on parade. He stood at the edge of the curb, gazing up the street at the clang and clash of red flannel shirts, white pants, brass helmets and polished black leggings. Behind him was a canteen and it was filled to its swinging half-sized doors with black upholders of the Crown. Gazing under a half-door he could see hosts of trousered legs vaguely familiar to him.
The coronation rags of the bar were a dark, somber kind. Dark green leaves, black-green leaves—wreaths and wreaths of them.
"Come on, Dina, an' behav' yo'self. Yo' ain't gwine wine no mo' fi' suit any big teet' Bajan."
"Who is a big teet' Bajan?"