The Praedial Larcenist
2016; Taylor & Francis; Volume: 62; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1080/00086495.2016.1203184
ISSN2470-6302
Autores Tópico(s)Island Studies and Pacific Affairs
ResumoRIPE MANGOES, LIKE EVE 'S APPLE, EXERT AN UNNATURAL attraction on young island boys. The fruits, a sunset orange and sunflower yellow, tempt and dare us, urge us to pick them, disregarding the laws of sowing and reaping, privacy and property. For years, a mango tree stood barren across the street from our flower garden, at once inviting and frustrating. Then one summer, perhaps '71 or '72, when I was an agile ten going on eleven, its blossoms sprouted and bloomed. Fruits emerged. Sap, colourless and viscous like epoxy, dripped from each fruit. As the mangoes grew, turned yellow then reddish orange in the tropical sunlight, they became more irresistible with each admonition from the owner, Miss Mono O'Brien. Stay off my property, she commanded. Miss O'Brien was an elderly spinster, light-skinned enough to pass for white in New York City, where she had lived for decades before returning to her native Montserrat. She came back with her red lipstick, powdered face, peach-coloured hair, patrician airs and inherited American protectiveness for private property. It was an attitude neither I nor my other island neighbours shared. I threw stones to knock down the mangoes, and when that failed, I skipped across the street and climbed the tree while Miss O'Brien taught piano lessons to one of her students.Sometimes my pursuits were cut short by Miss O'Brien's high-pitched voice of disapproval. Get down out of that she yelled. She usually ventured no farther than her front porch, but her curt commands filled the tropical air, projecting her authority far beyond where her feeble knees could carry her.One August morning in 1973, a bunch of orange ripe mangoes called my name. Wearing my summer vacation uniform tee-shirt and torn khaki shorts, I was prepped for climbing. Emboldened by deserted streets and front yards, I grabbed the lowest hanging branch and pulled myself up into the tree. The coarse bark scratched my legs and arms as, undeterred, I performed the climber's twostep motion. I gripped the branch above my head and stepped into the V joint where two branches met. With the sun streaking through the leaves, I reached out and plucked the first mango from the stem, wiped the fruit clean, bit the skin, then sank my teeth into the soft, sweet fleshy meat beneath. Yellow juice dripped over my lips, down my chin, spilled on my white tee-shirt leaving its orange stain, a smear across my chest. The sugary taste bathed my tongue. It sent shouts of delight to the pleasure zones of my brain. I savoured each bite, then I chewed and swallowed. Lost in my world of sugar and sunlight, I polished off one mango, and had just reached for a second, when a summons interrupted my quest.I heard my name. And unlike the earlier call, this one was real. The sound of my grandmother's voice rang out. Like a loudspeaker, it was unmistakable amid the staccato of a million leaves shaking in the breeze. An-drew! She dragged out the first syllable as if offering me a probationary period, giving me time to respond. I didn't. She called again. This time her summons sounded urgent, direct, threatening even, like an ultimatum issued in a way unique to West Indian women raising delinquent grandchildren. Again I didn't answer. I couldn't afford to. That would have betrayed my position atop the tree, announced my disobedience. Abandoning my quest for juicy mangoes, I grabbed the limb below me and, like a jungle boy, clambered downward in haste. She had forbidden me from climbing this tree. I was a trespasser. I was a mango thief.When I reached the lowest branches, I swung down toward the ground. I stepped on the tree root, then my bare feet hit dirt and what felt like a sharp-edged stone. It pricked the sole of my right foot. But in my haste to rush inside the house without my grandmother knowing I had left, I ignored the discomfort.Yes, mama, I yelled, as I limped to the front door, my transgression unnoticed.As I stepped inside, the discomfort under my foot graduated to a sharp pain jab, and like spurs on a horse's belly, it stopped me in my tracks. …
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