The old gentleman gray trimmed beard da-da-da keeps his hair short like Ernest and he, like Ernest, writes at a typewriter in the bungalow edge of rock cliffs. On the ocean in Jamaica, much like Fleming, the three kings come from New York to visit the poor sucker. You are one of the three kings. You arrive from the airport in a limousine and approach his cottage on the water. He starts, feigning shock to see you, and then off a mile a minute, flapping those lips, and you suppose it’s because he hasn’t socialized in months. It is evening. There are stars. He wears a straw hat. You feel like a haji. Sexy haji man come from the holy land. The three kings. And he’s off! Leading you down the steep staircase to the thin dock and it stretches out a hundred feet. There a dinghy tied. There a rowboat. Farther out in the blue water properly moored a sailboat called the Magic Storyland. Water laps rock cliffs. You had been told of a beach, and you protest, “Where the fuck’s the beach?” He stops the three of you, holds one by a lapel, and whispers, “If you were here, say, with a date in a fine dress, or your mother, you would row her out in the boat with oars to the beach. We, however, will wade.” He wags a finger and jumps in the water. To his waist. You follow. The gang of four hip-deep moves slowly toward jutting stone. Walk through dark water; swells reach your chest; your cotton soaked but that’s the adventure. He, your guide, secretive. Round the cliffs and sure enough there’s a hidden cove. The promised beach. The coterie ease to shore. Sand white, friends smile the evening air warm. Still bluffs, and they descend to the sand, and there’s no apparent escape. But then you see a rope dangling from above. Who does that? Must be tied to a tree. At the base of the scarp a screened-in pagoda on stilts. Deck surrounds pagoda. Chairs of great comfort. A chest contains a Frisbee and other beach-time playthings. Inside the pagoda more chairs. There’s no electricity, oil lantern and the old-time typewriter standing free at a small antique desk. Stack of unburdened paper next to it. A pet door down there, also screened, swings with the entrance or exit of a cat or dog. But there are no cats or dogs. What, you wonder. You take turns reading from great works, a chapter each, lantern light. You hear liquid murmur. A breeze only the Caribbean conjures. One, the cynic, softly says, “This is paradise,” and you suppose he is for once sincere. You open the second rum and more toasts, bursts of eloquence, a fine night. Then the pet door swings open with a sharp knock. You stare. A three-foot iguana struts in with temerity, your host holds a sack of goodies; he strokes its chin. He named the iguana Tennessee.
