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Write-this-down . . .”
    She looks up from her lap, and sees that the Constable’s eyes are closed; and she stops talking for a moment, waiting to see if he will stir from his slumber; but his eyes remain closed; and his breathing is a bit loud; and she concludes with some resignation that he is asleep. The night is long. It moves at a slow pace. The night takes on the desultory pace of her words and of her recollections. Realizing he is fast asleep, she continues talking, nevertheless.
    “Serving at Mr. Bellfeels table, my first elevation from out the fields, when I was a more younger woman, and was only bearing his weight on my belly, every Saturday night, regardless to whether I was having my menses, or not . . . Yes!
    “That low-class bastard! Pardon my French, Constable, although you fast-asleep.
    “Yes. I remember ‘The Blue Danube.’ And all those foxtrots he would play. People in those days used to dance so formal and lovely, wearing long dresses, with the men in long swizzle-tail coats, looking like undertakers and penguins. But the elegance! In those days! The ironies of elegance! And at the Crane Beach Hotel where the really rich, the really white people, went; or at the Marine Hotel down in Hastings District, where the lower-class Plantation-people who were really not white, went. The Marine Hotel was the class to which Mr. Bellfeels belong, by birthright. To the red-nigger Marine Hotel crowd, down in Hastings.
    “But you should have seen the tribes of them dancing! Those were the days! I wish those days would come back, for the sake of my son Wilberforce, who is approaching the age for marrieding. Is time he find a woman to spend his life with. Yes. For Wilberforce sake, and for the sake of the art of dancing, I wish those days would return-back.
    “In those days, the men of this Island knew how to dance! The Aquatic Club on Bay Street, down in Town, was another popular place. In those days, a person even with a complexion such as mine, ‘a brown-skin bitch,’ as I happen to know is what Gertrude calls me, not even a brown-skin bitch like me, could get-past that iron gate. Unless I was working there, as a servant. And at that, they had a entrance for servants, with a hand-painted sign, saying SERVANTS ONLY. Yes.”
    The Constable opens his eyes, looks around, convinces himself that he did not actually fall-off to sleep; and becomes alert, fiddling with his black notebook. She watches him; and smiles.
    “Now, Wilberforce, being of a even more lighter complexion than me, don’t have that trouble. You see what I mean? Yes. The Aquatic Club. The place where the best dancing was danced to the best music. The Percy Greene Orchestra, plus the Coa Alleyne Orchestra. Big bands, boy! Led by two black musicianers from right here in Bimshire. Two of the best ! In the whole Wessindies! Nor only in Bimshire.
    “Did you know that the Percy Greene Orchestra played once for Majesty? Yes.
    “Yes! The King, George-the-Fiff, was in the Island once . . . he wasn’t really King then, he was the Prince o’ Wales, to later become King . . . and they held a dance, a Ball, what am I saying? A Ball. At the Aquatic Club. Proper; and decent, for His Majesty, George-the-Fiff. I know all this because Ma who—God rest her soul—was now promoted from weeding in the North Field, to a position within the kitchen staffs of the Plantation Main House, having a more higher status and position, as a consequence, but getting the same field-hand wage; and the Bookkeeper at the time, none other than Mr. Bellfeels, was appointed Chairman of the Royal Ball, by the Social Events Committee of the Marine Hotel, to be stage manager of the Ball held at the Aquatic Club, plus being in charge of making arrangements for transportation in private cars and hiring hired cars from Johnson’s Stables; for making the banners and screamers, streamers; and buntings; for blowing up the red-white-and-blue balloons; for making-sure that the ballroom floor