Text of Jeff Bezos's Apology over Orwell-Kindle Incident

This is an apology for the way we previously handled illegally sold copies of 1984 and other novels on Kindle. Our “solution” to the problem was stupid, thoughtless, and painfully out of line with our principles. It is wholly self-inflicted, and we deserve the criticism we’ve received. We will use the scar tissue from this painful mistake to help make better decisions going forward, ones that match our mission.

With deep apology to our customers,

Jeff Bezos
Founder & CEO
Amazon.com

USA Today Press Release re Kindle

USA TODAY’S BEST-SELLING BOOKS LIST TO INCLUDE AMAZON KINDLE BOOK SALES INFORMATION

Becomes First Major Book List to Include Kindle in Rankings

McLean, Va. (July 22, 2009) – Beginning tomorrow USA TODAY’s Best-Selling Books List will include Amazon Kindle book sales in overall sales rankings. USA TODAY is the first major book list to include Kindle book sales and in doing so will provide a much more robust ranking for our bestseller list. This list will run in Thursday’s edition of USA TODAY and online at booklist.usatoday.com.

“Since October of 1993, USA TODAY’s Best-Selling Books List has provided our readers with a complete picture of sales in the publishing industry,” said Susan Weiss, managing editor of the Life section. “With the addition of sales figures from Kindle, we have created a more robust list which reflects the new platforms consumers and readers are using to purchase books.”

“We are thrilled to be contributing Kindle book sales information to USA TODAY for their comprehensive bestseller list for books customers,” said Laura Porco, director of Kindle books. “Given the great overlap of taste between Kindle customers and physical book buyers, the USA TODAY Best-Selling Books List is truly reflective of what customers are buying regardless of format.”

Rankings for USA TODAY’s Best-Selling Books List are based on retail sales data collected each week that include more than 2.5 million volumes from about 7,000 physical retail outlets in addition to books sold online. USA TODAY’s list ranks titles regardless of genre or format, providing one of the best assessments of which books are most popular among readers and consumers each week. USA TODAY’s Best-Selling Books list has been published each Thursday in the newspaper’s Life section since October 28, 1993.

USA TODAY was founded in 1982 with a mission to serve as a forum for better understanding and unity to help make the USA truly one nation. Through its flagship newspaper and popular Web site, USA TODAY engages the national conversation and connects readers online through social media applications. USA TODAY, the nation's top-selling newspaper with a total average daily circulation of more than 2.1 million, and USATODAY.com, an award-winning newspaper Web site which launched in 1995, reach a combined 5.8 million readers daily. The USA TODAY news and information brand also includes: USA TODAY Education, USA TODAY LIVE, USA TODAY Mobile, Open Air magazine and USA TODAY Sports Weekly. USA TODAY is owned by Gannett Co., Inc. (NYSE: GCI).

Lunch's Take on Orwell Kindle Caper

What We Talk About When We Talk About Amazon

Last week was a bizarre one in the annals of Amazon-dominated news, closing with Friday's Orwellian removal of unauthorized editions of two books by the actual George Orwell from a small number of Kindle owners' libraries.

Among the things I find interesting about the story:

* Internet outrage began with an incorrect blog post on the NYT's site from columnist David Pogue who shot first without asking: "Apparently the publisher changed its mind about offering an electronic edition, and apparently Amazon, whose business lives and dies by publisher happiness, caved," Pogue wrote. Bear in mind that Pogue has made a substantial amount of money as both author and co-publisher of computer books, but he assumes the worst of publishers from the outset.

* Amazon's open-publishing platform for Kindle (and the popularity on the device of free and very cheap public domain works) requires more vetting/monitoring than it has received to date. As Amazon spokesman Drew Herdener explained on Friday: "These books [unauthorized editions of 1984 and Animal Farm, uploaded by MobileReference according to customers] were added to our catalog using our self-service platform by a third party who did not have the rights to the books."

While this is the story that wound up making news, customers posting on Amazon's discussion board have reported seeing other unauthorized editions available--including Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince ("yes, illegal copies actually made it through for all of about an hour here on Monday.")

* Famous for putting the customer first--at least in the service of selling other people's physical goods--Amazon is encountering a number of challenges as producer/seller of their own device and in the new world of selling physical goods. In the case of the unauthorized Kindle books,
"when we were notified of this by the rights holder, we removed the illegal copies from our systems and from customers' devices, and refunded customers." That's what ignited the real firestorm from Kindle customers.

For customers, however, it was a reminder that they are licensing the right to view a file rather than owning it. And it showed how the cool Whispernet--which downloads books "in 60 seconds or less," can also make those books disappear just as quickly. In this, Amazon appears to have overstepped the provisions of its own terms of service. (The NYT wrote, "Amazon's published terms of service agreement for the Kindle does not appear to give the company the right to delete purchases after they have been made. It says Amazon grants customers the right to keep a 'permanent copy of the applicable digital content.') Of course for all of us, it's also a reminder of one reason why ebooks are "worth less" to customers: they come with fewer privileges.

Hence spokesman Herdener's additional comment: "We are changing our systems so that in the future we will not remove books from customers' devices in these circumstances."

* But Amazon's customer service left customers disappointed in other ways, too. When the unauthorized files were removed, the explanation was less than candid. In e-mails reproduced on the company's forum, customer say they were told via e-mail only that "we recently discovered a problem with a Kindle book that you have purchased."

* That customer service failure echoes a story from earlier last week that got dramatically less national pick-up even though for the affected customers it's a much more serious issue: the lawsuit filed by one customer (seeking class action status) regarding a cracked Kindle they allege was damaged by the cover.

All of this is interesting viewed against the first Amazon-driven story of the week--also continuing this week: the fight over the $9.95 price point, and publishers' strategic questions about release windows for certain ebooks. (Clearly anything Amazon/Kindle related is now receiving disproportionate attention from mainstream press--and those stories are going to focus on battles and failures more than anything else.) To echo one of our themes from last week's pricing post, Amazon is suffering by not being completely candid with their customers; publishers should avoid the same mistake and tell the truth, and the complete truth, about their pricing concerns.

At the same time, if you are not both watching and participating in Amazon's abundant Kindle customer forums, you are missing out. There are customers who understand (and regularly track) the $9.95 price fallacy--but they don't know whom to blame for the "bait and switch."

Watch the Kindle bestsellers and you'll see that right now all of the top 5 ebooks are free--as are 7 of the top 10, and 15 of the top 25. When publishers talk to the press about pricing, you should mention all the ebooks you give away, as well as all of the titles that are published simultaneously with the print edition. (Meanwhile, despite all the supposed resistance to paying over $9.95 for an ebook, one of the top paid titles on the Kindle bestseller list remains Breaking Dawn, selling at $11.38, now after "352 days in the top 100."

For still more on pricing, both Mike Shatzkin and Evan Schnittman are looking at some of the issues on their blogs.

Comments on The Great Orwell Kindle Caper

Pulling content from the Kindle store breaks the Whispernet archive availability and sync services that allow the ebook to stay on customers’ Kindles. If they archived it at home, they still have the book – so this file removal only effects people who kept their ebook library in the cloud (and by extension, the Kindle’s Whispernet).
****************************************************************************

Caffeine Queen says:

Here's the response from Amazon CS:

“The Kindle edition books Animal Farm by George Orwell. Published by MobileReference (mobi) & Nineteen Eighty-Four (1984) by George Orwell. Published by MobileReference (mobi) were removed from the Kindle store and are no longer available for purchase. When this occured, your purchases were automatically refunded. You can still locate the books in the Kindle store, but each has a status of not yet available. Although a rarity, publishers can decide to pull their content from the Kindle store. “

Bryan L. Wheeler says:

Actually, if you want to ensure that you are able to keep ALL copies of your Kindle books, make sure to ALWAYS download copies of your Kindle book purchases to your computer. That way, even if Amazon removes a book from your Kindle at any point that you have Whispernet on, you can reload that book onto your Kindle via the copy from your computer. Now, if it's a pirated book that should never have been sold in the first place, that's up to your own good conscientious as to what you should do. :)

Bryan L. Wheeler says:
That's correct flipoid - "the more logical solution would be to allow people who have paid for a book to keep it (if it was initially a legal, publisher- or author-released copy)", hence my comment. If you paid for a legal copy, you have every right to keep it, at least in my opinion, so rebel against the man, or the Whispernet anyway, and don't let them take your books away in the middle of the night like this.

In all honesty though, Amazon really shouldn't be refunding your money and taking your books away unless they are pirated copies put on Amazon illegally, and that's what most likely happened in this case. If this isn't the case, then I would have a serious issue with what they did, and NO, I would not delete a paid for book off my pc, regardless of whether or not Amazon refunded my money. If I bought it legally, I'm not deleting it just because Amazon refunded my money for some unknown reason that had nothing to do with pirating.

For all comments click here.

Lunch Weighs In On E-Book Pricing Controversy

NYT On eBook Release Timing--Ditto

The NYT follows-up the WSJ piece on Sourcebooks' decision to postpone the ebook release of their new hardcover YA novel Bran Hambric. As we noted in our write-up on Monday, the Times reiterates that every house with a major frontlist fiction release is debating whether to delay publication in ebook form (and some are contemplating much broader shifts in the timing of their ebook releases).

Since no one is talking about it on the record, the Times story doesn't add much that you don't already know. Interesting, in a quirky way, is this paragraph: "For now, Amazon is taking a loss on each e-book it sells because it generally pays publishers half of the hardcover list price on new releases. So publishers who delay releasing e-books run the risk of losing sales, for which they are now getting higher margins than they are on print books." The innocent reader could come away thinking, 'publishers are being petty idiots giving away profits and annoying e-book readers at the same time while Amazon's willing to lose money on customers' behalf' rather than, say, Amazon wants to use their gigantic scale to dominate the emerging ebook business at any cost, including another blow to my local bookstore, while publishers are willing to give up some quick profit to protect a functioning industry for authors, booksellers, and publishers.

Because most publishers aren't saying much for record--and even when they do, they hide behind veiled discussions of price and even piracy (honestly, Doubleday is claiming that they are "primarily worried about the security of Mr. Brown's book rather than particular vendors")--readers and consumers may wind up getting the wrong message.

As many publishers see it this is about Amazon subsidizing what's seen as an artificially low price to try to dominate the growing market and potentially impose terms on publishers later on. They can afford the subsidies both because of their size (their $35 billion market cap vastly exceeds the value of all the biggest US booksellers and publishers) but also because of the margins built in to manufacturing and selling their own reading devices. And Amazon has used the lure of cheap bestsellers to help sell their devices, while consumers remain mostly unaware that about a third of all Kindle books sell for more than $9.99.

Most consumers also don't know that Amazon (and for now most major retailers of ebooks from traditional publishers) buys ebooks at a 50 percent discount, when market-dominating Apple only gets a 30 percent discount on music downloads.

Publishers' concerns stem primarily from the steep upturn in Amazon's Kindle sales as of March and the even more dramatic shift in the ratio between electronic and print sales at Amazon on a small subset subsidized new fiction hardcover releases in particular, with Kindle many times comprising 50 to 70 percent of Amazon's sales on those titles.

As the Times notes publishers could make the same (or better) short-term profits by encouraging Amazon's behavior, but they're looking out for what they believe to be their long-term interests--and are trying to protect the entire system of physical book retailing which supports the whole industry. Those aren't bad things for your customers and readers to hear--but if no one says them, then the message doesn't get transmitted. It doesn't do much good to fulminate in private but then avoid the problem in public and make tangential claims of piracy concerns and other issues. To be clear, I do not subscribe to the idea that producers can ever "educate" consumers about value--the smart companies (and the survivors) learn from their consumers about value and make it part of their business. But explaining can help.

Ama by Manu Herbstein - Chapter 13

AMA by Manu Herbstein

CHAPTER 13

Director-General Pieter De Bruyn stood in the shadow, leaning against one of the plastered arches which framed the second floor balcony.
It was Sunday afternoon. He had spent the morning in church, eaten to excess in the company of his officers and drunk enough wine to make him drowsy. He unbuttoned his high collar and fanned himself ineffectively with his left hand. The air was still within the high enclosing walls of the courtyard. On the roof a row of white-breasted black crows cried their raucous cry. It was hot. The moisture in the air was almost palpable. Drops of perspiration trickled from his balding pate, down over his wrinkled forehead, onto his thick grey eyebrows and into his eyes. He felt the sting of the saltiness of his sweat and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief which he kept clasped in his right hand.
Sven Jensen, the young Chief Merchant, stood leaning over the balcony a few paces away. Jensen was immaculate. His white uniform was perfectly pressed. His shock of blonde hair shone in the midday sun. The gold braid on his epaulets sparkled as he turned to speak. Jensen seemed immune to the climate. Indeed he seemed to thrive on it. De Bruyn sighed.
“They are coming now, sir”, said Jensen.
Remaining in the shade, De Bruyn peered down into the courtyard below. He heard the grinding of the hinges as the iron door was opened.
“I hope you have a better selection for me than last week,” he said. “Emaciated, ugly bitches. I took the best of a bad lot but she turned me off. I sent her back to her hole unused. Must be old age creeping up on me. When I was younger I would have just covered her face and got on with it.”
“This is the batch which Akyeampong brought in on Thursday,” replied Jensen. “There are some with a bit more flesh on them.”
He knew: he had already tested a sample.
Impotent bugger, the DG, thought Jensen, I cannot live without a fuck practically every day and yet it seems that De Bruyn can manage a stand only on Sundays. And two weeks without a woman. The old boy must either be pulling himself off or he is impotent.
“I hope you will find a candidate more to your taste today, sir,” he said.
The Company's Board in Amsterdam had its rules. Company servants were not permitted to take concubines. The lower ranks were forbidden from so much as spending a night in Edina and they were locked into the Castle before dark every evening. They were certainly not permitted to bring women to their quarters nor even to handle the slaves. Offenders were flogged till the blood ran. But the officers, including the Director General, flouted the rules with impunity. All that was required of them was that they exercise reasonable discretion.
Two guards, Kobina and Vroom, lounged against the wall in a corner of the courtyard. They were dressed in ragged scarlet trousers, inherited from deceased Dutch soldiers. They were barefooted and stripped to the waist. Idly, they flicked their rawhide whips at one another. The third guard, Kofi Kakraba, was somewhere in the dungeon, shouting at the seated women, kicking those who did not understand him, cracking his whip in the dark, to force them onto their feet and out.
The women blinked and rubbed their eyes. At this time of the afternoon, the sun lit up the wall opposite De Bruyn and half of the stone floor below. Vroom shouted at them in broken Dutch, careless of whether they understood or not. Kobina clapped his hands and gesticulated, herding them into a corner. More women came streaming past the iron gate. The guards divided them into two lots and lined the first up against the sunlit wall. They stood there, confused and uncertain, flexing their limbs and looking around. One yawned and stretched her arms. Some began to chatter. One woman began to sing a dirge in a high-pitched voice. Coming out of the dungeon behind them, Kofi Kakraba silenced them with a harsh command and a crack of his whip. They cowered against the wall.
Ama stood in the shade and hugged herself. She thought she recognised Vroom.
What now? she wondered.
She looked around the courtyard. The floor was of stone flags, their surface worn smooth, if she had only known it, by nearly three hundred years of traffic of the bare feet of female slaves. Near the far corner there was a raised platform covered with wooden boards. Above it stood an iron frame supporting a wheel of the same metal, from which there hung a chain, coiled alongside. A wooden bucket stood on the platform. Ama raised her eyes and examined the whitewashed walls. The sunlight reflected from the white surface made her blink. She looked away to avoid the glare. High above her, she caught a glimpse of a head of golden hair.
Vroom prodded the women with the butt of his whip, urging them to stand upright and look ahead. They murmured in sullen confusion and resistance.
De Bruyn put the telescope to his eye and focused on the first female slave. Satisfied that the women would give them no trouble today, the guards relaxed; but kept their eyes on Jensen. They could not see De Bruyn, who was concealed in the gloom, but they knew he was there. De Bruyn did not fancy the first woman: she was scrawny and ugly. He examined each female slave in turn. Most of them were dressed in torn and ragged cotton wrappers, wound around the waist or under the arms, with the loose end tucked in to hold it in position. Their heads had been shaved. De Bruyn waved the back of his hand dismissively to Jensen who conveyed the message with a sign to the guards.
The guards moved the first group of women away and motioned to the other set to replace them. Ama was fifth. By her side stood Esi, short, fat Esi, her eyes meekly on her feet. Ama looked up and, with a start, again caught sight of Jensen. The golden-haired red-faced god in his spotless white uniform astonished her. That must be a real white man, she thought. She nudged Esi and, with a nod of her head, directed her gaze up at Jensen. Esi stared, her mouth open. She recognised him; she was sure of it. It was Jensen who had had her the night before, in the dark courtyard, against the wall, from behind, without ceremony. She could still feel the pain in her loins and the humiliation and degradation of being taken like a dog.
“That is the pig,” she muttered to Ama. “I am sure: that is the pig that raped me last night.”
De Bruyn raised the telescope again. He was looking for youth, a smooth ebony complexion, a full face, a well rounded torso and a clean body-cloth. But above all he searched the slaves’ unseeing eyes, seeking . . . He could not put a word to whatever it was he was seeking, perhaps some sign of humanity, some sign of the human warmth he craved, the warmth only a woman could give. Invariably what met his eye was pain, humiliation and despair
He stopped at Ama. Wide-eyed, forgetful of her condition, Ama was trying to make sense of the divine apparition above, the golden pig-god, the essential white man.
Without lowering the telescope, De Bruyn brought his thumb and index finger together.
“Fifth from the left,” he said.
Jensen raised the five fingers of his right hand and then moved the index finger from left to right. Kofi Kakraba placed a hand on Ama's shoulder. She flinched, but he held her firmly. The guard looked up at Jensen, who nodded. Seeing this silent exchange of body language, Ama guessed what lay in store for her.
“Mama, the pig wants to eat me,” she shrieked in her mother tongue.
“The pig wants to eat her,” echoed another woman, following Ama's line of sight.
A third woman took up the refrain. Soon they all raised their voices, in a Babel of languages and in a mixture of fear, anger, sympathy for Ama and relief that she had been chosen rather than themselves.
De Bruyn put the telescope down and covered his ears with his hands. The threats of the guards and the crack of their whips rose above the women's voices. Kofi Kakraba walked across to a corner of the courtyard and returned with a wooden chair which he placed in the sunlight in view of the watchers above. Then he dragged Ama across and signalled to her to stand on the seat. She was confused. What do they want of me? Perhaps the pig-god up there is a cannibal. She shuddered at the thought. Stubbornly she stood her ground, staring at the guard with narrowed eyes, hating him. Kofi Kakraba was a big man. His shoulders were broad and paddling a canoe through the breakers had given him huge biceps. In Kumase, Ama thought, he would have been an executioner. He took three steps; then stopped just behind her, bent his knees and suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist. Ama screamed, but before she knew what had happened, she was standing on the chair. Then her tormentor reached up and grabbed her cloth where it was tucked in above her left breast and pulled it down. Without giving her time to react, he ripped off the beads which hung around her waist. Kobina applauded; Vroom shouted an obscenity.
Ama now stood stark naked. She noticed Jensen looking down at her and covered her pubis with her hands. For a moment the other women were silent. Then they took up their wailing again. From behind, Kofi Kakraba grabbed hold of Ama’s wrists and, moving one foot back to maintain his balance, pinned her arms behind her back. She cried out in pain but he held her immobile and exposed. Vroom looked up and Jensen nodded. Vroom was light skinned. The Dutch called him “Yellow,” avoiding giving him the name of his Dutch father. He forced Ama’s legs apart so that he could better see her private parts. He was looking for signs of the clap. He stuck his index finger into her vagina making a lewd comment to Kobina, who stood by his side. Ama struggled to free herself from Kofi Kakraba’s grip and screamed abuse at Vroom. He withdrew his finger and raised it to the light to examine it. Then he put it under his nostrils. Satisfied, he stood aside and showed the finger to Jensen and shook it once, signalling a clean bill of health.
All this time, De Bruyn’s telescope had been focused on Ama, her eyes, then her breasts. Her chest was pressed forward by Kofi Kakraba who still gripped her arms behind her back. Her breasts were small but they stood high and firm. Anticipating future pleasure, De Bruyn felt his rising penis straining against the tight trousers of his dress uniform. Now that Vroom had moved aside, he dropped his sight. Within the circle of his view he saw the mound of her pubic hair.
“Dear God”, he prayed silently, “forgive your humble servant for his carnal desires,” and forced himself to think of chess. At his age, he knew, too much forethought and he might not be able to manage an erection when the time came.
“That one will do,” he said to Jensen.
Jensen gave his final signal of approval. Their whips cracking, the guards herded the women though the gate, forcing them back into the dungeon. Kofi Kakraba had released his grip. Ama now stood silent and alone on the chair, attempting to pull herself together, to muster her spirit to face the next ordeal.
The guards came back. Kobina returned Ama’s cloth to her and told her, not unkindly, to get down from the chair.
“Send me a bucket of warm water,” De Bruyn said to Jensen as he turned to open the door to his bedroom.
Jensen clapped his hands.
“Water, warm water,” he called.
De Bruyn unbuttoned his coat as he walked across to the tall south-west window. He opened the shutters and lent out to hook the clips to the iron hoops. He scanned the distant curve of the horizon for sails but there were none. He stretched and yawned. The air was still; it was too early for the afternoon’s sea breeze. He took a deep breath and turned to study his image in the standing mirror.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he called.
It was the guard Kofi Kakraba, carrying a large copper basin on his head.
“Bring it here,” said De Bruyn and helped him to lower it to the floor, a few feet before the mirror. He dipped a finger into the water to test the temperature.
“You may go,” he said, turning again to the window, “but wait outside the door.”
Barefooted, Kofi strode silently across to the door and closed it just as silently behind him.
Ama had been given a bowl of rice and palm soup. It was the first real meal she had had since her arrival. She was hungry and she ate quickly. As soon as she had finished, Kobina told her to get up.
“Where are you sending me?” she asked him.
“Oh, so you hear Fanti?” he asked.
“Where are you sending me?” she repeated, scowling at him.
“Never you mind,” he said, taking her by the hand.
“Come,” he said, but she resisted.
“My little sister,” he said, turning to her. “Let me give you some friendly advice. In this place you will find life easier if you co-operate. Do you understand? Now come with me. The Director is not going to eat you, he is only going to fuck you.”
He laughed as he pushed her gently before him. It was a pun that always amused him.
Ama did not understand. For one thing Fanti sounded different from Asante, it was full of ‘z’ sounds. And then Kobina had used the same Fanti word for ‘eat’ as he had for ‘fuck’ and she could neither fathom his meaning nor understand his play on words.
What she thought she heard was, “He is not going to eat you; he is only going to eat you.”
In her fear, Ama remained silent. Kobina directed her to a long, steep flight of black and white stone stairs, keeping close behind her. She was startled by the first of three strokes of a bell close by. There was a landing and then they turned to climb the second flight, this time of wood. The stairs creaked as they climbed, reminding Ama of Konadu Yaadom's staircase in Kumase. How happy she had been there, in spite of her captivity, and how stupid to have got herself into this pickle. Two polished brass guns, pattereroes, protected the top of the stairs. Now she thought that they had reached the level of the balcony from which she had seen Jensen looking down into the courtyard. She looked down over the balustrade. The courtyard was empty. The 'pig-god', as she thought of him now, was nowhere to be seen. They turned a corner. At the end of a wainscoted corridor their way was blocked by a solid white door, covered with ornate mouldings. Kofi Kakraba was on guard, squatting on his haunches with his back against the wall. Silently, he withdrew the clay pipe from his mouth, acknowledged their presence and with a sideways gesture of his head, indicated to Kobina that he should knock on the door.
“Enter,” called De Bruyn from within.
Kobina opened the door and gently propelled Ama into the room.
“Yessir,” he said, poking his head through so that he could be seen.
De Bruyn, gazing out at the Atlantic, did not turn. Receiving no reply, Kobina gently closed the door. Then he squatted against the wall opposite Kofi Kakraba.
“Got a light?” he asked.
When he heard the door close, De Bruyn turned. Ama was standing where Kobina had left her. De Bruyn walked across and stood before her. He looked her straight in the eye. Confused, afraid, shy, modest, Ama dropped her eyes to the ground. This is not the ‘pig-god,’ she thought. This is an old man. Or perhaps they can change their appearance at will?
She shuddered.
De Bruyn took a step back and ran his eye over her body.
“You are very young, my child,” he said, “and very nervous.”
He spoke in Dutch and Ama did not understand.
She remained silent, her eyes still averted from his gaze, thinking, how harsh and unpleasant their language is.
De Bruyn took her hand. Again she was afraid and she trembled. No white man had touched her before. She wanted to look at him, to see what was wrong with his skin that made him such an ugly colour. She was curious, too, about his hair, but she was scared to look at him. His unwashed body smell mingled with that of the civet perfume with which he had anointed himself. Ama was conscious that she smelled of the dungeon. She wondered whether he would notice.
De Bruyn led her to the mirror and stood her before it, facing it. The copper basin was just behind her.
“Look,” he said, lifting her chin with his hand.
Ama had seen small hand mirrors before in Kumase. Her mistress had had one and she had often stolen a secret moment to study her own face, trying to puzzle out the meaning of the image, as she once had with Itsho. But she had never stood before a full length looking glass. Forgetting De Bruyn, she gazed at her reflection with wide eyes. She moved a hand to stroke her shaven scalp and, seeing the movement copied in the glass, dropped it to look at the original. De Bruyn watched her with a smile, pleased with himself. This trick never failed to amuse him.
“There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. . .” he said in English.
Then, without warning, he grabbed the end of her cloth and pulled it from her, quickly crushing it into a bundle and throwing it to a far corner of the room. For the second time within an hour, Ama stood stark naked. The beads which Kofi Kakraba had torn from her earlier had not been returned to her. Instinctively, she covered her nakedness with her hands. Her feet, she felt, were stuck to the floor. She turned her head to look at De Bruyn and then as quickly dropped her eyes. Again she was afraid. As for rape, it would not be the first time. She would fight. But Kobina had said this man would eat her. She stared at her eyes in the mirror, a deep penetrating stare. The eyes stared back at her. She saw the anguish in her own expression and her fear was compounded. Then, for the first time she noticed the image of her own naked body, her round arms, the swell of her breasts, the dark areolas about the nipples, her full hips, her slender legs, her little feet. Her eyes widened. She moved her hands away and saw the mound and her private hairs.
All this time De Bruyn was talking to her in his language, but Ama understood no word of what he was saying and paid no attention to him.
“Now my little princess,” he said, “you are really very beautiful. You must surely be of royal blood? Most definitely a princess. And that is what I shall call you, Princess. No, no, on second thoughts I shall call you Pamela.”
“Now Pamela,” he continued, “I am going to give you a bath.”
In anticipation of the pleasure of cupping Ama's breasts in his soapy hands, lathering her cunt hairs, massaging her lips, inserting a soapy index finger into her pussy, De Bruyn felt his penis struggling against his tight trousers. Quickly, he pulled off his boots and socks, stripped off his coat, shirt and trousers and threw them onto the bed. Now he was wearing only his drawers. Pausing for no more than a moment, he let them drop to his feet. Now they were equal in their nakedness. As God made us, he thought. Ama saw his erect penis reflected in the mirror and braced herself for what was to come.
De Bruyn took a cake of soap and washed and lathered his hands. Standing behind Ama, he placed his left hand on her left shoulder and took her right breast in his soapy hand. Ama panicked. Twice before she had been taken by force. Instinctively she swung round. Thrown off balance, De Bruyn took a step back, placing his foot on the edge of the basin, tipping it over and flooding the floor boards. At the same time Ama's outstretched arm swung round and her clenched fist struck him. Already off balance, De Bruyn toppled over backwards. As he fell, the back of his head hit the corner of a table, drawing blood and causing him to cry out in surprise and pain.
Outside the door, the guards, hearing his cry, stood up, uncertain what to do. A moment later, they heard De Bruyn calling, “Guards, guards!”
No sooner had the words escaped his lips than De Bruyn became aware of the ludicrous nature of his situation. He lay there stark naked, the black woman, equally naked, standing there immobile staring at him. The blood had left his engorged penis and it had shrivelled to its normal size. He stretched out to grab his drawers and threw the garment over his organ.
The guards opened the door.
“Wait,” called De Bruyn, but it was too late. Pausing only for a moment to assess the situation, Kobina rushed to De Bruyn, lifted him to his feet and helped him to a chair, De Bruyn all the time clutching his shame cloth.
“Oh my God,” cried De Bruyn.
Kofi Kakraba spun Ama around and for the second time that day grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms behind her back. He began to run her out of the room.
“Wait!” commanded De Bruyn.
He had lifted a hand to the wound in his scalp. Now he lowered it to look at the blood.
“Pass me that towel,” he said to Kobina. “Now dip it in the water.”
There was a little water left in the basin.
“Now pass it to me. Pass it to me,” he repeated.
Keeping his drawers in position with one hand, he wiped the wound on his scalp with the wet towel. It stung a little, but he realised that the damage was superficial.
“Now get out! Both of you, get out,” he screamed at the two guards.
They scurried for the door and closed it noisily behind them.
Ama remained standing where Kofi Kakraba had released her. She had struck this old white man who seemed to be the chief of the castle. Surely now he would kill her. She wanted to run. But where to? The guards were outside the door. There appeared to be no escape. And how far could she get in her nakedness?
Ama got down on her knees and, cupping her right hand in her left, blurted out hysterically,
“Nana, grandfather. My lord, my master. Forgive me. It was a mistake. I didn't mean to harm you. You startled me and it was in my surprise that I swung round. Do not kill me, I beg you. It was a mistake. It was a mistake. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Her words were swallowed by her crying. She sank her head upon her knees and sat there, unable to decide what to do next and unable to control her sobbing.
De Bruyn, guessing the general import of her plea, pulled on his drawers and rose gingerly to his feet.
“Get up, you stupid baggage,” he said as he picked up the basin and took it to the door.
“More water,” he ordered as he passed it to the guards. “And mind, if one single word about this incident gets abroad, you will both be on the next ship leaving for Guyana. Do you savvy? Not a single word,” and he drew a finger across his throat.
When Kobina returned with the basin, De Bruyn had donned a gown and had persuaded Ama to get up and wrap her cloth around her. He directed the basin to the alcove he used for his weekly bath.
“I suppose you know how to bath yourself?” he said to Ama wryly and handed her the cake of soap, a loofah and a towel and pushed her gently into the alcove. Then he drew the curtain to allow her to bath in privacy.
Ama's mind was still in a turmoil but she didn't need a second invitation to scrub off the filth of the dungeon. As she lathered herself, she slowly recovered her self-control. She concentrated her mind on Itsho and when she succeeded in summoning up an image of his face, he was laughing. Then she began to see the ridiculous side of what had happened and smiled involuntarily to herself. The soap was mildly perfumed and the water was warm. Enjoying the luxury and in no hurry for whatever was to come next, she took her time.
“What are you doing in there woman? Hurry up, I also want to take my bath,” called De Bruyn.
“Here, take this and put it on,” he continued and hung upon the curtain rail a piece of Ijebu cloth which he had taken from his wooden chest.
They had no single word in common but were somehow managing to communicate. Ama dried herself and wrapped the blue cloth around her. She drew the curtain and came out, not quite sure whether that is what he had intended.
“Yes, very pretty,” he said in response to her questioning look.
“Come now, Pamela,” he continued, taking her hand firmly in his.
“This is our marriage bed,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. “Lie on it and I will join you shortly.”
All her life, Ama had slept on a mat on the floor. She had seen Konadu Yaadom's ornately carved bed in Kumase, indeed Nana had taught her how to arrange the bedclothes. But this massive four-poster was something different. She climbed onto the white cotton sheets and lay there stiffly, unable to relax. De Bruyn went to take his bath, delicately drawing the curtain behind him.
Ama had only a short time to consider her next move. The man would reappear soon and there was no doubt he would try to climb on her. What should she do? She thought of Tabitsha, her mother. Tears came to her eyes and she began to sob quietly, considering her predicament. She had seen De Bruyn's penis. It seemed to be no different from any other she had seen, in spite of its peculiar pink colour. There was no doubt what he wanted of her. But what then? Surely when he had squirted his semen into her and had his little sleep, he would send her back to the dungeon of the female slaves, to the darkness, the fetid smell of stale piss and septic shit, the damp, the shared misery of a hundred women without hope. What if she were to resist him, to fight? She knew that she could not succeed. She could not match his strength and anyway, the guards were at his beck and call. He seemed to have forgiven her for what she had done to him, but would he do so a second time? What if she were to succumb to his wishes? She knew how to please a man and, unless white men’s sex was very different from that of blacks, she was confident she could persuade him of her own excitement, even though she felt only repugnance and pain. She propped herself up on one elbow and looking through the open window saw the broad blue expanse of the ocean. She recalled the walk along the beach on the way to the castle. How she would like to go and touch it. She had no doubt that it was water, but it looked so different from the rivers and lakes she knew. Perhaps she could swim in it as she had learned to do as a child in the flood lakes of the Oti and seen the little naked boys doing not three days ago?
De Bruyn’s call from behind the curtain, “Well, are you ready for me?” brought her back to reality. Then she knew what she would do. She would not resist, but neither would she co-operate. She would lie there limp and let him do what he had to do, but she would not help him and she would not encourage him. If he wanted her to give him real pleasure, he would have to earn it. And even if he sent her away in disgust, back to the dungeon, at least she would have kept her self-respect.
“Ah, Pamela, “ said De Bruyn, as he drew the curtain. “There you are. Now we shall see,” and he licked his dry lips.

Author of Ama Records Impressions of President Obama's Visit to Door of No Return

On the visit of President Barack Obama and his family to Cape Coast Castle, July 11, 2009.

The struggle for freedom, equality and dignity is an on-going one in which one must have the modesty to learn from the past and from each other, as well as the courage to meet the future.
Nelson Mandela, 1995.

The effects of enslavement have lasted this long because of the silence that surrounds its history . . . The power of the fetish of slavery is enhanced by keeping it hidden . . . To dissolve the fetish it is necessary to keep the story of slavery and the slave trade open-ended and to avoid closure; to clear the way to debate and to perpetually initiate rather than conclude the argument so that every new generation may visit it to quarry its lessons.
Kwadwo Opoku-Agyeman

These words of Nelson Mandela and Kwadwo Opoku-Agyeman were in my mind as I settled down on Saturday, July 11, 2009 to watch the television record of the Obama family’s short visit to Ghana.

In the run-up to its live broadcast of the day’s events, Ghana TV beamed a fascinating biography of Barack Obama, attributed to the Biography Channel. Sadly, the episode that made the most profound impression on me was one surely not intended by the film-maker.

Barack and Michelle Obama were married at the Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago in October 1992. The ceremony was conducted by their mentor and long-time friend, Rev. Jeremiah A. Wright Jr. The Biography.com film shows the wedding but it has been cut, in a surprisingly crude and obvious manner, to excise all images of Rev. Wright. This deliberate falsification of history brought to my mind Joseph Stalin’s recall of the Soviet Encyclopedia so that every reference to Leon Trotsky might be excised and his image ink-brushed into obscurity.

The Rev. Jeremiah Wright has been demonized, in my view unjustly demonized, by the U.S. media. But, whatever your view of him, is it possible to turn him into some kind of non-person, the denizen of some virtual Guantanamo Bay or, to change the metaphor, to make him the object of some fairground magician’s disappearing trick?

Jeremiah Wright’s primary sin was to challenge the American people to confront the many harsh, uncomfortable, realities of their national history.

As I turned these matters over in my mind, the real show started. One of the skills which is most highly valued in Ghanaian tradition is that of oratory. President Obama did not disappoint us. He projected the warmth and charisma with which Americans are familiar and clearly succeeded in establishing an immediate rapport with the assembly of Members of Parliament, members of the Council of State and other dignitaries. His speech will no doubt be subjected to close scrutiny and analysis in the months and years to come.

The scene shifted to Cape Coast and as we waited for the Obama family to arrive, I saw in my imagination sailing ships from Rhode Island and other eastern seaboard ports anchored offshore, waiting to take on their loads. Then I recalled the more recent visit to Cape Coast by another Western leader.

On February 14th, 2007, John Prescott, then Deputy Prime Minister of the UK and chairman of that country’s national Advisory Group on Commemorating the (1807) Abolition of the Slave Trade, visited Elmina Castle, of which he said later, “(It) stands as an evocative monument to the inhumanity of slavery . . . a monument of man’s inhumanity to man. It should be a place of pilgrimage for us all.” Fine sentiments, without doubt; but please read on.

The British bought Elmina Castle from the Dutch in 1872, 65 years after the Act of 1807. They did not ship a single slave from Elmina Castle.

Mr. Prescott spent the next morning in Cape Coast, which is just 15 km from Elmina. Unlike the Obama family, he did not visit Cape Coast Castle.

The British were intimately connected with Cape Coast Castle through a period of nearly 300 years, from 1664, when they captured it from the Dutch, until Ghana’s independence in 1957. In the eighteenth century, and right up to 1807, it was the centre of the British slave trade in West Africa. Several hundred thousand enslaved Africans were at one time or another incarcerated in its underground dungeons, chattel cargo awaiting shipment. In the last twelve years of the legal slave trade, the British government paid over one million pounds to buy some 13,400 African men, who became the slave-soldiers of the West India Regiment. They went so far as to delay the implementation of the 1807 Act in order to make one last legal purchase.

Prescott’s failure to visit Cape Coast Castle was a symbolic refusal to confront some of the many harsh, uncomfortable, realities of British history.

The television camera kept its distance in the Castle, allowing the Presidential family a proper degree of privacy for what can be and no doubt was for them a deeply emotional experience; but we were allowed glimpses of what seems to be a very tight and affectionate family. I was moved to take some snapshots of the images on the screen.

In his short off-the-cuff address after the tour, Barack Obama reminded us of the capacity of human beings to commit great evil and, sometimes, to tolerate that evil “as we think that we’re doing good.” And he accepted an obligation to ”fight oppression and cruelty wherever it appears.”

“Cruelty wherever it appears.” His words took me back again.

In the early nineties, arriving at JFK on my first visit to the U.S., I misunderstood an official’s instruction to another arriving passenger, opened a door and found myself in a large room. There I saw two young Indian men and a young Chinese woman, shackled like slaves, their movements constrained by heavy iron chains. They might have been illegal immigrants, but they appeared quite harmless. “Cruelty wherever it appears.”

In the aftermath of 9/11 Mohammed El-Gharani, then just 14, was arrested at a mosque in Karachi, Pakistan and ended up at Guantanamo Bay. Recently, now 21, having been found not guilty of anything at all, he was flown to Chad, the country of origin of his parents and released there. Throughout the 20-hour flight he remained shackled. “Cruelty wherever it appears.”

“Fight oppression and cruelty wherever it appears.” The message that reverberates from Cape Coast Castle is a universal one, unlimited by time or geography and unlimited by the colour, gender, religion or national origin of the perpetrators of oppression and cruelty; or of their victims.

Manu Herbstein
Accra.

Glowing Reviews of Ama

Popular on-line reviews of Ama:

Maria rated it: êêêêê
01/01/08 Read in July, 2006
This is the kind of book I wish they had six stars for. I picked this up in a book store on the way to visit Mandela's prison on Robben Island. My version, published by Picador Africa, would have never found its way to my hands if I hadn't been there. And I sincerely believe my life would have been a tad less rich if I had never found it.

An amazingly intimate and emotionally real novel written by a white man about the experiences of a young black slave, it is a testament to the power of imagination (and a whole lot of research). Herbstein reaches into Ama's inner life so completely that you have to keep reminding yourself that it is not actually a memoir, but a lavishly done, wonderful novel.

The story picks up in inland Africa with a young native named Nandzi. Herbstein refrains from idealizing her life, describing it simply and eloquently. Nandzi is kidnapped by members of another African tribe and transported to the slave fort in West Africa, where she lives for some time, only to be ultimately sold to a vessel coming to the new world, with a middle passage horrific and well-told.

There aren't enough good things I can say about this book. Rich in details, filled with African myth and folklore and exquisitely researched, Ama should be required reading for all schoolchildren, as Anne Frank's diary is (although, at 370+ pages, we're talking seniors, not freshmen).
Something else notable about Ama is the wonderful, award-winning website put together to support the book, filled with maps and documentation that demonstrates that, although fictionalized, Ama's story is almost identical to thousands of people in the region. It's worth checking out as well: http://www.ama.africatoday.com
Source

Life Altering, June 16, 2004
Reviewer: Chris Pierson from Elgin, IL United States
I read Herbstein's novel just prior to departing the US for Ghana. The novel is so well written that I actually felt as if I'd been at Elmina castle and travelled the dark African night with Nandizi. Upon entering the castle at Elmina, strangely, I knew my way around. Everything was exactly as pictured in my mind's eye. I connected with the novel's protagonist and had a renewed pride in the spirit of my ancestors. It is well worth struggling through the unfamiliar names to discover the familiar in the human spirit that spans the ages.

A must read for everyone!!!!, December 17, 2005
Reviewer: JaJa (U.S.) -
I was required to read this book for my African history class. I really liked the book because it connected the pieces of the slave trade from Africa (Ghana) starting with how the girl got into slavery to being sold at the coast to life on the ship, finally working as a slave in the New World (Brazil). Also, it has a lot historical context/traditions (of Yoruba, Asante, and others) incorporated into the book. I think everyone should read just to understand the complexities of the slave trade b/c the book really doesn't point fingers at one group of people, it points them at everyone for what happened dealing with slavery. It does good job of dispelling the myths of slavery and enables the reader to realize the full psychological along with the physical impact of slavery.
Source

Press review
Ama: A story of the Atlantic slave trade
Mary Morgan, The Statesman, Accra, Ghana 27.01.07
The story of Ama is the story of an African slave, beginning in her Bekpokpam village in 1775 where she is captured by rival tribesman, and ending on a sugar plantation a world away in Brazil.
Written by the South African author Manu Herbstein, resident in Ghana since 1970, the novel was received to critical acclaim, winning the Commonwealth Writers Prize in 2002.
Ama is not a history book, but an imaginatively-crafted novel, bringing together meticulous historical research to construct a what-might-have been story about a (sometimes implausibly) intelligent and courageous woman forced to overcome rape, rebellion, and concubinage.
Neither is it a depressing book, or a straight-forward critique of the slave traders. Through Ama, a representative of millions of slaves, Herbstein strives to reveal the complexity and multiple complicity in what is still too often seen as a colonisers-exploiting-Africa situation. It shows that slavery was not a black-and-white issue; either morally, or racially. 'Oppressors' and ‘victims" could be found on both sides of the geographical divide. It also highlights the human vein, which ran through what was of course a human trade - offering sensitive depictions of the mish-mash of people on both sides of the economic arrangement.
Born Nandze – her name later changed to signify the first day, a Saturday, of her Asante ownership – the young Ama is kidnapped from her deserted village by Dagomba traders one afternoon, and that sets the course for much of what is to follow.
The brutal rape she experiences at the hands of her first captor, an African neighbour, is just the first in a humiliating string of physical and sexual abuse throughout the story. Her rapist is cold, meditated, and without feeling – but Herbstein has not simply created a cast of characters who fall into the good-and-evil mould.
One of the Dagomba guards becomes a friend to Ama, for example, saving her from certain-death after a failed escape attempt, deploring the callousness of his boss, and patiently teaching her the local Asante language.
In Kumase, Ama finds herself a gift to the royal household as a slave to the Queen Mother and, in time, as the young Asantehene’s first lover. The opulence of the Asante kingdom is enriched by slavery; but again, the ‘evil’ is not clear, the power dynamics blurred. This relationship between slave and royal is an interesting one; with Ama, as the older more experienced partner, actually having an upper hand; although when the royal household finds out about the Asantehene’s real love for Ama, she is banished to Elmina Castle.
Rape of female slaves is common place in the Castle, but Ama’s situation is more complicated – and unusual – as she is taken as a concubine, almost-wife to the Dutch Director General. Pieter De Bruyn has a real love for Ama, and in some ways she comes to return his affection: seeing an old, needy and caring man inside the Governor’s private face. But she finds it difficult to reconcile the human being underneath, with the slave trader and oppressor; whilst he finds it hard to see his beautiful Eurocised Ama as just one of the slaves in his dungeons. Ultimately, however, she is no freer than the others: a reality which is all too painfully felt when de Bruyn dies and she finds herself shoved back down into the dungeons and across the sea to Brazil.
Ama arrives in the Bahia de Salvador with only one eye; beaten almost to death on board the ship for an attempted insurrection, she nonetheless remains upbeat and defiant – and eventually ends up finding and marrying the freedom-fighter, Tomba, with whom she conspired.
Her body, her experiences, are a metaphor for the plight of Africa – explored, exploited, lied to and abandoned, by Africans and Europeans alike. For the most part, these comparisons are ones which the reader can draw for him or herself: the concept of colonial exploitation has often been engendered, but the historical lessons and theorising are rarely made explicit in what is a very readable book, as a novel as well as an analogy.
There are several junctures at which the author seems to inflict his own views too heavily on his characters, however:
"I am a human being; I am a woman; I am a black woman; I am an African. Once I was free; then I was captured and became a slave; but inside me, I have never been a slave, inside me here and here, I am still a free woman,” Ama declares; as she and Tomba come to discuss the nature of their “new Africa” in Brazil, their level of consciousness seems a little far-fetched.
The legacy of this first generation of slaves in America is still felt today however; the perhaps premature consciousness of Ama still as alive as ever. As the novelist himself concludes, “The end of this story is yet to be written.”

Academic Reviews
A map of slavery across the Atlantic: Tony Simões da Silva reviews Ama at the African Review of Books, www.africanreviewofbooks.com
"A work of literature that celebrates the resilience of human beings while denouncing the inscrutable nature of their cruelty"
Anyone who tackles as the topic of his first novel one of the most traumatic events in recent world history reveals a considerable degree of guts and artistic ambition. As a theme, slavery has been explored by some of the greatest names in contemporary writing in English: Toni Morrison in Beloved (1987), Abdulrazak Gurnah in Paradise (1994) and Ayi Kwei Armah in Two Thousand Seasons (1974), for instance. All have sought to examine slavery in a way that makes it a human, rather than simply a historical experience. However, it is the eighteenth-century African writer Olaudah Equiano whom Manu Herbstein might be said to have in mind here, as it were. In his Life of Olaudah Equiano (1989), Equiano set out in vivid detail the long process that took him away from his parents’ village, through a number of African owners, and eventually to Barbados, in the Caribbean.
In Ama: A Story of the Atlantic Slave Trade (2001), Manu Herbstein sets himself the challenging task of fictionalising the kind of experiences Equiano spoke of from a personal viewpoint, and as I turned the novel’s 456th page, it is one I felt he had met fully. Indeed, insofar as he adopts as his main character a female slave, Herbstein clearly invites the juxtaposition of his novel to Equiano’s text. Ama maps slavery from the moment of capture in Africa to the arrival in America, in this instance in Brazil. Substantial chunks of the work are devoted to the dealings in human beings conducted by Europeans and to the long Middle Passage. South African born, but a resident of Ghana since 1970, Herbstein brings to his work the passionate curiosity of the outsider and the objective bias of someone whom Elmina Castle, with its explicit links to slavery, "never fails to move", in the author’s own words. Most of all, though, in Ama Herbstein creates a work of literature that celebrates the resilience of human beings while denouncing the inscrutable nature of their cruelty. Like that other great moment of horror in the history of humanity, the Holocaust, the slave trade exists at once as reality and myth, a kind of ‘unconscious’ of contemporary civilisation.
This is story telling on a grand scale, literally and metaphorically. The novel spans a geographical frame that reaches from Africa to America, depicting in closely observed detail also the horrors of the Middle Passage. An epic of the slave trade, Ama offers a carefully imagined examination of the failings of humanity when possessed by greed and a desire for power and influence. Herbstein is especially good at evoking the mood of the time, the mind frame of slaves and slavers, and the political and economic conditions that made slavery possible. Ama echoes the views of writers, historians and philosophers of the African diaspora who have argued that the phenomenon of slavery is inextricable from the deepest foundations of contemporary western civilisation. The blood of Africa, the Antiguan writer, Jamaica Kincaid reminds us, soaks the streets of Bristol, of London, of New York. The foundations of capitalism, the sociologist and historian Paul Gilroy asserts, rest on the sediment of the slave trade. Thus, although Ama does not obscure or excuse Africa’s own collusion in the slave trade, European nations such as Britain, Holland and Portugal come in for considerable flak. But Herbstein seems less interested in apportioning blame than he is in understanding the mechanics of the slave trade. This is a painstakingly researched work of imagination, but one in which the fictional draws for its sustenance on a wealth of knowledge gained from anthropology, history and other cultural sources. As the note ‘About the Author’ states, in Ama Herbstein has tried "to understand not only the victims but also the beneficiaries of the evil trade in human beings" (n.p.n.). Thus, at the beginning of Part III, "The Love of Liberty", we read:
African slaves were sold in Lisbon as early as 1441. The European discovery and colonisation of the Americas set the scene for the trans-Atlantic slave trade, which lasted from early in the sixteenth century until the second half of the nineteenth. The slaves were all African. So too were many of those who sold them. The buyers ans shippers were almost all Europeans. In the course of three hundred years, upward of ten million black men, women and children arrived in the Americas as unwilling migrants. Millions more died on the journey to the Atlantic coast, and at sea. (245).
Ama tells story of Nandzi, a young Bekpokpam girl in West Africa who is captured by a rival ethnic group at a very young age and then repeatedly sold, given away and exchanged indiscriminately by a number of men to many other men; first in Africa, subsequently on board the ship to Barbados, and eventually in Brazil, where the ironically named The Love of Liberty has to put to land after a particularly bad storm. In her life time Nandzi will be named Ama, then Pamela, then Ama again, ‘One-Eyed’, Ana das Minas and, as the novel concludes, Ama. Raped variously but with brutal regularity initially by Asante warriors, members of a rival ethnic group, then by English and Dutch seamen, by assorted members of the ship taking her away from Africa, eventually by her Brazilian owner and his manager, Ama’s body becomes a graphic and disturbing emblem of the destruction of Africa – literally, of the rape of Africa. Not surprisingly, the novel concludes with the reflection that "[T]he end of this story is yet to be written" (456).
Indeed, there is a sense in which Ama’s character is Africa itself; like the continent, Ama is explored, exploited, lied to, and abandoned. Like Africa, Ama is strong but often much too naïve; deeply moral but unsure about how to deal with the deceit of those who surround her; finally, Ama and Africa share in common an enormous capacity to adapt, to survive, to forgive, if not to forget. Speaking to some of the many slaves she meets on the way out of Africa, she remarks at one stage: "Oh, Edinas and Fantis and Asantes, we are all the same family" (161). Like Ama, Africa has been desired, sexualised and turned into a commodity. It has also at times been complicit in its own destiny. At one stage in the novel, Ama considers her own involvement in the slave trade in ways that resonate with a broader cri de coeur that has since characterised the work of many African intellectuals and artists. But the symbolism carries throughout the novel in different ways: when, during the long voyage out to the Americas we read that "Ama came out on deck, starved, dehydrated, filthy" (343), it is not Ama whom we watch but every slave who has ever undertaken the Middle Passage. Ama’s suffering, and its imprint on her body and face become visible reminders of the hidden trauma of slavery. After initially meeting her in Africa, during the time she was his uncle’s partner, the slave trader Williams, "William Williams, the nephew….was shocked at her appearance. During his year at Anomabu he had learned to distinguish one black face from another. He rather fancied himself as a connoisseur of African beauty. This girl had been quite pretty. Now her appearance was grotesque" (334). By focusing on the brutalisation of Ama’s beautiful body, and on the psychological scars of her experiences, Herbstein dramatises the collective trauma of slavery through the story of a single African woman.
The novel is divided in four main parts, entitled "Africa", "Europeans", "The Love of Liberty" and "America". Structurally, the symbolism here too is reasonably obvious: Ama is, before anything else, an epic of the African Diaspora. Part 1, "Africa", describes the daily lives of the sort of people whom we will later meet on board "The Love of Liberty", on their way out of Africa. It depicts a world of complex and sophisticated cultural rituals, and heated political conflicts. Hersbtein is judicious but unsparing in his portrait of 15th century Africa; we are presented with a continent as rich in blessings as it is afflicted by internal disputes. This is at once an idyllic world and one constantly threatened by the risks brought about by change in its broader sense. Ama begins in a small village in a remote part of Africa. It is here that we are introduced to the young girl left behind when her family and the people in her village attend a burial elsewhere. Ama, the narrator informs us, and "[l]ike all Bekpokpam girls, has been betrothed at birth" (2) to a man 20 years her senior. Soon we will learn about other customs and traditions, since one of the most salient aspects of the novel is an overt emphasis on the recreation of an Africa that stands up as a direct challenge to the colonial historical inscriptions of the continent as an empty place.
This section is followed by another, entitled "Europeans", in which Nandzi, now known as Ama first comes in contact with European slave traders. Her treatment at their hands is at once brutal and perplexing, for while raping her and generally abusing her, some of the men she meets here will be instrumental in helping her fulfil her intellectual potential. Some European men are nasty and uncaring, but others adopt towards Ama a more humane attitude, in some cases actually falling in love with her. They are seduced by her physical beauty and mesmerised by her intelligence. It is here that she becomes known as Pamela, a name bestowed on her by a Dutchman in love with the classics of English literature. Ama’s endless interactions with Europeans are never one-sided, and in that way Herbstein seems to reflect also on Africa’s encounter with Europe. Often the relationship is cruel, dangerous, brutal and destructive; but almost just as frequently it is a dense and rewarding one. Its characteristics are typical of European colonialism’s contact with Africa, a mixture of benevolence and wrongdoing, kindness and pillaging.
In the third part of the novel Herbstein attempts to bring to life the experience of the Middle Passage, a particularly daunting prospect. To imagine Africa prior to the arrival of the white man is a task well supported by a wealth of historical evidence; likewise, the encounter between Africa and Europe has been well documented, if at times such coverage is quite unreliable. The Middle Passage, however, is different; its horror, like that of the Holocaust, almost insists that witness be borne only by those who suffered the trauma of transportation to America, and in smaller numbers also to Europe and elsewhere. Yet Herbstein is particularly successful at conceiving and fleshing out the essence of the journey in which so many Africans perished. By having Ama ‘stand in’ for the many millions who left Africa in the cargo holds of countless ships, the novel is able to put a human face to a phenomenon known primarily through cold statistics and historical narratives.
Finally, in its concluding part Ama tells the story of Ama’s arrival in Brazil, in the ironically named Salvador da Bahia [the Bay of the Saviour, or more literally the Bay’s Saviour], the cradle of cultural hybridity if ever there was one. I realise that my reading of Ama as the same as Africa becomes somewhat less plausible in this section. For if Ama symbolises all slaves, giving the many the face of the one, then her survival and disembarkation in Brazil risks underestimating the sheer horror of the numbers of those who never made it there, the hundreds of thousands, or millions thrown overboard into the deep Atlantic Ocean. It is important, then, that we acknowledge this aspect; perhaps equally useful here it is to note that the Ama who comes ashore in Brazil is a very different woman from the young, beautiful girl who left Africa.
This Ama is now half blind, and as ‘One-Eyed’, the name she is given by her new Portuguese owner, she embodies in full the duality of each African’s experience of the Middle Passage. Ama arrives in Salvador alive, but a part of her died in the journey. The loss of one eye, combined with an increasingly scarred and spectral body stand as apt signs of this experience. In Brazil Ama soon begins to do what she does best, deftly adapting to place and people, learning the ways and the language, translating the world around for those who accompanied her, translating herself into the New World. At the conclusion of the novel as at its opening, Ama functions as a bridge between worlds real and imaginary, a link between the culturally familiar and foreign. In the course of Herbstein’s dense and unpredictable narrative, Ama becomes the epitome of the outsider as insider, of the migrant as a work in (of) translation.
Told partly through the perspective of an omniscient narrator, the story often relies on Ama’s own interpretation of her experiences and those of the people with whom she interacts. Ama’s narrative voice is central to the storytelling, and it constitutes at once one of the novel’s most successful aspects and one of its less stable narrative devices. In part, I am conscious that my occasional discomfort with Ama as a narrator stems from the fact that the views she expresses much too often seem to betray those of the narrator (author?). Ama, one might suggest, if somewhat unkindly, is invested with far too much meaning for any one single person, much more for a simple village woman to carry. As noted earlier, Herbstein seems to ‘intend’ Ama as a celebration of the heroism of all the millions who made the crossing, and the many more who did not.
It is understandable in this context that Ama should be such an extraordinary woman. She is possessed of enormous intelligence, insatiable curiosity, a courage without limits and the most generous and selfless personality. She learns languages with the ease of the born polyglot, masters chess in a couple of hours, and has a grasp of the machiavellian world of colonial politics that would the envy of many a United Nations diplomat. Yet, half of these achievements would still have made her a fascinating character and an outstanding individual. For my money, this is the one glaring flaw in a novel that otherwise combines a good yarn, an intricate and seductive plot and a writing style that holds the reader in thrall until the end. Herbstein has attempted to create in his novel what might be read as a ‘partner voice’ to Equiano’s, and once we get over the difficulties that a ‘gendering’ of his narrative raises, this is an extremely engaging work of fiction. Long, perhaps a little too long; a less keen emphasis on the anthropological recreation of Africa in the first part of the work, and a more sparse account of the Middle Passage would only have strengthened this very accomplished piece of writing. But then Manu Herbstein is in august company here, as anyone who’s read A.S. Byatt’s Possession (1991) or Louis de Bernières’ Birds Without Wings (2004) will attest. Ama: A Story of the Atlantic Slave Trade deserves a wide readership, and I hope that it will succeed in gaining it.

Tony Simoes da Silva teaches at the University of Wollongong

Permed to Death by Nancy J. Cohen, FirstChapter

PERMED TO DEATH
By Nancy J. Cohen

CHAPTER ONE

"Marla, if the coffee is ready, I'll have a cup while my perm processes," Mrs. Kravitz said, squinting as Marla squeezed the pungent solution onto her scalp. "Be careful! I feel it dripping down my neck."

"I'll be done in a minute." Marla gritted her teeth as she bumped her hip against the shampoo sink. Already this promised to be an aggravating day. She'd had to come in early to accommodate Mrs. Kravitz, and the rest of her morning was fully booked. Not that Bertha Kravitz cared; she never considered anyone's needs except her own.

With an efficiency born of years of practice, she wrapped Mrs. Kravitz's rods in a plastic cap, then set the timer for twenty minutes. After washing her hands, she poured her client a cup of coffee and added a package of sugar.

"Don't forget my powdered creamer!" Mrs. Kravitz called.

"I've got it." Marla mixed in two spoonfuls from a reserved jar, frowning when her spoon scraped bottom. Damn, she hadn't realized the supply had dwindled so low! Sparing a moment to rinse the container at a sink, she tossed it into the trash while making a mental note to buy more later.

"Here you go," she said, handing Mrs. Kravitz the steaming mug.

"Marla, was that my jar you just discarded? I hope you have another one in stock because I'll want more coffee." Taking a sip, the woman grimaced. "Ugh, this tastes like medicine! How long has it been standing?"

"I just brewed a fresh pot before you came."

"Give me another package of sugar." While Marla complied, Mrs. Kravitz scanned the room like a vulture searching for prey. "Where's the bagels? I could use something to eat."

"I haven't had a chance to get them yet. Why don't you try to relax? You have less than fifteen minutes left on your timer. I'm going into the storeroom for some clean towels."

Scowling, Mrs. Kravitz took another sip of coffee. Hoping to escape before the woman issued a new command, Marla rushed into the storage area. Her gaze scanned the shelves of chemicals, alighting on the neutralizer solution she'd selected earlier. She plucked it off its perch and was reaching for a pile of towels when a strangled sound struck her ears. A loud crash followed, like glass shattering.

Sprinting into the salon, Marla stared at Mrs. Kravitz, who slumped in the shampoo chair. Her bagged head lolled against the sink. The plastic cap wrapped around her rods had become dislodged, partially shading her face. Marla's gaze dropped to the floor where broken shards of the ceramic mug lay scattered amid a trail of dark liquid.

"Mrs. Kravitz?" she rasped, her heart thumping.

When there was no response, Marla stepped closer. She stared in disbelief as she got a better view.

Mrs. Kravitz's face was distorted into an ugly grimace. Wide-set eyes, pupils dilated, stared blankly at the ceiling. She didn't appear to be breathing, unless her respirations were too shallow to notice.

"Mrs. Kravitz?" Marla repeated, her voice hoarse. Maybe the old woman had fainted or been overwhelmed by fumes from the perm solution. Or she'd fallen asleep. But then her chest would be moving, wouldn't it? And her eyes wouldn't be wide open like a--Oh God.

Bile rising in her throat, she prodded the woman's arm, then jumped back when Mrs. Kravitz's hand flopped over the side of the chair, dangling like a cold, dead fish. A surge of nausea seized her as images from the past clouded her mind. You can't freeze up now, girl. Call for help.

Rushing to the phone, she dialed 911.

"Police, fire, or medical?" replied the operator.

"Medical. I'm Marla Shore at the Cut 'N Dye Beauty Salon. One of my clients has stopped breathing. I think she's dead!" Her voice cracking, she gave her address.

"I'm notifying the rescue unit. They'll be there soon."

Marla replaced the receiver in its cradle, her hand trembling as a sense of deja vu washed over her. Stiff with fear, she stood immobilized as memories from another time, another place haunted her thoughts. A child's limp form, cradled in her arms. Her screams, echoing through a summer afternoon. Accusations, harsh and unforgiving. She hadn't known what to do then. Maybe she could make a difference now.

She dashed over to check the body for a pulse, forcing herself to feel the clammy wrist. She felt nothing. A faint odor, vaguely amiliar, assailed her nostrils. Briefly, she wondered about performing CPR, but logic told her it was too late. Sirens sounded outside, accompanied by the noise of screeching brakes. Any decision became unnecessary as a team of paramedics thundered in the front door. She stood aside while they performed their assessment.

A police officer arrived on the scene. After conferring with the medics, he asked Marla some preliminary questions. Numb with shock, she leaned against a counter while he notified his sergeant by cellular phone. She heard him mention something about a crime unit, so when several techs and a detective walked in, she wasn't surprised. Still, she wondered why they'd been called. Surely Mrs. Kravitz had a heart attack or a stroke.

Ignoring the technicians who scoured the salon, she focused on the steely-eyed detective approaching her. She could tell he was used to being in command just from the set of his wide shoulders, his determined stride, and the hawklike expression on his sharply angular face. Bushy eyebrows rose above a nose that might have been rearranged in his youth, indicating he wasn't averse to physical action when required. Faced with such a formidable symbol of authority, she quaked when he stopped in front of her.

Nervous, she began babbling. "I didn't realize she was ill. If I'd have known, I would have called for help sooner. It wasn't my fault."

He held up a hand. "I'm Detective Vail. Please tell me what happened from the start, Miss Shore." When she'd finished, he studied his notes. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You wrapped her hair, gave her a cup of coffee, then went into the back room. Hearing a noise, you returned to find the deceased slumped in her chair."

Marla nodded. "That's right." Her knees weakening, she sank onto a seat at the closest hair station. A quick glance in the mirror shocked her. Her short, glossy brown hair curled inward at chin length, wispy bangs feathering a forehead creased with worry lines. A stranger's fearful eyes, dark as toffee, stared back at her. Surely, that ghastly complexion couldn't be hers. She looked ill, which was certainly how she felt, but this wasn't as horrible as that day when--

"You made a fresh pot of coffee just before Mrs. Kravitz came in?" Detective Vail asked, ripping her away from painful memories.

She nodded, glad for the distraction. "I poured some coffee into her mug, then added a package of sugar and two spoonfuls of powdered creamer. My other customers prefer Half & Half, but Bertha insisted on using the dry variety. I kept a jar just for her."

A gleam entered his gray eyes. "Where is it?"

"I'm afraid I threw it out. I'd used up the last spoonfuls. She said the coffee tasted bitter," Marla recalled. "I didn't think much of it because she complained about everything."

"Did you notice the color of the creamer?"

"Not really."

"Any unusual odors?"

"No...yes. I did smell something after Mrs. Kravitz...when I went to feel her pulse. It reminded me of"--she wrinkled her nose--"marzipan. Yes, that's it."

His eyes narrowed. "You mean almonds?"

"I believe so."

He scanned the tabletop holding the coffeemaker and related supplies. "Where do you normally keep the foodstuffs?"

"In a rear storeroom."

"Who's allowed back there?"

"Everyone. Even our clients go into the storeroom sometimes. Our regulars are pretty familiar with the place."

"You said the creamer jar was nearly empty. Did you recall using most of it the last time the deceased was here?"

"Not really." An idea dawned on her. "Surely you don't think it was something in her drink?" she said, horrified.

"We're just collecting evidence, ma'am. The medical examiner will determine cause of death. Is there anything else you can think of that might be relevant?"

She frowned. "The back door was open when I arrived this morning. I meant to speak to the cleaning crew about it later."

"I see. Please excuse me." He held a hushed conference with two techs, one of whom veered off to examine the trash and another who headed for the rear entrance. They'd already scooped up the dribbled remains of coffee on the floor, collected pieces of the broken mug, and dusted everything for fingerprints. The medical examiner had taken charge of the corpse. Finished with his initial assessment, he'd called the body removal service.

Please get here soon, Marla thought, looking everywhere but at the dead woman. To distract herself, she calculated the cost of a new shampoo chair.

Vail returned to resume his interview. "Tell me, how would you describe your relationship with Bertha Kravitz?"

She compressed her lips. "She was a regular client."

"When did she start coming here to get her hair done?"

"Ever since I opened the shop, eight years ago."

"Did you know her before that time?"

Marla hesitated a fraction too long. "Sure," she said, careful to keep her tone casual. "I'd met her at local charity events."

"Excuse me," said a young officer, approaching them. "There's a couple of women up front who say they're stylists."

Getting Vail's nod of approval, Marla slipped off her chair and hurried to the door. Her face lit up when she spied two familiar faces among the crowd gathering outside. "Lucille! Thank God you're here. And Nicole, I'm so glad to see you!

Officer, please let them in," she begged the burly policeman standing guard.

"I'm sorry, miss, no one is allowed inside."

"That's okay, Officer," called Detective Vail. "You can let them inside but keep them near the door."

Marla hugged Nicole when the slim dark-skinned woman entered. Nicole had always been her staunch supporter, and she needed her strength now. She wasn't disappointed. Nicole embraced her, as though sensing her need for comfort.

"What's going on?" Lucille snapped. For a woman in her fifties, she presented herself in an attractive manner. Her light application of makeup was just the right tint to complement her colored reddish gold hair.

Quickly, Marla filled her colleagues in on what had happened. Her voice shook with emotion, and Nicole laid a comforting hand on her arm. The tall woman looked sleek and elegant in an ivory pantsuit, her thick raven hair tied in a low ponytail.

"Are you okay?" Nicole asked, her initial shocked expression changing to concern.

Marla drew in a shaky breath. "I've been better."

"This wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known the old lady would become ill."

"I should have been more attentive." Her voice faded, and she remembered that other time a life had depended upon her. She'd failed miserably then and hadn't improved this time.

"Marla." Nicole's sharp tone brought her back to the present. "Don't think about what happened before. That's irrelevant to this situation."

No, it isn't, Marla agonized. Both times, she'd been in a caretaker role and someone had died as a result. Her mother said things happened in threes. Was she doomed to repeat her mistake for a third round? Get a grip! You've already wallowed in enough sorrow. No more!

She managed a weak smile. "I called our customers to notify them we'll be closed for a few days. I said we had an emergency but didn't go into details."

"What about Miloki and the other staff members?"

"I got hold of nearly everyone. You two had already left for work."

"Good thinking, honey," Lucille cut in, her pale blue eyes approving. "Sounds like you have things well under control."

"Ms. Shore."

Dear Lord, it's that detective again. She summoned her strength to face him as he bore down on her. "Yes?" His probing gaze made her feel like a criminal.

"I don't understand why you and Ms. Kravitz were here at eight this morning. Didn't you say your salon normally opens at ten?"

His jaw moved, and she wondered if he were chewing on a piece of gum. Unable to meet his eyes, she glanced at his charcoal suit. "Mrs. Kravitz needed a Thursday appointment, but I didn't have any openings today. Usually, I book two hours for a perm so I had her come in at eight. I can be flexible for my regular clients."

"Couldn't she make an appointment for another day?"

"She was scheduled to be a guest speaker at the library luncheon this afternoon. She wanted to get her hair done early."

"Did anyone among your staff dislike the deceased?"

Her gaze flew to his face, and she inhaled a sharp gust of air. Could he possibly--?

"Detective Vail!" called one of the technicians, saving her from having to answer.

"I'll be right there," he replied. "We'll talk more later," he promised Marla in a deceptively congenial tone. His slate gray eyes met hers, his look of cool assessment seeming to suck the guilt from her soul. She swallowed apprehensively, wondering how much he already knew about her, and how much he'd find out.

"When do you think we'll be allowed to reopen?" she asked, concerned about the customers scheduled for that weekend. She hoped they wouldn't lose too many days. The drop in income would be devastating, not to mention how annoyed her clientele would be to have their appointments canceled.

"I'll let you know," Vail said, stuffing his notebook into a pocket. "We should be able to complete our work here over the weekend." He paused, frowning thoughtfully. "I'll need a list of your staff members: names, addresses, phone numbers. Oh, and your appointment calendar." His sharp gaze pinned Nicole and Lucille. "Don't go away. I'll have some questions for you in just a few minutes."

His words caused a ripple of shock to tear through her. Questions about what? Didn't he believe her story?

Shaken, she turned to Nicole. "I'm sorry you got involved," she said, feeling bad that her friends were drawn into the quagmire.

"It's okay," Nicole reassured her, patting her shoulder. "You look awfully pale, Marla. Maybe you should go home."

"Detective Vail hasn't said I can leave yet. Besides, I won't let you face him alone."

Lucille grinned. "Don't get so worked up over this, honey. Think of the good side: the bad publicity might be a godsend. Once the commotion dies--forgive the pun!--people will swarm here to satisfy their curiosity."

"That's just great." She knew her friends were trying to help, but anxiety addled her mind. "Carolyn Sutton will take advantage of the situation. She wants our lease which is due for renewal next month. From what I hear, she's already been soliciting the landlord, and this incident could turn him against us. He'll boot us out and give the place to Carolyn."

"Nonsense!" Nicole scoffed. "You've fought her off before. You can do it again."

"I hope so."

Vail returned to interview Lucille and Nicole and to collect the list of staff members that Marla had printed from the computer. "You need to come down to the station to make your formal statements," he said. "I'll drive you in my car."

Outside, the warm, humid Florida air blasted her lungs. She followed Vail to an unmarked sedan and got in when he wordlessly held the door open. Mindless of the air-cooled interior, she huddled in the backseat with her companions. At least the last time she hadn't needed to go to police headquarters. She'd been a hysterical nineteen-year-old, and the cops had interviewed her in the home where the accident happened. They were sympathetic, not accusatory. She was the one who'd blamed herself for the tragedy. And later, the child's parents....

"You'll be all right," Nicole said, grasping her hand.

Tears squeezed from Marla's eyes. How could she bear to go through another inquiry?

Somehow she survived giving her taped statement at the police station and answering more questions in detail. Thankfully, her involvement in that other incident wasn't mentioned. It was bad enough that she remembered.

Relieved when the ordeal was over, she sagged against the cushion in Vail's car as he drove them back to the salon.

"I'll be in touch," he promised as he dropped them off. His face was impassive so she couldn't read his expression, but his eyes spoke volumes. They never once left her face when he spoke, as though he knew she had a secret to hide.

"Arnie must be wondering what's going on," Nicole said, when they were standing in the parking lot.

Marla glanced at the deli located two stores down the shopping strip from her salon. She didn't want to go home yet. Too many blank walls to face. Too many memories. "I'll talk to him."

"Tell him not to worry, everything will be fine. You, too, honey. Call us later," Lucille urged, waving goodbye.

Exhausted, she nodded, waiting until the two women left. After reassuring herself the salon was properly locked up, she strode to the eatery. The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bagels wafted into her nostrils as she entered.

"Hi, Arnie," she greeted the dark-haired man behind the cash register. He flashed her a disarming grin. His teeth gleamed white beneath a droopy mustache, dimples creasing his cheeks. She glanced at his trim figure encased in a T-shirt and jeans and quickly looked away.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sobering. "You didn't come in to get your usual order of bagels this morning, and then I saw police cars outside."

She took a deep tremulous breath. "Mrs. Kravitz is dead."

"What? The old lady?" She'd told him about her demanding customer before. "How is that possible?" Delegating his post to an employee, he gestured to her. "Come on, sit down. You look like you're about to keel over."

Taking her elbow, he led her to a vacant table. "Two coffees, Ruth," he called to a passing waitress.

Sniffing the aroma of garlic and hot brewed coffee, Marla became aware of an empty gnawing in her stomach, but her appetite had long since departed. Wiping sweaty hands on her belted tan jumpsuit, she related her story.

"Did she have any medical problems that you knew about?" Arnie probed.

"No, and I've seen her every eight weeks for a trim. Her hair was so resistant that she needed a perm often, too. No matter what I did, she'd kvetch about it, but I don't recall her ever saying a word about having a medical condition."

Arnie nodded sympathetically. "I know what you mean about her being a whiner. She came in here for breakfast and was a lousy tipper."

"Tell me about it."

Arnie stroked his mustache. "So the detective thinks it might have been something in her coffee that killed her?"

Marla shuddered. "I hope not, since I served her the drink myself. Vail seemed to find it significant that I smelled almonds near the body."

Arnie leaned forward. "Cyanide."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you ever watch old spy movies? When caught, the guy would take a cyanide pill. He'd be dead in minutes, and his breath smelled like bitter almonds."

"I don't believe it." Although that might explain why the presenting officer had called in the crime unit.

"Whoa, if this is for real, who'd want Bertha Kravitz out of the way enough to do her in?"

Marla snorted. "Who wouldn't?" Refusing to face the horrifying possibilities, she sought another explanation. "Perhaps this isn't about her at all. Maybe someone wants me out of the picture." She twisted her fingers together under the table. "Carolyn Sutton has been itching to discredit me so she can take over my lease. Her shop is going downhill. Maybe she planned to make a customer of mine sick so people would be afraid to come to the salon."

"Mrs. Kravitz isn't sick. She's dead." Arnie's dark eyes regarded her with concern. "You're going out on a limb with that one. I hope you didn't mention Carolyn's name to the cops."

"Of course not. You think I'm meshuga?" The waitress brought their coffee and Marla fell silent, staring at her cup. It would be awful if she'd given Bertha a beverage containing a lethal substance. Then there was the matter of who'd tampered with the coffee supplies. Someone must have added poison with deliberate intent to harm. But who?

Wait for the medical examiner's report, she chided herself. Bertha could still have had a sudden stroke.

Grimacing, she looked at Arnie. "Sorry, coffee doesn't appeal to me right now. Got any hot chocolate?" Her throat was parched, and she craved a drink.

The waitress changed her beverage and she sipped the hot cocoa, seeking solace in its sweetness.

"If this does turn out to be something sinister, I hope you'll let the cops handle it," Arnie warned her.

"What do you mean?"

"Sticking your nose into a murder investigation could be dangerous. You're not responsible for what happened, Marla."

"Yes, I am. My customer's well-being is my responsibility. But this could mean nothing," she retorted. "Mrs. Kravitz probably had an attack of some kind."

"I hope you're right. Look, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me."

Touched by his concern, she sipped her drink to hide her swell of emotion. "Thanks for the offer, but it's bad enough that my staff is involved."

"Say, I've got tickets for the Florida Philharmonic this Saturday," Arnie said in an obvious attempt to cheer her. "Want to keep me company?"

"Tally and I are supposed to go to the Southern Women's Exposition. I can't disappoint my best friend. Maybe another time." Inwardly, she smiled. A lonely widower, Arnie needed a wife for many reasons, none of which suited her. She'd been down the matrimonial road before, and it had been an unpleasant experience. She preferred to keep their relationship on a friendship level, although Arnie had other ideas.

"You're a tough nut to crack, you know that?" Arnie said, his dark brown eyes gleaming.

She grinned, her mood lightening. "I don't know why you keep trying."

"I like the challenge. So what's it going to take to get you interested, huh?"

"Just stay as sweet as you are."

"Come on, I know we'd hit it off if you'd give me a chance."

"Sometimes just being friends is more important."

"You've got a lot of friends. Look," he said, flexing his muscles, "don't I have sex appeal?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Sure you do, pal, but that's not the issue here."

"Then what is? Wait, I've got it. You don't like my hairstyle."

"Well, now that you mention it," Marla began, pretending to study his receding hairline.

He glanced at the waitress bustling between tables. "I should get back to work." Scraping his chair back, he stood, giving her a wry grin. "Let me know if you change your mind."

She smiled in response, nodding. A few minutes later, she was walking outside. The shopping strip was a bustling center, unlike many others with empty storefronts. Her clientele mainly consisted of young professionals, who provided a brisk business. Squeezed between Fort Lauderdale to the east and the Everglades far to the west, Palm Haven's prime location guaranteed success.

Marla was proud of her reputation, one she'd struggled to earn after the tragic incident in her past. It hadn't been an easy choice to settle near the place where the accident happened. Too many reminders still haunted her, but she'd learned to use them as a force for good. Viewed as an active, helpful member of the community, she'd reached a tentative peace with herself. Customers appreciated her sensitivity, and many had become good friends.

She veered toward her Toyota Camry, its white color being the most popular choice in sunny South Florida. Reflects the heat, said the salesman, like all the white tile roofs. Black was the other common choice, in her mind representing funerals of so many senior citizens. Now Bertha would be among them.

Heat from the car's interior slammed her face as she slid into the driver's seat. Gripping her keys, she started the engine. A refreshing blast of air-conditioning cooled her cheeks. Though late May, humidity hung heavily in the air.

Heaviness burdened her heart as well as she considered her next move. Now what? To her knowledge, Bertha Kravitz still kept that damned envelope in her mansion. Marla had no doubt that if the cops found it, they'd accuse her of having a motive for murder if this did turn out to be a homicide case. Her best bet would be to retrieve it before they searched the Kravitz house. At least Bertha can't use it to blackmail me any longer, she thought with grim satisfaction.

Switching gears, she backed out of the parking space. She'd been to Mrs. Kravitz's stately home on the Intracoastal Waterway once before, an occasion she'd never forget. This was her chance finally to bury the mistake she'd made years ago. Survival instincts, honed through past traumas, took precedence over any attacks of conscience that might afflict her.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled onto the main road and headed east.

Copyright 1999