Pirates of the Caribbean — A Marketplace Tale, Part 3
Pirates of the Caribbean is fanfiction based on Laura Antoniou’s Marketplace series, a fictional world in which there is a large and secret market for consensual slaves who serve their owners under contract. Laura recently released “No Safewords,” a fan anthology of tales by different writers set in the Marketplace world.
This tale also takes a page from the real-world phenomenon of modern high seas piracy. Most people think that pirates are a thing of the past, but in fact, across the globe at least one boat a day is attacked by pirates looking to steal cargo, ransom the crew or owners, or steal the boat itself.
In Part 2, Bette flies to Puerto Rico, where she keeps in touch with her wife (and property) Kelly, and arrives at Batalla, the base of operations for a gang of pirates believed to be holding three human slaves hostage.
I’ve already been checked in to La Posada Batalla, Batalla’s one and only hotel. The driver sweeps by the front desk, grabs the key, and trots up the grand staircase with my bag as if it weighed nothing at all.
Marketplace, I think. No normal human being gives this kind of service. A non-Marketplace driver would have dropped me out front and demanded a tip and let me schlep my own bags up the stairs.
The hotel has three floors, and I have what is probably the best room in the place, a third floor corner suite facing Bahia Fosforescente. The driver puts the bag down.
“Are you allowed to speak?” I say to him, in Spanish.
“Si, senora.”
“You have provided impeccable service,” I say. “I thank you in particular for driving me without giving me the least sensation of pressure to make small-talk.”
“It’s my pleasure, senora.”
“I have one more question,” I say.
“Yes, senora?” the driver asks.
“This place — the hotel — is it Marketplace?”
“Si, senora. The owner of the hotel — she is an Owner.”“Thank you…”
“Luis,” the driver says.
“Thank you, Luis. Would you mind leaving me your number in case I need to get in touch with you?”
“Of course, senora,” Luis says, withdrawing a business card from the pocket of his blazer. It says, simply, “Luis,” and a telephone number.
“Thank you very much, Luis. Please pass along my compliments to your Owner.”
“Thank you, senora.” Luis bowed, and in a way that impressed me, left the room without turning his back to me — no small feat in a room you’ve never been in: try it sometime.
I open the drapes to the hotel room, and notice that behind them are doors to a balcony. The sun is setting, and the view is magnificent: palm trees, waves, and the mangrove archipelago sheltering Bahia Fosforescente, The Phosphorescent Bay.
There’s only one other like it in the world, off the coast of Japan. Phosphorescent Bay is called that because of the unique single-celled creatures that populate its warm, sheltered waters. At night, these tiny creatures light up when the water is agitated; pinpoints of ethereal green light — the fireflies of the sea.
I looked that up online, but from my viewpoint, the bay looks like an ordinary (but surpassingly lovely) ocean inlet. Maybe later I’ll get a tour, but for now, I need to get to work. I unpack my suitcase, and pull out my laptop. I pop a thumb drive into the USB port, and bring up all the documents that Stanton’s team have shared with me.
Then, I think, What kind of idiot am I, doing this inside?
I take my tiny Macbook Air out to the pier behind the hotel, where a vendor is selling virgin Pina Coladas that he assembles in front of you by sacrificing a pineapple to the fruit gods and mixing it with ice shavings he chips off a giant block of ice.
Fuck if it is not the best thing with a pineapple I’ve had since those Sno-Cone clones with pinapple chunks I got in Costa Rica on the trip where I met Kelly for the first time. The creamy coconut is the best. Nothing is saccharine or artificial; this is the real thing. I set it down on the picnic table on the dock and get to reading.
El Camariocano. The big guy, Head Pirate in Charge. Although piracy in the Caribbean is generally driven by the drug trade coming from South America, the pirates themselves are universally Cuban, and that’s because of El Camariocano. Nobody seems to know his real name, but everybody knows where he came from: Boca de Camarioca, one of the three ports that Castro opened for the notorious Mariel Boatlift.
In 1983, Castro allowed a one-time only chance to emigrate from Cuba. The emigres weren’t solid citizens from the countryside — at least not all of them. At the time of the boatlift, Castro flung open the doors of the notorious Mariel Prison, allowing prisoners to take their chances on the high seas in boats constructed of anything they could find in the hopes that they’d make it to America.
Not all of the Cubans went to America, though. A few, like El Camariocano, got swept off course on their jerry-rigged rafts. Most died, but some landed on the southern coast of Puerto Rico.
Landing with nothing but rags on his back and a knife in his teeth, El Camariocano built a large and sophisticated network of high-seas pirates, 100% Cuban, and 100% loyal — because if you werent, El Camaricano cut off your nose and ears before bringing you out to sea and dropping you — alive — outside the reef where the hungry sharks swam.
El Camariocano’s main source of revenue was using hijacked boats to complete drug runs for narcotrafficantes from Colombia. For pocket change, he’d sell the boat when he was done, and for laughs he’d try to ransom the families of the crew.
Batalla was El Camariocano’s base of operations.
“Permiso,” I heard a voice say. I was so deep in my reading that the sudden presence of someone so close to me triggered my comically exaggerated startle response. I jerked like a fish on a hook, upending my virgin pina colada all over the dock.
“Oh, lo siento, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I looked up and saw an impeccably well turned-out young woman, maybe 25, in a tropical-weight skirted business suit and low heels.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” she says. “My employer thought you would like to know that dinner has been arranged for you if you are hungry.”
Hungry. Right. That. When’s the last time I ate? I can’t remember. When I’m working, things like eating can fade into the background. Hey, it’s how I keep my girlish figure!
But at the mention of dinner, I’m suddenly ravenous. I start picking up the plastic cup I’d spilled.
“Please, allow us to take care of that for you. I’m sure you must be very hungry,” she says.
“I’d love dinner, thank you very much,” I say.
“Please follow me,” the young woman says.
I’m led into a private dining room with arched doorways and a heavy, dark, and immense dining table. It’s set for only two, and someone is already seated.
I don’t know why, but when I’m hungry, food tastes better, and when it’s been awhile since I had sex, everybody looks hotter. In truth, though, I know that Rita Banquena needed no extra savor from my sexual hunger: she was hot as hell, a Salma Hayek type, only an unknown number of years older. There’s a picture of her next to the definition of “Cougar” in Wikipedia, look it up sometime.
Hot. As. Hell.
“Bienvenidos a Batalla,” she said.
“Thank you for having me,” I replied.
“It’s always a pleasure to have a guest who understands our special circumstances. My name is Margarita Banquena de Ponce, but you can call me Rita.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” I say.
“You look like one of us. Are you?” she asks.
“I…well, I really have no idea what I am,” I say.
“Ah. You’re one of las perdidas, then — one of the lost members of our family. I hope that you come to think of us as family,” Rita says.
For a split second, I don’t have anything to say. I don’t really have a family, which is probably why I’ve always been so fixated on creating one of my own. “Thank you,” I blurt out, almost stuttering.
Rita doesn’t raise an eyebrow, but I can see that she’s curious about the fleeting expression that just crossed my face. She’s too polite, or too canny, to inquire so early, though.
“Well. You must be tired and hungry. Let’s get you fed, and then, if you wish, we can talk, or you can retire to your room to rest.”
Rita snaps her fingers and two servers appear, filling the table with an assortment of Puerto Rican soul food: fried plaintains with a savory tomato sauce, snapper with peppers, chicken adobo, and plenty of rice.
I know it’s rude, but I really can’t help myself. I dig into everything. The calories can’t get in my mouth fast enough, I’m so hungry. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my whole entire life. Rita doesn’t seem irritated or taken aback by my complete inability to be an even halfway decent guest or conversational partner: she just watches me with a gentle, evaluative look on her face.
“You enjoy that the way only a Taino can,” she says. “You’re one of us, no doubt about it.” One of the servers comes to clear away my plate and replace it with a fresh one, and I notice, all of a sudden, how much he looks like me: we could be family. I could have a brother, somewhere, that looked just like him.
“Do you know about the Tainos?” Rita asked.
“I’m sorry to say I’ve never heard of them,” I reply.
“Well, as you might imagine, Puerto Rico wasn’t empty when the Spaniards showed up. There were already native people here, a people called Los Tainos. Batalla and the surrounding countryside was the center of their population. They didn’t call this island Puerto Rico, of course: they called it Boricua, and they called themselves Borinquenos. You’ll find many people here who descend from Tainos, and call themselves Borinquenos. I would not be surprised to find that they think you are a long lost daughter. All Tainos have that gorgeous hair that you have.”
I suddenly feel like I’m about twelve years old. It took me a long time to grow into my hair. I look like a Latino, but my hair is glossy, ultrablack, and sticks up off my head the way some Asian folks’ do. Back when I was a teenager and trying to be more conventionally feminine for the sole purpose of not getting the living fuck beaten out of me on the regular, my hair was a real trial: it’s not like I could get it to do much until I grew up and realized I had the best buzz-cut hair in the ‘verse; once it was short enough it stood up and fanned out like I’d just stepped out of GQ. I’d never met anybody with hair like mine, at least not another Latino like me.
“Maybe I’ll get the chance to learn more about it,” I say.
“I hope so,” Rita says. “But work before pleasure, am I right?
“Right,” I say.
“You should understand one thing. There is no sharp divider between right and wrong here. I know that the people you are pursuing do terrible things. They murder people. But you need to understand that people who outsiders might call pirates are actually members of the community in Batalla. They are neighbors and cousins and friends. Here, piracy is just another job, like fishing or carpentry. The ocean is their office.”
I nod. “I think I prefer it that way. Fights between good guys and bad guys often involve more bloodshed than I’d like.”
“I can see you understand,” Rita says. “I want Mr. Stanton’s property to come out of this alive, and in reality, the pirates want the same thing. Pirates only kill when they think they have no other choice.”
“We just have to give them another option, then,” I say.
“Exactly.” Rita replies. “Tomorrow evening there is someone I’d like you to meet — someone who I believe can help us settle this without bloodshed. In the meantime, you can enjoy our hospitality.” Rita reaches behind her onto a sideboard and rings a delicate brass bell that I hadn’t noticed before.
At that point, six naked men file into the room. Rita sweeps her hand across the line of them. “Take any one you’d like. Or more than one,” she says.
“Uh,” I say. I tell you, nothing like this had happened to me since I was being pressured to go to prom with a guy in high school. I mean, unless I was making an effort — which I could and did in my work at times — to look like I was straight, but on any street corner in New York, I was as readable as if I had a flashing sign around my neck with the word “Dyke.”
I turned to Rita and say, “May I speak to you privately for a moment?”
“Of course,” Rita says.
“I’m, uh, very flattered that you would offer this level of hospitality. Believe me when I say I understand that it’s a gesture of respect and trust, but…”
“Ah,” says Rita. “You prefer women. I was told that you had a female slave, but that doesn’t always mean that an owner is gay, of course. I thought there was a chance you might enjoy some variety.” Rita pats my hand. “Please don’t worry. You give absolutely no offense. It is I who should apologize — it wasn’t my intention to embarrass you.”
“Oh,” I say. “It’s okay. I was just, well, a little surprised,” I laugh.
“I should tell you sometime about a similar surprise I got at a fellow Owner’s house in Vienna sometime,” Rita says. But you’ve had a long trip; you must want some rest at this point.”
I am, in fact, stifling a yawn. “I’m so sorry. It’s the time, not the company,” I say, and I mean it.
I get up from the table, and allow Rita to pass in front of me to the doorway. “Buenas noches,” Rita says to me.
“Good night,” I reply. As Rita progresses down the hallway to what I assume are her private quarters, I notice that the line of six naked men hasn’t disappeared, just moved. Rita laughs as she walks by them, trailing her hand so that it causes each one of their cocks to sway as she walks by them, like a kid with a stick walking by a picket fence. “Sigue me, chicos,” she says with a musical laugh. *Follow me, boys.”
I smile, thinking, “None for me, more for Rita, I guess.”
Lily Lloyd is the author of Discipline: Adding Rules and Discipline to Your Kinky Relationship, a book about making kinky relationships work.
