Waiting in Vain

From Publishers Weekly Representing a figure all too rare in contemporary romance, African American A.J. "Fire" Heath, a sensitive, sophisticated man with a good career, is a major asset to this appealing first novel by short-story writer Channer. Fire's combination of good looks, kindness and brains, and his desire to find the right woman "in the fullness of time," will make him nearly irresistible to readers of commercial fiction. A painter and novelist who has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize, Fire shuttles between his native Jamaica, London and New York. In a chance encounter on a Brooklyn street, Fire meets Sylvia, another transplanted Jamaican, who is disappointed with her magazine-editing job and her art-dealer lover. Fire and Sylvia pursue and retreat from each other in convincingly soul-searching scenarios while Channer vividly describes urban New York, industrial Brixton and rural Jamaica. Channer has a fine ear for Jamaican patois (and for when it bubbles up in otherwise American-accented conversations). Also to his credit, Channer largely resists the trendy name-dropping and product placements so common in this genre. Subplots of intrigue in the African American art world add substance without detracting from the pace. As readers in the know will recognize, this tale of continent-hopping romance takes its title from a Bob Marley song. Author tour. Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal Jamaican author and poet Adrian Heath, a.k.a. Fire, has a "love at first sight" experience when he sees a woman with daisy buttons having trouble with her packages in New York. They flirt, thinking they will never meet again, but later end up at the house of a mutual friend, an artist named Ian. Sylvia is involved with another man, which breaks Fire's heart and sends him back to London. But neither of them can let their attraction end, and later they have a dangerous affair. Ian's love-hate relationships with Fire, his mother, and women in general become the catalyst for the rest of the story. First novelist Channer reveals his characters' idiosyncrasies in poetic description. The dialog, full of Jamaican slang, takes a little getting used to, but the culture and backdrop are so finely scripted that readers will feel they are in Jamaica. Sensuous and sometimes outrageous love scenes interspersed with the stirring emotions of the characters keep the pages turning to the very end. Fans of romance and psychological drama will enjoy this passionate and honest story; highly recommended.?Shirley Gibson Coleman, Ann Arbor Dist. Lib., MICopyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist This is not another sister-girl-waiting-to-exhale novel of loves wronged and hearts broken. Rather, Channer has created a story that explores the issues of romance, friendship, homosexuality, and love. The cast of characters includes sculptors, writers, poets, and musicians. They may be eccentric and risquebecause they are members of the artistic world, but they also all have personal baggage and pasts they must come to terms with. The international love triangles keep up a fast pace traveling between Jamaica, New York, and London. Fire, the handsome Jamaican-born poet and artist, meets and carries on a dangerous liaison with Sylvia, the beautiful American-born magazine editor. Each must make some soul-searching decisions and come to terms with their own weaknesses and needs. The hope and pain of loves lost and of loves found are just some of the novel's triumphs. This one just may become a best-seller. Lillian Lewis "A stunning debut . . . If you've ever dared to follow your passion, then you must read Waiting in Vain."--E. Lynn Harris"A WONDERFUL DEBUT! WAITING IN VAIN IS A LAVISH AND LUSH READ FILLED WITH SPICE, SASS, AND PASSION."--Diane McKinney-Whetstonexa0xa0 Author of the national bestsellersxa0xa0 Tumbling and Tempest RisingWAITING IN VAIN "IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A GIFTED WRITER DECIDES TO GET ROMANTIC."--Time Out New York"LUSHLY WRITTEN."--New York Daily News"FANS OF ROMANCE AND PSYCHOLOGICAL DRAMA WILL ENJOY THIS PASSIONATE AND HONEST STORY . . . HIGHLY RECOMMENDED."--Library Journal From the Trade Paperback edition. From the Publisher What a great early reception we've been getting to this book! It's struck a chord withreaders and it's been wonderful to watch the early excitement. I have a feeling that thistitle is going to have a major effect on readers and that it will be talked about for quitea while. E. Lynne Harris says of Colin Channer: "He has the ear of a poet and theheart of a lover." Dianne McKinneyh-Whetstone calls the book a "lavish and lush readfilled with spice, sass and passion." And Kwame Dawes offers: "We see an enviable andunusual achievement" with Colin's book. This book is an alternate selection of theQuality Paperback Book Club.African American booksellers across the country tell me this book is flying off the shelves.Nkiru in Brooklyn says it's the most requested book of the last few weeks (7/27/98). Eso-Won in LA says that he sold out of his initial orderof 45 already and is going to order 50 moreasap. African Spectrum in Atlanta moved over 250 books during the National Black ArtsFestival. Afrocentric in Chicago says the women customers come in asking for it aswell as for the sampler we offered that gives the prologue and first chapter --it maybecome a collector's item. It's summertime and folks want an entertaining read andColin delivers. From the Inside Flap Jamaican. Yardie to de bloodclaat core. I love stout more than wine. I love cricket more than baseball. . . . I love Bob Marley more than Beethoven or Basie. . . . And I think that the fat on a woman batty and hips is sexy thing that they shouldn't try to lose at the gym. . . ."As the clock nears midnight, a travel-weary man steps out of the New York subway where Chinatown collides with Soho and TriBeCa. He strides up West Broadway in his tough, scuffed boots past cafés and bars. Then he sees her, and a spark is lit. She walks like a dancer, and trailing behind her in the coltish breeze is a light silk scarf whose flutter he deems romantic. . . .Meet Fire--Jamaican born, charming, poetic, and talented--a man who's vowed to never play "love-is-blind" games again. Then he meets Sylvia, a beautiful magazine editor who keeps her passions under lock and key. Together they must choose between the love in their lives and the love of their lives.&l "A stunning debut! Colin Channer has the ear of a poet and the heart of a lover. He takes us into a sensuously intimate world where men and women like us take risks, make mistakes, get hurt, and--sometimes--find themselves transformed by the power of love. If you've ever dared to follow your passion, then you must read Waiting in Vain."--E. Lynn Harris Author of the New York Times bestseller If This World Were Mine"A wonderful debut! Waiting in Vain is a lavish and lush read filled with spice, sass, and passion."--Diane McKinney-Whetstone Author of the national bestsellers Tumbling and Tempest Rising A freelance copywriter and editor, Colin Channer has had his work published in Essence, Millimeter, Ebony Man, Black Enterprise, and Billboard on subjects ranging from popular music to economics and media technology. He is the author of the short stories "The Ballad of the Sad Chanteusexa0xa0and "Black Boy, Brown Girl, Brownstones,xa0xa0included in the anthology Soulfires: Young Black Men on Love and Violence. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On the day he met Sylvia, Fire woke up in Blanche's arms with a numbness in his soul. It was his ninetieth day of celibacy, and the night before had almost been his last, for Blanche had tied his wrists in his sleep and mounted him.He wanted to talk to her but didn't know how. Couldn't decide how to do it without losing his temper or his pride. He searched the room for answers--the arched windows . . . the rattan chairs . . . the hardwood floors with the swirling grain . . .The mattress stirred. He heard the strike of her match. Felt the heat. And the tidal pull of her lips. She was naked, and the urgency of smoking did not disturb her breasts, hard and still like turtles.A lizard crawled from the windowsill to the peak of the angled ceiling and slid down the pole of the old brass fan whose blades were sheathed in straw. It flicked its tongue and wagged its head, shook loose a fold of skin and puffed a red balloon.Fire watched it closely, enchanted by its beauty; Blanche sucked her teeth and said it was a nuisance. He didn't answer, and she began to taunt it, choking it with rings of smoke till it arched its back and sprang. It fell on her belly with a thwack and did a war dance on her birthmark, a swatch of brown below her navel. She watched it for a while, amused by its bravery, then whipped her body sideways, shimmering the flesh on her hips, and spilled the lizard to the floor.Fire closed his eyes.Last night he'd dreamed that they'd wallowed in a muddy ditch in a sunflower field. Her belly was wet with almond oil and her nipples were gummed with molasses. A believer in fate and the wisdom of dreams, he'd been dreaming of molasses for months now. Blanche was not the woman, though. He was sure. And denial was a way of preparing for her . . . whoever she might be.Blanche watched as he rose, snatched glances as he dressed. He was tall and rangy. His hair was a cluster of twists and curls. His body looked like a pencil sketch, proportioned but not detailed, except in the chest and upper back.He went to the terrace and sat in a rocker beneath a brace of ferns, which rustled and fluttered like moody hens. The land cruised away below him, drained through an orchard to an old stone fence, then plunged in an avalanche of crabgrass and buttercups to a terraced farm. Beyond the valley, surreal through the mist, was the broad, flat face of Kingston.He took a mango from a bowl and peeled it with his teeth. What would he say to her? How would he say it? She was singing in the shower now. He imagined her body--the swell of her thighs, the rise of her ass. And, of course, her breasts. When would he say it? Soon, he thought . . . but not right now.Resting the fruit on a stack of books, he picked up the poem he'd begun the day before.I dare not love you as you deserve.It is not that I don't know how.I do understand the language of love,and were it a different worldI would write you poems etching youinto the tender cliche of Negril's palmy coast . . .He didn't know where he'd take it. He didn't understand poetry really. He'd never studied it. He believed in it as an act of faith.Bird. He began to think of Ian now. They used to call him Bird for his hawkish nose and pelican legs. What will it be like to see him again? He checked his watch. It was eleven. Air Jamaica was leaving at three; they were always on time. He would be in New York at seven.Blanche came out and joined him. She was wearing one of his shirts. It was a soft tangerine with a broad camp collar and flaps on the pleated pockets. A few months short of fifty, she moved with the angular vim of a teenager. She leaned against the banister, a Rothman's between her lips.Age had refined her beauty, streaking her hair silver and adding lines and accents to the poetry of her face--commas that made him pause at her eyes, dashes that framed her mouth. She had brows like Frida Kahlo, and lips like Chaka Khan."New York," she began. "How long are you going to be there?""Just the weekend," he said."Then you go to London. And you're coming back when?""The end o' August.""Three months."As she watched him pick up the mango, she marveled anew at his face. Like reggae, it was a New World hybrid, a genetic melange of bloods that carried in their DNA memories of the tribes that fought and fucked on the shores of the Americas--Chinese and Arab, English and Scotch from his father's side; Dutch and Portuguese Sephardic Jew from his mother's. But the final combination--brown like sun-fired clay; cheeks high and spread apart; nose narrow with a rounded tip; lips wide and fluted--was a vibrant African presence, Yoruba and Akan.Last night was wrong, she said to herself. But she'd been holding back for months now . . . had even thought she would get through it. But last night, knowing he'd be leaving today just made her desperate. Or was it angry? Three months is a long time for a woman, she thought, especially with a man like this, one who makes love from the inside out--from the core of her soul where she hides her fears, to the taut muscles on the back of her neck. And the way he was eating that mango--the flesh becoming slush and dripping down his arm.The juice was inking the nib between her legs, making her want to draft an epic on his face. Couldn't he just screw her? She'd take just that. So what if the love was gone? The first time had been just a screw. And she had no regrets. Seeing him nude that first time had made her think of holidays, of turkey legs slathered with gravy. At first she thought he'd be a rammer, a longhorn bedroom bully, which would've been fine. She liked a little roughness at times. But he held her like a dancer, assumed that he would lead, and frigged her with finesse. He understood her needs. Wordplay for him was foreplay. Her thighs were the covers of an open book--a journal lined with fantasies and fears. He read her like a child read, slowly, with his nose against the page, using a finger to guide his way. So he knew when to baby her and when to bitch her up.If he didn't want to screw her, she thought, couldn't they just flirt? Flirting was more than his pastime. It was an addiction. He couldn't help himself. He was intelligent and amusing, which was why women fell for him. That's why she had fallen. In the days when he loved her, his wordskissed her ears like butterfly wings. Now they stung like wasps: "I don't want you anymore. Leave me alone. I don't care how you feel."She forced a smile. He didn't respond, but she knew he wanted her. She could feel it. What to do? What to say? She wanted to be the mango so he could suck her down to the seed."Kiss me."The words were hers. He tried to resist. Thought he had, until his tongue was a honey stick in hot tea. Soon he was melting into memory . . . into their first kiss ten years ago in Cuba.She was standing on a street corner in Old Havana, a map in her hand, using her own brand of filleted Spanish to explain to a group of curious onlookers that the Yanquis didn't hate them, that the Yanquis in fact pitied them and really hated the French, whom they found repugnant and smug. She didn't know how to say "smug" in Spanish."Apuesto," he said from the back, "pulcro." Their eyes met."Excuse me," she said, as the crowd trailed away, "do you speak English?""No," he replied. "Do you?" She was wearing a lavender dress and sandals. He was wearing an Exodus T-shirt and Red Army boots. He liked her voice. She spoke with a flourish, as if her words were meant to be drawn in calligraphy.They drifted into a walk, cruised the cobblestoned streets, brushed against each other as they passed under arbors of billowing clothes. She took photographs of the crumbling houses . . . posed on the hoods of vintage cars. It was her first visit to Cuba, she told him. She was forty, and taught English and Near Eastern studies at Columbia. Her father was Jamaican, her mother from Iran. She'd been raised outside Toronto.They had lunch in a paladar. Over gallina vieja and yellow rice she learned that he'd been living in Cuba for three years, had gone there to study with the famous muralist Francisco Irtubbe after receiving a fine arts degree at Yale. He was twenty-four and Jamaican, and his favorite uncle, I-nelik, had toured and recorded with the Wailers.She asked if he was a communist and he told her no. Said he was a socialist. Then they began to talk about art and she said there wasn't any money in murals. Money isn't all, he replied. What is? she asked. Love, he said. . . . All you need is love. She said that was a crock of shit. He liked her directness. It was hard to find that in women his own age.He offered her a drink when they left the restaurant. She looked at him . . . cocked her head . . . seemed unsure. He smiled, as I-nelik had taught him, and led her home without discussion.They sipped mojitos in the courtyard, a moldering square of tiles around an almond tree, and shared a macanudo (cigar) and talked and listened and argued, entangling their minds in a wrestling match which she won with ease, for she was wiser and more wordly. She'd lived in five countries, including Morocco and India, and spoke Arabic, Farsi, French, and Hindi.They went inside when the night brought rain. Setting cans to catch the leaks in the parlor, they talked some more, leaning against each other on the swaybacked sofa with their feet propped up on a milk crate.At some point--he could never remember when, because it had been so unexpected--she'd pointed to the record changer, a hefty old thing from Albania, and asked if he had any jazz. The questions felt like a test, a requirement for entry to her finishing school. He knew this by the way she smiled when he asked her, like a bartender at a good ... Read more