The Pirate's Daughter - Hardcover
WINNER OF THE ESSENCE LITERARY AWARD IN FICTION
In 1946, Hollywood’s most famous swashbuckler, Errol Flynn, arrived in Jamaica in a storm-ravaged boat. After a long and celebrated career on the silver screen, Flynn spent the last years of his life on a small island off the Jamaican coast, where he fell in love with the people, the paradisiacal setting, and the privacy, and brought a touch of Tinseltown glamour to the West Indian community.
Based on those years, The Pirate’s Daughter imagines an affair between the aging matinee star and Ida, a beautiful local girl. Flynn’s affections are unpredictable but that doesn’t stop Ida from dreaming of a life with him, especially after the birth of their daughter, May.
Margaret Cezair-Thompson weaves stories of mothers and daughters, fathers and lovers, country and kin, into this compelling, dual-generational coming-of-age tale of two women struggling to find their way in a nation wrestling with its own independence.
In 1946, Hollywood’s most famous swashbuckler, Errol Flynn, arrived in Jamaica in a storm-ravaged boat. After a long and celebrated career on the silver screen, Flynn spent the last years of his life on a small island off the Jamaican coast, where he fell in love with the people, the paradisiacal setting, and the privacy, and brought a touch of Tinseltown glamour to the West Indian community.
Based on those years, The Pirate’s Daughter imagines an affair between the aging matinee star and Ida, a beautiful local girl. Flynn’s affections are unpredictable but that doesn’t stop Ida from dreaming of a life with him, especially after the birth of their daughter, May.
Margaret Cezair-Thompson weaves stories of mothers and daughters, fathers and lovers, country and kin, into this compelling, dual-generational coming-of-age tale of two women struggling to find their way in a nation wrestling with its own independence.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Margaret Cezair-Thompson was born in Jamaica, West Indies. She came to the United States at the age of nineteen to attend Barnard College, and then went on to earn a PhD in English from the City University of New York. She is the author of two novels and teaches literature and creative writing at Wellesley College.
Her first novel, The True History of Paradise (to be reprinted by Random House 2009), was short-listed for the Dublin International I.M.P.A.C. award. Her second novel, The Pirate’s Daughter, won the Essence Literary Award for Fiction in 2008. Other publications include short fiction, essays, and articles in Callaloo, The Washington Post, Journal of Commonwealth Literature, Graham House Review, and Elle magazine. Her screenplay, Photo Finish, about a Jamaican-American athlete, was sold to Oprah Winfrey’s Harpo Productions.
Although she has lived outside Jamaica for some time, Margaret Cezair-Thompson retains strong ties to her native country. Like the main characters of her novels, she was a child when Jamaica became an independent nation in 1962, and she has witnessed the country’s changes, at times with deep concern and always with great interest.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Her first novel, The True History of Paradise (to be reprinted by Random House 2009), was short-listed for the Dublin International I.M.P.A.C. award. Her second novel, The Pirate’s Daughter, won the Essence Literary Award for Fiction in 2008. Other publications include short fiction, essays, and articles in Callaloo, The Washington Post, Journal of Commonwealth Literature, Graham House Review, and Elle magazine. Her screenplay, Photo Finish, about a Jamaican-American athlete, was sold to Oprah Winfrey’s Harpo Productions.
Although she has lived outside Jamaica for some time, Margaret Cezair-Thompson retains strong ties to her native country. Like the main characters of her novels, she was a child when Jamaica became an independent nation in 1962, and she has witnessed the country’s changes, at times with deep concern and always with great interest.
The swimming pool dazzled her. She walked over to the edge and gazed down. Ribbons of sunlight wavered across the bottom. She knelt down and put her hand in the water.
"Hullo?"
The voice startled her but she did not pull out her hand.
"You'll fall in if you're not careful."
She saw a man standing wet in the doorway with a towel around his waist and a drink in his hand.
He saw a child who looked white but who wore a loose, faded old dress like the kind the servants’ children wore. He noticed, however, that she had on a good pair of leather sandals. Where on earth had she come from?
"Who are you?" His voice rang out.
"May," she said, standing up, and then she remembered to say, "I’m Eli Joseph’s grand-daughter.”
She heard the crackle of ice as he lifted the glass to his lips. He studied her for a few more seconds.
"Well, come in then," he said and stood aside so she could come in.
Inside, the floor tiles were larger than any she'd ever seen and she believed that if she were to touch them they would feel cool against her palms. Some of them were wet from the man’s feet. Her eyes swept round and she took in everything quickly: the dark, polished railing of the stairway, a bar with high stools, and a huge brown leather couch where she sat down, a little embarrassed at how unsteadily she sank into it. The walls were white and bumpy, and there was an enormous painting of a black horse on the wall.
He studied her as he made himself another drink. His hands were shaking. The child’s resemblance to him was astounding.
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"Port Antonio." He was not so white, she thought. She had seen whiter people. His tummy was big, almost like a pregnant woman, and she thought his chest looked a bit womanly too. He was almost as dark as her Lebanese grandfather was except for his very white feet. Was this him? The rich, handsome movie star everyone talked about who might be her father? Maybe not. She decided to question him.
"Where you come from?" she asked.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he thought for a moment before answering her.
"Tasmania," he said.
She had never heard of it. She frowned.
"It’s an island far from here."
"Are you my father?"
He took a sip, put his drink down, and then walked over to the couch.
His weight threw her off balance when he sat beside her, and she almost toppled onto him. He was too close for her to look at without straining her neck, so she looked at her own feet.
He touched her hair. "And you just appear, like Peter Pan," he murmured.
She looked at him, not understanding.
"Hullo?"
The voice startled her but she did not pull out her hand.
"You'll fall in if you're not careful."
She saw a man standing wet in the doorway with a towel around his waist and a drink in his hand.
He saw a child who looked white but who wore a loose, faded old dress like the kind the servants’ children wore. He noticed, however, that she had on a good pair of leather sandals. Where on earth had she come from?
"Who are you?" His voice rang out.
"May," she said, standing up, and then she remembered to say, "I’m Eli Joseph’s grand-daughter.”
She heard the crackle of ice as he lifted the glass to his lips. He studied her for a few more seconds.
"Well, come in then," he said and stood aside so she could come in.
Inside, the floor tiles were larger than any she'd ever seen and she believed that if she were to touch them they would feel cool against her palms. Some of them were wet from the man’s feet. Her eyes swept round and she took in everything quickly: the dark, polished railing of the stairway, a bar with high stools, and a huge brown leather couch where she sat down, a little embarrassed at how unsteadily she sank into it. The walls were white and bumpy, and there was an enormous painting of a black horse on the wall.
He studied her as he made himself another drink. His hands were shaking. The child’s resemblance to him was astounding.
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"Port Antonio." He was not so white, she thought. She had seen whiter people. His tummy was big, almost like a pregnant woman, and she thought his chest looked a bit womanly too. He was almost as dark as her Lebanese grandfather was except for his very white feet. Was this him? The rich, handsome movie star everyone talked about who might be her father? Maybe not. She decided to question him.
"Where you come from?" she asked.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he thought for a moment before answering her.
"Tasmania," he said.
She had never heard of it. She frowned.
"It’s an island far from here."
"Are you my father?"
He took a sip, put his drink down, and then walked over to the couch.
His weight threw her off balance when he sat beside her, and she almost toppled onto him. He was too close for her to look at without straining her neck, so she looked at her own feet.
He touched her hair. "And you just appear, like Peter Pan," he murmured.
She looked at him, not understanding.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherUnbridled Books
- Publication date2007
- ISBN 10 0755343573
- ISBN 13 9780755343577
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages448
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