Herman Wouk - Don't Stop The Carnival

by Don't Stop The Carnival(Lit)

  Mrs. Tramm choked over her martini, and laughed with sudden gusto. "My God, that's marvelous. I've even drunk wine in American consulates, Norman. It's absolutely true. Outside the gates glorious wines, inside vinegar. Before you buy the Reef talk to the governor, won't you? Make it a neutral enclave for wine drinkers."

  "Who says I'm buying the Reef?"

  "My friend, in Kinja everybody knows everything about everybody at once. You're a front for a billionaire who was on the cover of Time, and he's going to put up a thirty-five-story hotel. The Sheraton Kinja, or something." Paperman laughed and shrugged at these absurdities. Mrs. Tramm continued, "What's going on in the New York theatre right about now? I haven't been up there since April."

  To this cue Norman rose like a trout taking a fly, and he held forth with inside Broadway gossip and the new Sardi's jokes until they went to dinner. Norman was a fine raconteur. It was a delight for him to talk smartly over martinis to a shining-eyed pretty woman who laughed in cascades at his jokes. The young frogman sat and listened with a good-natured smile, looking rather out of it.

  The great red fish, which arrived baked whole on a board, had an exquisite flavor, and despite the jesting the white wine was pleasant enough. This dining terrace of the Gull Reef Club at night, Paperman thought, must be one of the most charming places on earth. On the table were white linen, an overflowing centerpiece of yellow and scarlet flowers in a white glazed bowl, and an oil lamp of mottled clay, burning with a salmon-colored flame that flickered in the cool salt breeze. This terrace faced the town. Underwater lights illumined the green shallows, and made sparkling showers of the swells breaking on the rocks. Beyond these lights the water was black between the reef and the floodlit red fort, the white-and-gilt clock tower, and the dark lamp-dotted hills. Street lights curving along the waterfront silhouetted the moored schooners, and lit up the houses of Queen's Row, and the old gray church.

  "What I want to know is," Paperman said at one point, "why would anybody want to sell this place? Where's there to go from here?"

  Mrs. Tramm's mouth wrinkled. "Ah well, I suppose Amy Ball has her sad little secret, like everybody on Amerigo, and it's compelling her to leave."

  "I have a hell of a sad little secret," said Cohn. "I blew two months' pay this afternoon in a crap game."

  At the long table next to theirs, where the governor's party sat, loud bursts of laughter were rising, amid excited conversation. Paperman said, "Which one is the governor? The white-headed fellow?"

  "Why, no. That's Tom Tilson," said Iris. "It's the man at the head of the table. Governor Sanders."

  "Is he colored? It's hard to tell."

  "Yes, he's colored."

  Paperman peered at the man at the far end of the table: sallow, scrawny, with a long hollowed face and a straight thin nose.

  "That woman at this end of the table-his wife?" Paperman was talking about a black woman in a short red evening dress, whose black hair was pulled flat, and piled and banded high at the back.

  "Yes. Don't you think she's pretty?" said Iris.

  "Well, different. Looks like Nefertiti, a bit."

  "She's a Washington bureaucrat. He used to be one, too. She works in housing and only flits down here now and then to visit friend husband."

  "You know all the gossip, Iris."

  "When I first came here I took a job at Government House for a while."

  At this moment the governor's wife turned and beckoned to Paperman. He glanced about, puzzled. She nodded, and beckoned again. "Does she mean me?" he said to Mrs. Tramm.

  "It appears so. Go talk to the first lady. Mind your manners."

  As he walked to the other table the woman held out a jeweled dark hand. She had very large green eyes. "Hello, I'm Reena Sanders. You're Mr. Paperman, aren't you?" Mrs. Sanders had the speech of a Western college graduate, clear and easy. "I just wanted to ask you not to run away, and to join us after dinner in the bar. The governor wants to meet you."

  "That's awfully kind of him. And of you."

  "You speak French, I hope. Our guests are from Chad."

  "In a Hartford high school fashion."

  "Where's your friend? The man who was on the cover of Time?"

  "I'm afraid I don't know. I'm with these other people-"

  "Of course. Iris, and one of Lieutenant Woods's swimmers. Please ask them to join us too."

  Iris Tramm said when he returned to the table with this invitation, "The governor wants to cross-examine you about that thirty-five-story hotel, no doubt."

  "I can't hang around long," said Cohn. "We're supposed to swim from Shark Bay out to Little Dog tomorrow, starting at dawn."

  "Isn't that six miles?" said Iris.

  "Yes. That's the beginning of the exercise. Then we do warlike things for two days and nights among the thornbushes. Eventually the survivors swim back."

  "Why, you're a hero. You make me feel all shivery," said Iris.

  "It beats working," Cohn said.

  Paperman was silenced. There was a trace of menace about the frogman, for all his light tone. Smart comment on the New York theatre did not seem, for the moment, quite the most brilliant form of male display.

  Soon afterward the steel-band music began, and they went to the terrace that faced the beach. Part of this terrace was the bar, the rest an open red-tiled space where many couples were dancing. Barefoot lean black boys, in ruffled red-and-yellow shirts and old slacks, stood in one corner, shuffling and hopping as they beat out strange music with sticks on old fuel-oil drums, hacked short, brightly painted, and hung around their necks on straps. The shallowest drums, cut to pans, produced treble notes; the larger ones rang in lower octaves, and on three whole drums one boy was pounding bass rhythm. Paperman couldn't understand how these chopped-off oil containers produced melody, but the music was real enough: mournful, monotonous, a few minor-key phrases pounded over and over and over. This insistent syncopated monotony was disturbing and sweet: Boum-di-boum bourn, tim tim tim, boum-di-boum bourn- The dancing couples rocked their hips in a step that wasn't the rumba, or the samba, or any dance he knew. Negroes were dancing together, so were whites, and there were black men with white girls, and white men with black girls. Paperman had seen this kind of mixing in gloomy dives in Paris and New York, but the striking thing about this scene was the respectable look of the dancers, black and white alike. The Negro men all wore suits and ties, and the girls bright dance frocks. Only some whites were dressed in shorts and sandals. There were older couples too; one enormous black woman in brown satin was twirling and swaying with elephantine grace, and her partner was a gray-headed white man who might have been a minister on vacation.

  Iris Tramm at his elbow said, "Something different, isn't it?"

  "God, yes."

  "Well, you go and join His Excellency. Bob and I will have one dance, and then we'll be along."

  "Can you do that dance?" Paperman said to Corm. "It looks so complicated."

  "It's in the knee action. Watch."

  Cohn took Iris easily in his arms and the two of them rocked away, Mrs. Tramm's hips tracing a sinuous curve across the floor.

  Reena Sanders welcomed Norman with a warm smile as he approached the round table in the bar, where the governor's party had returned. "Hello, there. Sit next to me. Alton, this is Mr. Paperman."

  The governor stood, and gave him the strong quick handshake of an American. Sanders had a white man's face, long-jawed and lean, with a small mustache, and two deep vertical creases on either side of his thin mouth. But his skin was lemon yellow, and his grizzled hair was woolly, "I hope you're enjoying our little island," he said with a dour grin.

  "I'm falling in love with it."

  "That's what we like to hear. I'm sorry your partner isn't with you tonight." The governor lit a cigarette with skinny stained fingers.

  "Well, I daresay Lester'll show up."

  Mrs. Ball, sitting straight in a chair next to the governor's, said through a toothy smile-she was heavily painted, but it w
as not unbecoming-"Mr. Atlas has boundless energy. I called a cab for him about five. He was going to explore the island."

  Paperman said, "I understand there's a rumor that Lester's going to put up a huge hotel here. There's really nothing to it, Governor. I'm interested in buying this club. Lester's a friend of mine, and he came along to advise me on the money end. That's all."

  "We like financiers visiting us, for whatever reason," the governor said.

  Paperman was soon drawn into the conversation with the Africans. He knew French better than he had admitted; he had whiled away a year in Paris, in his early twenties. He found it piquant that the black men in barbaric robes spoke this cultured tongue so well. One was a doctor, the other an engineer, and they were both United Nations delegates. At the moment they were talking about housing, but when Mrs. Ball said of Paperman "monsieur's'occupe a Brodvay," they showed magisterial interest, offering him studious opinions of the serious American playwrights. Norman let them talk, and then sailed forth with an airy lecture to the effect that the real American theatre was now the musical stage, and that all playwriting after O'Neill was trivial. They listened with a sober air of making mental notes. Iris Tramm, joining the party with Cohn, was clearly amused by this persiflage tossed off in more than passable French.

  The white-headed man, Tilson, who had struck Norman at first glance as a surly narrow-minded old Gentile, spoke up in surprisingly good French, with a salty comment on the obscenity and sex aberration in the theatre. Mrs. Sanders defended the playwrights. The talk grew lively. The steel band thumped and jangled, the brandy and coffee went around, the swaying hips and whirling skirts of the dancing women spiced the scene, and Paperman thought he had never chanced into a more exotic or pleasant evening.

  He deftly switched the topic to African sculpture. It was the fad in his Broadway set, and he had bought a couple of pieces and read some books. The diplomats were amazed at his offhand evaluations of the statuary of the West Sudan and the Gold Coast; at his connoisseur's preference for the Kifwebe masks of the Congo, and the Tellem style in Dogon sculpture. They spoke up, smiling and eager. The governor, his wife, and Mrs. Ball regarded him with growing respect. Even Tilson and his red-faced wife unbent to ask questions. As always in such company, Paperman was sharply aware of being a New York Jew. But he had long ago mastered this self-consciousness. The thing to do was simply to be himself. It always worked. It was working now. He was in command of this little party, even talking in a foreign language. The play was between himself and the Africans; the others were a charmed audience. He was a witty, cultured, amusing man, and people couldn't help liking him. Cohn, sitting next to his straight-backed commanding officer, had taken on a thoughtful look. Paperman was on top of the world, and he hardly noticed when the music stopped, and the dancers began chattering. But then he heard a roar over the chatter, and he faltered.

  "Con permisso! Haw haw haw! Con permisso!"

  There was a discordant banging on metal, and Lester Atlas came in sight, a steel drum around his neck, whacking away with two sticks and waggling his enormous behind. He wore a crimson jacket, sagging white shorts, a yellow shirt, and a black string tie, and he was barefoot. Tilted on his head was a straw carnival hat ornamented with dangling red monkeys. Behind him, holding a drink in either hand, shuffled the pink-haired girl, also barefoot, dressed now in strapless green silk, chanting a Calypso song:

  "Carnival is very sweet Please Don't stop de carnival-"

  "Haw haw! There he is! There's the old trade-winds boy! Hey, Norm! I'm staying right here in Kinja, you know? I'm getting me a job in a steel band. How about this? Con permisso!"

  He headed straight for the governor's table, followed closely by the girl, whose face was not improved by what appeared to be several layers of paint put on one over the other at odd times. Norman Paperman thought he might now welcome another heart attack, if it would bring instant final blackness.

  "Look, Norm, I can play this thing! I swear, it's easy. I just borrowed it off the kid five minutes ago-and listen! My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty"-he bawled the words and clinked out the tune-"of thee I. where the hell is 'sing'-sing." (The note he struck was very sour.) "No, no-sing. Sing! Oh, SHIT! Sing. Hey, that's it, sing, sing, sing, of thee I sing."

  Paperman was on his feet, tugging at Atlas's sleeve. "Lester-Lester!

  Lester, this is Governor Sanders. This is the governor of Amerigo. Lester, meet the governor. The governor-"

  "The governor? Heh? What? The governor? You're kidding. The governor?"

  Sanders stood and held out his hand. "Welcome to Amerigo, Mr. Atlas."

  "Holy Jesus! I wasn't exactly expecting to meet the governor."

  "Glad to see you're enjoying our little island. Come join us."

  Lester divested himself of the drum and the hat. "Flossie, give this thing back to the kid. Bring me my sandals. Governor, this is Flossie. Flossie Something. She loves your island."

  Atlas's embarrassment lasted no longer than it took him to jam a chair next to the governor's. He lit a giant cigar, and took charge. First he informed the delegates from Chad that he had once almost gone into a large cotton-raising enterprise in their country, similar to one that he owned in Mexico. The scheme had broken down because of tax difficulties. Next Atlas explained to the governor how to improve the economy of Amerigo. He spoke of citrus possibilities; the chronic water shortage could be solved by a ring of earth dams around the mountains. There was no need for the people to live in huts. Five hundred prefabricated units could be put up at a crack, using nothing but federal loans, and he could guarantee to do it himself and make a profit. Mrs. Sanders showed interest in this, throwing questions at him which he answered with blurry ease. The music started. Paperman instantly asked Mrs. Tramm to dance. She came along, half-dragged by him, smiling in her lopsided way. "What's your hurry, Norman?"

  "Lester doesn't fascinate me."

  "He's sort of cute, in a subhuman way."

  Off in a shadowy corner of the terrace, she slid her tight skirt prettily up to mid-thigh to show him the dance step. Paperman was an adept dancer; soon he was rocking like everybody else, if a bit uncertainly. 'Very good, very good, you've got it," said Mrs. Tramm, tapping his shoulder. Her body moved in powerful undulations which he felt through his arms. "How long are you staying?"

  Right now I never want to leave. I guess I'll go home tomorrow or the next day. As soon as our business is done."

  "Why don't I drive you around a bit tomorrow? You should see the island."

  "I'd stay just for that."

  The steel-drum music hammered on his nerves, a strong, harsh, blood-warming noise. It stopped. A moment's pause, and the musicians began a slow, out-of-key, ragged Stardust. The magic lapsed. They were boys banging on oil drums. "Oh, hell, wouldn't you know?" Iris said. "The only music they can play, they despise. All they want is to out-do Guy Lombardo, whacking tin cans with sticks. And that's the Caribbean for you."

  "I don't want to go back to the table," Paperman said.

  The dancers were shuffling primly to the makeshift music. Iris Tramm was heavy and slow in his arms. "Nuts to this." She pulled away, leading him by a hand back to the table. "Reena, I have a brute of a headache. I'm turning in," she said in a low tone, not breaking into the argument that Lester was having with Tom Tilson about African copper mining, which the men from Chad were intently trying to follow. Bob Cohn and the naval lieutenant were gone. The saturnine governor, slumped in his chair, glanced at Mrs. Tramm with one raised eyebrow. He said to Paperman, "Are you leaving us, too?"

  Mrs. Tramm swung Norman's hand. "He's just seeing me home."

  "Well, be sure to come back," said Sanders. "We'll be going up to Government House for a nightcap."

  "Melancholy dog, your governor," Paperman observed, as Iris led him through the lobby.

  "He's not my governor. I'm a California girl, and that's where I'm returning. Maybe sooner than anybody thinks. The Caribbean's fine, but after a while i
t's like a steady diet of cream puffs."

  "You'd be against my buying this place, then."

  "Not at all. It's entirely different if you've got something to do. And I assume you'll be bringing your wife."

  "Don't you have anything to do, Iris?"

  "Oh, some sculpting, and I really came here to work on a book-or so I tell myself. I've actually written some of it. But there's no urgency in that sort of thing, you know. Nobody cares whether you do a day's work or not. And it's awfully pleasant to do nothing here."

  They were descending a short stone staircase to the jasmine-scented moonlit lawn. Paperman was silent. Iris glanced at him sidewise. "Your wife might adore the island. What's she like? We go this way. I live in the Pink Cottage." She cut across the lawn, walking fast. Paperman strode beside her, thinking that the conversation was taking an unfortunate turn. It was no time, and no place, to be discussing Henny. They were almost at the door of the cottage when Iris said with a mocking edge in her voice, "I said, what's your wife like, Norman?"