Herman Wouk - Don't Stop The Carnival

by Don't Stop The Carnival(Lit)

  They drove into the town. (Georgetown was its name; in native parlance it was "dung tung.") The Chevrolet began a tortuous climb along ill-paved streets, steeper, narrower, and more winding as they went up, lined with perilous open sewer trenches, unpainted little wooden houses, and shacks of tin cans hammered flat. None of these places had glass in their windows. The people lived in mazes of plasterboard partitions not reaching to the ceiling, but the interiors were neat, and some walls had bright-tinted religious pictures. All along the way flowering shrubs grew from patches of earth or big lard cans. Children below school age scampered about in little shirts, or less. The progress of the gigantic Chevrolet through the tiny streets was greeted with many a bashful grin and unconcealed penis.

  "These people don't live well," he said.

  "This is the Caribbean."

  "Is there unrest here?"

  With a crooked smile she maneuvered the car past a sharp and narrow corner. "Remember, Norman, these people haven't just arrived from Idlewild. They've never seen Park Avenue or Westport."

  As they zigzagged uphill, head-on meetings with other vehicles stopped them twice. Once Iris backed around a corner to make way for a taxi. The next time it was she who halted, while the driver of a rickety truck full of live goats waved merrily, gave her a white-toothed grin, and backed out of sight up a steep curving hill, to the loud protests of the terrified goats. "There's a gentleman," said Paperman.

  "Oh, mostly they love driving backwards. It's the direction of choice in the Caribbean."

  The shacks became fewer as they reached a cooler altitude far above the main town. Soon they were in green countryside, driving along a high ridge on a new two-lane road, with splendid views of the town and the harbor. The houses up here were of a different class: some of white-plastered cement block, with red tile roofs, some of fieldstone, and some eccentric constructions of redwood and glass. These homes ranged from medium size, by American standards, to sprawling mansions, all with large gardens of bougainvillea, scarlet poinsettia, high thickly flowered hibiscus hedges, and lavish plantings of tall-fronded banana trees.

  "Beverly Hills," said Paperman.

  "Signal Mountain. Same thing. The people here are known as the hill crowd."

  "Who are they?"

  "Some shop owners. The old plantation families. Retired rich folks. Retired military. Homo couples. Assorted drunks living on trust funds. Mostly white, but there are some old leading colored families."

  "Sounds interesting."

  "I wouldn't know. The minimum time for acceptance by the hill crowd, so they say, is ten years."

  "How about that governor? Is he accepted?"

  "Sort of tolerated."

  It was a spectacular ride. Paperman delighted in the ever-changing panoramas of the town, the azure sea, and the green hills. The road grew more winding and the scenery became wilder: forested hills and valleys plunging down to red-brown crags and the breaking sea. They rounded a sharp curve, and the town went quite out of sight. This was the other side of Amerigo, more precipitous and even greener, a jungle green. Norman said after a long silence, "Iris, what's eating the governor?"

  She briefly turned her head full at him, her large eyes wide. "A number of things, I believe. He did a lot of work to bring out the colored vote on the West Coast for Eisenhower, they say. Expected the Virgin Islands as his lump of sugar, but got Kinja instead. Then I guess there's that wife of his, up in Washington with his two boys, and evidently not about to come down and make him a home, or to divorce him either." She paused. "I also expect His Excellency's never been too happy about finding himself inside a colored skin." Iris swerved the car into a dirt road. "Hang on now."

  They went bumping down through tangled woods: some wild palms, papayas, and mangoes, but mostly tall trees like birches with swollen lumps on their trunks, big wooden tumors. She said these were termite nests. The road became steeper and stonier. They were going down and around a hill, entering another climate of dry hot wind, and the car was raising a cloud of red dust with an acrid smell. One cactus plant after another appeared: clumps of straight spiky tubes, barrel cactus, prickly pear. The ground became flinty rubble. More and more the trees gave way to cactus, thornbush, and the great spikes of century plants. The car stopped, for the dirt road ended. Beyond lay a narrow stone trail into the thorns. "I don't know," Iris said. "I've only done this in a jeep before. It's a hell of a walk down from here and we have all that picnic stuff-shoot, let's see what kind of cojones they put in a Chevy nowadays."

  They jolted forward. He rolled up his window in a hurry, after a long thorn branch raked blood from his cheek. The car groaned, bounded, shuddered, clanked; it struck its axles and underside with jarring, screechy blows. Meadows whimpered. Iris fought the wheel coolly. "All right, you Detroit son of a bitch, what did you expect, turnpikes all your goddamn life?" This plunge probably lasted two minutes, then they were on level hard sand, purring through a grove of high coconut trees, where the only hazard was a scattering of rotted fallen nuts. Ahead was the sea.

  "Whew! How do we get back up?" he said.

  "Worry about that later."

  The beach was a deserted wide sweep of snowy sand. Palm trees lined it all the way to its end, about half a mile away, in high rock. At the near end it trailed off in thickets of cactus. There were no waves in Pitt Bay. Clear water sloshed up and back on the sand, not breaking. Coral reefs made jagged dark patterns in the green shallows; farther out, the bay was blue. One large island, three or four miles off, hid much of the horizon. Beyond it to the right was the green knob of another island.

  "Big Dog," Iris said, pointing, "Little Dog. Bob's out there by now, doing his warlike deeds. Like broiling fresh lobsters on a driftwood fire, and so forth."

  The silence was extraordinary. The swooping and diving pelicans uttered no cries. So still was it that when one of the birds hit the blue water, far out, Paperman heard the splash. Meadows alone broke the peace, racing down the beach and barking at the pelicans.

  "Housekeeping chores first, then swimming and stuff," Iris said, unzipping her flared orange frock, and stepping out in a snug black jersey swimsuit that sent a tingle of pleasure through Norman. He peeled down to red trunks, glad that at forty-nine he had no paunch. Iris, unpacking a hamper, gave him a lively look. "Well! Where'd you get that tan?"

  "Fake. Sun lamp. Athletic club."

  Soon she had the picnic set out on the sand in the shade of a low-slanting palm tree. Food, far too much of it, was arrayed on a card table. Beer was piled in a cooler, and charcoal smoldered in a portable grill.. "Okay." She brushed hair off her damp forehead. "Hot as hell even in the shade. Forty-five minutes for a swim and a drink."

  The underwater* scenery here was stunning. The coral arched and twisted in baroque pillars and caverns, dusty green and pink, and dotted with bright plants. The fish were larger than at Gull Reef; the first parrot fish that went by must have been three feet long. Iris swam ahead, her scissoring pink thighs a fair sight; now and then she swished around to point out a fantastic growth of elkhorn, an octopus writhing along a coral ledge, a big grouper lurking under a rock. She led him to a sunken wreck, where yellow and purple fish were gliding through the ribs in schools. Paperman was hovering over the wreck, watching the play of living color with delight, when he felt Iris's finger poke his shoulder. He turned, and saw, not ten feet away in the water, a gray diamond-shaped flat thing as wide as a tent, with white spots, and a barbed black tail. It flapped by him, swirling water against his chest, and slowly passed from sight. This incident clouded his pleasure, and he was glad when Iris headed for the shore. On the beach she told him that he had seen a leopard ray. "They can't hurt you. Bob shoots rays all the time. Says there's nothing to it. How about a martini to quiet your nerves? Two to one, Bombay gin, Boissiere vermouth, lemon twist, chilled glass?"

  "Don't torment me. Beer's fine."

  "But it's right here." She drew glasses from the cooler, which frosted on striking warm air; produc
ed a rattling shaker, and poured pale martinis.

  "You're an amazing woman."

  It was a spicy, beery picnic: frankfurters and hamburgers sizzling off the coals, beans and sauerkraut; Norman even broke down and wolfed potato salad, thinking, oh hell! They sat on straw back-rests on a broad Indian blanket, all zigzags of red, yellow, and blue. This bay was the loveliest, most peaceful place he had ever seen. They were utterly alone.

  Iris tossed aside a beer can and yawned. "Take the blanket over in the sun, Norm. I'll clean up and we'll have a snooze, yes? And another swim."

  A little while later she came, stretched on her back on the blanket in the sunlight, cradled her head on her arms, bent a knee so that one thigh curved over the other, and smiled sleepily up at him. Paperman recognized, or thought he did, open invitation. He lay beside her, propped on an elbow. Meadows, having gorged on the scraps, was dozing in the shade, about twenty feet away, his head on his front paws.

  "You not only spread a great picnic, Iris," Norman said softly, "and you're not only exceptionally kind to the lonely wayfarer-you're beautiful."

  She murmured, "What? Full, fat, and drowsy, at the moment."

  "Beautiful, I say. Beautiful and sweet." He leaned over and took her lightly by the shoulders.

  Meadows leaped in the air as though stung by a bee. He closed the distance in four bounds, snarling and yelping. Paperman snatched his hands off the woman. The dog stopped short on the other side of Iris, bristling, red-mouthed, making homicidal sounds.

  Iris said with a lazy half-turn of her head, "Oh, Meadows, shut up. What a bore. Yes, Norman? Pay no attention to that boob. You were saying-"

  "Iris, I understand devotion, I admire it," Norman said, annoyed and quite intimidated, "but isn't this kind of unhealthy? I mean this joker is your dog, he isn't your husband."

  "Isn't it ridiculous? I can't even dance with a man when he's around. He thinks it's a kind of attack."

  The dog was glaring at Norman across Iris's midriff, rumbling evilly in his throat.

  "Well, I mean, is all this a lot of noise, or does he bite?"

  "Norm darling, I actually don't know. Nobody's ever pushed him that far. He once tore up a burglar frightfully in California, but that was different, of course-"

  "Don't you think he'd be happier in the car?"

  "Probably, dear. I'm sure he would be. Put him in."

  "Me? Me put him in? Are you kidding? This dog looks on me as a sort of sex-mad hamburger. I wouldn't make it halfway to the car. He'd arrive there spitting out my sandals."

  Iris sat up, laughing, and put her hand to his face. "Have I told you I think you're funny? I do. Come on, little bow-wow."

  The dog ran with her to the car and bounded in, evidently thinking that he and Iris were going to drive off and leave Paperman behind. He whined long and dismally when she shut the door and went back to the blanket.

  "Well, now, where were we?" she said, settling herself on a back rest and igniting a cigarette.

  "You were about to have a nap."

  "Yes, and you were about to get fresh. Meadows knows your kind. All you are is a gay deceiver." She giggled. "That was a good joke, the sex-mad hamburger. Did you ever write jokes? I guess all press agents do, those quips in the columns." Paperman, gloomily sifting sand through his fingers, didn't answer. "Oh, come on, Norman. You don't really want to smooch, do you? 1 don't. When you bring your Henny here, I want to be friends with her."

  Paperman lay down, his head on his arms. She ran her fingers through his thick gray hair. "Norman's mad, and I am glad, and I know what'll please him. A bottle of wine to make him shine, and a bottle of ink to make him stink, and Iris Tramm to squeeze him."

  He couldn't help turning his head and grinning at her. "I haven't heard that since I was ten."

  "Sh!" She put her finger on his lips, and cocked her head. "Car coming. Now who on earth? On a plain old Thursday? There's nobody here even on Sunday, half the time."

  A white-painted jeep came weaving through the coconut grove. It drew up near the beach, and out jumped the governor and the two diplomats from Chad, in swimming trunks. A driver wearing shirt, tie, and a black chauffeur's cap remained at the wheel. Sanders waved. "Hello there. Pardon the intrusion. You have the right idea, Iris, showing visitors the nicest beach we've got."

  "No intrusion, Governor, it's your island," called Iris.

  Both Africans were magnificent men: broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, with muscles heavy and marked under their gleaming black skins. The governor by contrast was a meager whey-colored object. The Africans shyly waved and called greetings in French; followed the governor splashing into the water and swam and laughed.

  Paperman said, "Shall we offer them beer, when they come out? There's plenty left."

  "Nothing doing. This is our party. God, a black man should be black, shouldn't he? Look at those two, and look at him. A yellow stork. What's more, they're smarter than he is. Here he sits on a silly rock in the sea. They're in the United Nations. Which at this point is practically the number-one black social club."

  Though Paperman was hardly a radical any more, he was a good New York liberal. This remark offended him. He said, "You know, I'm surprised that you stay on an island like this, with your prejudice against Negroes."

  She turned her head slowly and stared at him. "Me? Are you insane? Prejudiced? I don't like anybody much, but I like blacks a lot more than I do white people."

  "Maybe I'm mistaken. Just from things you've said-"

  "You're mistaken."

  "Okay."

  It was a snappish, tense little exchange. Paperman thought it best to let it drop. He put his head down on his arms. The sun, the beer, the silence soon lulled him into a sweet doze. He jerked when he heard her say, "Oh damn."

  "Huh-Wha-?"

  "Out of cigarettes."

  "Are there more in the car?"

  "Packs. Glove compartment. Stay put, I'll get them."

  "Nonsense." He stood, yawning. The three Negroes were just coming out of the water, fairly close by. At the car Paperman peered through the closed door at Meadows. The dog was fast asleep on the back seat. Cautiously Paperman turned the front door handle, making a noise. Meadows did not flick an ear. He slowly opened the door, and pressed the catch on the glove compartment. It fell open with a thud. Meadows sat up. The next instant Paperman was knocked sprawling, and the dog was racing toward the three Negroes, ears back, uttering fearsome snarls.

  "Iris, Iris!" Paperman's yell was useless, the dog was upon the men. He leaped like a cougar, straight at the governor's throat, and bore him to the ground, where the man and the animal rolled in sprays of sand.

  Iris was sitting up, impassively watching the struggle. Paperman ran toward Meadows and the governor, shouting, "Iris! For Christ's sake, call the dog-" He broke off, and stopped in his tracks.

  "Hey, Meadows! Hey, you're going to eat me, are you? Hey, pup, how goes it? Long time no see." Sanders, flat on his back, was holding off the dog by the jaws, and Meadows was snarling and shaking his head, but his tail was wagging. The Africans laughed and chattered in baritone French.

  After a moment of stupefaction Paperman came to Iris. She said with a wry smile, "Something, isn't it? He made friends with Meadows the first day they met. His Excellency could burgle my place with ease. Meadows would just tiptoe around and open the drawers for him."

  Sanders was sitting up, brushing off sand, and Meadows was frolicking in circles around him. Paperman said, "It's incredible. Has he seen the dog often?"

  "Meadows came to Government House with me every day when I worked there. It got so he would go and flake out in His Excellency's office. All right, Meadows." Iris raised her voice. "All right. Enough."

  The dog was frisking and lunging at the lean yellow governor, who was getting to his feet. "I don't mind, Iris," he called.

  "I do. Meadows!" The dog hesitated, then came trotting to his mistress, tail wagging, full of good humor. He even made a friendly little lunge at P
aperman. "Lie down, you. Norm, let me have another beer." There wasn't much difference in the command tones, and Iris caught herself and laughed. "See what comes of living alone with this monster. I'm getting the manners of a lion tamer."

  The governor plunged in the water to wash off the sand, and then approached them. "Did you enjoy your picnic?"

  "We're still enjoying it, thank you." Iris sipped her beer, leaning with her back against Paperman's shoulder.

  "I'm afraid you'll be rained out." He pointed to thunderheads that had boiled up on the horizon near Big Dog, and that now appeared to be drifting toward Amerigo. Norman had already felt a few cold drops.

  "Not a chance. Those things always pass over Pitt Bay and hit Signal Mountain."

  "How did you manage to get down here with that Chevrolet?" The governor was obviously trying to be pleasant, and Iris-for all her talk of liking Negroes-was obviously not making it easy for him. Paperman thought it very awkward that she refrained from offering him beer. He saw Sanders glance at the cooler.