by Belva Plain
“Were you having an argument with Will? I was passing the shed and couldn’t help hearing.”
“He’s steamed up over revolution and class warfare. It worries the hell out of me. Where will it lead?”
“I’m an old man and you’re a young one, Patrick, but he’s only a boy and his language isn’t yours or mine. It’s language, that’s all it is.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Did I hear him say something about Francis Luther?”
“You did.”
Clarence was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I know how wounded you feel. Life hasn’t toughened you up and maybe it never will. Remember, I told you long ago not to put too much trust in Luther, didn’t I? Later, I got to know him a bit and changed my mind, but still later I found out I’d been right the first time. It’s in the blood. The call of the blood—and the money—it’s all the same. In a crisis, at a crossroads, a man goes with his interests and his own. As far as that’s concerned, at least, Will may be right.”
Désirée, still wearing the yellow dress, had come into the room.
“You talking about Will? Is he giving you trouble again?”
Patrick didn’t want to involve her in the discussion. She was always too ready to turn against Will.
“Nothing much,” he said. “Just a mood.”
He didn’t fool her. “I could take a strap to that boy! Poor Patrick, you wanted a son. Two healthy girls weren’t enough, were they?”
Clarence intervened. “No I-told-you-so’s, Désirée.”
“I don’t mean it that way, Pop. Patrick knows I don’t. But it’s been such a hard job with Will from the very beginning.”
“He has his placid moments,” Patrick argued.
“Yes. Like a hornet resting between flights.”
“He’d had such hardship. I thought just loving him would rebuild him.”
“Well, maybe it will,” Clarence said cheerfully. “It’s the idealism of youth, carried too far, maybe, but still, you have to remember the world would never advance without it. When the rough edges are sandpapered, what’s left will be a building block, something solid in the structure we call civilization.” He moved his old hands as he spoke, as if piling stones, setting them precisely, and pleased with his own metaphor.
But Désirée was disturbed by Patrick’s mood. “Go on out in the hammock and read till I fix you some lunch. You never have any time to do nothing in,” she complained kindly.
“I think I’ll do that.”
In the string hammock, under mottled, moving shade, he lay back with his book unopened. “Building the blocks of civilization,” the old man had said. Well, perhaps. Or tearing them down? Destruction wearing the guise of justice? There was an awful lot of that in the world these days. And he lay there, frowning and troubled, wishing he could sleep.
On the front lawn the girls were still holding animated conversation. “He can’t even dance!” he heard one say, and smiled to himself. Little women! He was reminded suddenly of Francis, whom he had glimpsed a week or two ago in town with his own little daughter, a soft little thing in a fancy pink dress. Francis, like himself, had so wanted a son, a friend of his blood, a healthy son. Instead, he’d got a sick daughter. The injustices of life, the cool indifference, the “luck of the draw”!
Then he was angry at himself for still thinking about Francis. It shouldn’t matter to him! “A man goes with his interests and his own,” the old man had said a few moments ago. Was that just nature, then, just bloody tooth-and-claw, when you came down to it?
A young man with his leg shot away in a festering jungle, a baby animal, still half alive, skinned to make a coat for a fine lady, a mother raped by special interrogators in a great stone city: just nature, bloody tooth-and-claw? Every man for himself and the devil with the rest? His head ached.
He woke with a smooth hand on his forehead.
“You needed that sleep,” Désirée said. “Come inside, I’ve made cold cucumber soup.”
She had changed from Doris’s dress into a blouse and skirt. Her long hair was pinned up in hot-weather style and she smelled of flowers. He felt a swelling of desire, now in the middle of the afternoon! Oh, if he had any sense he’d take his own advice, that which he had given to Will, to enjoy his youth, or what was left of it, and let the world, including Francis Luther, take its time getting better. And swinging himself out of the hammock, he followed Désirée into the house.
NINETEEN
From the high walls of Government House the portraits still looked down. Princes, queens, generals, and judges in the velvets and ermines of authority regarded the push and jostle of the crowd as serenely as though the world had not been turned inside out. Music buzzed and voices shrilled in Francis’ ears. All day he had been pounded by the enthusiastic noises of oration, churchbells, and gun salutes from the warships in the harbor. The frenzy was still echoing in his head.
Today a nation had been born, an independent nation having its own flag, orange and green with a cluster of stars that rippled up the pole after the union jack came down. A duke had spoken, along with a dozen native dignitaries. Nicholas Mebane’s clear voice had carried immense authority, so that it was quite certain, after elections were held three months hence, who the new prime minister would be.
Francis had not paid much attention to the verbiage, since on such occasions nothing new was ever said. Only noble and triumphant platitudes were called for. Problems would come later, in due time. Besides, everyone knew what they were: malnutrition, unemployment, electrification, imports, exports—one had heard them and read of them all before and would do so a hundred times again. The sun had blazed and he had wondered why he’d come, knowing, of course, that “everyone” had come and it would have been very queer not to have done so. His eyes had wandered, as had his thoughts—this old place had seen so many flags!—had wandered across the square to the careenage and the rotting capstan where great sailing vessels had been hauled up to have the barnacles scraped off, to the Nelson statue and then, at the far end, to Cade’s Hotel, where he’d wished he could be having a cold drink in the shady garden.
He’d thought of Kate.
In that drowsy, dreaming garden it had begun, although he had not realized it then and probably she had not, either. The recollection had been extraordinarily vivid, even to the emerald ring, later to be discarded, even to her words. Something about “long tides bringing you back.” It vexed him now that the memory should be so sharp. There were, after all, so many encounters, affairs, or whatever one wanted to call them, in any healthy young man’s years: restaurant lunches in hidden little Italian places, drinks in neighborhood bars or extravagant hotels, “love” in cars and on ships, in bedrooms and on beaches; did one remember them all? Hardly! Why, then, should these particular reminders slide back to bother him, when his mind was so filled with other things, when they only made him angry, when he didn’t want them?
He never saw her, which was all to the good. He never saw Patrick either, for that matter. He saw very few people, anyway. He hardly ever went to town these days, except for an occasional call at the bank, when he would park his car at the back of the building, transact his business, and be gone within minutes, or from time to time an evening function at the club, to which he went partly to please Marjorie and partly because it was unhealthy to be a total recluse. And there was small likelihood of meeting either Kate or Patrick at the club!
In the four years since everything had happened, the fire and the birth of Megan, he had drawn in, retreated behind an invisible wall of his own construction. He had learned to run the estate, as Lionel said with candid praise, “like a charm.” His cattle had won prize after prize at the shows and were now being exported to Florida for breeding stock. In another few years his mortgage would be paid off. After that he’d be able to salt away every available extra cent for Megan, who would long outlive him and would need whatever he could give her. His mind whirled, thinking of these things, over
and over.
His mind was in a constant whirl over Megan. Sometimes he would even drop what he was doing, and almost frantic with intent, run to fetch the child and patiently, urgently, repeat some simple number game, some little puzzle (“suitable for ages four through seven,” it said on the box) as if through main strength and the power of his love he could will her into normality—knowing all the time that it was useless and absurd, knowing, too, that he would keep striving, as his mother still strove for Margaret.
Such were his days. The evenings were quiet enough. It was known that the Luthers were usually at home, so people dropped in from neighboring estates to sit on the veranda and watch the afterglow spread its rosy fire over the sea.
Often Marjorie entertained at dinner. She was pleased to display the house, to set a splendid table with heavy silver and thin French crystal. Surely one couldn’t begrudge her this diversion.
As for himself, he liked it best when the Whittakers were invited, solely because they brought along a nephew who came from Chicago for long visits; the young man would play the piano all night if you encouraged him. Sometimes when the others went across the hall for bridge he would play for Francis alone, a Mozart divertimento, a Haydn capriccio or fantasia, music whose pure refinement, lacking all turbulence and bombast, could clear at least for a little while the turbulence in a man’s heart and head. No one on this island could play like that—except Kate. Kate again!
“An exquisite piano,” the young man said, stroking the keys.
“Yes. A Pleyel. My father bought it years ago in Paris.”
“You know, of course, what he is?” Marjorie asked one night after the Whittakers had gone home.
“What he is? A music teacher, isn’t he?”
“No, no. There’s something wrong with him, I mean. He’s a homosexual. Couldn’t you tell?”
“I didn’t really think about it.”
“Honestly, Francis! You never notice anything! The way he uses his hands! And he’s at least thirty-five and not married. Disgusting, isn’t it?”
“No,” Francis said.
Marjorie stared. “Sometimes I can’t make you out at all. It’s as if you actually try to take the opposite, whatever I say.” And she had sighed, and he had gone to his desk in the library to work on his history of St. Felice.
He had surprised himself, these past few years, with his own diligence. Having put out his feelers in New York among rare-book collectors and dealers in out-of-print books, he had surrounded himself with piles of source material and was progressing well, stimulated by this rich hoard to explore and delve. Creeping back into minds and seeing through eyes long dead, he came to know the warriors and the traders, the architects and poets, the anthropologists, the governors and slaves, the flora and the fauna, all the myriad life of this small spot into which and out of which had radiated the energies of five centuries. It seemed sometimes as though he would never reach the end, and indeed he knew that inwardly he hoped he never would. For the work was a refuge and companion; only when he was immersed in it could he know such rare contentment.
Occasionally he thought of a time when it must finally be complete; he toyed then with the idea of embarking on another project, something he might call Man at Work in His Environment. Perhaps by then there would be time to travel and take pictures all over the world for such a book. And he bought from Da Cunha’s a fine camera against such a day, only half believing that the day might ever come. But it was nice to have the camera waiting on the shelf all the same.
“Quite a change from the first time we were here,” Marjorie remarked now, returning him to the present hour and place.
Yes, quite. To begin with, there were ten times as many people as there had been at Julia Tarbox’s wedding to the Honorable Derek Frame. But it was the atmosphere that was most strikingly different, the air of jubilance today, written on the face of the black peasant in from the country in his Sunday suit, with his dignity and his hands held awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do with them, while he stared about at the grandeur. And the brown middle class, here in its finery, was jubilant indeed. The women wore leaf-green and peach and crocus-yellow; their shoes and their hats matched their dresses; they chatted and drank champagne, they greeted and laughed. A spectacle for a Balzac, Francis thought.
“Have you noticed the necklace on Nicholas’s wife?” Marjorie whispered. “Someone said Da Cunha had it brought from France.”
Diamonds, turquoise, and gold flashed on Doris’s coffee-colored neck. She was a handsome woman. The climate agreed with these women and they bloomed; white skin shriveled to leather in this sun.
Marjorie led him to the terrace. “Come, they’ve saved us a table.”
“Who has?”
“Lionel and the Whittakers. I don’t know who else. Oh, yes, they’ve stuck Father Baker there, too. We always seem to get stuck with him, don’t we?” She grimaced. “He irritates me, he’s so benevolent.”
“Perhaps we irritate him.” Francis felt contradictory; he didn’t know why, but then he felt that way with Marjorie too often. It wasn’t decent of him. He must try to watch it.
Lionel looked up with a grin. “Great fun, eh? At least they haven’t burned the prison so far.”
Marjorie asked what he meant.
“Oh, you know, it seems to be the thing to do. All over the islands on Independence Day they burn the prisons and set the murderers free.”
Marjorie shuddered. “Burning again! I suppose I’ll always feel I’m living on borrowed time here. Now more than ever.”
“Things aren’t that bad,” Francis assured her.
“I’m not that optimistic.” Lionel shook his head gloomily. “I’m finally getting out, you know. I really am. The sooner the better.”
“Getting out!” Marjorie cried.
“Yes, I made up my mind this morning, when I saw that flag go up. The trouble is, a lot of others feel that way, too, so who’ll buy what I want to sell? Unless you will, Francis, since you want to stay. I’d make it easy, take back a big purchase money mortgage and let you have the whole lot for a price that might surprise you.”
“No,” Francis said, decisively. “I’ve no wish for large enterprises. What I’ve got is all I want.”
Marjorie was eager. “Where will you go, Lionel? You always said you’d never leave!”
“I know, but things change. I’m tired of the uncertainty. So I’m thinking of a nice place in Surrey near my sister.” He plunked his fist into his palm. “Damn it, though! I’ve got to sell fast before these people expropriate!”
Father Baker remonstrated. “Come now! Expropriate! Who, Mebane? He represents the rising middle class and no one else. They don’t expropriate. You know that as well as I do.”
Mrs. Whittaker’s cheeks were habitually sucked in, with an expression of disapproval. “Rising, Father?” she objected, unpursing her lips. “Risen, I would say. Look at them, with their jewelry and cars! That whole section where Mebane’s father lived has tripled in size. Have you seen some of the houses they’re putting up?”
“You bet I have,” Lionel said, “but middle class or not, you’re going to see a huge increase in taxes. They’ve made promises to labor that have to be kept even if it hurts themselves. Expensive promises.”
“I’m not too alarmed,” Francis said. “Peace and order, that’s all I ask for. As long as we have those, a few more taxes won’t devastate us. Land taxes have tripled anyway since I came here, and that’s been under British rule.”
“Exactly,” Father Baker said. “Even that government recognized necessity. The world is smaller now. Everybody knows what everybody else has got, and the ones who haven’t got anything expect something, for which you can hardly blame them. And that’s the crux of the matter.”
“But where’s the money to come from?” Mrs. Whittaker demanded. “With all respect to you, Father, if you were to strip us at this table and everyone like us besides of every cent we own, that wouldn’t mean more than a
few cents in the pockets of the poor.”
“The answer, of course, is to produce more. Mechanize,” Francis said promptly. “It takes us twenty man-days to produce a ton of sugar here. In Hawaii it takes about two and a half days. There’s your answer.”
“But the unions keep fighting these new machines,” Lionel objected.
“True, and that’s where education comes in,” Father Baker began, but was interrupted.
“This is too gay a party for such serious talk!” Nicholas Mebane, accompanied by an ancient white man in an equally ancient suit, drew up two chairs. “Time enough to face all that business on Monday morning! I’d like to introduce Mr. Anatole Da Cunha. Someone happened to mention your name, Francis, and he wanted to meet you. He knew your parents.”
Da Cunha took Francis’ hand. “You resemble your mother. I remember her very well. I knew her in Paris. She was a shy young girl, very lovely.”
“My father always talked about you. You introduced him to my mother,” Francis responded.
Nicholas said proudly, “Mr. Da Cunha made this trip especially to be here on Independence Day. It’s a great tribute, a great honor for us.”
“I’m almost eighty,” Da Cunha said, “and not very well. I wanted to see home one more time, and what better excuse than a day like this one?”
“Mr. Da Cunha is planning a gift for the new nation, a group of paintings that he will send if we will promise to start a small museum here.”
“And to encourage the arts,” Da Cunha added. “There’s too much talent going to waste everywhere for lack of encouragement.”
“I’ll leave that to my wife. It’ll be in good hands,” Nicholas said. “That is, if I’m elected.”
Laughter, flattering and polite, rippled around the table. Nicholas continued, “Naturally, she loves your island paintings the best. She tells me you always have at least one cabbage palm with its crown of thorns in every one. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s my signature.”
“How fascinating!” Marjorie cried. “We have a few of your works at home that Francis’ father gave us. I must look carefully for the cabbage palms tonight.” Her eyes widened with a new idea. “Would you like to spend a few days with us and see what we have of yours? We’d love it if you would!”
