“Things are changing,” says the man. “You will see.” And he steps into the trees.
Casement, hands on Mbatchi’s shoulders, watches him leave. Casement hears the clank of rifles. There are others with him, maybe a hunting party? “Mbatchi,” he says, turning the boy to face him, “are you all right?” But there are few elephants left here, or are they hunting for boys? “Did he hurt you?” Why would they be hunting for boys? Casement takes Mbatchi’s right hand and looks at it, checking the fingers, the pale nails, and then the other hand. Why does he do this? “You are all right now.” He smoothes his palm over the boy’s head and falls onto his knees, looking into Mbatchi’s face. Mbatchi, who has been breathing hard, looking down at the ground, slowly raises his eyes. Casement pulls him into an embrace. What if he had no dogs? “I will keep you safe.” What if he had been a moment too late? “You are all right. You are all right.” And Mbatchi patiently waits through this as Casement finds his breath and calms his heart, until the boy finally responds. “Yes. Everything is good now. Yes. Mayala Swami, you can let me go.”
Casement whistles for the dogs, who have not gone far. As the porters file back, one, a tall and muscled Bangala, fixes him with a look and says, “It is the rubber vine.” Casement does not know what he means, but he trusts that look, and that all mystery will soon be explained.
“There are standards of behavior,” says Casement, struggling to keep a civil tone of voice. Frissyn, who runs the station at Boma, is sitting behind his desk, where he is always sitting. Casement can’t remember if he’s ever seen him somewhere else—or standing. For all he knows, Frissyn could have no legs at all.
“Casement,” says Frissyn, “these standards are low, as you know, and he didn’t hurt the boy. Or is this another boy?”
“This is the one,” says Casement. “He meant to kidnap him.”
Mbatchi stands serenely by Casement’s side. He says something to Casement. And Casement shakes his head dismissively—this is not the right time.
“What did the boy say?” Frissyn asks.
“It isn’t important.”
Which Mbatchi understands and gives Casement a look that communicates the contrary.
“He wanted to know,” says Casement, “if there is ice.”
“Here?” says the agent, incredulously.
Casement takes a can of sweetened milk from a crate stacked with other crates beside the agent’s desk. “Put this on my account,” he says. He tosses it to Mbatchi, whose glorious smile communicates that this consolation is prize enough.
“Frissyn,” says Casement, “these men who have been showing up here need to be disciplined. There needs to be—”
“Disciplined? Most of them should have been drowned at birth. Who would come here if they could make their money somewhere else, except for you and the missionaries?”
Casement thinks this over—not for the first time—as he watches Mbatchi stabbing a hole in the top of the can with his pocket knife and then, after a proud look at Casement, stabbing a second hole to make the milk pour better.
“What about that Korseniewski?” says Frissyn. He’s rifling through his drawer for the correct form to acknowledge Casement’s delivery. “Someone told me he was a Polish nobleman. But what a strange duck! Did you meet him? How does someone like that end up here, unless they have something to hide?” He raises his eyes to Casement. “Ah.”
“Ah, what?” says Casement.
“That look. Maybe you too have secrets.”
“As do you.” Casement smiles.
II
England
November 1890
There are several reasons why Sarita shouldn’t be running. The first is that women shouldn’t run. The second is that in her condition, even walking is supposed to be done with care, but these concerns are certainly trumped by the arrival of the morning paper, which must be intercepted before Herbert sees it. None of her shoes fit properly because of the swelling. Her feet thump on the thick rug and, oh, how quickly she loses her breath.
Margaret is dusting around the foot of the stairs—something that she should have finished with an hour ago—but the girl’s looking a little pale and maybe she isn’t well. The windows look sugar-glazed as the rain sheets against them and the artificial light, despite the glory of the French gasolier—a stack of lit orbs skirted under with crystal shards—still struggles against the daylight gloom. The door opens with a rush of damp air and the hard sound of rain—drops thudding on the stoop. There is Valentine taking the newspaper from the delivery boy, who makes his appearance as a pale hand emerging from a tent of oilcloth. Normally, the boy comes to the back door, but with the coal delivery—late—and the rain, he knows that—at this house, at any rate—prompt delivery of the paper trumps protocol. Valentine closes the door against the elements and begins to unfold the paper.
“Valentine,” she says, “I’ll take that.”
“Miss Sanford,” he protests, “the ink will transfer.”
“It’s Mrs. Ward,” says Sarita, “and I’ll take the paper now.”
“Very well, Mrs. Ward.”
He’s unhappy. Should she expect otherwise? Servants are paid to have no sense of proportion—to devote their lives to making the silver sparkle, to take pride in their silent footsteps and invisibility, to make the appearance of hot food, pressed clothing, dust-free bannisters, and whatnot seem miraculous—to have one’s goal be the affect of self-annihilation.
“I only need a minute, Valentine,” she says, “I’m just checking the headlines.”
Right. PARNELL MAKES NO DEFENSE—A SENSATIONAL OUTCOME OF THE O’SHEA DIVORCE SUIT. Poor Mr. Parnell, and poor Kitty O’Shea. She scans along—a lot of legal language that all of London is racing through—to get to the good bits: In the Spring of 1883 Mrs. O’Shea took a house in Brighton. Capt. O’Shea would be away from home for days at a time, and when he was not there Parnell was. On these occasions Parnell called himself Charles Stewart. Once, while he and Mrs. O’Shea were in the drawing room with the door locked, Capt. O’Shea rang the front door bell. Parnell escaped through a rear window by a balcony and rope fire escape and, walking around to the front door, rang and asked to see Capt. O’Shea, making it appear that he had just arrived. That’s ridiculous. And is it really news? She wonders what Casement will make of this. He’s an ardent supporter of Parnell, and sees him, as most people do, as the future of an Irish republic. So now it seems the Free State is going to founder on snippets of gossip and that is too bad, because, as an American who believes in revolution, she supports the Irish Free State. Although her father doesn’t—bad for business—and Herbert doesn’t, because he thinks that Englishness is a religion and as such is maintained by unquestioning faith: If something is against the Crown, how could he possibly support it? Sarita can’t argue with anything as ridiculous as that so she doesn’t. Casement, apparently finding any bad blood between him and Herbert unbearable, avoids that conversation.
So that’s it for Parnell—nothing new. But here is Barings Bank—Lord Revelstoke’s scandal, and therefore her father’s—cozily jammed under the headline, right there on the front page. The Bank of England has agreed to bale out Barings Bank, so now the Rothschilds are involved, and no doubt her father’s double-dealing in the back rooms of Argentinean brothels—in truth clubs, but people will still say brothels—will be much discussed. So thank you, Mr. Parnell, for your lack of judgment, and some gratitude to Revelstoke for the same, because it has relegated Herbert’s scandal to somewhere in the body of the paper. The only thing better would be more Whitechapel murders—no one would care about the Rear Guard at all—but those gruesome killings happened two years ago.
“Right,” she says out loud, though things are so undeniably wrong. Valentine waits on Sarita, stilled to a statue, in his affected patience. She opens to the second page, and there it is, the transcript of Stanley’s lecture in New Y
ork: I cannot understand why Barttelot would have gone on day after day crushing to death the helpless, docile humanity placed in his charge when the smallest reflection would have impressed him with the fact that he could not have marched or done anything in Africa without those men . . . Now Stanley is a humanitarian? . . . My criticism of the three surviving officers was provoked by the fact that they were three against one . . . It would seem that Stanley is holding Herbert, Jameson, and Bonny responsible for Barttelot’s behavior, that they did not throw over the officer in charge. Wouldn’t that have been mutiny? Or is mutiny only for ships? Sarita hears Herbert’s boots on the upstairs landing and thrusts the paper at Valentine. “Time to iron the paper,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am,” says Valentine, but he does not move. He distracts himself with neatly folding already neat folds. Valentine is playing for time. He wants Herbert to see him with the paper and is counting on a proud awkwardness on Sarita’s part.
“Move, Valentine.” She catches his eye. “These problems of conduct that currently only the two of us know about can soon become topics of frank discussion.” Valentine is startled. His look says, Surely you do not mean to mention the incident with Brock-Innes, and Sarita’s expression responds, What else is there?
She watches Valentine taking the exit for the steps to the kitchen. He shuts the door neatly behind him. And then there’s Herbert at the head of the stairs, handsome in his tweed, smoothing his mustaches, and smiling at her. “I was looking for you to say goodbye, and here you are, conveniently at the door.”
“Am I so thoughtful?”
“Other women in your condition would be in bed.”
“Oh Herbert, the doctor thinks a little movement does good, and I still have two months left. I can’t imagine spending all that time lying down.” Margaret, who is finishing up the dusting of the outer railing, looks scandalized to witness such intimate talk. These English servants are absolutely the worst—even more proper than their employers. Herbert, who thinks he’s utterly English, has no real idea of what being English entails.
“Anything in the paper?” he asks.
“Poor Mister Parnell is not testifying in the O’Shea divorce, which is tantamount to admitting guilt—so there goes Casement’s Ireland.”
“Roddie shouldn’t be such a radical.”
“But of course he is. He’s one of the least conventional people I’ve ever met,” she considers. “You’re another.”
“But not a radical. What else is happening in the world?”
“Didn’t get a good look before Valentine whisked it away to be ironed.”
“Rather wish they’d leave poor Kitty O’Shea alone,” says Herbert. Sarita sights Margaret rolling her eyes heavenward. “This appetite for scandal is just not, well, acceptable.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Do save the paper for me, dear,” says Herbert. “Last few days, your father’s run off with it, and that’s been inconvenient.”
Sarita draws forth an innocent, inquiring smile. “Constitutional?”
“In this weather? I’m meeting Hatton. I had a note from him with the evening post and he said it was important. I hope it’s not more of that Stanley—”
“Margaret,” says Sarita, “fetch an umbrella from the upstairs closet. I think this one’s developing a tear.” Sarita’s hand plays at the handle of the maligned umbrella, stowed beside the door in the elephant-foot umbrella stand. Margaret heads up the stairs. She knows she’s being sent away rather sent to fetch, but it ultimately does not matter.
“Stanley’s been mudslinging,” says Sarita in a whisper. “I’m sure that’s why Hatton wants to speak to you. He’s even slandering Barttelot and Jameson and Troup, who are dead and can’t defend themselves. He didn’t mention you by name but did refer to the surviving members of the Rear Guard. Rumor has it that Barttelot’s family is going to file a slander suit against Stanley, so you shouldn’t do anything right now. Let Barttelot’s family get into it. That will keep you out of the paper, or at least make you less interesting.”
“You’ve been keeping things from me,” says Herbert.
Sarita knows an apology is expected, but Herbert prefers not to know certain things. “Your book is coming out. I didn’t want you to be upset.”
Herbert’s eyes transcribe a thoughtful arc. “Anything else I should know?”
It’s a sincere rather than sarcastic inquiry. But there is Margaret at the top of the stairs with the umbrella. “Barings Bank has defaulted and Lord Revelstoke is bankrupted,” Sarita whispers as Margaret is making her descent. Sarita and Herbert share a look as he processes the information and she processes him.
“The umbrella, sir,” says Margaret. Herbert takes it.
Sarita, smiling brightly, announces, “and so are we.”
He nods at his wife and—as Margaret has opened the door for him—steps into the chilly damp air, taking care to open this upstairs umbrella before he enters that morning’s deluge. Only once outside the door does Ward understand that and so are we refers to the state of the Sanford finances and—as he has no finances of his own—his. Can they really have no money? As he stands on the street before the elegant façade of 6 Carleton Terrace—a property Sanford has gutted to brickwork, plastered to a blank brilliance, and filled with the flawlessly new, this seems inconceivable, but it must be true. And he also knows he must pick up a newspaper before he sees Hatton in order to know who he is today: wrapped in scandal, freshly poor.
Ward remembers the weight of Hatton’s letter in his hand, how he’d approached Sarita as she sat, bundled in a blanket, on the deck of the Saale. How could it be that last November, he was still a single man with his life before him—a blank book with no limitations, something that he could sketch his future upon with only the bounds of his imagination to pose limits? And now, he is an unremarkable, penniless grunt with a wife to shelter and a child on the way and all the demands of the ordinary rising up like ghouls. But he’s not penniless. He does have the book advance for Five Years With the Congo Cannibals, and a book tour. Could he go back to Africa and find work, send the money home? There was barely enough money in that even for a single man and the thought of supporting Sarita and whoever is due to join the family this January on a company man’s salary seems impossible. How much does that even cost?
What does a lady need? And this child-on-the-way, what does it need?
Sarita has shown him her bare belly, coursed over with veins, stretched like a bladder, and he’s watched the little leviathan swimming beneath the surface, seen the weight shift from right to left, put his hand on some roundish protrusion as Sarita—always so calm about this stuff, no matter how bizarre—wonders if he’s palming the head or perhaps some buttocks. He wonders if all women are so willing to show themselves like this and he doubts it. He wonders if they could go back to Sark and rent that cottage again. Or just go back to Sark. Or just go back.
Later, that evening, as Sarita passes her father’s study on the way to bed, she hears—startlingly—whistling. She pauses in the hallway, her hands cradling the hard bulk of her belly, listening to the puffing music of it and raps softly on the door. The whistling stops abruptly. She raps again.
“Yes?” her father calls out.
Sarita swings open the door and steps inside. She smiles at him, an eyebrow raised. “Hello, Father. What are you keeping from me?”
“From you? Whatever do you mean? Barings Bank has been bailed out by the Rothschilds. Lord Revelstoke has been dismissed. And we are . . .”
“. . . I know,” says Sarita, wrinkling her nose, “ruined.”
Her father nods.
“And I know we’re selling this house, which I always thought was a little too much anyway.”
Her father nods.
“And most of the servants are being released from service.”
Her father nods.
“And you’re auctioning off a significant portion of your collection.”
Her father nods.
“But that doesn’t explain why you were whistling.”
“A tune stuck inside my head,” he responds.
Sarita sinks into the wingchair and stretches her legs in front of her. Her father has the lamp flame set high and the room is washed in sepia light. She studies her father, the fierce eyes burning a cold blue, the Roman nose, the hard set of his jaw, his tufting hair, and the dome of his head, which, despite what people have to say about Sargent’s tendency to mottle the skin in an unbelievable way, looks very Sargentesque—a composite of blue and red and yellow and white shining light. Some of this is the way the light splashes from the candle—Father can’t think without a sentimental candle, this man of sentimental habits: When he shaves (he won’t let Valentine near him with a blade), he has to put a cigarette into his mouth and shave around that, even though he hasn’t smoked cigarettes since Argentina. This father, the son of a Methodist minister, raised in the most austere of New Jersey households, took off for Cuba at sixteen years of age, was quickly fluent in Spanish, and in turning his own sinewy intellect to the creation of wealth. He is everything modern—a polyglot, a man who sees money not in stacks of gold but as currents of water flowing between great continental powers, a father who believes that the consignment of good female minds to child-rearing and husband-pampering is a waste of resources . . . but his sentimental candle makes him look more of the past—of Dickens—than of this age washed in the pulsing light of gasoliers. He’s holding a pencil, suspended, by her gaze, in time. He has a crafty look, like an eagle. “Father,” she says, tenting her fingers, her hands rested on the dome of her belly. “Why do I get the feeling that all these shameful sales and woeful dismissals are a ruse?”
“A ruse?”
Her father’s desk is piled up with papers, all tidy. The inbox has a healthy representation of telegrams and she knows he empties that every couple of days. In the fireplace, the last of a stack of papers burns poorly. “This is not the study of a man who has been killed by poor returns in Argentina. I am looking at a man who has played some sort of trick and will, at one point, benefit from all of this financial disaster.”
Valiant Gentlemen Page 18
