“We are close,” calls Villa, a blanco, from the head of the column. He has been marching with them since Puerto Peruano. He walks with a boy on each side for support. Around him, six girls in white gowns hover about like earthbound fairies.
Casement’s heart is thudding in his ears, a sound that ravels and disentangles with and from the beating drums. Tizon raises his eyebrows in a way that signals resignation. “Sounds like O’Donnell has prepared a carnival for us,” he says.
Casement produces some strained cheer. “Could be fun.”
“Perhaps if it’s your first time,” says Tizon. “Say no to the ayahuasca. The Bora believe that the spirit world and real world are happening at the same time. After drinking ayahuasca, you will too. A little coca is all right, and the masato, but also consider moderation. The headache after masato is a revelation.”
Exhausted from the journey, troubled by his weak eyes, Casement fairly stumbles into the clearing at Entre Rios. The drumming is loud here and Bora Indians are pouring in from the edges of the jungle, naked but for feathers in their ears, or paint along their legs. One has a white feathery thing pasted in his hair—it looks like frayed cattail punks. A gourd with fresh water is thrust into his hands. He sees Tizon take a mouthful from his, and then pour some water into his hand, with which he washes his face. Tizon looks willfully bored, but Casement sees his own nervous wonder reflected in Fox’s face, and in Seymour’s. Gielgud and Barnes must be farther back in the column.
The drumming grows louder and now there are women singing too, chanting, the repetition strangely soothing. Now a group of Bora men are crawling in his direction. They writhe and slide over each other, rolling across the dirt, washing themselves with dust as they draw closer. Their mouths are foamed with saliva, as if they’re rabid. He looks quickly over at Tizon, who has maintained his droll expression. And then there is a blanco on a small wiry pony, riding up behind the Indians. He jumps from the pony and sweeps his arms wide, calling out in Bora. The response reverberates from all corners of the clearing. A number of young Indians, their hands waving through the air before them, gather around this man. He wades through the writhing Indians, who roll out of his way, addressing Casement and the others. It’s in Bora, but has to be a greeting.
“Good afternoon,” says Casement, which—although it is afternoon and is the only available greeting—seems ridiculous.
“Welcome to my kingdom,” the man responds, which is both ridiculous and appropriate. This is Andres O’Donnell, the chief operator of Entre Rios.
O’Donnell’s appearance does not betray much in the way of his Irish roots. He is of a slightly pinker cast than most other blancos, but only O’Donnell’s grandfather was Irish and he the sort of Irishman that leaves and settles and multiplies in another land, in his case, Spain. O’Donnell, having inherited his grandfather’s wandering spirit, if little else, had left home at seventeen, traveled here and there and, eventually, here. He is fluent in Bora and Huitoto and runs one of the most productive camps in the entire operation of the Peruvian Amazon Company.
“Pound for pound, give me a Bora over any other worker,” he says. He gestures for Casement to sit beside him on a long bench. Dinner is being brought in: roasted pork and some dish with chilies that he’d first mistaken for kernels of corn. “I hope you’re not too tired,” O’Donnell adds. “We’re likely to be up all night.”
The masato smells like sour milk and beer, and tastes as if that’s what it is, although that particular combination is not one Casement has ever sampled. He drinks a light tea of coca leaves as well, declining the preferred technique of the Indians, which involves sticking the tip of a five-foot pipe up your nose and having your friend blow in a powder from the other end. Casement is tired and his eyes are burning, presenting a blur of visions. Perhaps it has been unwise to drink the masato, or maybe his coca tea hides another stimulant. Now they have moved (when did they move?) from the long table and are seated around the perimeter of a circular hut. There is a massive drum made from a hollowed log suspended from the ceiling and a young man with a long spike through his nose is banging at it with two leather-covered beaters. The sound hits his ears like the pounding of a great heart. As the dancers enter, Casement feels a flutter in his chest, as if he has captured a bird in the cage of his ribs, and then this fluttering thing—his soul—escapes to hover up at the roof’s high point, gathered together with the souls of all the Indians. He must have asked a question because O’Donnell is telling him that 500 Bora will show up for this dance, that they take the coca, which is why they are able to carry such heavy loads over great distances, that they eat each other but not white men because they find blancos disgusting and could not imagine ingesting them. O’Donnell’s face is backlit by blue smoke and all the words are distorted by the aphasia-inducing liquid air. He feels that he is collapsing backward, but then he is outside and a girl has him by the hand and is leading him through the doorway of a hut.
He awakes with a poultice over his face, stringy dampened bark. He is lying on a comfortable mat, conscious of his different body parts, fingers, feet, aware of their mass yet knowing that he is not fully that, not fully the body he occupies. He feels his tongue lying heavy and thick in his mouth. There is someone in the room with him, breathing lightly, shifting on nervous feet. He peels the poultice from his eyes and sees, through the safety of his own mosquito net, an angelic girl who has her enormous nut-colored eyes trained on him. She raises her hands to the corners of her eyes and he mimics the gesture. His eyes are free of pain and feel cool. He can see clearly.
“Everything is here,” O’Donnell informs him over a breakfast of fried yucca and fish. “The cure for every illness, a medicine for every ailment.” The angelic girl has her little hands resting on O’Donnell’s shoulder and is speaking quickly in his ear, nodding at Casement with earnest concern. “She says that she had your translator tell you that she was there to do anything you wanted and you said you didn’t want anything from her, unless she could fix your eyes. So she did.”
Casement remembers none of the exchange. “She is speaking the truth and please thank her on behalf of my eyes.”
O’Donnell responds with a gesture, harsh, dismissing the girl.
The gentle Boras with their bright skin and warm eyes, straight and strong, are perhaps the most beautiful of God’s creatures. Were Ward here, he would have endless inspiration. He would rejoice to model these graceful beings in bronze. And what company he would make. Ward could hunt jaguar through the jungle, palaver with the witch doctors, collect new spears, although the weapons here are admittedly less artistically wrought than their African counterparts.
When Casement clears his mind to consider, he sees Ward sitting in a chair with a pipe, reading a newspaper, chatting with Sarita, who is in her element at the drawing table with stacks of correspondence and reading glasses. How hard it is to conjure that golden man from the Boma days, his bronzed skin and tensed posture, his alertness as if every sense functioned at its acme.
PART THREE
I
Paris
May 1911
Casement has escaped to the bracing chill of the balcony. Having reached the advanced age of forty-seven and still a bachelor, he has become the prey of a set of women who too have remained beyond the reach of marriage, the sort of women whose fantasies are mired in the mundane, who dream about clean collars and tidy teas and losing their birth name. He reaches into his pocket and produces a cigar—gift of Ward—but, patting himself down, realizes with grim certainty that he has left his matches in his overcoat.
“There you are,” says Ward, shutting the door behind him.
“How did you find me?” says Casement.
“The miracle of glass.” Ward gestures to the door that divides—in its eight panes—the finery of the guests, the gilding of the room, the falseness of the chandelier lighting. “Would you care for me to light that for you?”
Casement looks at his cigar and nods.
“You shouldn’t be so dismissive of her, Roddie.”
“Of who?”
“You know who. You could save a great many Indians, several Congolese, and even yourself if you married her. And she wouldn’t want much from you—just a pleasant face over the rim of her teacup.”
“A man’s bathrobe hanging on the peg?”
“Or something hanging on yours.” Ward winks.
It is—quite literally—beyond imagining. The sound of a glass shattering on tile reaches from inside, then laughter. Casement glances over his shoulder, but there’s nothing much to see. “I’m too set in my ways to ever get married. I think you’ve known that for a long time.” Which is true. Casement can’t remember Ward ever asking him about why he’d remained a bachelor and, although he can’t be sure, Casement thinks this stems from Ward’s conflictedness about the domesticity of his life, although he wouldn’t sacrifice the family, nor security, nor Sarita, whom he complains about, but whom he can’t bear to be separated from—even by a wall—if it can be helped. Casement’s freedom acts as an alternate existence for Ward. There’s Ward in the Putumayo, working for the Foreign Office. There’s Ward being knighted. There’s Ward looking for adventure at the end of the evening rather than piling into the carriage with the wife and children. “When is this party of yours going to be over? I look like a giraffe in this monkey suit.”
“Pick one animal, Casement. And it’s not my party. It’s for Dimples—who’s getting married soon—and for Cricket, who isn’t. And it’s for Sarita, who didn’t want to have a party, but when the girls wouldn’t stop nagging, begged me to get it over with as soon as possible.” Ward finds his own cigar and lights it. He’s looking down at the street with some concentration, although the one slow passing taxi and its sad hoofbeats and rattling wheels doesn’t justify his attention.
“You’re awfully quiet,” says Casement.
“I want to ask how you are but am concerned that I’ll find out all about those two Indians that you brought to London and how much they like pudding, and then something about Cesar Arana, and then something about Home Rule and Ulster. And all I really want to know is how you’re doing.”
“That is how I’m doing.”
“No, Casement, that is how the world is doing.”
“We’re even,” says Casement. “You talk endlessly about Germany.”
“When Germany invades, my house is in the direct path. France could, yet again, be overrun by Huns.”
“It could be worse,” says Casement.
“How?” Ward has his elbows leaned on the balcony and, as he turns, Casement can see his jacket buttons tugged to capacity across his belly.
“The Germans are an enlightened people.”
“Don’t say that too loud around here. Someone will string you up.” Ward shakes his head. “I don’t think they were ‘enlightening’ Alsace Lorraine.”
“True, but the Germans weren’t running concentration camps in the Orange Free State.”
“And they lost. Look, I’m not in favor of all that—going after the women and children—but sometimes you need to do what it takes.”
“What it takes?” Casement, despite the implied challenge in his question, actually believes this.
“That’s not controversial, Casement. War is never pretty. And someone is always going to disagree with your methods. In general, the English are honorable.”
“I remember a young man in the Congo who told me that he hated England and all things English. And that same man is now living in France.”
“Good enough,” says Ward, and he claps a hand on Casement’s shoulder. “The French, why not? But the Germans? Never!”
Close on four, the party finally breaks up. Taxis are lined along the curb and slowly they turn to circuit the still streets where the only sounds are grinding wheels and conversation muted by lateness or leavened by Champagne. Cricket, wobbly on her feet, shuffles up to Casement and leans on him, standing as straight as she can manage.
“Everything all right?” asks Casement.
“No,” she says. “Percy Granger is marrying Celia Louise Hobson.”
“Do you like him?”
“I don’t feel anything about him at all, but I really loathe Celia.”
The Ward carriage pulls up and Sarita, fussing with the boys, appears on the sidewalk. She’s a commanding presence in her pale blue gown—lean, formidable. Charlie looks like a fireplug in his suit. He doesn’t seem to have a neck, which must help him with his boxing. Apparently, he’s pummeled all of Eton into submission. According to Ward, Charlie is being groomed to take over the Sanford Empire. Ward is excited for that, can’t wait for his boy to be done with his education, and is already thinking of a series of sculptures to occupy the still-as-yet-occupied time. Dimples stands, melancholy and sweet, lit by the streetlight. She looks as if she might begin singing some sentimental air. Ward is concerned at her innocence—nervous at the upcoming nuptials—although Cricket is of the opinion that Dimples knows a lot more than she lets on, that her reserve actually springs from her need to keep secrets.
“You were supposed to go home with Roddie at midnight,” Sarita is saying to Herbie. “And why do you smell like cigarettes?”
“Everyone’s smoking in there. It’s just on my clothes.”
Charlie is the first into the carriage, and then Casement gives Cricket a steadying arm, saves her from pitching backward. He helps Dimples in next, and then Herbie, who presents his hand for assistance, batting eyelids. The boy does smell like cigarettes. Sarita is next. Ward hops up front with the driver.
“Herbert, you don’t have to sit up there,” says Sarita, calling out.
“I need the fresh air,” says Ward.
“Can Cricket have some fresh air too?” shouts Herbie. “I’m sitting next to her and she doesn’t look very well.”
Casement, laughing, closes the carriage door.
“Roddie, there’s plenty of room in here, although I don’t think Herbie’s made it seem very attractive,” Sarita says.
“I would rather walk,” says Casement. “It’s a lovely clear night. It will do wonders for my head.”
Paris is a dead city. Truth be told, Casement doesn’t much like France beyond the Wards. France is a nation in decline. Deaths outnumber births, and exports? Well. What does France really do? If you’re going to look for a winner, look to Germany, who doesn’t need any Entente Cordiale to make her feel safe. There’s your model. Industry. Organization. Mobility among the classes. Germany, France—England too—could benefit from a bit of the Kaiser’s clear thinking. Germany is a good model for Ireland, although Casement does harbor concerns that Ireland’s future leaders might not see it that way. But once thrown off, the English yoke will need to be replaced with something.
Casement takes the turn off the wide boulevard, tracking back from the Place de l’Opéra, heading west. The cafés will be closed at this hour, but there will be people milling around. There’s always someone looking. If he would ever speak to anyone on the subject, he’d be an amazing source of advice. In Iquitos and Para, try the fountain. In Montevideo and Bridgetown, try the docks. In London, the bath is the best place because even if no one is interested you can always get a look. And a bath. And in Paris, well, the moral laxity of the French is in your favor. In a café, a perfectly respectable lady will be drinking tea with her sister while on the balcony, highly rouged girls sport with businessmen, and alert boys scan for clientele. Most people would be truly astounded at how many inverts there are. And who they are. He thinks back to Montevideo—a successful dock crawl—and the Norwegian sailor who approached him. That was a burly blond man with hot blood, not someone that Casement would have thought to go after without encouragement.
And then there’s Millar back home, who (could it really be four year
s ago?) made it clear that he was interested in whatever “Sir Roger” was up for, even though he didn’t present—and still didn’t—as being remotely musical. Millar. At seventeen, he was a boy of such pent-up passion that probably anything would have ignited him: Casement, a postcard, a loaf of bread. He said he’d admired Sir Roger for years. Now he is a bank clerk, still living with his mother. And this Mrs. Gordon, so smitten with Sir Roger’s friendship, even has a room made up for Casement—waiting—in her lovely house at Myrtlefield Park.
Maybe he should head back to the Wards’ townhouse. He doubts that Millar is prowling the streets of Belfast, but this is part of the problem. Casement is sadly anticipating that day when Millar—like a Greek—says he’s moving on, done with his apprenticeship, an eromenos to Casement’s erastes.
There’s a little life at the end of the street, a group of three young men collected beneath a weak wash of light pouring from the streetlamp. Casement’s fancy clothes in this particular neighborhood will communicate all that needs to be said. There’s a smile for him, and then another young man turns, moving his cap back from his forehead. There will be steps in his direction as he finds his way along the footpath. There will be a retreat from the light. He feels his adrenaline pick up and maybe, right now, Paris is not so bad after all.
Casement stands stoically by the drawing-room window. How are they supposed to talk about anything else? Ward takes a gulp of tea and sets the cup rattling hard into the saucer.
“Please don’t fuss,” says Casement. “It looks worse than it is.”
“You know that’s not true,” says Ward. “Black eyes take a day to really display their finery. I don’t know why you don’t want to report it.” Casement’s eye is more red than black, but threatening to bloom into something truly impressive.
“It’s a waste of time,” says Casement. “I’m leaving for London tomorrow and who knows when we’ll get together again? I don’t want to spend my last day in France sitting with detectives. And I didn’t get a good look at him. He was tall and dark and wearing a cap. That could be anyone.” Casement is looking out at the cold sunlit morning. He’s turned in such a way that Ward can no longer see the eye, as if he could hide it. Or the importance of it.
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