Arrowsmith pulled into the driveway, parking his Land Rover on the grass by the steps that led up to the entrance of the Villa. It was situated in Baie-Mahault not far from the local sporting club. Casis, a Creole dog, arrived at full speed to welcome him carrying a coconut in its mouth.
There was nobody in sight, just the sound of music coming from inside of the house. He picked up the coconut and launched it across the garden towards the umbrella palms and araucaria, then paused for a moment watching Casis tear after it into the vegetation.
He walked up the steps into the cool shade and found Courtauld on the first floor terrace, he was lying in a hammock suspended from the timber columns, dozing peacefully to a George Pludermacher’s interpretation of a Mozart piano sonata that echoed through the huge salon.
On a rattan side table was a tray with glasses, an ice bucket and a bottle of home made punch. Courtauld’s left arm hung limply from the hammock above an empty glass that stood on the floor, he snored, his mouth hung open and his glasses lay lopsided on his brow. The Siamese cat that lay under the hammock barely lifted its head. It was a pity to wake him.
Arrowsmith sat down, took a glass and poured himself a drink that he sipped looking out at the volcano, La Soufrière, in the distance. It had been a heavy humid afternoon and it looked as though a storm was brewing up, a strong breeze rustled the leaves of the banana trees in the garden just below the terrace. He dropped a fistful of ice cubes into the glass admiring the tropical garden, Mangoes surrounded by Bougainvillaea, Hibiscus and yellow Alamanda.
He turned back to Courtauld who snorted as a fly buzzed his face. He was unshaven, wearing a well worn dishevelled Cerruti tee-shirt. His hobby was distilling fiery home made rums, hard alcohol barely disguised with the flavour of pineapple, bananas or mango, and he did not stop simply at the bottling but was well into the art of tasting the stuff.
Arrowsmith waited, there was no hurry, in any case there was not much to be done that evening, whatever they decided it would have to wait until the next morning.
Heavy drops of rain started to fall and lightening flashed. Casis stretched himself on the floor of the terrace as he sensed that there would be no more fun in the garden that evening and as night fell rain started to pour down rustling the leaves of the trees.
Courtauld opened his eyes and tried to focus them, trying to recognise Arrowsmith and figure out where he was and what time it was.
“Salut,” he said in a soft low voice. He rubbed his eyes taking in the situation.
“Tony....”
“Salut Guy, enjoyed your little nap?”
“What time is it?”
Arrowsmith looked at his watch.
“Nearly seven.”
“Time for the local news!”
Courtauld was suddenly up and in a deft movement headed barefoot into the salon towards a low table, picked up the TV remote control and pointed it at the television.
“Something special?” asked Arrowsmith.
“Wait and see!”
Arrowsmith was intrigued, he was not expecting anything unusual.
The screen lit up and he saw the news reader who was announcing new tariff arrangements for the protection of banana imports into the European Community from the Caribbean, a never ending bone of contention with the USA.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, what’s new?” said Arrowsmith with impatience.
Courtauld laughed.
“Wait!”
The announcer went on with a stern face to another news item, the impending civil service strike backed by an interview with a union representative.
Then the announcer’s face relaxed and smiled as he changed the subject.
“And now some good news for the island’s tourist industry.”
The screen flashed to a view of waving palms and a sandy beach, where a news reporter with a microphone in his hand stood facing Jean-Louis Brel.
“Hey that’s Brel!” exclaimed Arrowsmith with surprise.
“Today at Gosier a new hotel complex has been given the go-ahead by the local authorities and Monsieur Brel of the international hotel group, Prestige, has arrived for meetings with the local promoters to inaugurate the project,” announced the TV news anchorman.
Brel beamed as the reporter swung the microphone to him.
“I thought you’d like that!” said Courtauld.
“Congratulations!”
“Not so quick, we still have a fly in the ointment, we still don’t have the complete site.”
“Oh!”
“I don’t think it’s a very great problem, a local hanging out for a better price, we’ll work something out for him or the black bastard will have an unexpected trip on the Marie Galante…one way!” he said roaring with laughter.
Chapter 34
A Place in the Sun
Offshore Islands Page 33
