Sixteen
I came bounding awake in the middle of the night from a dream so horrible I couldn’t remember any part of it. I was drenched with icy sweat and trembling badly.
The dream made me recall lying to Lisa about sending a letter. A letter would be a comfort. I couldn’t wait until morning. Leonard Sibelius, Esq., attorney at law.
The sealed letter inside was about the same, but the cover letter for the sealed letter varied. I asked him to read the sealed letter if he did not hear from me by the last day of May and then give it to some colleague wise in the ways of the SEC and the NASD.
After the lights were out again and the letter tucked away, I thought of how ironic it would be if Harry Broll ended up being defended by Lennie Sibelius on a charge of murder, first. Lennie would get him off. He would extract every dime Harry had ever made and put a lock on every dime Harry might make in the future, but he would get him off.
I felt myself drifting off and wondered what the hell there had been in that nightmare that had so thoroughly chilled my blood.
I was up early again on Friday and made another exciting run into town. I stopped at the main post office and sent the letter to Lennie by air, special delivery, registered mail. I drove through the one-way tunnel that leads from the Carenage area under Hospital Hill to the Esplanade and the main part of downtown. The Queen Elizabeth II was in, and it was her last visit of the season. She had spewed about two thousand passengers into the town and onto the beaches. The ones in town were milling around, arguing with each other about the currency and looking for the nonexistent duty-free shops and being constantly importuned to hire a nice taxi and see the sights. The big single-stack ship was anchored out with fast launches running back and forth like big white water beetles.
I ambled around and admired one out of every forty-three tourist ladies as being worth looking at and did some minor shopping of my own, then tested my skill and reflexes by driving back to the Spice Island Inn.
It was on that twenty-second day of April that I risked two lives instead of merely my own and drove Lisa out toward the Lance aux Epines area and had lunch at the Red Crab—burly sandwiches on long rolls, icy Tuborg beer, green salad—eaten outdoors at a white metal table by a green lawn in the shade of a graceful and gracious tree. After lunch we went exploring. We stopped and looked at the sailboats moored in Prickly Bay. I drove past large, lovely houses, and we got out of the Moke at Prickly Point and walked down the rocky slope and looked over the edge at the blue sea lifting and smashing at the rocks, working away on caves and stone sculpture, biting stubbornly and forever at the land. A curiously ugly species of black crab, big as teacups, foraged the dry sheer stone just above the reach of wave and tide, scrabbling in swift hundreds when we moved too near.
I studied my map and found, on the way back, a turn that led to a stretch of divided highway, probably the only bit of it on the little island. Weeds grew up through cracks. It was the grand entrance to the site of what had been the Grenada Expo of several years ago. I had heard that few visitors came. Many of the Expo buildings were never completed. The ones which had been finished lay under the midafternoon hum of sun’s heat, warping plywood shedding thin scabs of bright holiday paint. Some faded, unraveling remnants of festive banners moved in a small sea breeze. We saw a VIP lounge where the doorsill brush grew as high as the unused and corroded doorknobs. Steel rods sprouted from cement foundation slabs where buildings had never stood. We found a huge and elegant motel, totally empty, completely closed, yet with the lawns and gardens still maintained by the owners or the government.
I drove down crooked little dirt roads, creaking and swaying at two miles an hour over log-sized bumps and down into old rain gullies you could hide bodies in. She clung and laughed, and we made it down an angled slope to a pretty and private little stretch of beach where the almond trees and the coconuts and the sea grapes grew closer than usual to the high tide mark because of the offshore protection of some small islands.
I parked in the shade. We walked on the beach and found one of the heavy local skiffs pulled well up between the trees, with red and blue and green paint peeling off the old weathered wood. She hiked a haunch onto the gunwale, near the hand-whittled tholepin, braced herself there with one knee locked, the other leg a-swing. The breeze moved the leaves overhead, changing the patterns of sun and shade on her face and hair, on her yellow-and-white-checkered sun top, her skimpy little yellow skirt. The big lenses of her sunglasses reflected the seascape behind me. She sucked at her cigarette, looked solemn, then tilted her head, and smiled at me.
“I’m trying to figure out why it should be so much fun, just sort of churning around in the heat of the day,” she said.
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I guess it’s because it’s like a date. Like being a kid again in Trois Pistoles and going out on a date. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a long long time. It’s sort of sweet, somehow. Do you know what I mean, Gav?”
“Not exactly.”
“Ever since I left when I was fifteen, I’ve been with guys I’ve either just been in bed with or am just about to get into bed with or both. And if it was a guy I’d already had or one I was going to have, if we were alone in a funny, private place like this, we’d be knocking off a stand-up piece right here. I was thinking I don’t want you to try anything, because it would take away that feeling of being on a date. There’s something funny and scary about it, like being a virgin again. Or maybe it’s you that’s scary to me, about that girl sinking in the ocean. I dreamed about her. Jesus! You really did that? Really?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
She slid off the gunwale and snapped her cigarette into the surf line. She bent and picked up a coconut in the husk and threw it with a shotput motion. She was wiry, and she got surprising distance with it.
“So this is just a little bit of time when nothing happens and we just wait, Gavin.”
“For your cousin. After you make the phone call and send the cable.”
I leaned on the boat. Some palm fronds had been tossed into it. I lifted them and saw the battered metal fuel tank for the missing outboard motor, and I saw a spade with a short handle, sawed off where it had broken and decided it was a clumsy, improvised paddle. Clumsy but better than none at all. With all that weight and freeboard she would be a bitch to try to paddle against wind or tide.
“Head back?” I asked.
“Can we keep on being tourists, dear? Let’s look at that map again.”
We went back to the Moke, studied the map and decided to try the road out to Point Saline and look at the lighthouse. It was a road so wretched that by the time we were halfway I had decided only a jeeplike vehicle such as a Moke could make it. Then around the next hairpin corner I was shouldered into the shrubbery by three taxis coming back from the lighthouse, whamming and leaping over the ruts and broken paving, chock-full of tourists off the QE2.
My gratis map had little paragraphs on the back of it about local wonders, so just short of the lighthouse hill we stopped and dutifully got out to walk for a moment on the white sand beach of the Caribbean, then crossed the road and went down a path for about fifty yards to walk on the black sand beach of the Atlantic. Then I roared the Moke up the twenty-degree slope to the lighthouse.
The attendant was there, obviously eager to be a guide, obviously eager for bread. We climbed the several flights to the glass enclosed top. The treads were very narrow, the steps very steep. Lisa was directly ahead of me, and I was staring at the backs of her knees as we climbed.
It was a view so breathtakingly, impossibly fabulous that it became meaningless. It was like being inserted into a living postcard. It does no good to stand and gawk at something like that. The mind goes blank as soon as you see it. Tourists take pictures and take them home and find out they have postcards. If they put Helen in front of the view, they have a postcard with Helen in it. The only way a person could accommodate himself to a place
like that would be to live there until he ceased to see it and then slowly and at his own pace rediscover it for himself. When I found out what the attendant had to do to keep that fifty-mile light operating, I was happy to place some Biwi in his hand.
Lisa was quiet on the way back. When we were nearly back to the deserted Expo site, I glanced over at her and saw the tear running down her quiet cheek, coming out from under the sunglasses. I pulled over in a shady spot and said, “Hey!”
“Oh God, I don’t know, I don’t know. Leave me alone.”
“Sure.”
Glasses off. Dab eyes, snuffle, sigh, blow nose. Fix mouth. Put glasses back on. Light cigarette. Sigh again, huffing smoke plume at windshield.
“Everything is supposed to be so great,” she said. “Everything is some kind of a trick. Every time. Some kind of flaky trick, no matter what it is. Fifty-mile lighthouse! Good God! What the hell is a Fresnel lens?”
“A Frenchman invented it long ago. It focuses light into a beam.”
“Nothing is ever what you expect. That’s what got to me, Gav. A fifty-mile lighthouse and all there is up there is a mantle like off a Coleman lantern and not a hell of a lot bigger, and that poor scrawny black son of a bitch that has to get up every two hours all night long and run up there and pull on some goddamn weights like a big grandfather clock so his fucking light keeps turning around for another two hours. Fresnel! They fake everything in the world.”
“What kind of a big deal did They promise you, Lisa?”
She pulled the glasses off and looked at me with reptilian venom and coldness. “They told me, friend, to sing in the choir, love Jesus, do unto others, pray to God, live a Christian life, and then live in heaven in eternal bliss forevermore. They forgot to explain that the choirmaster would give me free private voice lessons when I was fourteen and by the third lesson he’d have his finger up me. They didn’t tell me that if I didn’t report him, I’d lose out on all that eternal bliss. They didn’t tell me that I wouldn’t want to report him, because then he wouldn’t have a chance to do it again. They didn’t explain about it being the temptation of the flesh and how finally you get to the place where you either make a true confession or you run away. They were running their big lighthouse and making it look wonderful, shining its light all over the world to save souls. But it was just a gas mantle and weights and chains and a weird lens. The real thing they teach you without even knowing it is: do unto others before they do it unto you.”
“My my my,” I said in a gentle wonder, and the tears came again. She got them under control at last.
“Will you laugh at me if I tell you what I really want to do with the money, Gav?”
“I don’t think I will.”
“I want to join an order. I want to give the money to the order. I want to take a vow of silence. I want to kneel on stone floors and pray until my knees bleed and I faint. I don’t ever want to be screwed again the rest of my life or be even touched by any man. I want to be a bride of Christ. Now laugh yourself sick.”
“I don’t hear anybody laughing.”
“You think I’d go over the wall in a week, don’t you?”
“Do you?”
“If I can find the guts to start, I’ll never leave. Never. You’re doing all this to me by making me feel the way I did a long long time ago. A lot of men ago. A lot of beds ago.”
“I don’t think people stick with projects they start because they think they should start them. That’s image making. People stick to their truest, deepest gratifications, whether it’s running banks, building temples out of beer-cans, stuffing dead birds, or telling dirty jokes. Somewhere early you get marked.”
“I got it early. Stations of the Cross. Easter. Christ is risen. At about twelve I felt so marvelously pure. Jesus loved me, that I know.”
“So you fight it all your life or go back to it. Either way, it is a deep involvement.”
She found her glasses on the floor, picked them up and said wearily, “You know so goddamn much, don’t you? You know something? You’ve got a big mouth. A great big mouth. Let’s get back on the beach where I belong.”
Seventeen
That random afternoon had turned Lisa Dissat off in a way she either couldn’t explain or didn’t care to explain. It amounted to the same thing. We became like neighbors in a new suburb, nodded and smiling when we met walking to or from the main hotel building or up and down the two-mile beach or back and forth from sun cot to cottage.
I saw some of the cruise ship men, crew and passengers, take their try at her now and then when she walked the long wide beach alone. I saw male guests at our hotel and the other beach hotels make their approach, each one no doubt selecting the overworked line he thought might be most productive. They would fall in step with her, last about a half dozen steps before turning away. I followed her a couple of times and kept count. Prettier young women in bikinis just as revealing walked the beach unaccosted. It was difficult to identify those characteristics which made her such a frequent target. It was something about the tilt and position of her head, in relation to the shape in which she held her mouth while walking. It was challenge, somehow. A contempt and an arrogance. Try me, you bastard. Try your luck and see how good you are. Do you think you’re man enough to cope, you bastard? There was both invitation and rejection in the roll of her hip. To describe everything that happened to tilt, curve, and musculature in one complete stride from start to finish and into the next stride would have taken a seventeen-syllable word. Provocative, daring, and ineradicably cheap. That was what Rupe had seen so quickly, wondering why I risked even a bruised knuckle to take ass like that away from Carl Brego. It was what I had seen when she sat with Brego for a drink and lunch.
It was a compulsive cheapness. I could not believe that it was deliberate in the sense of being something she had thought out. It had to be something she could not help doing, yet did not do out of some physical warp or out of any flaw in intelligence or awareness.
She had been uncommonly determined to give herself to me. It had been too early an effort. She wanted to be used, not loved. She wanted to be quickly tumbled and plundered. It was what she expected and what she wanted, and it was that need which exuded the musky, murky challenge.
I have a need to try to put people together out of the pieces they show me. The McGee Construct-A-Lady Kit. For those on a budget we suggest our cheaper, simpler Build-A-Broad Kit.
Once you Build-A-Broad, it pleases you more than it did before you took it apart and examined the components.
She had ripened young. They had drilled virtue into her so mercilessly that when she was seduced she believed herself corrupt and evil. Purity could not be regained. So she ran away and had spent a dozen years corrupting because she believed herself corrupt, debauching because she had been debauched, defiling because she was the virgin defiled.
When you cannot like yourself or any part of yourself in mind or body, then you cannot love anyone else at all. If you spend the rest of your life on bleeding knees, maybe Jesus will have the compassion to love you a little bit. She had been destroyed twelve years ago. It was taking her a little while to stop breathing.
I kept in close touch with her. She heard nothing. I killed time restlessly. So Saturday I got a clear connection and talked to Meyer. I told him to check out Paul Dissat in the SeaGate offices in West Palm. I had to spell the name in my own special kind of alphabet before he was sure of it. Detroit Indiana sugar sugar Alabama teacup.
“Dissat? Paul Dissat?”
“Yes. And be damned careful of him. Please. He bites.”
“Is Mary there? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine.”
After all, what else could I say? Time to talk later.
Later on Saturday I drove until I finally found the way to Yacht Services. I parked the Moke and went out on the long dock and found the Dulcinea. She was a custom motor sailer, broad of beam with sturdy, graceless lines. Rupe Darby and Artie kept her sparkling, and she look
ed competent.
Artie had gone over to the Carenage in the dinghy to do some shopping. Rupe asked me aboard and showed me the belowdecks spaces, the brute diesels, all the electronics. He was fretting about the delivery of some highly necessary engine item. It was supposed to come in by air. They couldn’t leave without it, and he didn’t want to be late meeting his owners at Dominica. He hoped to be out by Wednesday.
I asked about Carl Brego, and he told me that Brego’s rich lady had arrived with friends, and they had left early that morning for two weeks sailing the Grenadines.
A sunbrown and brawny woman in blue denim shorts and a dirty white T-shirt came along the dock and waved and smiled. She had a collie ruff of coppery gold hair, a handsome weathered face. Rupe invited her to come aboard and have some coffee with us. She did, and we sat in the shade of the tarp rigged forward. She was Captain Mickey Laneer, owner and operator of the Hell’s Belle, a big businesslike charter schooner I could see from where we sat. Mickey had a man’s handshake and a state of Maine accent.
“Trav, Mickey here has the best damned charter business in the islands, bar none.”
“Sure do,” she said, and they both chuckled and chuckled.
“Could be out on charter all the time,” Rupe said.
“But that would take all the fun out of it, too much of the same thing,” Mickey said.
“She charges high, and she picks and chooses and doesn’t have to advertise. Word of mouth,” Rupe said, and they kept chuckling.
“Five hundred bucks a day, US, and I don’t take the Belle out for less than five days, and I won’t carry less than three or more than five passengers. Price stays the same.”
“That’s pretty high,” I said.
A Tan and Sandy Silence Page 17
