"He does what?" Lionel said to Paperman. "Oh! Fantastic! 'Works two shifts.' How about that? Dan is going to go out of his mind about all this, Norman. Dan is going to get right up on the ceiling and stay there." He explained that the producer had sent him down for just one day to scout the Gull Reef Club; and, if he liked it, to make eleven reservations for the Freed entourage, stretching over Christmas and the New Year. "I'm sold right now," he said. "Imagine a hotel out in the harbor! It looks like a dream."
While the guests checked in, Norman went to inspect the water level in the emptying cistern, and saw that it had a long way to go. By lying on the greasy kitchen floor, and peering into the hole, he could see the jagged vertical crack down the inside of the wall.
"Take a peep down here every hour or so, Sheila," he said to the cook, "and send somebody to shut off the valve when it's about two-thirds empty."
"I do dat. Mistuh Papuh, suh, I does have de whole food list now fo' de party fo' Mr. Tilson. De cook at de Francis Drake she did help me a lot wid it. It come to a big lot o' money, suh."
"I'll bet it does. See me in the office after lunch, Sheila, and let's go over it. All right? Say three o'clock."
"I be dah, suh."
Lionel soon joined Norman in the bar. With his knack for self-effacement he had replaced his gray suit and red tie, which made him look like every other arriving tourist, with raucous madras shorts and an orange sport shirt, which made him look like every other guest. His legs and arms were the usual newcomer's gray-white; only his face had the strange greenish cast. This relieved Paperman. An entirely green man might have panicked the hotel's West Indian staff, with its ancestral superstitions of the walking dead.
The stage manager asked Church for a planter's punch, and stretched himself luxuriously on one of the double lounge chairs. "Ah, this is cloud nine. You know something, Norm?" he said, lighting a cigar with a sigh of pleasure. "You're still the talk of New York. I mean that. There isn't a star of a hit show who's envied the way you are. You're becoming a legend. I've been thinking about you for weeks, and I'm darn glad Dan let me scoot down here. I knew the place would be dandy, but he just wanted me to make sure. I'm actually ready to quit New York anytime myself. I've had it. I'm fed up. Twenty-nine years, fifty-three shows, is a lot of Broadway for any man. Do you know a little guest house here I could buy? Nothing this elaborate, you know, but-"
"Good lord. This isn't Lionel!" Iris was approaching in a frilly white shirt, blue linen shorts, and a tight chartreuse sash, carrying what looked like a Coca-Cola. Her hair was damp.
Lionel rose to his feet, staring at her, and then a delighted smile came over his face. "Why, it's Janet! Isn't it? Janet West! Jiminy Christmas, what a surprise."
She had very little make-up on, so she kissed his cheek instead of the air. "How long has it been? When was that Ibsen catastrophe? Thirty-nine? Norman, this is the greatest of all the Broadway stage managers."
"Thanks, Janet, you're prettier now than you were then, by God."
She sat on the lounge chair beside Lionel and they gossiped in the friendliest way, though Norman gathered that they hadn't seen each other in twenty years. "By the way," she said to Paperman, "what happened to our swim? I went in alone."
"I had to fetch Lionel. What do you think, Iris? He's been here an hour, and he wants to buy himself a nice little Kinjan hotel."
Iris burst out laughing.
"Why the horselaugh? I'm absolutely serious," Lionel said. "Don't you think I can afford it? I've saved my money. I'm not an actor."
"Shall we tell him," Norman said, "or shall we let him dream?"
"Tell me what?"
"Go ahead," Iris said. "Tell him."
Norman began the tale of his woes: the water shortages, the power failure, Church's sex mania, Senator Pullman, Tex Akers, Anatone, the ants, and the rest. As he got into the narrative, both Iris and Lionel started to laugh. With his raconteur's instinct, Norman was soon telling the episodes for their humor, which until now had not particularly struck him. Lionel after a while was lying back in the chair, gasping, whooping, and wiping his eyes.
"Oh, golly, Norm, stop," he wheezed, during the adventure of the Thousand Steps. "Stop, for pity's sake, or my old hernia will be opening up. Christopher! I've never heard anything like it. You're set for dinner conversation for life, Norm. That's one sure thing."
"Well, no matter how funny it sounds, I'm warning you not to be misled by some pretty scenery and the smell of frangipani. This is a rough place."
Lionel sat up, with something of his usual drawn, greenish, puckered look. "Well, I don't know, Norm. Sure, you've been having problems, but have you ever gone out of town with a show? I've done it fifty-three times. Everything is always a shambles at the beginning. You've just been having a few out-of-town troubles, fella."
"Kinja is permanently out of town," said Paperman. "Very far out."
Pulling his nose with a judicious air, Lionel glanced around at the patrons of the bar. "In what way? I admit you're kind of heavy on pansies, Norm, but aside from that-" He was looking at the fat Turk Hassim, who sat at a nearby table with two sulky-looking young men, one with long wavy bleached hair, the other with a pugnaciously masculine, but too well-groomed, gray crew cut. Hassim was being rather loud and bouncy. For a fact, Norman observed, a lot of the transient homos were here for lunch, and several resident ones had come down out of the hills today.
"I hadn't noticed," he said. "I'll admit it sort of looks like a convention this afternoon. Maybe it's Michelangelo's birthday."
"Listen, thirty years in show business," said Lionel dryly. "To me it's nothing."
Norman had caught Hassim's eye, and the Turk now left his table and danced over, arriving with something like an entrechat done by a sow. "Hello there, Norman, Iris love. Norman, you horrid old poop, what have you done with that adorable little wife of yours? I've got a shipment from Hong Kong, all full of marvelous things that I know she wants."
Norman explained that Henny would be arriving for Christmas. "Lovely, lovely, I'll be dying to see her again," said Hassim, puckering his lips most suggestively at Iris. "And no doubt you will be, too, Normie. Oh this dreary bachelor existence!" Off he slipped with a roll of his prominent eyes, in a fit of the giggles.
"Wow," said Lionel.
"He has a lovely shop," said Iris sternly. "And he's a sweetheart to deal with. I like Hassim."
Iris offered to drive Lionel around the island after lunch and show him some of the guest houses. The stage manager was delighted; and, he said, not in the least discouraged by Norman's sad saga.
"Just don't let him buy Hogan's Fancy," said Norman.
2
"Sheila, that valve-I hope the cistern isn't bone dry."
Sheila sat in the cool office, dressed in a fresh white uniform, and holding a clip board full of bills and papers. She had left off her chefs hat, she was not pouring sweat, and her usually wild hair was neatly tucked up. Sheila in repose was pretty, if far too fat, and her eyes were clever and a little sad.
"I did shut off de valve, suh, 'bout half-past two. De water gone down below de crack."
"Bless your heart. You're a tower of strength. Sheila, before we get into the Tilson party-you remember Gilbert? Gilbert once told me that after the last earthquake a man named Hippolyte repaired the cistern. You were working here then, weren't you?"
"I did work here den, yes suh."
"Do you know this Hippolyte?"
She nodded.
"Well, I'm only thinking that instead of getting somebody new who might wreck everything, it would make sense to call in this Hippolyte again."
The cook's face took on a woodenly fierce look, much like an African carving. Norman could not imagine why. Such bafflements were always arising in his dealings with Kinjans, but this time he resolved to press on. The matter was urgent. "Is Hippolyte on the island?" A bare nod. "Is he a good worker?" A shrug. "Sheila, this thing has to be taken care of." No response. "What did Hippolyte do when he was here?"
"Hippolyte he do every ting," grumbled the cook.
"Everything? What do you mean?"
"He fix everyting. Like Mistuh Thor. He fix tings."
"Well, ye gods, then why don't we hire him again? That's exactly the kind of man I need."
The African mask faced him. "Hippolyte fonny."
"Funny? How, funny? What's funny about him?"
There was a pause. "Hippolyte very fonny," the cook elaborated.
"Well, could you find him for me?"
"Don' know, suh."
"D'you suppose Gilbert could find him?"
"Don' know, suh."
"What does he do now?"
"He fish."
"Where?"
"In de ocean, suh."
"I see." Paperman held out his hand defeated. Kinjans usually won these skirmishes. "Let's look at the figures on that Christmas party."
The mask dissolved. Sheila became the harassed, good-humored cook on the instant. "It all written dah, suh. I did talk to de cook over to de Francis Drake. She tell me 'bout de tings Mistuh Tilson like."
Running his eyes down the list, Paperman saw a large red squiggle next to some items. "What's this, Sheila?"
"You does have to fly dose tings down fum New York. De rest I can get h'ah."
"Artichokes? Fresh strawberries?"
"Yes, suh. Tings like dat. And de oysters and dem big steaks. Dey does have to be de best straight fum New York. Mr. Tilson he wery particular. He does give de cook a hundred dollars tip," she said with a shy grin.
Sheila told him her plans for the party: the extra girls she would hire for the kitchen, the young men she would bring in for serving. Tilson liked his party to swarm with waiters. That was simple, she said; half the high school seniors on the island had white mess jackets and satin-striped black trousers, and they loved a chance to wear them. Moreover, Mr. Tilson was known for his generous tipping.
"Now Sheila, what about the hotel guests? We have to give them dinner that night too. We also have to get them out of the way, hours before the party."
"Mistuh Papuh, I been tinkin' about dat, dat gonna be de big problem."
"Well, I've been thinking too. Do you suppose we could have a cookout for them over at that overgrown little beach below the Blue Cottage? The one Mrs. Ball called Lovers' Beach, you know? Set up a bar, give them drinks free-sort of make a beach party that night for them? Could you handle such a setup, and the Tilson party, too?"
Sheila pushed out her lips, wrinkled her brow, and stroked her chin. "I tink dat work good, suh, dat be a fine idea for true. I got to get more help for dat, but dey plenty I know to get. Lovers' Beach way de odda side de Reef."
"That's what I was thinking."
"Yes, suh. I can do dat, suh. Dat be okay."
Norman was doing quick arithmetic on Sheila's food list as he talked. The Tilson party would require, he saw, an outlay of over two thousand dollars. He would get it back with a big profit, of course-if all went well. Meantime, it would almost wipe out the last of the money intended for the new rooms, leaving him with no margin for emergencies. He still had about eleven hundred dollars in his New York account, his last collections from clients for work performed. But this was a needed cushion for Henny and Hazel, during these uncertain weeks. The possibilities of a fiasco in this huge double party were many and scary. The chances for success rested on this black woman. All he really knew about her was that she was a good cook.
He respected Sheila. Norman could not even picture what his plight would now be if, amid the breakdowns and bad luck of these first two weeks, the feeding of his guests had also been a worry. Sheila had kept the dining room going, smooth as water. She bought the food; she managed the waitresses; she planned the menus. He never questioned the bills, though they were frequent and huge. For all he knew, she was stealing him blind, yet he believed that an audit would show she had not overcharged him by a penny. Paperman did not know why he trusted Sheila, a complete West Indian, inscrutable as any other Kinjan. But he did. For one thing, he had to.
The question was, could he rely on her to carry off this ambitious, heavy operation? He now knew his own incompetence all too well, and the bitter truth in the old saw about the cobbler and his last. He had become honest enough with himself, in these harsh weeks, to see his move to the Caribbean as an eccentric impulse of middle age, a daydream which would have faded harmlessly if not for the misleading encouragement of Lester Atlas. But he was in it now, and it was too late to make himself over. He would never regain the myriad hours he had spent joking over coffee in theatre restaurants, or fooling with forgotten women. He would never be an Atlas. He might never be much of anything. But he was what he was, and now he had to master the Gull Reef Club. What was the alternative to piling risk on risk?
