Read Don't Stop the Carnival Online
Authors: Herman Wouk
Don't Stop the Carnival (51 page)
"Yes? Dr. Tracy Pullman speaking."
"Hello, this is Norman Paperman at the Gull Reef Club."
"Ah yes. Mr. Paperman, I've been trying to reach you." Dr. Pullman had a powerful baritone voice, and sounded much like his brother, the absent senator. "Tell me, did you have in your employ a young fellow named Church Wagner? Good-looking white boy, with a beard?"
"Did I? I still do. Has something happened to him? He's missing this morning."
"He is, eh? Ah-Mr. Paperman, are there any ladies present there with you?"
"Ladies? I'm alone in my office."
"Good. Now you know about this little group of girls, seven of them, from our finest families, who are home for the holidays-the Sand Witches, I understand they call themselves?"
"Yes."
"You do? Ah. Well! Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Paperman, the plain fact is, that Church Wagner has given six of the seven Sand Witches the clap."
Paperman groaned as though he had been stabbed. "The clap? The clap?"
"The accurate term is gonorrhea, Mr. Paperman, but that's how the young people refer to it. We are still testing the seventh girl. She is being very frivolous and uncooperative, I must say. Now we're most anxious to get hold of this Wagner fellow. First of all he needs treatment, and then the police may want to have a chat with him for his own protection. The fathers are all angry, understandably. I think the Health Department inspectors will be talking to you, too."
"I didn't know about this, Doctor!"
"He's your employee. In any case, if the young man appears at the hotel, you'd better bring him right down here."
"All right," Norman said. The old heartsickness of his first weeks in the Gull Reef Club was coming upon him again, and his nasal passages were tickling and swelling.
"Now of course," the doctor said, "you'll keep this in strict confidence. For the sake of the families."
"Sure. Naturally." Norman sneezed violently.
Dr. Pullman sighed, "God bless you. I'm afraid the worst trouble will be with the girls. They don't mind talking about it at all. They giggle, and make jokes, and say it's no worse than having a cold. I'm afraid the morals of our island young people are becoming very decadent. The finest families! Goodbye."
Norman hung up, stunned and shaken. Church Wagner was no great loss. Since Henny's arrival, they had been talking of rearranging things so that the bartender would merely mix drinks, while they took over the handling of the money. Such bartenders were plentiful; Norman had hired three just for the Tilson party.
What hit Paperman so hard was the dark reminder, on this tense morning, that life in Kinja teetered always between the dreadful and the ridiculous. This episode, far from being curious, was an abrupt return to normality. It struck Paperman as a harbinger of evil things. He had never forgotten-though he had tried to bury out of mind-Tom Tilson's warning that sooner or later the island was going to throw a catastrophic surprise at him. This haunting fear for weeks had been that this fatal surprise was going to erupt out of the dinner party. Church Wagner's defection, coming just at this moment, seemed an ominous, absurd, utterly Kinjan prelude.
Norman began to sneeze. He sneezed until his eyes streamed, his nose swelled up aching and red, and his breath came in rough wheezy gasps.
The old dusty clock read quarter to nine. It was starting out to be a long day.
2
Lovers' Beach, little used because it was far from the main house and hemmed in by thorny brush, was almost as pretty as the main beach, and not much smaller; but its view was only the open sea, and so the first builder of the Club had wisely placed the hotel on the town side. Virgil and Millard had hacked broad paths through the brush, and a charming party site was springing up on the beach during the day. Strung Japanese lanterns, a grill, a bar, chaises of aluminum and red plastic, and gaily painted tables and chairs enlivened the newly-swept white sand. The weather continued excellent. One of Norman's many worries was that rain would drive the wet and sandy hotel guests stampeding in their bathing suits back into the hotel, at the height of the formal Tilson party. But at six o'clock in the evening, when the airplane was scheduled to begin its climb with the parachutists, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and guests were already lining up for free drinks, full of eager chatter about the parachute jump. The cookout struck the guests as a great treat, and nobody showed the least resentment at being herded away from the hotel for the evening.
At the Club, a platoon of handsome Kinjan boys in satin-striped black trousers, white mess jackets, and white gloves waited to go to work. The bar, the dance terrace, the dining terrace were festooned with flowers; and so was the enormous hors d'oeuvre table that stretched the length of the dance floor, covered with platters of cold meats and canapes, great odorous cheeses, jars of Russian caviar, and mounds of fresh fruit. The fried shrimps and the cocktail frankfurters, hundreds of them, were on trays in the kitchen, hot and ready. Tubs full of ice and champagne bottles lined the hallway. An improvised bar stood in the lobby, another on the dance terrace, and these and the regular bar were stacked with myriads of glasses. The new young bartenders in red jackets manned the three posts, cheerfully jittery as horses before a race. Sheila had caused an immense charcoal pit to be dug in the main beach and covered with iron grills, offering space to cook dozens of large steaks at once. Sheila herself, lording it over the kitchen in a new white smock and chefs cap, was less excited than Norman had ever seen her, despite all the newcomers taking her orders, and the amazing pile-up of food in every corner of the kitchen, overflowing into the hall. "Everything does look not too bad, Mistuh Pape'mon," she said, after patiently answering a few of his nervous questions. "Dey ain' nuttin' to worry about, it be a wery good party."
"Achoo! Achoo! Thank you, Sheila. You're a godsend." Norman blew his nose, and hurried back to Lovers' Beach for the parachute jump, more than half-convinced, in his nervous state, that his disaster was at hand in the death or maiming of a parachutist.
Hotel guests crowded the strand, holding drinks and craning their necks up at the sky, amid a bedlam of laughs, shouts, jokes, snatches of song. Splendid pink sunset clouds billowed across the light blue sky. Lieutenant Woods, wearing brief khaki trunks and a T-shirt, watched the sky, calm and smiling, but his flippers lay on the sand beside him, and the tenseness of his folded arms showed he was ready to plunge in. Some of his men were circling offshore in a gray navy boat.
"Hi, there's the plane," Woods said, pointing almost overhead. "I think they've reached their altitude. This may be the run-in for the drop."
Paperman saw the tiny aircraft, a black cross against a pink cloud. It disappeared, came in sight, and disappeared again, moving through cloud streamers. "Ye gods, that's high."
Hazel and Henny emerged from the crowd. Henny said, "I've never been so scared in my life. Jumping from way up there! Imagine!"
Woods said, "They've done it often, ma'am."
"THERE HE GOES!" It was a general shout.
High, high up a red streak was sliding downward across the pink-and-blue sky, like a mark made by a giant, slow-moving crayon. "TWO!" everyone on the beach yelled. "THREE! FOUR!"
And in a moment six streaks were lengthening down the sky; thick, puffy, parallel scarlet lines.
"They free-fall with flares," Woods said, his eyes intent on the streaks.
Soon a brilliant orange-and-white parachute blossomed at the base of one red streak, about halfway to earth. Another appeared; a third, a fourth, a fifth. The last red streak kept sliding downward, far below the irregular line of five parachutes drifting in the sunset. It fell and fell.
"Who's that last one?" Henny said shrilly.
"Don't know," Woods said, with a slight note of anger, and as he uttered the words the parachute opened. A relieved cheer rose along the shore. The jumpers floated down. The one who had free-fallen so low struck the water long before the others, about fifty yards out from the beach. "Cohn," Woods said, though Norman could only see a brown, nearly naked body in the parachute harness. "Wouldn't you know." The men in the boat, speeding to the jumper, recovered the parachute as it crumpled. He swam ashore and made his way through the applauding crowd to his commanding officer. "Sorry," he said.
"What the hell?" said Woods. "I said no hairy falls."
"You won't believe this," Cohn said, dripping, and panting a little. "I got interested in the scenery, believe it or not. It's pretty, with the town lights coming on and all. I was only a couple of seconds late."
"You came near boring a hole in the ocean," Woods said.
A second and a third parachutist settled in the water. Hazel said furiously to Cohn, "They shouldn't let you do that. You're too old, and anyway, you're plain crazy."
"See? I told you I'm too old, sir," Cohn said to Woods. "I want out of this outfit."
"You damn near made it," Woods said, watching the boat speed from one parachutist to another. All were down, all bobbing and waving.
In a little while, excited guests were bunching around the UDT men at the bar, making jokes and asking questions. The eyes of the women shone as though these brown, shy, almost naked young men were film stars. Satisfied that the Lovers' Beach cookout was well launched, Norman left with Henny to dress for the Tilson party. Hazel was staying at the beach, of course, in her new role of queen bee to the swimmers, which she much relished. She paid no extra attention to Cohn, at least not when Norman and Henny were around. She made big eyes at all the frogmen in turn, and they appeared devoted to her, to a man.
"It's going to be hard to interest that girl in a nice substantial doctor or lawyer after this," Henny said as they crossed the lawn. "Or a businessman."
"Or an English professor," Norman said.
His wife laughed. "Well, that's the good part, but they're not all like the Sending. A college professor would be fine with me. Sheldon was just a sickening fraud. But I'm not too happy about this frogman business, you know. I mean, the action thing is glamorous, and I could eat those boys up myself, old bag that I am. But it's strictly a lousy living. People think you're nuts, and what's more, you can get hurt."
"What do you propose?"
"I'm not proposing anything. What good would it do me? I'm making anxious mother noises."
As they entered the lobby a bellicose shout echoed out of the bar, "Listen, mister, I own this place and you're telling me I can't have a drink? Now, get your black ass moving, and-"
Norman bolted to the bar, which was empty except for the new bartender, Atlas, and the two bikini girls-schoolteachers from Maine whom he had adopted. Atlas wore a white yachting cap, a red-and-white striped T-shirt such as Church had affected, and new vast blue jeans rolled up to the knees. The girls were in their bikinis. All three were horribly sunburned. Atlas's fat face looked swelled and boiled, and he had large white rings around his eyes in the shape of Polaroid glasses.
"Lester, take it easy. The boy is just obeying orders," Norman exclaimed. The new bartender was glaring at Atlas, his lips sucked into a scowling line. "This place is set up for the Tilson party tonight. I told you about that. You can get all the drinks you want over at Lovers' Beach."
"Who the hell wants to go way down there? We're just off a sailboat. The goddamn captain ran out of beer, he ran out of booze, he damn near cooked us in the sun. Poor Hatsy and Patsy are ready to pass out. We want three planter's punche's, and goddamn it, we want them now and here!"
"Give them three planter's punches," Norman said to the bartender.
"Oh, thank you," said one girl faintly.
The bartender sullenly assembled the punches, sullenly served them, and turned his back.
"Well, here's lead in your pencil, Norm," Atlas said, tossing off half the drink. He embraced the two girls around their waists, and fondled a scorched breast on each. "Ah, that's better, hey, girls? Put us in shape for the big party."
"You're going to the cookout, Lester, aren't you?" Norman said anxiously. "Free steaks, free drinks, free everything?"
"Free love?" giggled the girl called Patsy.
"No, no. That, Norman has to charge for," Atlas said. "He's in such demand we've had to put a meter on him. Haw haw! Con permisso!" He dandled the two fiery breasts. "Sure we'll be there, Norm. Hatsy, Patsy, and Atsy, the three musketeers. Grease up the old meter, boy, and maybe get one ready for me. Con permisso!"
Norman went upstairs to dress, somewhat relieved. At least the drunken monster would be as far removed from the Tilson party as he could be, on Gull Reef.
3
By ten o'clock, the Tilson party was going strong. People had been arriving since about half-past seven, and more than a hundred of them had come in a cataract a little before nine. Paperman had hired three large motorboats to ferry the guests, so Virgil wasn't overwhelmed. Norman had not yet seen such a turnout in Amerigo, not even at Government House. Tom and Letty Tilson evidently bridged the two societies of Kinja. The hill crowd was there; Norman did not miss a face of those superior whites he had seen at Broadstairs. The grave, dignified natives of the Turnbull party had also come, and the two groups were mingling in the bar and on the dance terrace in an amiable mass, from which there arose the rich, pleasant noise of a good party. The orchestra-musicians in silver coats, not a steel band-were playing prim jazz, and many couples were dancing. The formal dress of these people could hardly be faulted, even to the finicky taste of Norman and Henny Paperman, who were used to New York first nights. It might be that some of the white women's dresses were a season late; that some of the Negro women had gone further with color than Henny would; that a few of the men-the white more than the black-had permitted themselves eccentricities in their dinner jackets. For all that, this was a rare scene of West Indian society in a gala mood, on a broad terrace lined with kerosene flares, under a beaming white moon and innumerable stars, with the lamplit black hills of Amerigo as a backdrop across the shimmering water of the harbor.
Into this scene, almost on the stroke of ten, came Iris Tramm.
She wore purple; a floor-length draped silk dress of deep purple, with a heavy Mexican silver necklace. She stood in a doorway of the dance terrace, looking around, not moving. Her hair was swept up in negligent disorder, and as Norman approached her, he could see the pale puffiness of her face, the glitter of her eyes, and the slight trembling of the hand that held her silver purse. She walked to meet him, and once she put a leg to one side instead of straight ahead. But she held herself well, and she did not stagger or weave.
"Hello, this is Norman Paperman at the Gull Reef Club."
"Ah yes. Mr. Paperman, I've been trying to reach you." Dr. Pullman had a powerful baritone voice, and sounded much like his brother, the absent senator. "Tell me, did you have in your employ a young fellow named Church Wagner? Good-looking white boy, with a beard?"
"Did I? I still do. Has something happened to him? He's missing this morning."
"He is, eh? Ah-Mr. Paperman, are there any ladies present there with you?"
"Ladies? I'm alone in my office."
"Good. Now you know about this little group of girls, seven of them, from our finest families, who are home for the holidays-the Sand Witches, I understand they call themselves?"
"Yes."
"You do? Ah. Well! Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Paperman, the plain fact is, that Church Wagner has given six of the seven Sand Witches the clap."
Paperman groaned as though he had been stabbed. "The clap? The clap?"
"The accurate term is gonorrhea, Mr. Paperman, but that's how the young people refer to it. We are still testing the seventh girl. She is being very frivolous and uncooperative, I must say. Now we're most anxious to get hold of this Wagner fellow. First of all he needs treatment, and then the police may want to have a chat with him for his own protection. The fathers are all angry, understandably. I think the Health Department inspectors will be talking to you, too."
"I didn't know about this, Doctor!"
"He's your employee. In any case, if the young man appears at the hotel, you'd better bring him right down here."
"All right," Norman said. The old heartsickness of his first weeks in the Gull Reef Club was coming upon him again, and his nasal passages were tickling and swelling.
"Now of course," the doctor said, "you'll keep this in strict confidence. For the sake of the families."
"Sure. Naturally." Norman sneezed violently.
Dr. Pullman sighed, "God bless you. I'm afraid the worst trouble will be with the girls. They don't mind talking about it at all. They giggle, and make jokes, and say it's no worse than having a cold. I'm afraid the morals of our island young people are becoming very decadent. The finest families! Goodbye."
Norman hung up, stunned and shaken. Church Wagner was no great loss. Since Henny's arrival, they had been talking of rearranging things so that the bartender would merely mix drinks, while they took over the handling of the money. Such bartenders were plentiful; Norman had hired three just for the Tilson party.
What hit Paperman so hard was the dark reminder, on this tense morning, that life in Kinja teetered always between the dreadful and the ridiculous. This episode, far from being curious, was an abrupt return to normality. It struck Paperman as a harbinger of evil things. He had never forgotten-though he had tried to bury out of mind-Tom Tilson's warning that sooner or later the island was going to throw a catastrophic surprise at him. This haunting fear for weeks had been that this fatal surprise was going to erupt out of the dinner party. Church Wagner's defection, coming just at this moment, seemed an ominous, absurd, utterly Kinjan prelude.
Norman began to sneeze. He sneezed until his eyes streamed, his nose swelled up aching and red, and his breath came in rough wheezy gasps.
The old dusty clock read quarter to nine. It was starting out to be a long day.
2
Lovers' Beach, little used because it was far from the main house and hemmed in by thorny brush, was almost as pretty as the main beach, and not much smaller; but its view was only the open sea, and so the first builder of the Club had wisely placed the hotel on the town side. Virgil and Millard had hacked broad paths through the brush, and a charming party site was springing up on the beach during the day. Strung Japanese lanterns, a grill, a bar, chaises of aluminum and red plastic, and gaily painted tables and chairs enlivened the newly-swept white sand. The weather continued excellent. One of Norman's many worries was that rain would drive the wet and sandy hotel guests stampeding in their bathing suits back into the hotel, at the height of the formal Tilson party. But at six o'clock in the evening, when the airplane was scheduled to begin its climb with the parachutists, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and guests were already lining up for free drinks, full of eager chatter about the parachute jump. The cookout struck the guests as a great treat, and nobody showed the least resentment at being herded away from the hotel for the evening.
At the Club, a platoon of handsome Kinjan boys in satin-striped black trousers, white mess jackets, and white gloves waited to go to work. The bar, the dance terrace, the dining terrace were festooned with flowers; and so was the enormous hors d'oeuvre table that stretched the length of the dance floor, covered with platters of cold meats and canapes, great odorous cheeses, jars of Russian caviar, and mounds of fresh fruit. The fried shrimps and the cocktail frankfurters, hundreds of them, were on trays in the kitchen, hot and ready. Tubs full of ice and champagne bottles lined the hallway. An improvised bar stood in the lobby, another on the dance terrace, and these and the regular bar were stacked with myriads of glasses. The new young bartenders in red jackets manned the three posts, cheerfully jittery as horses before a race. Sheila had caused an immense charcoal pit to be dug in the main beach and covered with iron grills, offering space to cook dozens of large steaks at once. Sheila herself, lording it over the kitchen in a new white smock and chefs cap, was less excited than Norman had ever seen her, despite all the newcomers taking her orders, and the amazing pile-up of food in every corner of the kitchen, overflowing into the hall. "Everything does look not too bad, Mistuh Pape'mon," she said, after patiently answering a few of his nervous questions. "Dey ain' nuttin' to worry about, it be a wery good party."
"Achoo! Achoo! Thank you, Sheila. You're a godsend." Norman blew his nose, and hurried back to Lovers' Beach for the parachute jump, more than half-convinced, in his nervous state, that his disaster was at hand in the death or maiming of a parachutist.
Hotel guests crowded the strand, holding drinks and craning their necks up at the sky, amid a bedlam of laughs, shouts, jokes, snatches of song. Splendid pink sunset clouds billowed across the light blue sky. Lieutenant Woods, wearing brief khaki trunks and a T-shirt, watched the sky, calm and smiling, but his flippers lay on the sand beside him, and the tenseness of his folded arms showed he was ready to plunge in. Some of his men were circling offshore in a gray navy boat.
"Hi, there's the plane," Woods said, pointing almost overhead. "I think they've reached their altitude. This may be the run-in for the drop."
Paperman saw the tiny aircraft, a black cross against a pink cloud. It disappeared, came in sight, and disappeared again, moving through cloud streamers. "Ye gods, that's high."
Hazel and Henny emerged from the crowd. Henny said, "I've never been so scared in my life. Jumping from way up there! Imagine!"
Woods said, "They've done it often, ma'am."
"THERE HE GOES!" It was a general shout.
High, high up a red streak was sliding downward across the pink-and-blue sky, like a mark made by a giant, slow-moving crayon. "TWO!" everyone on the beach yelled. "THREE! FOUR!"
And in a moment six streaks were lengthening down the sky; thick, puffy, parallel scarlet lines.
"They free-fall with flares," Woods said, his eyes intent on the streaks.
Soon a brilliant orange-and-white parachute blossomed at the base of one red streak, about halfway to earth. Another appeared; a third, a fourth, a fifth. The last red streak kept sliding downward, far below the irregular line of five parachutes drifting in the sunset. It fell and fell.
"Who's that last one?" Henny said shrilly.
"Don't know," Woods said, with a slight note of anger, and as he uttered the words the parachute opened. A relieved cheer rose along the shore. The jumpers floated down. The one who had free-fallen so low struck the water long before the others, about fifty yards out from the beach. "Cohn," Woods said, though Norman could only see a brown, nearly naked body in the parachute harness. "Wouldn't you know." The men in the boat, speeding to the jumper, recovered the parachute as it crumpled. He swam ashore and made his way through the applauding crowd to his commanding officer. "Sorry," he said.
"What the hell?" said Woods. "I said no hairy falls."
"You won't believe this," Cohn said, dripping, and panting a little. "I got interested in the scenery, believe it or not. It's pretty, with the town lights coming on and all. I was only a couple of seconds late."
"You came near boring a hole in the ocean," Woods said.
A second and a third parachutist settled in the water. Hazel said furiously to Cohn, "They shouldn't let you do that. You're too old, and anyway, you're plain crazy."
"See? I told you I'm too old, sir," Cohn said to Woods. "I want out of this outfit."
"You damn near made it," Woods said, watching the boat speed from one parachutist to another. All were down, all bobbing and waving.
In a little while, excited guests were bunching around the UDT men at the bar, making jokes and asking questions. The eyes of the women shone as though these brown, shy, almost naked young men were film stars. Satisfied that the Lovers' Beach cookout was well launched, Norman left with Henny to dress for the Tilson party. Hazel was staying at the beach, of course, in her new role of queen bee to the swimmers, which she much relished. She paid no extra attention to Cohn, at least not when Norman and Henny were around. She made big eyes at all the frogmen in turn, and they appeared devoted to her, to a man.
"It's going to be hard to interest that girl in a nice substantial doctor or lawyer after this," Henny said as they crossed the lawn. "Or a businessman."
"Or an English professor," Norman said.
His wife laughed. "Well, that's the good part, but they're not all like the Sending. A college professor would be fine with me. Sheldon was just a sickening fraud. But I'm not too happy about this frogman business, you know. I mean, the action thing is glamorous, and I could eat those boys up myself, old bag that I am. But it's strictly a lousy living. People think you're nuts, and what's more, you can get hurt."
"What do you propose?"
"I'm not proposing anything. What good would it do me? I'm making anxious mother noises."
As they entered the lobby a bellicose shout echoed out of the bar, "Listen, mister, I own this place and you're telling me I can't have a drink? Now, get your black ass moving, and-"
Norman bolted to the bar, which was empty except for the new bartender, Atlas, and the two bikini girls-schoolteachers from Maine whom he had adopted. Atlas wore a white yachting cap, a red-and-white striped T-shirt such as Church had affected, and new vast blue jeans rolled up to the knees. The girls were in their bikinis. All three were horribly sunburned. Atlas's fat face looked swelled and boiled, and he had large white rings around his eyes in the shape of Polaroid glasses.
"Lester, take it easy. The boy is just obeying orders," Norman exclaimed. The new bartender was glaring at Atlas, his lips sucked into a scowling line. "This place is set up for the Tilson party tonight. I told you about that. You can get all the drinks you want over at Lovers' Beach."
"Who the hell wants to go way down there? We're just off a sailboat. The goddamn captain ran out of beer, he ran out of booze, he damn near cooked us in the sun. Poor Hatsy and Patsy are ready to pass out. We want three planter's punche's, and goddamn it, we want them now and here!"
"Give them three planter's punches," Norman said to the bartender.
"Oh, thank you," said one girl faintly.
The bartender sullenly assembled the punches, sullenly served them, and turned his back.
"Well, here's lead in your pencil, Norm," Atlas said, tossing off half the drink. He embraced the two girls around their waists, and fondled a scorched breast on each. "Ah, that's better, hey, girls? Put us in shape for the big party."
"You're going to the cookout, Lester, aren't you?" Norman said anxiously. "Free steaks, free drinks, free everything?"
"Free love?" giggled the girl called Patsy.
"No, no. That, Norman has to charge for," Atlas said. "He's in such demand we've had to put a meter on him. Haw haw! Con permisso!" He dandled the two fiery breasts. "Sure we'll be there, Norm. Hatsy, Patsy, and Atsy, the three musketeers. Grease up the old meter, boy, and maybe get one ready for me. Con permisso!"
Norman went upstairs to dress, somewhat relieved. At least the drunken monster would be as far removed from the Tilson party as he could be, on Gull Reef.
3
By ten o'clock, the Tilson party was going strong. People had been arriving since about half-past seven, and more than a hundred of them had come in a cataract a little before nine. Paperman had hired three large motorboats to ferry the guests, so Virgil wasn't overwhelmed. Norman had not yet seen such a turnout in Amerigo, not even at Government House. Tom and Letty Tilson evidently bridged the two societies of Kinja. The hill crowd was there; Norman did not miss a face of those superior whites he had seen at Broadstairs. The grave, dignified natives of the Turnbull party had also come, and the two groups were mingling in the bar and on the dance terrace in an amiable mass, from which there arose the rich, pleasant noise of a good party. The orchestra-musicians in silver coats, not a steel band-were playing prim jazz, and many couples were dancing. The formal dress of these people could hardly be faulted, even to the finicky taste of Norman and Henny Paperman, who were used to New York first nights. It might be that some of the white women's dresses were a season late; that some of the Negro women had gone further with color than Henny would; that a few of the men-the white more than the black-had permitted themselves eccentricities in their dinner jackets. For all that, this was a rare scene of West Indian society in a gala mood, on a broad terrace lined with kerosene flares, under a beaming white moon and innumerable stars, with the lamplit black hills of Amerigo as a backdrop across the shimmering water of the harbor.
Into this scene, almost on the stroke of ten, came Iris Tramm.
She wore purple; a floor-length draped silk dress of deep purple, with a heavy Mexican silver necklace. She stood in a doorway of the dance terrace, looking around, not moving. Her hair was swept up in negligent disorder, and as Norman approached her, he could see the pale puffiness of her face, the glitter of her eyes, and the slight trembling of the hand that held her silver purse. She walked to meet him, and once she put a leg to one side instead of straight ahead. But she held herself well, and she did not stagger or weave.
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