Eden Burning (24 page)

“If you want to borrow that, Mr. Mebane, you’re welcome to. I’ve had several copies made besides that one. It’s a curiosity, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to, very much. Incidentally, I wish you’d call me Nicholas.”

“Nicholas, then. Shall we have a drink before dinner? Or, I should say supper, since that’s all it is on Sunday evening.”

With a pleasure almost physical, Patrick observed the glimmering, small ritual of the drinks, the shimmer of ice and spurt of soda, the bubbles rising in the glasses. In the dozen or more evenings he had spent here in this library during the year just past, a sense of belonging had won out over a first suspicious sense of apartness. Not since that early boyish affection between himself and Nicholas had he felt so easily drawn to another man as to Francis Luther, come out of a world so different from his own and yet so like himself in mind and tastes and in that indefinable quality called heart.

None of this was true of Marjorie Luther. I am an invader in her house, he thought, and she despises my skin, although she’d be ashamed to admit it even to herself. It was in her face behind the proper greeting. One knew these things. But no matter. His own Désirée had her resentments, too.

Through the tall windows at his elbow he could see the little group on the lawn, the women in the shade with Father Baker, who had preferred to stay outdoors. It was an Impressionist scene, or a good imitation of one, with the willow drapery arranged so airily and the women in petunia colors. Laurine, Patrick’s ten-year-old, was sitting on the grass at her mother’s feet. Kate Tarbox held Maisie, big as she was, on her lap. Marjorie Luther held a small white dog on hers. Impressionism, except for black skin, he thought now wryly.

“What a handsome room this is!” Nicholas exclaimed.

“Funny, it was only half completed when we moved in. I had it finished myself, which cost too much, but it was worth it. I practically live in here.” And Francis nodded toward the large desk, which was covered with papers.

“Francis is writing a history of the Caribbean world,” Patrick told Nicholas. “A great work, starting with the Arawaks.”

“Judging by the progress I’m not making, I shall never finish it.”

Nicholas asked curiously, “What is your inspiration? Your family history?”

“Oh, I should imagine so. I’ve been learning more about them since I came here. One, who’d been taken prisoner in the Battle of Worcester, came in Cromwell’s transports. Another was a poor soul from a debtor’s prison. And one was a governor. A mixed bag, as you see.” Francis laughed.

“So you have really come back to stay, have you?”

“Yes, I’ve been in New York a few times to visit my parents, and each time the sight of the city did me in. Eleuthera! It’s well named. It’s my freedom.”

“I wish,” Nicholas said, “you’d finish what you were saying a while earlier, Mr. Luther.”

“Francis, please, if you’re to be Nicholas.”

Nicholas inclined his head. “Francis. You were telling us about some of your plans for this place of yours. Of course you must know that your model village is already being talked about.”

Francis interrupted. “Please! I’ve got ten houses up for my permanent workers, that’s all I’ve done. Nothing for the seasonals. Nothing even worth talking about yet.”

“Don’t underestimate it. That’s a fine beginning, an example to others.”

“I’m not sure how much of an example it will be. I’m afraid, in my short time here, I am already thought of as a troublesome disturber of things as they are.” Francis tapped the table thoughtfully. “However, it’s my money, what little of it there is, and I can tell you there’s little enough! Luckily I don’t crave enormous wealth. I’d just like to pay off my mortgage one day, that’s all.”

“You see,” Patrick said, “you see, Nicholas, why I wanted you to meet each other. It’s a basic attitude, men of good will—” In his eagerness he floundered, feeling himself naïve, his emotion overflowing too visibly.

Nicholas leaned toward Francis. “Our good friends, Patrick and Kate Tarbox, brought me here out of the goodness of their hearts. Let me put things in a nutshell. Now that we’ve at last got universal suffrage, independence is only a few
years away. Huge tasks await us. After political autonomy must come economic stabilization. Huge tasks! My party wants to come to power on this island. It’s a democratic party, the New Day Progressives, young men with plans. But—and let me make this clear—we are not radicals. We don’t want to confiscate. On the contrary, we want the support of the planter class, of those more enlightened members of it who will cooperate with us toward greater prosperity for all. And frankly, I need your help.”

“My heart and conscience are with reform, but I’m not a political man,” Francis objected.

“On the contrary, you are. A man who can see a need and take steps, even take one step toward alleviating it, is political. And as Patrick has just said, it’s an attitude. An open-minded attitude. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to make any immediate public declarations which would embarrass you! I understand your position very well,” Nicholas said astutely. “All I want is to get acquainted with you and to feel that in you I have a mind and an ear to consult with. It’s a gradual process, this bulding of a sympathetic understanding. May I, then, from time to time, have your ear?”

“That surely! I’m always glad to listen. I enjoy an evening visitor anytime. Patrick knows that. I believe I hear the supper bell.”

Patrick’s sense of ease evaporated in the dining room. Now, at this formal table, with Negro servants passing silver platters, he felt acute discomfort. And he wondered what the servants were thinking or would say out in the kitchen.

He looked around. An ill-assorted group, as the world saw it: the whites in their patrician home; the two black children—quiet and well behaved, or they could not have been brought here—with their tight braids; Désirée, silent in her pride and so vivid that the other two women faded by comparison. Marjorie Luther is frosted, he thought. A frosted woman, with fine skin, white as paper. Her silk was pale, her pearls were milky. He embarrassed himself with a flashing image of
her in bed with Francis. She would be cool, he imagined, surely not like Désirée! Still, one never knew. And Francis had such great heart! He hadn’t been ready for marriage. He was only now waking up out of ignorance. All this went through Patrick’s mind while he unfolded the napkin and picked up the spoon.

Silence fell over the table. The incongruity of the gathering must have occurred to them all. And needing to break the silence, he addressed the hostess.

“Your cook, I would wager, is from Martinique.”

“How did you know? Is the soup too spicy?”

“No, no, it’s perfect. My mother came from there, and she’s a wonderful cook. You must ask yours to make some of their recipes. Turkey with curry sauce—ah, that’s something to remember!”

“Tell me some I should ask for, then.” Marjorie Luther bent into the candlelight, pretending interest.

“Well, there are steamed
palourdes,
for instance. Clams with lime.” He sought for something exotic to make interesting conversation. Actually, he had little interest in food. “
Acra de morue,
that’s codfish fritters with green peppers. A typical dish.”

“I shall certainly try that,” Marjorie Luther said politely.

Silver clinked on china. Father Baker ate with an old man’s greed, attentive to his plate, while Désirée fussed over the little girl and the others were apparently mesmerized by Morne Bleue, which filled the tall windows at the end of the room. This time it was Nicholas who rercued them from silence.

“Do I hear rightly that your mother has thoughts of going home to Martinique?” he asked Patrick.

“She talks about it. I don’t want her to go, but she’s getting older and seems to be feeling some pull toward her family land, or what’s left of it.”

“Do you all know about ‘family land’?” And Nicholas explained. “It’s a concept that has nothing to do with the
legal code. It’s custom, out of Africa. You can move away from the land for years, for a lifetime, but if it belonged to one of your ancestors, you have the right to come back and live on it and to eat the fruit that grows on it.”

“And to be buried there,” said Kate, turning away from the twilight on the Morne.

“You know that!” Nicholas remarked in some surprise.

“I’ve learned a few things in my time,” she retorted with a smile.

“In the West Indies,” Nicholas continued, “this land is almost always what was granted to a slave when he was freed.”

“I should be making notes,” Francis said, “for my history.”

“That you’ll never write,” Marjorie added.

“Your husband,” Nicholas said graciously, “has many irons in the fire. The day must not be long enough for him.”

“I hope not too many irons,” Marjorie replied.

“My wife is always afraid I work too hard,” Francis said, apologizing for whatever it was that was going wrong at his fine table in the benign and mellow evening.

Kate threw out a question. “Speaking of irons in the fire, what about the new party? You men relegated us to the lawn, even though that’s what I came to hear about.”

“Oh,” Nicholas said, “we talked a bit. No decisions yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kate said, “because that’s the reason Patrick and I wanted to get you together. Of course, I am always in too much of a hurry, I know.”

Marjorie drank water, picking the glass up and replacing it with a harsh thump.

Kate went on speaking softly and rapidly. “We shall never get anything good done in this place without government. You all know that. Volunteer efforts just can’t do what needs doing. That’s something I never could get across to my husband. Not that he’d work with you people anyway, if I could get it across. He wouldn’t even come tonight and sit at table with blacks, you know that.”

Marjorie picked up her glass again and set it down so decisively that the water, tipping over, made a little puddle on the polished wood. It was as though she had drawn an audible gasp, although she had not.

“Don’t be shocked, Marjorie,” Kate said. “These are my friends. They know the facts of life. I speak openly with them.”

“That you do,” Father Baker agreed. “From the first words you ever spoke.” He looked around the table with fond pride. “I knew Kate before she was born. With all her faults, I love her and I usually agree with her, too, although not always.”

“Not on birth control,” Kate said quickly. “Family planning, I should say. It sounds better and is more accurate, besides.”

“It’s a curious thing,” Nicholas remarked, “how population has become the number-one issue in Central America. It wasn’t always so. Most people, I think, don’t know that during the slavery period there were more deaths than births. The difference was made up for by importation from Africa.” His finely modulated voice took command. Everyone moved to face him. “I suppose to some extent it was undernourishment and overwork, but chiefly it was disease. Now medicine has rid us of yaws and cholera, of yellow fever and typhus. So as a result, we are crowding ourselves off the island. Off the planet, for that matter.”

“Then would you be willing to include the subject in your platform?” Kate spoke earnestly.

Nicholas smiled. “With the usual ten-foot pole, I would,” he said candidly. “After all, you have to get elected before you can accomplish anything. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Luther?”

“Oh, of course,” Marjorie acknowledged.

A consummate tactician, Patrick thought, as Nicholas continued, “It’s a fortunate thing, I always say, when a community has citizens like you ladies. Active, educated women…. Women always have so much more concern for the basics,
for the quality of life. I believe your husband said you’re a graduate of Pembroke, Mrs. Luther? My fiancée went to Smith. Doris Lester, from Ohio. I should be honored if you would meet her after we’re married.”

Marjorie took interest. “When will that be, Mr. Mebane?”

“A Christmas wedding.” And he added, Patrick knew, so that there would be no misunderstanding, “Her father is a minister of the African Methodist Church.”

The atmosphere, thanks to Nicholas, had grown lighter. “And have you found many changes here after your time abroad?” Marjorie asked, addressing him but not Patrick, who had also come home from abroad. It is his charm, Patrick, thought, not minding.

“Not really. We’ve been asleep here for centuries. But”—and as if to warn, Nicholas raised his hand—“but let me tell you, change is on the way. We already have daily flights to the main cities of the Caribbean, with connecting flights to here. Eventually we’ll have a jetport of our own, connecting us directly with Europe. All this will affect the way we live and the way we must be governed.”

“It quite makes one’s head swim, doesn’t it?” Marjorie said smoothly. “Unfortunately, I am not at all political.”

“That’s what I said a while ago,” Francis said.

“Everyone is political, or becomes so,” Kate corrected.

“A profound statement,” Nicholas observed pleasantly, as they left the table.

   In the car, Désirée complained, “I’m exhausted! All that heavy talk! It’s like carrying bundles till one’s arms want to drop off. If you notice, I barely said a word.”

“It was intelligent conversation,” Patrick objected. “Your father would have enjoyed it.”

“Oh, you and Pop! Tell the truth, weren’t you feeling uncomfortable in there?”

“Maybe a little, but only because of her. Francis is an honest man, an independent. He didn’t have to ask us. He
wanted to. There’s surely no advantage to him in having people like us in his house.”

“No? You don’t think he’s counting on Nicholas coming into power? Maybe he’s smarter than the rest of them. Looking out for the future.”

Patrick said loyally, “Even so. There’s more to it than that. Francis Luther likes me and I like him.”

“It’s a queer friendship,” Désirée argued. “Your mother thinks it is. She keeps asking me. It bothers her.”

“Probably,” Nicholas suggested tactfully, “what’s really upsetting her is that she’s leaving.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Patrick replied.