Left at the Mango Tree (30 page)

To minimize the risk that his friends might be arrested, and
convinced, still, that some explanation for their conspiracy would ultimately surface, Raoul conducted his operation subtly and secretively, calling on a bare minimum of back-up and informing the called-on officers of as little detail as possible. Thanks to Pedro (who had no idea of the amount of information he’d been tricked into revealing), Raoul confirmed his hunch that the suspicious crafts loitering beyond Oh’s coastline belonged to Gustave, at least for the duration of the crime. Raoul learned, too, that the boats were awaiting cargo to carry off to Killig. Raoul didn’t know the timing of the transaction, but even Gustave could only keep his boats afloat and idle for so many days. The strike couldn’t be postponed much further now.

So like ripples in one of the many puddles that dotted the sodden island, the crescent shore at Edda’s beach was encircled by the crescent of Gustave’s waiting boats, which were encircled in turn by the crescent of Customs and Excise, a semi-circle of small, manned crafts far enough way that they shouldn’t be seen, close enough that, on Raoul’s signal, they should easily block the path of escape. Raoul had only to wait. Soon, Gustave would be his. Soon, his, the answer to the riddle of Almondine. All that Raoul needed was a little time.

As if by magic, shortly after the mention of his name in the quiet, empty Belly on that night of the Pineapple Stings, Gustave appeared there in person. Although Bang, Cougar, and Nat were now more used to, if not more comfortable with, his nearness, they tended to tread lightly when Gustave was close by. Which is why they greeted him in complete silence and with blank faces,
their mixed feelings of fear, expectation, and discomfort too complicated to express in words, or in any single conjunction of the muscles and wrinkles of jaws, lips, and eyes.

“I know this is short notice, but we’re moving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?! No way!” Bang slid off his bar stool in one fluid motion and thudded onto the floor. Not even fear of Gustave could keep him from his marimba. “Tomorrow’s the competition. I’m a shoo-in to win, and even if I wasn’t, I can’t miss it! What would people think?”

“He’s right, Gustave. I’m the one hosting the contest tomorrow. I can’t leave the bar,” Cougar added.

Nat watched them all and said nothing.

Gustave wanted to protest, to throw his weight and scare all three of them into compliance, but he realized they were absolutely right. It would be suspicious indeed if Cougar left his bar on the biggest night of the year and if Bang, of all people, were not to compete for the marimba prize. Better to keep things business-as-usual.

Gustave could scare Nat into coming along, but would Nat alone be enough collateral if Raoul and his colleagues should catch them? He wasn’t rich like Cougar or flashy like Bang. Then again, there was no reason to think Raoul might know anything of the next night’s plans, so the muffled buzz humming in Gustave’s brain told him better-than-nothing Nat would do. Gustave put a hand on Nat’s shoulder, high up, at the base of the neck, and pressed the flesh with his thumb. “What do you say, Nat? Just you and me then?”

The next night finally came, its arrival marked not only by strains of melodious marimba, but by thunderclash and rainsong as well. The jealous island still raged, its noisy fit a culmination of the previous weeks’ pouting and pouring, of Gustave’s offensive maneuvers on Puymute’s Plantation, and Raoul’s defensive ones at Sinner’s Cove. The gibbous moon waned high in the cloudy sky, though hidden as it was by the storm’s watery curtain, you’d never have known so. Likewise, the voice of the leaves, if they sang on that night, was trapped and smothered in the curtain’s heavy folds. On the waters beyond the island, boats bounced, empty ones hungry for pineapples and Excise ones starved for revenge.

Inside the Belly, the air was dry and fresh, the storm’s inadvertent breeze purifying the space as it made its way through one entrance and exited from the next. The mood, too, was light and winsome, untroubled by the outburst of the wet, dark sky. Every table was full and at the edges of the locale the islanders leaned in little groups along the walls, chatting and smoking and downing batches of Cougar’s signature cocktail. On stage a marimba glistened under blue and yellow lights, awaiting the touches of the first marimbist’s hammers. Ten finalists were slotted to perform, starting at ten o’clock (which on Oh means 11:30, if you’re lucky).

At the Plantation, the atmosphere hung somewhere between anxious and enervated. The patches were drenched, as were the men collected to clear them and carry them off. Despite the urgency of the task at hand, the weather dampened the spirits gathered at Puymute’s, and a sluggishness reigned. It helped matters little that Gustave was hardly himself, slipping in and out of the stalks as if in a trance, mumbling barely audible orders and directions that were, consequently, barely obeyed. If a crew is as good as its captain, you’d have wagered this one gone down with the ship before night’s end.

As thoughts of his Almondine multiplied in Raoul’s head, where the flies were looking forward soon to a good long rest, in Gustave’s head, too, I figured prominently. No longer just the silly baby of a silly pregnant girl he barely knew, I had become for Gustave the only family he had left. He thought of me day and night now, to the detriment of his smuggling plot, which was shaping up sloppily at best. Why I should disturb his thoughts so much just now, he couldn’t say, but disturb them I did. Perhaps it was the lonely moon stirring trouble from behind the rain’s curtain, or perhaps Edda was to blame, for parading her brand new baby all over the island. Gustave had seen us both a number of times by now, and each made him more convinced that I was his.

Then there was the ad. Gustave couldn’t stop thinking of that, either. He hoped as badly as Raoul that someone would come forward and explain what was going on. Maybe he would go to Raoul himself when the night was over, confess to a crime he knew nothing about, and take his little girl home, stop all this mixing of mangoes and almonds.

While Gustave waxed sentimental under the rain and the hidden moon, trudging through the tall plants and muddling through his operation, Raoul hid behind the mango tree at Edda’s beach, hoping this would be the night when from the soft, green brush a stone’s throw from the edge of the sea the truth would finally emerge. Both men were glad for the marimba competition, for it would keep the attention of the island diverted and its music would drown the noise of their misdeeds. Bang and Cougar were glad for the marimba competition, too, neither much fancying a night’s work in the pouring rain, no matter the number of rainbows to be pocketed at daybreak.

Poor Nat. He wasn’t glad at all about the way things were shaping up. Not only would he miss Bang’s marimba performance (and his likely victory) and the most festive night of the year, but he would spend the night in the rain, working with frightening men (were they?) who seemed to float and glide above the ground, bearing heavy burdens without the slightest strain. It hardly seemed fair. How much help could he really be, he alone? What would happen, he wondered, if he simply didn’t show? Did one skinny Nat Gentle make that much of a difference?

At nine o’clock, under cloak of the wet, dark sky, Gustave set into motion the workings of his plan. By ten, it was clear that the plan was flawed, in its implementation if not its design. The rhythm that typically characterized Gustave’s heists, the waltz of turns and passes, was out of time with that of the rain; the slosh-clunks of the crates as they were carried through the water, out of tune with the nightsongs of the frogs and the wind.

The trouble lay in the transporting of the heavy cargo. The picking and packing went easily enough; a bit more slowly than usual, perhaps, but that was the fault of the weather. Getting the fruit from the plantation to the shore, however, was taking far too long. The crates piled up, creating a bottleneck at Puymute’s, while on the beach the boatmen stood idle and angry, waiting for wares to shuttle to the bigger boats that hid beyond the coast. Nat, whose courage and rebellion thrived only in private rumination, waited, too, his part in the dance that of carrying the crates from shore to ship. That Nat shouldn’t bump into Raoul, who waited eager behind the mango tree nearby (puzzled, by all the inactivity of the actors pacing the sand), was thanks only to the wet, dark sky, which rendered the stage so gray and blurred.

Piecemeal the pineapples appeared on the beach, sometimes
accompanied by Gustave, sometimes not, and Nat did his part to lift and pass them on to the next set of hands. But on that gray and blurred night he struggled, the crates heavy, unlike the other times when Bang sang, and the moon shone down, and the music of the leaves and the cicadas drowned Nat’s grunts and erased his efforts. What was going on?

“What’s the hold up?” Bang shouted across the Belly to Cougar.

It was nearly eleven now and the stage still glistened silently under its blue and yellow lights, showing no sign that the contest was soon to start. Normally an hour’s delay would mean nothing to Bang, but tonight he was keen, for victory was nigh.

Cougar was less keen. The longer into the night he stretched the concert, the further he stretched his profits and his popularity. But he knew he wouldn’t keep Bang off stage much longer, and so he nodded at him to get the ball, or the marimba mallets, rolling.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Buddha’s Belly.” Bang stood at the microphone under the multicolored lights. “How about a round of applause for our benefactor tonight? Cougar Zanne, ladies and gentlemen.” He stretched his arm toward the bar, from behind which Cougar, smiles and silk, waved to the crowd.

Bang continued. “My name’s Bang and I’ll be playing for you a bit later. Right now, let’s welcome our first contestant.”

While Kalvin Jones regaled the Belly with marimba love songs, on Edda’s beach Nat’s frustration grew. He was doing more standing around than helping and his back and shoulders ached. With his mounting frustration his courage and rebellion grew bolder,
and in his head he composed a telling-to for Gustave, for whenever the latter should next appear.

Aha! There he was. “Gustave!” Nat shouted.

“What is it?” Gustave walked toward Nat, wiping his brow. He looked as if his back and shoulders ached as much as Nat’s.

“It’s a mess, that’s what it is. What’s going on?”

“Just a few hiccups,” answered Gustave, seemingly still in a trance. “A few hiccups is all.”

When he turned to walk away, Nat grabbed his elbow and pulled him back. “What’s wrong with you?” Nat asked. “At this rate we’ll be here all night! Someone’s sure to spot us. You’ll get us all arrested!”

“If it’s Customs you’re worried about, don’t be. I’d like nothing more than to run into Raoul tonight.” With that he dusted his hands on his jeans and set off for the plantation again.

As luck or magic would have it, and despite the rainy curtain that muffled the night’s sounds, Raoul’s ears captured Nat’s “Gustave!” and most of their ensuing conversation. So Nat was a willing participant, not frightened of Gustave after all! (He wouldn’t have spoken to him so brazenly otherwise, Raoul reasoned.) And Gustave was as interested in confronting Raoul as Raoul was in confronting him! Raoul’s mind struggled to decide on which of these two pieces of information to focus.