The Boiling Season (19 page)

Madame was so distracted, in fact, that she never even thought to warn us when, less than a month after the musician and his friends left, we received our most important guest yet.

I
n the registration book he was listed as M. Swallows. I did not realize, until the day he arrived, that this was the name of one of Madame's three investors, the large man who had shown up the first time wearing a pith helmet.

M. Swallows stepped out of the limousine attired as only a man on vacation could be, in long plaid shorts of such peculiar dimensions they had to have been tailored especially for him. They were enormously broad across the back, with thin legs to cover his disproportionately skinny thighs. The shorts looked something like an overstuffed ottoman. Gone was the jungle apparel. Gone the linen suit. His shirt was a vibrant blue, but numerous other colors too, featuring toucans and palm trees and coconuts in a festive array. This time he came alone, without his companions, Madame's other two investors.

He was standing at the front desk when I entered the lobby. I was caught off guard when he seemed to recognize me.

“How are you, monsieur?” he asked, giving me a friendly nod.

“Well,” I said, fumbling for words. “And you? How are you?”

“Excellent!”

“Wonderful,” I said, trying to produce a smile equal to his. “Let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

“I will!” he boomed. “I most certainly will.”

As he walked away, I realized the feeling had gone from my fingers and toes.

We gave M. Swallows the guesthouse. It was far more space than even a man of his girth would require, but the accommodations were luxurious, and their proximity to the manor house meant we could more easily ensure he received everything he needed.

T
hat first night, at dinner, M. Swallows refused the menu. Instead, he sent Georges to fetch Jean from the kitchen.

“I would like to eat,” M. Swallows announced to the startled chef, “whatever you would like to cook.”

Jean pivoted on his heel, impressively unshaken. “As you wish.”

M. Swallows sat at the head of a table of ten. I do not know how he managed to make so many acquaintances so quickly, but they all seemed happy to be there. With two fingers he signaled for the sommelier.

“Do you have any Château Montelena?”

“Of course.”

“Bring us a case.”

There was escargot to start. M. Swallows declared the snails “remarkably plump.”

The echo around the table concurred. “Incredibly plump.” “I've never tasted anything so plump.”

If M. Swallows knew his companions' names, he preferred not to use them. It was, “You, more wine,” and “You, pass the bread.”

When Georges delivered the filet mignon, M. Swallows moaned as if he had been struck a blow. “It's so tender you don't need teeth.”

The woman to his left produced a horsey smile. “A baby could eat it.”

“You could spread it on a cracker,” someone else offered with an overeager laugh.

The meal went on so long that Georges was found asleep in the pantry when it was finally time for dessert.

D
uring the week he was here, it seemed there was nowhere I could go without hearing M. Swallows's laugh, like a car engine turning over and over and over. And everywhere he went—the restaurant, the pool, the club room—M. Swallows's laughter spread to everyone else. He was a different man from the one who had visited us before.

Within a day of his arrival, he had become the figure around which everything seemed to revolve. Everyone was talking about M. Swallows—or Freddy, as he preferred to be called. Although he had come here alone, everyone was instantly his friend. Each night he dined with an entirely new entourage. We had to send to the capital for an emergency resupply of wine.

Second only to his love for food and drink was M. Swallows's fondness for dancing, as I remembered well from one of his earlier trips. But whereas Madame—his dance partner then—had liked to go to bed early, M. Swallows's new acquaintances seemed to care as little for sleep as he did.

But not everything M. Swallows did was in the same grand fashion. For someone who had made his fortune investing in risky ventures, he proved to be a modest gambler. From several different croupiers I heard that M. Swallows spent his time in the casino walking the floor with the same few chips, lingering now and then at a table but rarely putting any money down. But wherever there was a high roller on a streak, M. Swallows could be found cheering, orchestrating the waitresses' trays of drinks.

He must have slept sometime, but it was not clear to me when. On one of my early-morning walks, just as the sun was rising, I spotted him on his patio enjoying a cigarette. He did not appear to see me.

A few days later, as I was leaving the restaurant following breakfast, I discovered M. Swallows sitting alone on a lounge chair beside the manor house pool. Wearing a bikini swimsuit that nearly disappeared beneath his belly, he was casually watching a houseboy skim leaves from the water.

“How long has he been out there?” I asked a waiter who was passing by.

“Since I got here,” he said.

That afternoon I began a letter to Madame in which I remarked upon her investor's sudden transformation. Although the phone service had improved enough that we could talk when necessary, I still preferred the intimacy of the written word. Only on the page could I take my time in formulating the precise things I wished to say.

“We have achieved more than I ever thought possible,” I wrote. “A perfect paradise. Being here is like being enveloped in a dream. The scent of the gardens is a greater elixir than man ever made. When one is here, the outside world dissolves like a sugar cube in water. As for M. Swallows, you would not have recognized him. I hope you do not think it impertinent for me to suggest that he could find no place for his burdens here and simply let them go.”

Chapter Fourteen

I
n the weeks leading up to Mlle Miller's arrival, the actress's representative was in constant contact with M. Gadds, checking and double-checking to see that everything his client would need during her two-week stay had been attended to. It was imperative that her time at Habitation Louvois be restful. Mlle Miller was taking a break between the shooting of two films, two very demanding roles. The project she had just completed was a historical epic set in ancient Rome, in which the young woman played the favored mistress of an aged emperor threatened by challengers to his throne. In one of our guests' discarded magazines I had read of the film's devastating final scene, in which Mlle Miller fights her way through a mob to reach the side of her lover, who has just been cut down by assassins. In the article, Mlle Miller spoke of the scene being so emotionally exhausting she could not stop crying until long after the director had declared it “a wrap.” The photo accompanying the article showed a thin young woman sitting in profile upon a marble bench, gazing out over the ocean. She wore a toga and dark glasses, and her blond hair was aglow under the midday sun.

To ensure peace and quiet during her stay at the hotel, Mlle Miller had reserved not just one villa but an entire group of four, and Madame set aside for her the most remote spot of all, south of the manor house, where traffic from other guests was lightest.

By this time the hotel had been open only a little more than three years, yet Madame nevertheless ordered that Mlle Miller's four villas be entirely repainted, inside and out. I personally went through and tested every stone in the courtyard and along the paths she would be most likely to travel, ensuring that none were loose.

A few days before Mlle Miller's arrival, we received a wooden crate upon which the word
FRAGILE
had been stamped so many times we had trouble determining which way was up. Inside was a box of candles scented with sandalwood and a bag of soaps individually wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pink ribbon. At the bottom of the crate rested a cedar case lined with velvet, inside of which nestled a set of bed sheets so soft and supple they seemed to be woven of feather.

However much these preparations were intended to set us at ease and guarantee that everything went smoothly, for me at least they had the opposite effect. Each of Mlle Miller's special measures felt like a reminder of the things we lacked—of the potential for the visit to go wrong. I wished it were not so, but in truth the precautions were not entirely unwarranted; there were still too many problems on the island over which we had no control.

Although the worst of the drought had ended, food shortages persisted. At Habitation Louvois we had from the start relied on imports of virtually everything but the produce brought each morning by market women from Saint-Gabriel. But with so many of the island's crops devastated by the long months without rain, even sweet potatoes had grown increasingly scarce. Rice had become almost as expensive as petrol.

At a time when so many people were struggling just to eat, however, perhaps the most troublesome problem were the rumors coming out of the palace. One morning Mme Freeman—who was here for a brief visit—brought to our bench in the preserve a clipping she had made from a foreign newspaper. Following a brief but nevertheless damning overview of our political past—written in a tone oozing with condescension—the article carried the claim, based on unnamed sources, that over the last year half of all government revenue had been diverted to special private accounts, including some linked to the president himself. The author closed with a self-satisfied smirk: “A new kleptocracy is born.”

“Is it true?” I asked.

Madame shrugged, making it clear I was missing the point. “It doesn't matter if it's true. What matters is that it was printed in a newspaper that people actually read. That our
guests
read.”

“What can we do?” I asked.

“Hope there are no more surprises.”

I doubted even she could summon the optimism to support such a wish.

T
he afternoon Mlle Miller's plane was due to land, the boy I had sent to clean her pool came back to tell me he had discovered a problem. The water pump was showing signs of strain. He did not think it would last.

“Why didn't you mention this before?”

“I don't know, monsieur.” His hand went
tap, tap, tap
on his knee.

“You were supposed to have checked it a week ago. Did you?”

He looked away. The tapping increased. “Yes, monsieur.”

“Don't lie to me. I have no use for people who cannot tell the truth.”

“I'm sorry, monsieur,” he said. “It won't happen again.”

“No,” I said, rising from my desk. “That's for certain. I want you gone by the time I get back.”

To be sure, I had to inspect the pool for myself. But even before I opened the door to the shed behind Mlle Miller's villa, I could hear the motor groaning. With just a glance it was clear nothing could be done. A replacement, I knew, would take weeks to arrive.

As I was making my way back to the manor house to tell Madame the news, one of the gardeners met me on the path.

“What now?” I said, detecting on his face yet another impending annoyance.

He stepped aside, sweeping off his hat. “I thought you should know, monsieur,” he said, “there are three men outside the gate.”

“What do they want?”

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Why not?”

“They are white men, monsieur.”

“Very well,” I said. The news about the pump would have to wait.

A
t first I saw just two of them, sitting on the ground with their backs to a tree, similarly attired in wrinkled brown pants, scuffed brown shoes, and white short-sleeved shirts, one of them accented with pinstripes of pinkish red. Around them radiated a scattered array of garbage and assorted belongings—cigarette packs and bottles, a necktie, a comb, notepads, and swollen paperback books. It looked as if the men themselves and everything else in their possession had been dumped out of a sack.

The shorter of the two had removed his shoes and rolled his already shortened sleeves. His tie hung askew of his collar. They were playing cards, and the tall one—even with them seated, there must have been half a meter's difference in height—kept looking down over his companion's shoulder to see what sort of hand he held.

The short man discarded, flicking a black face card onto a small pile in the dirt. Even before the dust had settled, the tall one pounced.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, scooping up the card.

“Bloody hell!” the short one cursed as his friend fanned his winning hand along the uneven ground. He slammed his own cards down in disgust. “I thought I had you that time.”

“You're always giving it away,” said the tall one with a shrug. “I can read you like a book.”

From out of the leather bag at his side the small man removed a silver flask. After a long swallow he wiped the mouth on the tail of his partially untucked shirt and offered a drink to his companion.

The tall one drew a cigarette out of a badly crumpled pack. Along the tracks of his suspenders sweat seeped like water from a bog.

“May I ask what you're doing here?” I said, stepping out of the shadow of the gate. The short one looked up from his flask with a smile, but it was the tall one who rose to his feet, his long legs unfolding like a crane's. “You must be from that big house down there,” he said as he came forward to greet me. “Quite a home.”

“It's a hotel,” I said.

“Is it now? See, I never would have guessed.” And then the tall man turned to his companion to check his reaction, as if this had been a matter of contention between them.

“Marvelous, lovely place,” said the short man, nodding his approval.

“Do you gentlemen have business here?”

“Not as such,” the tall one said. “Not as such.” He gestured for me to wait as he retreated back to the tree and began rooting through his bag. “You could say,” he mumbled around the cigarette, “it's more a matter of pleasure.” And then he rose again, and around his neck he lowered a strap, to which was connected the biggest camera I had ever seen, the lens nearly the size of a man's forearm. “We're birders.”

“That's right,” said the short one, stuffing the flask back into his bag. “We love the bloody things. The colors, all that. Marvelous animals, birds.”

“There are no birds here,” I said. “Not many, anyway. Mostly just crows and pigeons.”

“Crows, cardinals, cockatiels,” the tall one said from his spot at the base of the tree. “They're all equal to us. Real bird lovers don't discriminate. If it has wings and flies—”

“Or doesn't fly,” added the short one pointedly. “Some don't, you know.” He had pulled on his socks, and now he was working on his shoes. “We don't discriminate.”

“Perhaps you could do this elsewhere?” I said.

“Of course,” said the short man, “of course. Here, there, everywhere. We'll go, we'll come back. You have to be flexible. Let the birds be your guide.”

“Right now the birds are here,” said his companion, looking off into the distance. “There goes one now.” He pointed excitedly toward a stand of trees beyond the wall, quickly taking aim with his camera. “Too late,” he said, lowering the camera in disappointment. “Elusive buggers.”

“Unfortunate, that,” said the short man as he removed a similar camera from his own bag. “Just have to wait for it to come back.”

It was then that I noticed something on the other side of the tree—a third pair of brown shoes, crossed at the ankles. From that angle they appeared unattached to anything, as if they had sprouted from the earth. Only as I moved along the gate to get a better view did I see the shoes were indeed connected to feet, and the feet to legs. The rest, however, was hidden behind the trunk of the tree.

“Is something wrong with him?” I said.

The short one shrugged. “A touch of something or other. It'll pass.”

“Could I ask a favor?” I said. “I understand if you wish to photograph the birds, but we're expecting a very important guest.”

“Is that so?” said the tall one.

“Would you mind going somewhere else for a few minutes, until after she has arrived?”

The two men glanced at one another, silently conferring.

“Of course,” said the tall one.

The short one began gathering together the cards spread out in the dirt. “Think nothing of it.”

“I appreciate it,” I said.

B
ack at the manor house, I told the gardener who the men were.

“You might see them taking photographs,” I said. “I told them it would be okay.”

A short time later, M. Gadds came looking for me. From the opposite end of the hall I could see the smirk on his face.

“Birders?” he said with a laugh. “Is that what they told you?”

“I told them there aren't many birds here,” I said as I tried to pass by.

He sidestepped to block my way. “They're here,” he said with evident enjoyment, “to take pictures of Mlle Miller.”

“You must be mistaken.”

Never had I seen him so giddy. “They work for those magazines you're so fond of.”

“What magazines?”

M. Gadds folded his arms across his chest, his lips pursed with condescension. “The ones you keep in your office.”

“I keep them for the guests.”

“In that case,” he said, “perhaps you should consider putting them in the library, where the guests will be more likely to find them.”

At that moment, two of our guests were passing through the lobby—a foreign businessman and his wife—and I turned to greet them.

“If this is true,” I said once the couple was gone, “we have to stop them.”

M. Gadds was already turning to leave. “This isn't your concern. Security of the hotel is my responsibility. Your job is to change the lightbulbs.”

I should not have been surprised that Mlle Miller's visit brought out the worst in him. I had long ago observed this tendency, that his insults grew in direct proportion to the importance of whoever happened to be around. The presence of Madame made him cruel. The presence of a well-known musician made him unbearable. The presence of a world-famous actress made him intolerable. It did not seem to matter that I was usually the only direct witness to these displays. The satisfaction he found in being so unpleasant would likely have been the same with no audience at all. What point would there have been even trying to deprive him of this pleasure? Besides, it was easy to see that it all came down to simple jealousy. He knew it was me Mme Freeman looked to first, my opinions she sought out, not his.

I
n the days following the young woman's arrival, I was so busy I very nearly managed to forget she was here. The first time I went down to Mlle Miller's villas to check on her pool, she was already several days into her stay. It was a little after noon and a collection of deck chairs lay in the sun, but there was no sign anyone had recently been using them. I supposed Mlle Miller had gone to the manor house for lunch.

The pump's motor had gotten neither better nor worse. It was impossible to say if it would survive until its replacement arrived. Resigning myself to returning the next day to check on it again, I closed the shed door behind me.

Over the moan of the engine, I had failed to hear her coming, and I was caught by surprise when I stepped outside and found the young woman standing alone at the edge of the pool, staring at the placid water, her right arm weighed down by a tumbler filled with an amber liquid.

Outside of a magazine, it was the first time I had ever seen her. Mlle Miller looked older than I had expected, and yet somehow younger too. Her face was both dull—as if worn down by age and the elements—and also soft and gently chubby, like a child edging toward adulthood. Hair more brown than blond, it failed to absorb the sunlight swelling on the cement at her bare feet. She was as tall as I had supposed, and thin, her open bathrobe revealing a slim figure in a two-piece swimsuit—green with white spots. I would still have called her pretty, but I sensed she would take no pleasure in such a compliment.