The Ghost Apple (29 page)

Though I was very much distracted by hunger, and indeed wretched in every respect, it did occur to me to wonder why there were no more visible signs of the chaos that reigned in the interior of the island. Indeed, it might have been a day like any other, with tourists snapping photographs, and locals accosting them, and policemen with saturnine expressions lounging on the street corners. I had only the smoke, and a brief glimpse of a Big Anna military convoy, to convince me that the events of the last days had been no dream.

Upon the corner opposite was a coconut seller of East Indian appearance, as indeed there are many East Indians in the island, descendants themselves of coerced laborers. I fancied that this man was now looking at me with an expression of particular attention, though all this time he was speaking most demonstratively with an American woman who stood sipping the coconut water from a colored straw. When she had gone, he stood watching me for some time longer and then took up his machete and began cutting the rind from a coconut, and making an opening at the top, and then he came over to where I was and presented the coconut to me, saying that I looked as if I could use it.

I drank the coconut water, which was not sweet, but rather of a cooling, astringent mineral flavor, and directly I felt stronger, and told the man thank you. He said once again that I looked as if I could use the coconut, and he asked if I knew that coconut water was the most healthful substance to be found in the natural world, being almost identical in the balance of its minerals to the humors of the body. I replied that I believed it. He then divided the empty coconut into several sections and cut the meat from the rind, handing it to me piece by piece, and I ate it, though it hurt my stomach, for never had anything tasted so wonderful.

The coconut seller did not press me to give an account of myself, but my eyes filled with tears at the kindness he had shown me, and feeling that I could trust him, there being nothing but goodness in his eyes, I revealed myself to him, and told him my story, omitting only that part which concerned the killing of Mr. Cavendish, for I could not bear to think of that now. He was amazed at my relation, and could scarcely believe his ears, frequently asking me to repeat myself, and to elaborate a point, and to return to a previous one, talking all the while in an excited voice. When I had finished, both of us had tears in our eyes, and he insisted that he would do all he could to help me, and more.

Though I had intended to call my parents as soon as I was able, yet now, much to my surprise, I found that I did not relish the idea of such a phone call, for indeed how could I explain to them what had happened? I will go so far as to say that I felt a kind of embarrassment, as if my predicament had been some fault of my own.

For this reason I resolved to determine whether William Brees was still in the island, if indeed he had come in the first place, and to do that I had only to find a computer, for I knew that he updated his Facebook profile religiously, thus preserving a record of all that he did and thought, and of everywhere he went. Therefore I asked the coconut seller if he could lend me a few pennies so that I could buy myself a few minutes in a nearby internet café, and this he was most eager to do.

I can hardly describe the delight I felt when I set my fingers upon the computer keyboard, and watched the glowing windows flicker and dance before my eyes, for it was as if I were home already. In a matter of moments I had the information I sought, for I discovered, to my great relief, that William Brees was indeed still in the island, and that he was staying nearby, in a bed-and-breakfast called A Piece of the Indies. I was greatly comforted, for I had no doubt that he would be eager to help me, and now I could delay that conversation with my parents, the thought of which was the source of such complex feelings, and painful emotions.

I asked the coconut seller to direct me to A Piece of the Indies, which he promptly did, and I arrived there after a walk of no more than ten minutes. It was a pretty house, embosomed in sweet-smelling shrubberies, and in the brilliant sunshine it seemed so far removed from the plantation upon which I had lately toiled that for the briefest moment I felt as if I had come to a different island altogether, and I remembered those dreams of tropical sunsets and soft air that had so enchanted me as I sat beside my radiator at Tripoli three or four months before. This impression was confirmed by the sense I had that no one in the city had any information about the violence in the interior. Indeed, were it not for the smell of the burning cane, I might have thought it had all been a dream.

I found Dean Brees in a state of prostration, so sick was he with an unnamed fever, and indeed I will venture to say that he was made sicker still by the abhorrent prescriptions of his physician, who had forced him to swallow all manner of foul tinctures and suspensions, and indeed to violate his nether-parts with a most curious instrument, for the doctor had diagnosed a venereal complaint, when in fact Dean Brees was probably suffering from nothing more than the flu.

Here, at last, after all my trials, I wept, and I wept not because my ordeal was at an end, though of course I felt the greatest relief on that account, but because I was now in the company of a man who had never been anything but kind to me, and who respected the choices I had made, and in front of whom I knew it was safe to weep. Nor did he fail to comfort me as best he could, though he was very weak, and feverish. Thus it was that sitting there with him, and looking down upon him where he lay sweating and shivering, I realized that although we could hardly have had less in common, he, and not Professor Kabaka, was the person after whom I ought to model myself, for he had taught me that simplest and most valuable of human lessons, the importance of kindness.

I placed a cold washcloth on his brow and then I took some money from his wallet and purchased him some Tylenol at the corner store. Then I undertook the preparations for our departure, purchasing two plane tickets with his credit card, packing his suitcase, and obtaining for myself some new clothes. He was soon feeling much better, and though he was not yet well we took ourselves off to the airport, whence we departed that very night. But of this I will say no more, for my deliverance was at hand, and my own sufferings at an end. Thus I bring my narration to a close, leaving the island of St. Renard stretched out below in the warmth of the Caribbean night, suspended as it were between the bloody past and the uncertain future.

Undercover Dean: Blog Post #8

Even though I hadn’t seen any of the plantations or factories, my dinner at Mr. Price’s house seemed to confirm all the worst things I’d ever heard about the business ethos of Big Anna®. It made me embarrassed to be an American. So I can’t say I was surprised when I began to hear rumors of strikes and other conflicts on the island.

Commandant Kabaka had made it clear that he wouldn’t shrink from violence, but he didn’t post news about actual events, and I was having trouble getting concrete information about the situation in the interior of the island. One day the air was full of sweet smoke, and another day I saw three fierce-looking black men tramping down the street with rifles on their shoulders, but the
Saint Renard Times
was always full of the same tourist stuff: “Peggy Nutmeg to Perform at High Times Casino!” “Pompey’s Makes the Best Conch Fritters in the Caribbean!” Every day I was more concerned about Megan and the other Tripoli students, but it was impossible to arrange transportation to the interior.

One morning, two or three weeks after the dinner at Mr. Price’s house, I woke up feeling a little strange. There was a kind of echoing or reverberating noise in my head, and I almost fell over as I got out of bed. I chalked it up to a bad night’s sleep and went down to the courtyard for some coffee.

Downstairs, I saw a group of young men and women I didn’t recognize. They were dressed formally—the men in carefully pressed suits, the women in lacy gowns of the sort that Lady Nugent had been wearing—so I assumed they were here on business and I decided to ask if they knew anything about the political situation. I called one of the young men over and put the question to him directly:

“Can you tell me anything about the strikes and conflicts in the interior? I’m concerned about a friend of mine.”

But my voice sounded strange to me, and suddenly I began to sweat. It was like a light going on. One minute I was dry and comfortable, the next my clothes were soaked. I was also keenly aware of my pulse, which was strong and fast, like the ticking of a watch.

“We represent the Free Produce Society of Pennsylvania,” the young man said. “We’re organizing a boycott of all slave-grown produce, and that includes everything marketed under the Big Anna® trademark.”

He passed me a flyer, which I’ll reproduce here because it made a powerful impression on me at the time. In my feverish state, I felt certain that I’d found a way in which I could contribute to the struggle against Big Anna®. The flyer read as follows:

WHEREAS
there are many persons, who while they deplore the existence of Slavery, indirectly contribute to its support and continuance by using articles derived from the labor of Slaves:—And whereas we are satisfied, that by a proper union of reasonable efforts, articles similar to those which are thus produced, may be obtained by
free
labor:—And believing that the general use of such articles among us as are raised by Freemen, will gradually establish a conviction in the minds of those who hold their fellow-creatures in bondage, that their own interests would be promoted by the increased quantity, and more ready sale, of their produce, resulting from the change of the condition of their Slaves into that of hired Freemen:—

Therefore,—We whose names are hereunto subscribed do agree to form an Association under the title of

THE FREE PRODUCE SOCIETY OF PENNSYLVANIA

The anachronistic language seemed just right, and I had a wild idea that by making this analogy with the bloody past, which we were all supposed to have transcended, they’d have no trouble shaming people into joining the boycott. How could any good person argue against it, after all?

But then, almost as quickly, my spirits fell once again. One of the young men was outlining his plans for the boycott, but although I strained to listen, it was like I had couch cushions tied to my head. I was still sweating buckets, and now I worried that my tongue had started to taste funny. I could hardly tell if it was today or yesterday or two hundred years ago.

“We think the practice of slavery is morally, religiously, and economically indefensible . . .”

There was a mango tree next to the pool, and for the first time I realized that it was hung with miniature fruit. It came to me suddenly that it would soon be dropping big sticky mangoes all over the pool deck.

“Who’ll clean it up?” I said.

I thought I should tell someone to snip the little mangoes off right away, before they could cause any trouble.

“Just bring me a ladder and I’ll do it.”

But suddenly the mangoes started to swell and burst, and hunks of sweet fruit fell into the pool with an offensive
plop plop
sound, and I thought I was dreaming, and do you know what? I
was
dreaming!

When I came to, one of the young men was holding me by the shoulders and another was standing very close, looking into my eyes. The sharp shadows of the royal palms seemed to bite into my skin.

A doctor had been summoned. Mr. Codrington, the proprietor, brought me a cup of sage tea.

I spent the rest of the morning in bed, alternately sweating and freezing, clicking the air conditioner on and off, and drinking cup after cup of this mysterious sage tea, which was delicious. When I slept, I had ferocious nightmares. In one of them, two slave girls cut Bish Pinkman III into small pieces and fed him to me. I kept trying to refuse, but they wouldn’t hear of it, and eventually I decided that it would be impolite to disdain this food they’d taken so much trouble to prepare, so I ate the bloody hunks with a smile of gratitude.

I woke up later to find the doctor standing beside the bed with Mr. Codrington.

“I sometimes think this island is incompatible with virtue,” Codrington was saying. “A young man arrives, and no sooner has he stepped off the boat than he feels he can now drink, wench, and blaspheme without a sigh or a blush.”

There was no doubt that he was talking about me, even though I was older than he was.

“He simply continues until a premature death puts a period on his sufferings and excesses.”

Seeing that I was awake, the doctor gave me a very stern look and offered me a slip of paper. It was entirely filled with dark, cramped handwriting—a prescription—and even now, back home at Tripoli and restored to health, I can only make out the first two lines:

R. Vin. antimon. Zip.    sign.
puke
.

R. Sal. catt. amor. Zip.    sign.
purge
.

“The prescription,” the doctor said, “is one vomit, two boluses, one phial of injection, an electuary, and a purge, all marked thus, and you are to be rigidly strict in taking them as follows: The first night you are to take the vomit by swallowing a tablespoonful every ten minutes by a watch until it operates, then to work it off with large and repeated drafts of lukewarm water, until you puke seven or eight times . . .”

I tried to interrupt him, but he raised his hand and continued. He went on and on. Codrington was writing it down. I simply closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.