The Seersucker Whipsaw (36 page)

“I'd say we've done all the mischief we can, Pete,” Shartelle said that Thursday afternoon as we slumped in the chairs in the living room, drinking iced tea and eating some delicate sandwiches that Claude had taught Samuel to make. Samuel called them “small chop.”

“Now when you get to this point in a campaign, you hold your celebration. You don't wait until you've won, because there's too many folks around slapping you on the back and wondering whether you could find a job for their twentyfour-year-old nephew who just got out of the state penitentiary. And you don't celebrate if you lose, of course, so the only thing to do is pitch your party when you've done all you can and it looks like you just might sneak in.”

“You got an idea?”

“Well, I've been talking it over with the Widow Claude and she knows a kind of retreat over in the next country where it's French and all. Some old boy she knows runs a kind of resort there on a lagoon—they got lagoons in Africa?”

“Beats me.”

“Well, the widow says it's on a nice beach and they got nice little cottages and the food, according to her, is
magnifique,
so I figure it ought to be right eatable. Now if Miss Anne could talk the Peace Corps out of her services for a weekend, why I thought we'd all go over to this resort and sort of relax. I might even get drunk, if I feel good enough, and I'm feeling fine right now. How's that sound?”

“Great.”

Shartelle took a swallow of his tea. “Sometimes you can sense them, Pete. Sometimes you just know when you've won a close one, and that's the feeling I've got now. And I
do
like it! You got that feeling?”

“I think so. My antennae aren't as keen as yours. But I'll be damned if I can think of anything else I can do.”

Shartelle put his tea down and stretched. “You've done well, Pete. Better'n anybody I've ever worked with. Maybe we can take on another one some of these days.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Anne and I arrived at the resort over in the next country, as Shartelle put it, around noon the next day. It was called Le Holiday Inn, but I didn't think anyone in the States was going to sue. It was owned and operated by a round little Frenchman called Jean Arceneaux and he seemed to enjoy the wine from his cellar as well as the food on his table. He was half smashed when we checked in, but Claude had previously assured us that he would be.

Le Holiday Inn was located on a small bay that backed around in an S-curve. The tide kept the white sand beach cleaned off and the water was as fresh as the sea. There were six small, one-room cabins, each with its own tiled bathroom—containing a bidet, which M. Arceneaux pointed to with pride. The cabins were shaded by coconut palms and the beach started almost at their doorways. thatched pavilion with walls that went halfway up served as a dining room. When it rained, bamboo-slatted blinds were rolled down. M. Arceneaux lived in a small house to which the resort's kitchen was attached. We were the only customers.

Shartelle and Claude were to have left two or three hours after we did. Shartelle had wanted to make a final swing through Ubondo's so-called downtown section. “I just want to nose around a bit, Pete. Me and the Widow Claude will take the LaSalle.”

At Le Holiday Inn, M. Arceneaux wanted somebody to drink with before lunch so I obliged. Anne kept pace. M. Arceneaux was not only a noteworthy drinker, he was also a talker. We discussed De Gaulle and M. Arceneaux gave an excellent impersonation. We talked about his liver for a while, and he assured us that the trouble lay in the bad water in the area. He was now confining himself to wine. I remarked that the wine seemed to be running low. A waiter produced another bottle immediately. We drank that and talked about French wine for a while which we agreed was the best in the world. Anne said that she thought California wines were improving, but M. Arceneaux disputed her contention and delivered a fifteen-minute monologue on the history, technique and future of the French wine industry. It was a fascinating, graphic description and Anne agreed that the California wine growers might as well close up shop. We decided to try another bottle of the rare vintage which M. Arceneaux had been saving for just such a special occa sion. We drank it solemnly and agreed that it justified his faith. Then we ate. We began with snails and ended with salad. The entree was what M. Arceneaux described as “boeuf Holiday Inn.” It was one of the best steaks I've ever had. We voted to help ourselves to another bottle of the rare wine, which went especially well with the beef. After lunch, M. Arceneaux presented us with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He announced that he planned to retire for his usual nap, and moved off towards his house, weaving only slightly.

Anne and I decided to sit under a palm tree and look at the bay while we drank the brandy. I carried the bottle; she carried the glasses. There was, I decided, nobody else in the world but Anne and me. I took off my shirt and she took off her blouse. I poured us a glass of brandy each and we sipped it as she lay in my arms while we looked at the bay. I moved my hands to her breasts and she shrugged out of her brassiere. Her hands starred to explore me and she giggled. “Doesn't that get in your way?”

“Well, it would be difficult to walk around with it like that all day. Fortunately, there's a cure.”

“Are there many cures?”

“Quite a few.”

“Are there any we haven't tried?”

“A couple of dozen, I understand.”

“Can we try them this afternoon, right now?”

“A couple of dozen?”

“As many as we can. I want to try everything with you.”

“We can make a start.”

“Can we do it the French way?”

“The French call it the German way. Or the Spanish way.”

“Can we do it?”

“If you want.”

She giggled again. It was a nice giggle. “Let's do it the French way and the German way and the Spanish way and the American way and the English way. What's the Russian way?”

“I don't know.”

“Did they invent it?”

“No. But we'll invent the Russian way. We'll think up something.”

Anne turned towards me and I kissed her and tasted the wine, the brandy, and the sweetness that was her tongue as it moved around my mouth. Her hands were exploring me now in earnest. She unzipped me and said “Oh, let's go cure it.” I helped her up quickly, picked her up in my arms, and carried her into our cabin. We cured it all right, and if there were other national brands, they would have to wait for another day.

Later, I sat under the palm trees with a glass of brandy and watched Anne while she swam in the bay. I decided that I was going to spend the rest of my life at Le Holiday Inn, loving Anne, swimming in the bay, drinking M. Arceneaux's excellent liquor, and eating his unsurpassable food. It was paradise regained.

She came running up the beach, just a little pigeontoed, but not too much, her long blond hair darkened by water but still lovely. She wore a real bikini and I studied her body and the way she moved it as she dried herself with a towel.

“Will it always be like this, Pete? Will we ever quit loving each other so much?”

“No. We'll never quit. We'll live on a beach someplace. I'll drink fine brandy and watch you swim. We'll paint shells and sell them to the tourists. We'll sell Shartelle some.”

Anne knelt down and took a sip of my brandy. She looked at me over the rim of the glass. “I feel so good. I feel as if everything were turning out the way it was always supposed to, but never did. Can we make love again tonight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was thinking about it while I was swimming and I got all excited again. Are you really the world's greatest lover?”

“There is none to compare.”

“I think you are. I think you are the greatest everything.”

“I have no peer. But then you are not at all bad—in bed or out. In fact, you are probably the most delightful person in the world and I love you.”

Anne stretched out on the grass and watched as I took another sip of the brandy. “Will we ever fight?”

“Never.”

“And we'll always love each other?”

“Always.”

She sat up quickly and hugged her knees to her. If a smile can be radiant, hers was. “I'm so happy, Peter.”

“We'll be happy. We've got everything going for us. Everything in the world.”

The horn honked twice. It was the mellow tone of the LaSalle. Anne and I got up. I seemed to have a little trouble making it. It was Shartelle, a hundred feet away, bringing the car to a stop with a display of flashy driving. Claude was next to him. Shartelle got up in the car and sat on the back of the front seat. He waved a bottle at me. I waved back my glass, sloshing a little of the brandy. Anne picked up our bottle and poured me some more.

“How're you, Pete, Miss Anne?” Shartelle shouted and took a swig from his bottle. He didn't wait for an answer. “I'm fine, just fine, thank you kindly.” Claude got out of the car, shook her head in mock disgust, and started towards us. She had an interesting walk. Shartelle stood up in the seat of the car, tossed the bottle away, and then jumped flatfooted over the convertible's door to the ground. It was a mighty leap.

“My, but I'm spry for a man of my years!” he shouted.

“He's also had almost a full bottle of brandy,” Claude called.

He was wearing one of the seersucker suits-with-vest. It looked as if he had just put it on. His shirt gleamed whitely and he sported a bright, solid red tie. The black slouch hat was cocked over one eye. He paused, took out a black cigar, put it in his mouth, and lighted it. He looked at the bay, up at the sky, stretched hugely, and let out a whoop. He jumped up and clicked his heels together. Then he started it—a cakewalk down the one-hundred-foot path to us. I could hear him humming as he came, a tall, graceful man in a black slouch hat, cakewalking his way down the African path. It was a humorous, mocking dance, with trick little pauses, circlings, shuffles and mocking bows. I had seen that funeral procession coming back from a graveyard in New Orleans, and some of them danced the way Shartelle danced. It was part New Orleans, part Africa, and all Shartelle. He kept singing, almost to himself, as he strutted and spun. It was, I suppose, his victory dance.

I finished my brandy, handed the glass to Anne, walked over to a garbage pail and picked up the lid. I started to pound the lid with a stick. It made a fine banging sound.

Then I began to chant: “People of this land bow down….” I banged the lid again, this time in cadence to the words, “The mightiest one of all doth come….” Some more banging. “He walks with greatness in his stride….” Shartelle acknowledged my litany with a wave of his cigar and a spin around. “This master of the sacred vote … this son of lightning, sought by kings….” Shartelle's steps got fancier. He kept on humming, and I kept on chanting: “By Shartelle, the earthmen know him….” I chanted, and banged the lid again. “Know his name from Og to Kush….” Shartelle pranced and I pounded. “Now he comes, this son of thunder … bow yourself before his presence … shield your eyes lest his brilliance blind you … quickly now, he comes this way … mightiest of the ballot warriors … the Seersucker Whipsaw comes thy way.”

Shartelle took his cigar from his mouth and nodded gravely to his imaginary audience, first to his left and then to his right. “I Am the One!” he shouted happily and gave the benediction with a wave of his cigar. “I Am the One!” He took a final leap into the air, stumbled just a bit, and wrapped his arm around the trunk of a convenient palm tree. He threw his head back, let out another whoop, and looked up at the coconuts. “I'm going to sing you a fine old American folk song,” he told them:

Hey! Trotsky! Make a revolution!

Hey! Trotsky! Make a fine revolt!

Chicken à la King in every potsky,

Everything will be all hotsky, totsky!

Hey! Trotsky! make a revolution!

Hey! Trotsky! make a fine revolt!

He looked at us and grinned happily. He took off his hat and held it out, crown down, moving it as if seeking contributions. “Remember the Scottsboro boys, folks. Remember Tom Mooney.” Anne and Claude applauded.

“Shartelle,” I said, “you're drunk.” Anne handed me the brandy bottle and a glass. I poured a drink and handed it to him. He accepted it with his courtly bow.

“I am not drunk, Pete, but I intend to get that way.”

“He sang all the way from Ubondo,” Claude said “He taught me words to some very naughty songs.”

Shartelle looked around. “How's this place, Miss Anne? My, but you are a fetching sight in that skimpy little bathing suit.”

“Why, thank you, Mistah Clint,” Anne said and curtsied, which I thought she did very well considering that she was almost naked. “This is a wonderful place. Pete and I are going to stay here for the rest of our lives.”

“How is M. Arceneaux?” Claude asked. “A little tiddled?”

“Just a little,” Anne said. “But it doesn't seem to interfere with his cooking.”

Shartelle went back to the LaSalle and fetched the bags. “Boy,” he said, “there's a case of some very fine brandy in the rear seat if you feel like getting it.”

I brought the brandy and deposited it in my cabin. Shartelle and Claude disappeared into theirs, emerging a few minutes later in bathing suits. Shartelle slapped Claude on her rear. “Ain't she a fine figure of a woman, Pete!”

She was indeed. Dressed fully, Claude exuded sex. In a bikini, what the imagination had promised was completely delivered. She kissed Shartelle quickly on the cheek and ran towards the water. It was a delight to watch her run. Anne followed and they swam while Shartelle and I sat under the shade of a coconut tree and drank some more of the brandy.

“I reckon I'm going to marry that little old gal, Petey.”