‘Yes, I know what you mean. I don’t remember my father.’
‘To tell you the truth my memory’s a bit dim too.’
‘Let’s say the father we would have liked to have.’
‘That’s it, old man, exactly. Don’t let your Martini get warm. I always felt that Mr Smith and I had a bit in common. Horses out of the same stable.’
I listened with astonishment. What could a saint possibly have in common with a rogue? Jones gently closed the cocktail-case, and then, taking a cloth from the table, he began to stroke the leather, as tenderly as Mrs Smith had smoothed her husband’s hair, and I thought: innocence perhaps.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jones said, ‘about that affair with Concasseur. I told him if he touched a friend of mine again I was finished with the lot of them.’
‘Be careful what you say. They’re dangerous.’
‘I have no fear of them. They need me too much, old man. Did you know young Philipot came to see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just imagine what I could have done for him. They realize that.’
‘Have you a Bren for sale?’
‘I’ve got myself, old man. That’s better than a Bren. All the rebels need is a man who knows the way around. Think of it – on a clear day, you can see Port-au-Prince from the Dominican border.’
‘The Dominicans will never march.’
‘They are not needed. Give me fifty Haitians with a month’s training and Papa Doc would be on a plane to Kingston. I wasn’t in Burma for nothing. I’ve thought a lot about it. I’ve studied the map. Those raids near Cap Haitien were a folly the way they were done. I know exactly where I’d put in my feint and where I’d strike.’
‘Why didn’t you go with Philipot?’
‘I was tempted, oh I was tempted all right, but I’ve got a deal on here which only happens once in a man’s life. It means a fortune if I can get away with it.’
‘Where to?’
‘Where to?’
‘Get away where to?’
He laughed happily. ‘Anywhere in the world, old man. Once before I nearly brought it off in Stanleyville, but I was dealing with a lot of savages and they got suspicious.’
‘And they aren’t suspicious here?’
‘They are educated. You can always get round the educated.’
While he poured out two more Martinis I was wondering what form his swindle took. One thing at least was certain – he was living better than he had done in his prison cell. He had even put on a little weight. I asked him directly, ‘What are you up to, Jones?’
‘Laying the foundations of a fortune, old man. Why not come in with me? It’s not a long-term project. Any moment now I’ll have the bird by the tail, but I could do with a partner. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, but you never came. There’s a quarter of a million dollars in it. Perhaps more if we keep our nerve.’
‘And the partner’s job?’
‘To complete the deal I have to do a spot of travelling, and I want a man I can rely on to watch things here while I’m away.’
‘You don’t trust Concasseur?’
‘I don’t trust one of them. It’s not a question of colour, but think of it, old man, a quarter of a million pure profit. I can’t take any chances. I’d have to deduct a little of it for expenses – ten thousand dollars would probably cover that, and then we’d divide the rest. The hotel’s not doing too well, is it? And think what you could do with your share. There are islands in the Caribbean just waiting for development – a beach, an hotel, an air-strip. You’d end a millionaire, old man.’
I suppose it was my Jesuit education which reminded me of that moment when, from a high mountain above the desert, the devil displayed all the kingdoms of the world. I wondered whether the devil really had them to offer or whether it was all a gigantic bluff. I looked around the room in the Villa Créole for evidence of the thrones and powers. There was a record-player which Jones must have bought at Hamit’s – he would hardly have carried it all the way from America in the Medea, for it was a cheap enough machine. Beside it rather suitably lay a disc of Edith Piaf, ‘Je ne regrette rien,’ and there was little other sign of personal possession, little sign that he had been enabled to draw much of his wealth in advance for the goods which he had to deliver – what goods?
‘Well, old man?’
‘You haven’t given me a very clear idea of what you want me to do.’
‘I can’t let you into it very well, can I, until I know you are with me?’
‘How can I tell whether I’m with you if I know nothing?’
He looked at me across the scattered card; the lucky ace of spades lay face upwards. ‘It comes down to a matter of trust, doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does.’
‘If only we’d been in the same outfit during the war, old man. Under those conditions you learn to trust . . .’
I said, ‘What division were you with?’ and he replied without the slightest hesitation ‘4 Corps’. He even elaborated a little, ‘77 Brigade’. He had the answers right. I checked them that night at the Trianon in a history which some client had left behind of the Burma campaign, but even then it occurred to my suspicious mind that it was possible he possessed the same book and had drawn his data from it. But I was unjust to him. He really had been in Imphal.
‘What hope have you got for your hotel?’
‘Very little.’
‘You couldn’t find a purchaser if you tried. Any day now you’ll be dispossessed. They’ll say you are not making proper use of your property and take it over.’
‘It might happen.’
‘What is it, old man? Woman trouble?’
I suppose my eyes gave me away.
‘You’re too old for fidelity, old man. Think of what you can get for $150,000.’ (I noticed that the reward had increased.) ‘You can go further than the Caribbean. Do you know Bora-Bora? There’s nothing there but an air-strip and a rest-house, but with a little capital . . . and the girls, you’ve never seen such girls, the mothers had them off the Americans twenty years ago. Mère Catherine can’t show you better.’
‘What will you do with your money?’
I would never have thought that Jones’s flat brown eyes like copper coins had the capacity to dream, yet they moistened now with some kind of emotion. ‘Old man, I’ve one particular spot in mind not far from here: a coral-reef and white sand, real white sand that you could build castles with, and behind are green slopes as smooth as real turf and God-made natural hazards – a perfect spot for a golf-course. I’ll build a clubhouse, bungalow-suites with showers, it will be more exclusive than any other golf-club in the Caribbean. Do you know what I mean to call it? . . . Sahib House.’
‘You don’t suggest I’m to be your partner there.’
‘One can’t have partners in a dream, old man. Conflicts would arise. I’ve got the place planned as I want it to the last detail’ (I wondered whether those were the blueprints Philipot had seen). ‘I’ve gone an awfully long way to get there, but it’s in sight now – I can even see exactly where to put the 18th hole.’
‘You’re keen on golf?’
‘I don’t play myself. I’ve somehow never had the time. It’s the idea that appeals to me. I’m going to get a first-class social hostess. Someone good-looking with background. I did think at the beginning of having bunny-girls, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized they would be out of place in a golf-club of class.’
‘Were you planning all this in Stanleyville?’
‘I’ve been planning it for twenty years, old man, and now the moment’s nearly here. Have another Martini?’
‘No, I must be going.’
‘I’m going to have a long bar made of coral called the Desert Island Bar. With a barman trained at the Ritz. I’m going to have chairs made out of driftwood – of course we’ll make them comfortable with cushions. Parakeets on the curtains, and a big brass telescope in the window focused on the 18th hole.’
br /> ‘We’ll talk about it again.’
‘I’ve never talked about it to anyone before – anyone who could understand what I have in mind, that is. I used to talk to my boy in Stanleyville when I was thinking out the details, but the poor little bugger hadn’t got a clue.’
‘Thanks for the Martinis.’
‘I’m glad you liked the case.’ When I looked back he had taken off the cloth and was polishing it again. He called after me, ‘We’ll have another talk soon. If only you’d agree in principle . . .’
II
I had no wish to return to the Trianon which was empty now of guests, and I had received no word from Martha all day, so I was drawn back to the casino as the nearest equivalent of a home, but it was a casino much changed since the night when I had met Martha. There were no tourists, and few residents of Port-au-Prince cared to venture out after dark. Only one roulette table was functioning and only one player was seated there – an Italian engineer whom I knew slightly called Luigi; he worked with the erratic electricity-plant. No private company could have kept a casino running under these conditions, and the Government had taken it over; now every night they made a loss, but it was a loss in gourdes and the Government could always print more.
The croupier sat with a scowl on his face – perhaps he wondered where his pay would come from. Even with two zeros the chances in favour of the bank were too fine. With so few players one or two losses en plein and the bank would be down for the night.
‘Winning?’ I asked Luigi.
‘I’m a hundred and fifty gourdes up,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the heart to leave the poor devil,’ but on the next run he made another fifteen.
‘Do you remember this place in the old days?’
‘No. I wasn’t here then.’
They had tried to economize on the lighting, so we played in a cavernous obscurity. I played without interest, placing my tokens on the first column, and won also. The face of the croupier grew darker. ‘I’ve got a good mind,’ Luigi said, ‘to put all my winnings on red and give him a chance to recuperate.’
‘But you might win,’ I said.
‘There’s always the bar. They must make a good cut out of the drinks.’
We bought whiskies – it seemed too cruel to order rum, though whisky was hardly wise for me on top of the dry Martinis. Already I began to feel . . .
‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Jones,’ a voice called from the end of the salle, and I turned to see the purser of the Medea advancing on me with a damp and welcoming hand.
‘You’ve got the name wrong,’ I said, ‘I’m Brown, not Jones.’
‘Breaking the bank?’ he asked jovially.
‘It doesn’t need much breaking. I thought you never ventured into town as far as this.’
‘I don’t follow my own advice,’ he said and winked. ‘I went first to Mère Catherine’s, but the girl has got family trouble – she won’t be there till tomorrow.’
‘Nobody else you fancied?’
‘I always like to eat off the same plate. How are Mr and Mrs Smith?’
‘They flew out today. Disappointed.’
‘Ah, he should have come with us. Any trouble with the exit-visa?’
‘We got it through in three hours. I’ve never seen the immigration department and the police work faster. They must have wanted to be rid of him.’
‘Political trouble?’
‘I think the Ministry for Social Welfare found his ideas upsetting.’
We had a few more drinks and watched Luigi lose a few gourdes for conscience sake.
‘How’s the captain?’
‘He longs to be off. He cannot endure this place. His temper will not be right until we are at sea again.’
‘And the man with the tin hat? Did you leave him safely in Santo Domingo?’
I felt an odd nostalgia when I talked of my fellow passengers, perhaps because it was the last time that I had experienced a sense of security – the last time too I had possessed any real hope; I had been returning to Martha and I had believed then everything might be changed.
‘The tin hat?’
‘Don’t you remember? He recited at our concert.’
‘Oh yes, poor fellow. We left him safely behind all right – in the cemetery. He had a heart-attack before we landed.’
We gave Baxter the tribute of two seconds’ silence, while the ball bounced and chinked for Luigi alone. He won a few more gourdes and rose with a gesture of despair.
‘And Fernandez?’ I asked. ‘The black man who wept.’
‘He proved invaluable,’ the purser said. ‘He knew all the ropes. He took charge of everything. You see, it turned out that he was an undertaker. The only thing which worried him was Mr Baxter’s faith. In the end he put him in the Protestant cemetery because he found in his pocket a calendar about the future. Old something . . .’
‘Old Moore’s Almanack?’
‘That was it.’
‘I wonder what the entry was for Baxter.’
‘I looked to see. It was not very personal. A hurricane was going to cause great damage. There would be a severe sickness in the Royal Family, and the price of steel shares would rise several points.’
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘An empty casino is worse than an empty tomb.’ Luigi was already cashing in his chips, and I did the same. The night outside was heavy with the usual storm.
‘Have you got a taxi?’ I asked the purser.
‘No. He wanted to be paid off.’
‘They don’t like to stay around at night. I’ll drive you to the ship.’
The lights across the playground flashed on and off and on. ‘Je suis le drapeau Haïtien, Uni et Indivisible. François Duvalier.’ (The ‘f’ had fused, so it read ‘rançois Duvalier’.) We passed Columbus’s statue and came to the port and the Medea. A light shone down along the gangplank upon a policeman standing at the foot. There was a light shining too on to the bridge from the captain’s cabin. I looked up at the deck where I had sat watching the passengers reel by me on their morning rounds. In port (she was the only ship there) the Medea seemed oddly dwarfed. It was the empty sea which gave the little boat her pride and magnitude. Our footsteps ground upon coal-dust, and the taste of grit lodged between our teeth.
‘Come on board for a last drink.’
‘No. If I did I might want to stay. What would you do then?’
‘The captain would ask to see your exit-visa.’
‘That fellow would ask first,’ I said, looking at the policeman who stood at the foot of the gangplank.
‘Oh, he is a good friend of mine.’
The purser mimicked the action of a man drinking and pointed towards me. The policeman grinned back. ‘You see – he has no objection.’
‘All the same,’ I said, ‘I won’t come up. I’ve mixed too many drinks tonight.’ But yet I lingered at the plank.
‘And Mr Jones,’ the purser asked, ‘what has become of Mr Jones?’
‘He’s doing well.’
‘I liked him,’ the purser said. For a man of such ambiguity, whom we all trusted so little, Jones had a knack of winning friendship.
‘He told me he was Libra – a birthday in October, so I looked him up.’
‘In Old Moore? What did you find?’
‘An artistic temperament. Ambitious. Successful in literary enterprises. But as for the future – I could find only an important Press conference by General de Gaulle and electrical storms in South Wales.’
‘He tells me he’s about to make a fortune of a quarter of a million dollars.’
‘A literary enterprise?’
‘Hardly that. He invited me to be his partner.’
‘So you will be rich too?’
‘No. I refused. I used to have my dreams of making a fortune. Perhaps I’ll be able to tell you one day about the travelling art-gallery, it was the most successful dream I ever had, but I had to get out quick, and so I came here and found my hotel. Do you think I’d give up that security?’
&n
bsp; ‘You think the hotel security?’
‘It’s the nearest I’ve ever come to it.’
‘When Mr Jones is a rich man you will be sorry you did not give up that kind of security.’
‘Perhaps he’ll lend me enough to carry on with my hotel until the tourists return.’
‘Yes. I think he is a generous man in his way. He gave me a very large tip, but it was in Congo currency and the bank wouldn’t change it. We shall be here till tomorrow night at least. Bring Mr Jones to see us.’
The lightning began to play over the slopes of Pétionville: sometimes a blade quivered in the ground long enough to carve out of the dark the shape of a palm or the corner of a roof. The air was full of coming rain, and the low sound reminded me of voices chanting the responses at school. We said good night.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
I
I FOUND it hard to sleep. The lightning flashed on and off as regular as Papa Doc’s publicity in the park, and only when the rain ceased for a while did some air filter through the mosquito-screens. I thought quite a lot about Jones’s promised fortune. If I could really share it, would Martha leave her husband? But it was not money which held her, it was Angel. He would be happy enough, I imagined myself persuading her, if I pensioned him off with a weekly issue of puzzles and bourbon biscuits. I fell asleep and dreamt I was a boy kneeling at the communion-rail in the college chapel in Monte Carlo. The priest came down the row and placed in each mouth a bourbon biscuit, but when he came to me he passed me by. The communicants on either side came and went away, but I knelt obstinately on. Again the priest distributed the biscuits and left me out. I stood up then and walked sullenly away down the aisle which had become an immense aviary where parrots stood in ranks chained to their crosses. Someone called out sharply behind me, ‘Brown, Brown,’ but I was not certain whether that was my name or not, for I didn’t turn. ‘Brown.’ This time I awoke and a voice came up to me from the veranda below my room.
I got out of bed and went to the window, but I could see nothing through the mosquito-screen. Footsteps shuffled below and a voice further off called urgently, ‘Brown,’ under another window. I could hardly hear it through the holy mutter of the rain. I found my torch and went downstairs. In my office I picked up the only weapon handy, the brass coffin marked R.I.P. Then I unlocked the side-door and shone my torch to show that I was there. The light fell on the path leading to the bathing-pool. Presently round the corner of the house and into the circle of the light came Jones.