CHAPTER XI
A week slipped by before we returned the Howells' call. Then, onebrilliant morning, I drove with Bill into Havana and together wetransacted some embarrassing monetary business at the bank. Afterwhich I expressed a desire to go shopping. The sidewalks were quiteimpassable: so narrow that, for the most part, the pedestrians,unhurried, strolled in the hardly wider streets. The shops held me,fascinated. And I was not a little annoyed at the manner in which Billconducted my purchases--here a gorgeous feather fan, there a piece oflace: and in another spot a deadly and lovely bit of Toledoworkmanship, executed with rare finesse on the hilt of a stiletto.Yet, I too, was determined not to return to Green Hill without a trunkladen with gifts for my dear people there. Once, I slipped away frommy husband, who was deep in conversation ... of a political nature,judging from the volubility of the shop-keeper who engaged hisattention ... and, entering a store some five or six houses away, Itried out my absurd and garbled knowledge of Spanish, with terrifyingresults. For the little lady who guarded the delicate linens floodedme with such an impressive flow of wholly unintelligible syllables,that, baffled, I beat an ignominious retreat, followed by her to thevery door. On the street I met Bill, hatless and disturbed out of allproportion.
"Please never do that again, Mavis," he commanded, taking my arm. "Iam not willing to have you roam the streets of Havana alone."
I drew my arm away.
"I am quite capable of taking care of myself," I said with frigidity,"especially in broad daylight."
"This is not Green Hill," he answered enigmatically, "nor yet NewYork."
I started to reply, but a glance from a passing dark-eyed individual,immaculately attired in white, quelled me. I had never beforeencountered anything quite so sweeping, so totally inventorying, soinsolent. I had the immediate sensation that I was in one of thosenightmare dreams, in which one walks upon a public highway, quiteunclothed. Unconsciously, I cast a reassuring glance at my lavenderlinen, and breathed again. I must have gasped, for Bill looked from myblazing cheeks to the wayfaring gentleman. Something belligerent cameinto his eyes, and then he looked into mine, lifting his brows.
"You see?" he remarked.
It was plain that I had seen. I said nothing, but hastened my steps.
"Where did you leave your hat?" I asked sweetly.
We retrieved the object and went to where we had left the car, drivingto a restaurant, high over the harbor, where, on the second floor, welunched deliciously, on palatable creatures sinisterly named Morrocrabs, and other delicacies. A gun boat lay, far off, at rest on theblue waters, and here and there the black funnels of steamers lifteddarkly against a burning sky. People at neighboring tables bowed to mycompanion. Several came over to us and were presented to me: aruddy-faced Englishman, of military bearing, and with an ineffable airof detachment from his surroundings: a member of the AmericanLegation, a lean, bearded man, with an unamerican name and a darkface, reminding me of an ancient Spanish nobleman whose picture I hadonce seen: a fair-haired, attractive boy, and others whom I haveforgotten. And the meal could hardly have been termed a tete-a-tete. Iwas heartily glad of it.
Until the calling hour came, we amused ourselves with a survey of thecrowded districts of the city. An appalling number of tourists passedand repassed us, obviously bent on the same idle occupation. Prettygirls in bright sweaters and tennis-shoes: fat mothers, similarlyclad: and patient, bored men, silent or loquacious, chewing blackCuban cigars, following their women folk in and out the shops. And onthe broader thoroughfares, I saw the Cuban women driving in openvictorias, powdered and wonderfully dressed, regarding the "touristen"with slightly cynical, always beautiful, eyes.
The Howells' great house, a stone structure on the Vadado, was arevelation of formal and chilling luxury. As we waited for Mrs. Howellto come to us in the drawing-room, Bill murmured under his breath,
"'I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!' Isn't it amazing?"
Before I could answer, our hostess swept in, accompanied, almostpreceded, by an overpowering wave of perfume. I had no time to reply,but found myself nodding at him in sympathetic appreciation. Allthrough the somewhat stilted conversation which followed, the statelytea, and the meteoric appearance of Mercedes, as chatty and brilliantas some tropical bird, I seemed to cling to the solidity and confidentfamiliarity of my husband as the one real thing in an unreal room.
But, leaving, I was forced to confess to myself the real friendlinessand cordiality of these alien people towards me, a stranger at theirimposing gates.
It was Mercedes who explained to me that the feminine quality ofHavana did not go a-shopping in sport clothes.
"You would not do it," she said, "on your Fifth Avenue. We do not doit here. It is not the custom. We wear our smartest gowns and ourhighest-heeled shoes."
She made an entrancing little moue at the thought of sweaters andrubber soles. And, with a feeling of commiseration toward mycomfortably sport-clad compatriots, dashing through Havana streets,lavish of exclamation and of purse I was foolishly glad that somethinghad prompted me to look my coolest and prettiest before setting forthon the expedition.
I remember that day well, for it was on the same evening, back oncemore in the palm-enclosed gardens of my new home, that Juan, thenative workman appeared, shortly after dinner, a broad-brimmed hatclutched to his sunken chest, his face working oddly, demanding tospeak to the doctor.
I heard scattered words--"fiebre" and "agonia," and the name"Annunciata" repeated again and again. And, finally, when Bill rosewith a quiet, brief sentence, I caught a long-drawn "ah-h" and "Dios!muchisimas gracias, Senor!" from the old man.
"Juan's daughter is ill," Bill told me quickly. "I'm going with him.Shan't be long. Go to bed, Mavis, you look done up. It's been a longday."
Stopping only to get his hat and an emergency case, he was gone withthe excited, anxious old man, and I was alone in the big room.
Something he had said to me, far back in what now seemed the pastages, came to me vaguely, something about the "poetry of healing." AndI pondered upon it for a long time, till a falling log roused me, andI went to bed. But not until I heard a familiar step on the path did Iconsider sleeping. I slipped on a negligee and went to my door. He wascoming toward me, tired, I thought, and troubled.
"Bill!" I called softly.
He stopped a moment, peering into the dim light which streamed throughthe half-open door into the narrow, long hall which separated ourrooms.
"Mavis!" and then, reproachfully. "Why aren't you in bed?"
"You've been gone hours," I said, conscious of a childish petulance."How is she?"
With a hand on the latch of his own door, he considered me. I musthave looked a sight, half-asleep, my hair in braids down mythinly-clad back. But if he thought so, he did not say it.
"All right now," he answered. "But she was a pretty sick girl. And, ofcourse, they had applied home-made remedies, liberally sprinkled withsuperstition! It looked like a case of ptomaine to me. Anyway, she'llbe on the road to recovery--and more beatings--tomorrow. It was," heconcluded with a smile, "a rather disconcerting evening. Half a dozenpeople praying all over the place, and, when I left, kissing my hands!Lucky I've had some experience in dealing with the natives beforethis."
"I'm glad," I said. "Poor old Juan!"
"It was nice of you to wait up," said Bill suddenly. "Thanks!"
I became acutely conscious of the hour and of my appearance.
"I--I was interested," I said lamely.
"Yes, that's it," he answered, a smile lighting up his worn face,"it's not often that you--honor me."
It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, "my interest is solely in oldJuan and his daughter." But I didn't. It didn't seem quite fair, andwasn't strictly true.
"Good-night," I said, withdrawing, "I'm glad she's all right."
From his closing door his words floated back to me,
"_Buenas noches, cara mia!_"
Annunciata recovered, and to Sarah's outspoken disapproval I had
hercome often to the house. She sewed excellently, and embroidered evenbetter, and I was glad to be able to give her small odds and ends ofwork to do. She was a lovely thing: rounded, and supple, with a clear,creamy-brown skin. But chancing one day to observe her mother on theroad below the house I was smitten with a prophetic horror forAnnunciata's future. For the woman, who could not have been more thanthirty-five was as bent and gnarled as a Northerner of sixty, wrinkledlike a monkey and with something of that creature's patient, ifmalicious wisdom in her eyes. I began to realize that Juan, too wasaccording to our standards a man still in his early prime. I wasconfused by such an ordering of Nature. I said something of this toBill but he only answered, knocking the ashes from his pipe.
"Southern fruit ripens quickly."
"It doesn't seem fair," I said, rebelliously, thinking of Annunciataand her slow, indolent grace. At sixteen I--but perhaps I was not agood example.
"Our girls are children at sixteen," I told him.
"You are a child at--what is it--twenty-two," he answered.
I did not pursue the personal application further. But it was notright that this young thing should be a woman so soon, and so shortlydestined to be old. Youth--and Age. There are no timid blossomings, nogracious gradations in the South.
We were, very quietly, rather gay those days. I had been several timesto luncheon at the Country Club and had met a number of delightfulAmericans there. It was all very new and exciting. And so invariablybeautiful! And I was absurdly glad that Bill ranked very high in theestimation of the other men, as a golfer. Watching remnants of thegame from the long, wide Club-porch, I was astounded by theseriousness with which grown men pursued an innocuous white ball formiles and miles of green turf. Once, in the late afternoon, togetherwith a party of several women including Mercedes Howell, I followed amatch game for a time. The exotic view, the stunted palms, the smalllizards that ran almost from under our feet, animate emeralds, theglimpse of blue water from a hill, enthralled me. But I think that thesmall, black or tan boys who carried the clubs and who bet theirprospective fees with whole-hearted enthusiasm on the respectivemerits of their employers amused me more than anything I had everseen. And it was of course solely from sympathy with my husband'sebony attendant that I knew a certain triumph, when, long after wewomen had tired and returned to the club-house, the men came in, hotand shrieking for cool drinks, proclaiming Bill as victor. He had"saved the game by supernatural putting" his partner, the fair hairedboy I had met in the Havana restaurant, announced enviously.
"You should be proud of him," he added, sitting down beside me.
"I am," I said dutifully.
Bill, en route to a mysterious thing called a locker, paused to cast amirthful look at me, and quite against my will I laughed. I am certainthat the blond one, who answered to the name of Bobby Willard, thoughtme demented.
A number of people called upon us almost every day, motoring out forluncheon or tea. Our little household ran smoothly, and happily. Sarahand Nora gradually became excellent friends, and, evenings, I wouldoften hear Silas's low voice in the kitchen, and going in to consultNora, would surprise his lean form, sprawled in a kitchen chair, twolegs of it off the floor, smoking his inevitable cigar, a coffee-cupat his elbow. To Wing and Fong, Sarah, to my astonishment, perceptiblyunbent. It was apparent that the two silent little Asiatics regardedher with admiration and awe. Bill suggested that she was doubtlesstrying to convert them. But I could not believe that!
Peter was perhaps, the most whole-heartedly happy of any of us. Neververy far from Silas's side, he assumed a lordly dictatorship over thenatives, and picked up an amazing amount of Spanish, in his excursionsabout the plantation. Silas taught him to ride, too, on a lean littleCuban horse, and would ride out with him, in the early mornings,tremendously amused at the grave manner in which Peter would returnthe white-toothed salutations of the passersby. In those days, also, Ielected to oversee Peter's neglected education, and, with moreambition than efficiency, would devote the half hour before his suppertime to teaching him to read. Bill, with his pipe and his newspaper,would attend these sessions, from a far corner of the room. And Icould not refrain from reflecting how, to an unenlightened observer,very domestic we would appear. That the thought had not escaped Bill,too, was apparent by a remark he made one evening. Coming to themantel-piece, he looked at the two of us for some time, and said,
"You make a charming picture, you two children. Exemplary," he addedwith a smile.
I made no comment, but bent lower over the page on which the pregnantlegend, "This is a cat," appeared in large letters, flanking anappropriate illustration.
Those were days, even, and uneventful in the larger sense. There werevarying episodes, incidents, which however did not break into thecontinuity of a life that seemed a half-waking dream. Once, I wentfishing with Bill and Bobby Willard. It was pleasant, drifting overthe peacock-blue waters, and of our not inconsiderable catch nothingremains in my memory save the almost unnatural beauty of certaingorgeous fish, colored red and blue and purple, with little sail-likefins.
I had my first swimming lesson in many years, at that time too. Andthe picture of the beach, the feel of the velvet-soft, brilliantlyblue water, the laughing people and the many children, stayed with mefor a long time. At my second dip, I actually swam three strokes, not,however, without Bill's solidly protective arm. He swam magnificentlyhimself. Mercedes Howells, transformed into a most seductive mermaidby a bright green bathing suit, was most outspoken in her admiration.
"What a wonderful figure," she said, in a wholly audible aside to me.
I was forced to agree, but swallowed a good deal more water than wascomfortable in the process.
Bill, in spite of his vigorous exploits in the water, seemed contentto spend most of his swimming hour with Peter and me. But after he hadsent us to the bathing pavilion to dress, he swam far out to joinMercedes, and when I came from my cubicle again, they were just comingout of the water together, a splendidly matched pair, laughing, vital.A curious languor came over me as I watched them walking across thebeach.
"You're tired," said Bill, dripping before me.
"A little," I admitted.
So after that, I swam rarely. The ride in from Guayabal was long andtiring. And once or twice a week, I stayed at home, while Bill wentforth in the motor, to golf and swim, coming back in time for dinner.
I was never bored. There were letters from Father to answer: adifficult diplomatic task; letters too, from the Goodriches, who weredashing about the Continent at a breath-taking speed. Peter had halfan album filled with postcards before his parents had been on theother side two weeks! And of course I had to take innumerablesnapshots with the little kodak Bill bought me in Havana, in order topictorially report Peter's progress. Uncle John wrote often, sometimesto Bill, sometimes to me, and now and then to us both jointly. Theadvent of the mail was a real joy. No one seemed to forget us,everyone demanded an immediate reply. And it was difficult not to putoff letter writing until the morrow. For I had not been in Cuba morethan twenty-eight hours before the "manana philosophy" had laid holdof me.
In my secret drawer a little pile of poems grew. I was amazed at theway the songs came to me, sang in my brain and would not be stilluntil I had put them on paper. In my heart, I harbor a timid ambitionof one day showing them to Uncle John. If he would publish them,privately, I could send a copy to Richard Warren. After all--they werehis: his and Cuba's and mine own.
Between tea and dinner, the days when Bill was not at home, I wouldwalk. Sometimes with little Peter, or with Annunciata, sometimesalone, save for little Wiggles. Little by little I grew to know thenatives by name and station: went, even into their one-roomed houses,dark and smoky, thatched with palm leaves, and odorous with charcoalstoves. One amusing acquaintance I made was that of old Manuel, wholived not for from our gates. Annunciata took me there, affirming thatof all the Guayablan sights, this was one I must not miss. Bill washorrified to hear of my call at Manuel's pitifully poor dwelling. Bu
the went there himself later, to see if in any way, he could alleviatethe very obvious poverty and probable suffering of the ancientcreature. For the tradition had it that Manuel was one hundred andtwenty years old. Certain it was that he remembered Havana when it waslittle more than a cow-pasture. Age had shrunken him to the stature ofa child, but his eye were still bright, his features cleancut, hisgrey hair and beard still curling and vigorous. The village peopletook a certain pride in their ancient, and he did not lack forvisitors. Propped up on a make-shift bed, wrapped in rags, from whichhis bare thin legs protruded, he received me with great dignity. Andwe talked for fully half an hour: that is to say, Annunciata talked,and Manuel talked, and now and then the former would translate aphrase or two into her scanty English. It was from Bill, however,that I heard most of the old man's story.
It was on one of my solitary excursions that the sudden nightsurprised me, a quarter of a mile from home. The smoke-blue rim ofmountains grew black and menacing, and the song of the light winds inthe palms turned to a sinister whispering. With Wiggles at my hurryingheels, I fairly fled through the night, ashamed of my unreasoningterror. A group of Rurales, the native soldiers, passed me with aclatter of hoofs. Later, a bare-footed native, riding saddleless,singing in a curious, eerie monotone, to ward off the evil spirits,rode slowly by. There was a heavy perfume in the air, and a young moonswung delicately into view. But I had no heart for beauty, and almoststumbling into the hedge of Spanish Bayonets which fringed ourproperty, I came through the open gates into the light from the house,with a half-sob of relief, and an exceedingly youthful fear ofjustifiable chastisement. But it was some ten minutes after I had comehome, that I heard the car, with Bill at the wheel, swing up to theportico. That evening, discussing the past day, I refrained frommentioning my little adventure. For it was an adventure, mysterious,strange, and somehow terrifying.
The evenings were pleasant. We read a great deal, aloud, and I wassurprised to find my husband no mean critic, widely read, and withkeen appreciation. We sat, always before the fire, and much of thetime I would forget to listen to the sense of the words, hearing onlythe sound of the attractive, flexible voice, and watching the flameson the big hearth. I never wearied of that. There was a wonderful poemin the logs, flowering blue and rose, gold and scarlet: charring towhite and red, which seemed like some extraordinary fungus-growth:singing and flickering, intensely alive in disintegration.
And so the days drew into March, and still we lingered. Bill,persuaded by neighbors that even May was bearable in Cuba, spoke ofstaying at least until the middle of April. I did not care. Father wasstill in Canada, and Green Hill would have been empty without him. Itwas a Lotus-eater's life and I was content. The sight of the great,purple orchids, fragile and almost unbelievably beautiful, clinging tothe palm-trees, was enough to keep me happy for a whole day. To lookfrom the windows through the luxuriance of the bourginvilla vines tothe golden-freighted orange-trees was a rare delight. To see thecane-fields in the wind, the hibiscus under a noon sun, the peacockspacing the white walks before sunset, was to live a poem. If, now andthen, on still nights, a restlessness and nostalgia for somethingkeener, sharper, something unnamable and unknown, would seize me, itwould vanish again before the breathless, expectant dawn. And, if onegrew melancholy, there was always Arthur to turn to--a bird,philosophic and unexpected, who had developed a feud with Wiggles. Towatch the two of them, Arthur resplendent and mocking on his perch,Wiggles, a black lump of outrage dashing up and down before the doorof the wire cage, which was as big as a small room, was a sight todispel dull care. And from someone, Arthur had learned endearingnames. "Pretty darling!" he would articulate, his head flirtatiouslyto one side, his beady eyes fixed on mine, his claw extended withquite the grand manner. And, when, nettled by his tone, I wouldadvance to the cage, he would slide off to the other end of his perchand demand bleakly, "Coffee! Gol dern! Bow wow wow!" a climax thatnever failed to arouse Wiggles to frenzy.
And so, between beauty and laughter, firelight and sunshine, we trod,all unknowing, perilously close to tragedy.
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