“You’re the mystery, Dixon, not I. I’m but a Pepper-corn in the Stuffata, stirr’d and push’d about by any Fool who walks by with a Spoon, entirely theirs,— no mystery about any of them, dubious set of Cooks tho’ they be, nough’ but the same old Criminals, some dating back to Walpole. But your lot, now,— well, they’re a different sort, aren’t they?”
“Recall last year, Ingenuous,— Clive’s in London by the first of August. By the eleventh of September,— that is, the next thing anyone knows,— the Assignments are chang’d, with thee no longer his brother-in-law’s second, rather leading a Team of thy own, replaced by an unknown Quantity. What am I to make of this? We scarcely know Maskelyne. Who is Robert Waddington, anyway?”
“One of the Lunarian Stalwarts, teaching the Mathematicks out near the Monument someplace, Intimate, indeed Housemate, of one of the Piggotts, those eminent advocates of taking the Longitude by Lunar Culminations.”
“Maskelyne’s sort of Lad . . . ?”
(As Maskelyne will later tell Mason, Waddington from the outset was afflicted with a Melancholy lighter and faster, tho’ no less lethal, than the traditional Black sort. “So how be ye, Robert?”
“Two weeks in Twickenham, how am I suppos’d to be? Strawberry Hill, Eel-Pie Island, haven’t I seen it all?”
“Yet the Fishing, ’tis said— ”
“Oh, Bleak easily the length of a man’s hand. Ye take ’em with a Maggot that dwells only upon that Reach,— quite unknown to the rest of Britain. And if Beetles be your Passion, why, the Beetle Variety there! Fair stupefies one.”
“Piggotts all well, I trust?”
A long stare. “Where’s the Local ’round these parts, then?”
“A moment’s Walk, tho’ not as easy to get back from.”
“Hum. Bit like Life, isn’t it?”
And that was in early January, with the Transit of Venus yet six Months off. They were going to be left together upon St. Helena, an island that, according to rumor, often drove its inhabitants insane.)
“Tom Birch did happen to mention that ’twas Maskelyne who’d given him Mr. Waddington’s address. He show’d me his Note-Book. Maskelyne had written it in himself. It appears he preferr’d as his co-adjutor the friend of the Piggotts to the Friend of the Peaches,— thus allowing me to proceed in a single unprotected little Jackass Frigate, instead of his own giant Indiaman, in a Convoy, with half the Royal N. there as well to keep them safe. . . .”
“Allowing Dr. Bradley to step in, obtaining for thee the leadership of an additional Observing Team.”
“And choosing you upon advice from Mr. Bird, Author of the most advanc’d Astronomickal Device in Creation. Yes, yes, upon the face of it, quite straightforward, isn’t it? . . . And yet, d’ye not feel sometimes that ev’rything since the Fight at sea has been,— not a Dream, yet . . .”
“Aye. As if we’re Lodgers inside someone else’s Fate, whilst belonging quite someplace else . . . ?”
“Nothing’s as immediate as it was. . . . We might have died then, after all, and gone on as Ghosts. Haunting this place, waiting to materialize,— perhaps just at the moment of the Transit, the moment the Planet herself becomes Solid. . . .”
“Even by then,” the Revd declares, “upon some Topicks, the Astronomers remain’d innocent. That few usually believ’d this, might have prov’d more than once an Advantage, in their Strivings with the Day,— had they known how disingenuous they appear’d, they could have settl’d for much more than they ended up getting.”
“Oh, Uncle, how can you reckon so?”
“By others who did far less, and receiv’d more.”
“And they’re all Dead,” says Ethelmer, “so what’s it matter?”
“Cousin.” Tenebræ holding a Bodkin in at least an advisory way.
Ethelmer scowls in reply, what was a lambent Spark in his Eyes now but silver’d, cold Reflection.
“Brae, your Cousin proceeds unerringly to the Despair at the Core of History,— and the Hope. As Savages commemorate their great Hunts with Dancing, so History is the Dance of our Hunt for Christ, and how we have far’d. If it is undeniably so that he rose from the Dead, then the Event is taken into History, and History is redeem’d from the service of Darkness,— with all the secular Consequences, flowing from that one Event, design’d and will’d to occur.”
“Including ev’ry Crusade, Inquisition, Sectarian War, the millions of lives, the seas of blood,” comments Ethelmer. “What happen’d? He liked it so much being dead that He couldn’t wait to come back and share it with ev’rybody else?”
“Sir.” Mr. LeSpark upon his feet. “Save that for your next Discussion with others of comparable wisdom. In this house we are simple folk, and must labor to find much amusement in Joaks about the Savior.”
Ethelmer bows. “Temporarily out of touch with my Brain,” he mumbles, “Sorry, ev’rybody. Sir, Reverend, Sir.”
8
As the Days here slip by, whilst the Transit yet lies too distant for him quite to believe in, Dixon, assailed without mercy by his Sensorium, almost in a swoon, finds himself, on Nights of Cloud, less and less able to forgo emerging at dusk, cloaked against the Etesian wind, and making directly for the prohibited parts of town. Somewhere a Tune in the musical Mode styl’d, by the East Indians, Pelog, which they term appropriate to evening, bells quietly with him as he goes, keeping the rhythm of his stride, and he begins to whistle briskly along. After months of being told by Masters-at-Arms that he might not whistle aboard ship, any resumption of the vice comes as a freedom almost Torpedick, particularly here, as he follows these increasingly unlighted lanes of hammered dust, with Lawless Bustle at ev’ry Hand, black slaves carrying gamecocks, looking for a Spot Contest, Bandieten exil’d from Batavia with their Retinues of Pygmies, Women in Veils, Drosters down on business, Sailors to whom ev’ry Port of Call’s but another Imitation of Wapping, and along the way, at each dimmed crossing, Cape Malays waiting with Goods to sell, all of whom have soon come to know Dixon.
“Here, Tuan! Best Dagga, cleaned, graded, ready for your flame . . .” “Real Dutch gin, bottles with th’ original seals, yes! Intact as virgins . . .” “Latest ketjap, arriv’d Express from Indo-China, see? Pineapple, Pumplenose, Tamarind,— an hundred flavors, a thousand blends!” Invisible through the long Dutch workday, life in the Cape Night now begins to unwrap everywhere. Dixon smells the broiling food, the spices, the livestock, the night-blooming vines, the ocean voracious and immense. He is acquiring a nasal map of the Town, learning, in monitory whiffs, to smell the Watch,— pipes, sheep-fat suppers, pre-Watch gin,— and to take evasive action . . . learning to lurk, become part of the night, close enough to slave-borne lanthorns passing by to feel their heat as easily as he may scent the burghers’ wives through the curtains of their sedan chairs,— the St. Helena coffee, English soap, French dampness. In the distance the nightly curfew cannon barks, announcing Dixon’s transition to the state of Outlaw.
He feels like a predatory Animal,— as if this Town were ancient to him, his Hunting-Ground, his Fell so mis-remember’d in nearly all Details, save where lie the Bound’ries he does not plan to cross. Tho’ how can there be any room for excess in this gossip-ridden Town, crowded up against the Mountains that wall it from the virid vast leagues of Bushmen’s Land beyond? as behind these carv’d doors and Gothickal Gates, in the far Penumbræ of sperm tapers, in Loft and Voorhuis, in entryways scour’d by Dusk and blown Sand, these Dutch carry on as if Judgment be near as the towering Seas and nothing matter anymore, especially not good behavior, because there’s no more time,— the bets are in, ev’ry individual Fate decided, all cries taken by the great Winds, and ’tis done. Temporally, as geographically, the End of the World. The unrelenting Vapor of debauchery here would not merely tempt a Saint,— Heavens, ’twould tempt an Astronomer. Yet ’tis difficult, if not impossible, for these Astronomers to get down to a Cha
t upon the Topick of Desire, given Dixon’s inability to deny or divert the Gusts that sweep him, and Mason’s frequent failure, in his Melancholy, even to recognize Desire, let alone to act upon it, tho’ it run up calling Ahoy Charlie. “How could you begin to understand?” Mason sighs. “You’ve no concept of Temptation. You came ashore here looking for occasions to transgress. Some of us have more Backbone, I suppose. . . .”
“A bodily Part too often undistinguish’d,” Dixon replies, “from a Ram-Rod up the Arse.”
Jet slides by in the narrow Hallway. “Don’t forget to-night, Charles,” she sings.
“I’ll remember,” mutters Mason, adjusting his Wig.
Dixon beams after her, then back at Mason, “Engaging Youngster . . . ?”
“She is a fine young Woman, Dixon, and I shan’t hear a Word more.”
“Tell me,” blinks Dixon, “what’d I say?” But Mason has already clamber’d away up the Stairs. Passing thro’ the Hallway a bit later, Dixon observes Mason now in deep conversation with Greet, the two of them nervous as cats. “Mutton again this evening, I’m told,” Dixon cries in cheery Salute. The Girl shrieks, and runs off into the Kitchen.
Mason snarls. “Time hanging heavy, ’s that it? What can I do to help? Just name it.”
“Why aye,— perhaps when the Ladies have retir’d,—” Thus bickering they pass into the Dining-Room. After the Cape custom, the Dutchman has lock’d his front door for the evening meal, which he now regards, smoldering, less predictable than an Italian Volcano.
“I see you have discovered another Cape delicacy, Mr. Dixon,” Johanna in an effort not to get into any verbal exchange with Mason, whilst her husband is in the room, “— our Malays call it ketjap.”
“Girls, don’t even want you looking at it. Filthy Asian stuff,” Cornelius commands thro’ clouds of aromatic pipe-smoke. “Even” (puff) “if something has to be done” (puff) “to cover up the taste of this food.” Another volcanickal Emission, whilst he grimly attacks his slice of the evening’s mutton in Tail-fat. Over the course of its late owner’s life, the Tail has grown not merely larger and more fatty, but also, having absorbed years of ovine Flatulence ever blowing by, to exhibit a distinct Taste, perhaps priz’d by cognoscenti somewhere, though where cannot readily be imagin’d.
Dixon meanwhile is struggling with the very Chinese Concoction, or rather with its slender Bottle, out of whose long neck he finds he has trouble getting the stuff to flow. “Strike her upon the bottom,” whispers Els, “and perhaps she will behave.” Dixon does a quick triple-take among the faces of the women, a Jocularity poised upon his Tongue but peering out warily, not quite trusting the open. He notes, at the far corner of his visual field, Mason attempting to hide behind, perhaps even beneath, the food on his plate. Cornelius, president inside his blue tobacco Fumulus, seems unaware of the tangle of purposes in the room. Greet is playing vigorously with locks of her Hair, trying to remember what her sisters above and below think she does and doesn’t know at this point in the Saga, as against what her Mother believes. What Mason may be thinking is of course unimportant to any of them.
At last, the relentless Supper done, the Vrooms, as is their Custom, retire out front to the Stoep, Johanna and the Girls swiftly choosing Seats to Windward of Cornelius and his Watch-fire, leaving the Astronomers to light what Pipes they may in self-defense.
“There is something irresistibly perverse,” as the Revd then noted, “about a young white woman sitting upon a Stoep in the evening, among a steady coming and going of black servants meant, as in the Theater of the Japanese, to be read as invisible, whilst she poses all a-shine, she and her friends. According to which steps they sit upon, and which are then claim’d by the Feet of young Sparks who might wish to linger, the possible viewing-angles, for both Parties, are more or less multiplied, each combination of Steps having its own elaborate Codes for what is allow’d, and what transgresses, from Eye-play to the readjustment of skirts and underskirts, and the length of time ’tis consider’d proper to gaze. Some Belles like to ‘boss’ their male Slaves about in front of the young men, whilst others wish to be caught gazing after Girl-slaves with unconceal’d envy. Over the Range of their Desires, they are shameless, these Dutch girls of all ages, for they are the Girls of the end of the world, and the only reason for anyone to endure church all day Sunday is to be reminded of the Boundaries there to be o’erstepp’d. The more aware of their Sins as they commit them, the more pleas’d be these Cape folk,— more so than Englishmen, who tend to perish from the levels of Remorse attending any offense graver than a Leer.”
Slowly, gravely, the Younkers dance up and down the Steps in the Evening. Their talk is of Roof-tops, Arch-ways, Sheds, and Warehouses— any place secure from Traffick long enough for a Skirt to be lifted or Breeches unbuckl’d. Johanna keeps looking over at Mason, as if offering to translate. A young Gallant arrives bearing a diminutive three-string’d Lute, and dropping to one Knee before Jet,— tho’ she has delegated the sighing to her sisters,— sings his own original Paean to Cape Womanhood,—
Oh,
Cape Girrl,
In the Ocean Wind,
Fairer than the full Moon,
Secret as a Sin,—
You’re a,
Light Lass,
So the Lads all say,
Sitting on your Stoep, hop-
-Ing Love will pass today . . .
You keep your Slaves about,
As don’t we all,
Yet no one in love is brave,
And even a Slave may fall . . .
In love with,—
Cape Girl,
When South-Easters blow,
Thro’ my Dreams, I know,
To your Arms I’ll go,
Cape Girl, don’t say no.
“And self-Accompanied, Wim!— what is that tiny Object in your Lap that you’ve been whanging your Triads upon, there, and so rhythmickally, too?”
“Found this down at that Market near the Gallows,— ’tis a Fiji Islander’s Guitar, first introduc’d there two hundred years ago by Portuguese Jesuits, according to the Malay that sold me it.”
“I see the Jesuit part clearly enough,” Greet remarks.
“So long as you don’t grasp it,” murmurs Els.
’Tis an open enough Game, with a level of Calculation, among these Daughters of the Low Country, no less forgiving than the sort of thing that may be heard, any slack-time, among the Girls in the Company Brothel at the Slave Lodge,— two distinct Worlds, the Company maintaining their separation, setting Prices, seeking as ever total control, over the sex industry in Cape Town. Yet do there remain a few independents, brave girls and boys who are young enough to enjoy the danger of going up against the Compagnie. Sylphs of mixed race, mixed gender, who know how to vanish into the foothills, and the Droster Net-work, even finding safety beyond, in the land of the Hottentots. Yet ’tis difficult to leave the life in town, to give up that sudden elation, when the ships appear ’round the Headlands, Spanish Dollars everywhere in golden Infestation, every woman in town, from the stoniest white Church-Pillar to the giddiest black Belle in from the Hinterland, at once coming alert, and even sometimes a-jangle. The taverns are jumping, sailors bring their pipes and fiddles ashore, Dagga smoke begins to scent the air, voices lift, music pulses, the nights bloom like Jasmine.
’Tis then Mason and Dixon are most likely to be out rambling among all the Spices armies us’d to kill for, up in the Malay quarter, a protruded tongue of little streets askew to the Dutch grid, reaching to the base of Table Mountain. The abrupt evening descends, the charcoal fires come glowing one by one to life, dotting the hill-side, night slowly fills with cooking aromas,— shrimp paste, tamarinds, coriander and cumin, hot chilies, fish sauces, and fennel and fenugreek, ginger and lengkua. Windows and doorways open to Lives finite but overwhelming, households gather
ing against the certain night. . . .
Greet Vroom slips away with Austra to follow the Astronomers. “They visit different Kitchens, and eat,” she reports back to her sisters, nodding her head, a little out of breath. “They wander about, eating and talking. Every now and then they’ll step into one of those seamen’s taverns.”
“What do they eat?”
“Everything. Half of it is food you wouldn’t dream of!
Out in the Dark where the Malays all feast,
Spices and Veg’table Treats from the East,
Peppers as hot as the Hearth-sides of Hell,
Things that Papa has neglected to tell,—
Curried wild Peacock and Springbok Ragout,
Bilimbi Pickles, and Tamarinds, too,
Bobotie, Frikkadel, Fried Porcupine,
Glasses a-brim with Constantia Wine, singing,
Pass me that Plate,
Hand me that Bowl,
Let’s have that Bottle,
Toss me a Roll,
Scoffing and swilling, out under the Sky,
Leaving the Stars to go silently by.
“Greet,— uncomb’d, sentimental Greet,” Jet gushes. It occurs to no one that what has driven the Astronomers up the slopes of Table Mountain may be, at last, the Table Vroom. The pipe smoke, the Sheep-fat, the strange Dinner-ware, everything, dishes, spoons, Yes even twinkling through the mutton broth at the bottom of one’s spoon, are these,— well, stories,— Battles, religious Events, Personages with rapt Phizzes standing about in Rays from above, pointing aloft at who knows what, violent scenes of martyrdom from the religious wars of the previous century, obscure moral instructions written in all-but-unreadable lettering, and in Dutch withal,— framing the potatoes on one’s plate, or encircling some caudal Stuffata being passed from eater to eater, and rotated as it goes, so that each gets to view a separate episode of some forever obscure doctrinal dispute. . . . Soon enough Mason and Dixon are desperate. Pretending astronomical Chores up at the Observatory, Bowls and Cutlery conceal’d in their Cloaks, they steal away, thinking of Oceanick Fish, African Game, hot Peppers, spices of the East.
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