Peter wanted to tell her, “I have been to your country. I know something of life there—”
He took her to a fine restaurant known as the English Tea Room, where she ate like a perfect lady. Peter doubted that the other fashionable patrons of the dining room guessed that she was not of their class.
When the last cake was done, she licked whipped cream from the tines of her fork and looked up at him demurely. He gave her his own two finger cakes and she finished them, too. Her hunger touched him.
Outside, the air grew cooler, the afternoon waning. The sun was losing its bright power, and he realized with sadness that in an hour or two, the stalls in Mousky Street would be closing, and he would have to return the girl. But first he wanted to buy her flowers—pink, to match the satin ribbon at her waist. They walked several blocks without any sign of a florist or curbside flower vendor.
In his hotel room he had flowers—irises and delphiniums in a tall vase. Not pink, of course, but for lack of any others, he decided to go back for them. He intended to leave her seated in the hotel lobby while he went upstairs, but when they reached the Hotel d’Angleterre, he did not know how to communicate his plan to her clearly. He was afraid that if left alone, she would vanish before he returned. So he took her upstairs with him.
When they entered his room, the Moorish girl looked flustered. She said something quickly in Arabic, and shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” he said, to reassure her. “We’ve just come to fetch the flowers. I won’t harm you.” He opened the shutters and let sunlight rush into the dim room.
Two chairs faced the long window. Peter settled into one, and motioned for her to be seated in the other. He took the purplish-blue flowers from the vase, shook water from them, and dried each long stem with a towel. Wrapping the flowers in a silk scarf, he placed them in her lap.
The window before them overlooked a bridge that crossed the Nile. On that bridge every motley mode of transportation could be seen: camels, wagons, fellahin on foot, fashionable French motorcars. Sunlight burned red glints into her hair. She looked out the window at a minaret.
“Let me show you a picture of my son,” Peter said. He went to his steamer trunk and fished out a silver frame.
He wished he could tell her how Quentin’s small face would appear at the window, two palms pressed against the glass, waiting for his father’s return. As Peter entered the house, Quentin stood at the top of the staircase. The child hyperventilated and ran toward him in such excitement, Peter was afraid that the little boy might tumble down the steps.
Pappy, Pappy, Pappy, Papa—!
To no other person, Peter realized at such moments, does my existence matter so much.
The girl took the silver frame in her hands and smiled in tender recognition. She pointed to Quentin’s mouth, and then touched Peter’s mouth with her fingertips—to show a similarity. Surprised and confused by this, Peter felt the muscles in his shoulders tense; he was not certain how he ought to respond.
He opened the back of the silver frame and removed another photograph stored behind the one of Quentin—an engagement portrait of Erika. The Moorish girl took the photograph of his wife and walked over to the room’s full-length mirror. The young woman touched her pompadour with one hand, comparing her image to the American lady’s, like a little girl consulting a fashion magazine.
“My wife left me,” Peter said bluntly. He pointed to Erika’s face and kept shaking his head. “My wife did not love me.” His eyes watered as he said it. The room had grown so hot that Peter loosened his tie, and ran his hand inside his stiff collar.
The pain in his voice increased. The Moorish girl sat motionless in her chair, the insteps of her white pumps drawn together while she listened. “My wife never loved me as I loved her,” Peter went on. He described how Erika had gone to Italy and left Quentin motherless.
The room filled with stark brightness, the last harsh rays of the day. Atop a minaret a lone man chanted prayers from the Koran, calling others to face east and touch their foreheads to the ground. Peter felt overcome by despair. Why was he reciting his heartbreak to a strange woman who did not know the words he used? What did he expect from her? He had expressed more of his anguish to her than to anyone. Why was it easiest to be open with a stranger whom one would never meet again?
This young woman with her glossy pompadour would soon leave his life forever, just as his wife had done.
The girl touched his knuckles, and let her head fall sideways to show that she respected his sorrow. She stood up. He assumed that she was worried about the hour, signaling that they should leave. Then she surprised him by settling herself on the arm of his chair. She slipped her cool hand against the back of his neck. The hairs on his nape stood up, tingling. He waited for a long moment, and then he put his mouth against hers.
When he led her to the bed, she did not resist. He helped unfasten her corset, for he knew how to unlace it better than she. Her back flexed into a cool little arch as she let the undergarments drop to the floor. Her breasts were small and cone-shaped. He drew one into his mouth and tasted a strange fluid that came from the nipples. He sucked harder— there wasn’t much of it, just a sweet flavor, like dew on a leaf. Against the bed, her arms were flung over her head in surrender, her eyes closed. He heard air catch in her windpipe.
He had not been with a woman in the eighteen months since Erika left. Remembering things that had pleasured his wife, he now did them to the Moorish girl. Startled, her eyes blinked open. She was very young, and perhaps no one had cared about her enjoyment before. Eyelids shut, her head fell back against pillows, her dark hair unspooling from its knot. A humming sound came out of her as they rocked.
Eventually her head thrashed from side to side against the pillow and she let out sharp cooing cries, her black hair loose across her shoulders, her body coming to rest after one final, delicious twitch. Triumphant, he let the girl from Mousky Street recover her breath, and he restrained his own pleasure in order to do it to her again. The second time he imagined that his wife lay under him, and he pumped with vengeance, each pump inflating her with gasps. As long as he was inside her, he controlled the helpless curve of her throat. As long as he stayed inside her, she could not go anywhere.
47
BRITISH GUIANA AND TRINIDAD
My dear Ravell,
Years have elapsed since we last saw one another, and I feel the urgency of so much to say and discuss with you that little of it can be contained in a letter. In fact, I have something important to tell you, but would prefer to talk in person. Let me propose that you and I journey together deep into the wilds of Guiana, as we once spoke of doing, to see the highest waterfalls in the world. Only forty white men have seen the Kaieteur Falls, and it has always lured me, despite the difficulties of reaching such a place. . . .
Three years have passed since Erika moved to Italy, and the divorce is now final. . . .
Ravell had heard nothing from Erika in eight years. He did not know what information Peter might offer about his former wife, but if he joined Peter on such a journey, he felt certain that he would learn more about what had become of her—perhaps even her exact whereabouts. A simple remark might lead him solidly in her direction. Maybe as they traveled upriver, Peter would name a maestro with whom she was studying, or refer to a theatre in Florence where she performed.
Ravell wondered, with trepidation, what exactly Peter wished to discuss with him. For once he was glad that he had never sent Erika a letter, and that she had never corresponded with him. No love letters existed for a wronged husband to stumble upon.
They arrived in British Guiana feeling anticipation, and much curiosity. As he and Peter walked together through the capital, Georgetown, Ravell felt he had never seen such a potpourri of humanity. Along the streets they saw copper-skinned Indians with scarlet loincloths, Hindus with topknots, and Chinese workers with pigtails—not to mention the Portuguese and the British.
They were on their way to meet
a fellow named Manthorne, the person in charge of mail delivery to remote destinations in Guiana’s interior. A friend of Peter’s from the Colonial Bank had suggested that Manthorne might help arrange their expedition to the Kaieteur Falls.
So far Peter had said little about Erika, his allusions to his former wife so fleeting that Ravell wondered if he should dare to ask about her. He felt an unbearable curiosity welling up.
When he and Peter paused at a street corner, a Hindu with his whiskers dyed magenta rode by on a bicycle, but nobody else’s eyes lingered on him. Then a naked man passed by—with hair that stood on end, as if he’d been electrocuted—and not a single citizen of Georgetown turned to gape.
“If Erika were meant to be famous,” Peter said suddenly, “don’t you think it would have happened long ago?”
Ravell did not reply. He hardly knew what to say.
As they hurried toward Mr. Manthorne’s office, Peter’s pace was so vigorous that Ravell had to double his steps to keep up. The drought that plagued Trinidad was worse in Guiana, and they both wondered how this might affect their journey.
“The problem is this,” Mr. Manthorne said. “In this country where rain normally falls every day, we have had scarcely any rainfall in six months.”
“In Trinidad we’ve been luckier,” Ravell said. “Although the drought has been quite serious there as well.”
“I would strongly advise you to postpone such a trip,” Mr. Manthorne said. “Such travel would be most difficult. In certain places rivers are shallow. Even if you did manage to reach the falls, it would hardly be worth it. They’ve slowed to a trickle, eyewitnesses say.”
“How long does it take to reach the Kaieteur Falls?” Peter asked.
“Ordinarily a week. These days—who knows? Rivers have dried up, and crops have been ruined. The country is headed for much suffering.”
Peter was hardly daunted. “I’m afraid we’re a rather determined pair,” he said, and he shot Ravell a conspiratorial smile.
“All right, then.” Mr. Manthorne slapped both of his palms against his desk. “I will get you up as far as possible.” He pulled a blank paper from his desk drawer, ready to list the provisions he’d arrange. “Brace yourselves for a bit of discomfort. Despite the drought, in some spots you’re liable to be thrown out of the boat. You may find yourselves standing on your heads in the midst of rapids.”
“I’m an excellent swimmer,” Peter said. “And so is Doctor Ravell.”
A ghostly mist rose from the river on the morning they started up the Essequibo. Ravell and Peter stayed in the forward part of the launch; the after part carried the engine and crew. To either side of the main launch, another bateau was tied, weighted down with a half dozen black passengers and cargo.
They felt their way slowly at first. On either bateau a man with a pole took soundings. A black boy named Thomas had been assigned to serve Peter and Ravell. The boy prepared a luxurious breakfast for them—with tea, bread and jam, sweet potatoes, and even a chicken that had been roasted earlier.
Even in a season of drought, the river spread a mile wide. Out of the dense forest, a figure in a canoe would appear, and that person would retrieve a fistful of letters.
The crew consisted of two blacks in charge of the engine, two who steered, and a man stationed on each parallel bateau. All of them shouted orders and suggestions. The crew member whose voice blared loudest had skin as dark as oil, and a neck and shoulders so powerful that he awed Ravell. “That one’s built like a gorilla,” Peter said under his breath. Ravell stepped hard on Peter’s foot and glared at him in warning. Did Peter think, in these close quarters, that he could mutter what he liked, and not be overheard?
In the afternoon they struck a rock. Havoc and shouts from the blacks ensued. They reached an area so shallow that crewmen got on either side and pushed and hauled the boat upstream, until they reached a second, smaller launch. Ravell and Peter were transferred into the next little boat with their luggage.
Ravell stared at Peter’s canvas bundles. Inside those bags, along with his pen and writing things, did Peter carry a small book that listed Erika’s address?
Ravell pictured himself waiting on an Italian street corner. When she approached her front door and paused to open her purse and fish out a key, she’d use her teeth to tug the tips of her long gloves from her fingers.
“Erika?” he’d say, stepping out from the shadows. For the first time in eight years, her face would turn toward him.
More trouble came. Rocks studded the stream. Rapids rushed everywhere. Only one bateau at a time could pass through. They eked by, only to find the launch soon wedged between rocks. The crew strained, shoved, and grimaced as they loosened it. Perspiration ran like rainwater down the black men’s necks.
Later, the launch jammed between rocks and would not budge. A cry came: “All men overboard!” Ravell and Peter jumped, their shirts rising like balloons in the water.
The shouting was continuous as the white water roiled. After a black steersman grabbed Ravell’s arm and helped him climb back on board, Ravell shook himself and spat out the taste of the river.
At six in the evening they reached more placid waters, and the sun fell behind the forest wall.
Night made the journey too difficult to continue, so they soon made fast to the banks and prepared to camp. While Peter disappeared through trees to relieve himself, Ravell moved stealthily toward Peter’s old leather valise, and carefully opened it. His nose filled with the sour smell of rumpled clothing. He searched for anything that might resemble an address book, but there was nothing.
Quickly he shut the luggage, his heart punching against his chest. What has reduced me to this? he wondered. Rummaging like a petty thief through another man’s things?
Mr. Manthorne had sent two folding beds for Ravell’s and Peter’s comfort. The ingenious construction of these beds impressed them: each fit into a portable case, each case compact enough to be stored in the bottom of the launch. Mr. Manthorne had also provided mosquito netting for them. The boy Thomas hung his hammock at the foot of their beds.
After supper, Thomas built a small fire for them. The boy helped pull off Ravell’s boots, and then Peter’s. They dismissed the boy for the remainder of the evening so they could be alone.
From time to time, Peter had been taking out a portfolio filled with loose pages and making notes. By the firelight he scribbled a few more lines.
“Are you keeping a diary?” Ravell asked.
“I’m writing a letter to my son,” Peter said.
Ravell sat stupefied. His tongue went dry with the shock of this, and he struggled to continue speaking. “You have a son?”
“Quentin is eight years old,” Peter said.
“Why did you never tell me that you’d had a child?”
Peter sat on the side of the camp bed, his face orange in the firelight, and gave Ravell a look. “I think you—of all people—can guess how complicated that might have made everything.”
Ravell sat on his own bed. He held himself as still as an animal that senses danger, hoping that if he doesn’t move or breathe, and just plays dead, the threat will pass.
“You’ve never had anything to hide from me,” Peter said. “Whatever secrets you thought you were keeping, I always knew.”
Ravell felt his bones lock in place. His neck became a solid pillar, so that he could not turn his head if he tried. His breaths became thin.
In those seconds, Ravell feared that Peter understood even more—a sin far worse than those cuckolded husbands of the Back Bay ever guessed. Even when Ravell became intimate with Erika, he could not bring himself to tell her how profoundly he had deceived her and Peter. Ravell felt it unforgivable, what he’d done. The terrible result still returned to him like the grimmest dream—a dead daughter, a baby whose eyelids remained sealed.
Under the darkness of night in Guiana, down by the banks of the Essequibo, the crewmen had begun drinking. While Peter and Ravell sat facing each other
on parallel folding beds, the crew made alarming noises in the distance. The black men laughed and insulted one another. Overhead in the trees, a howler monkey let out a voracious roar. While Peter talked, Ravell glanced at the dark sky, and tried to keep his heart calm.
After the baby girl died, after Ravell fled from Boston . . . Peter explained how he and Erika had consulted another doctor. When that specialist had proposed a semen examination, Peter found his previous resistance to the procedure gone. After all, he had fathered a child by then, hadn’t he?
When the physician shared the results with him, he’d been confounded.
“But how is that possible?” Peter had asked the specialist. “My wife and I just had a baby girl.”
The doctor had looked uneasy and stopped swiveling in his chair. The specialist asked if Peter had been ill, or if he’d experienced extreme fever in the past year or so. That could have brought on sterility.
Peter had shaken his head, and the doctor became quiet. Together they had felt the implications hanging in the air. Peter inhaled and exhaled and knew that moment would be etched forever in his mind—the fortress of medical books on the surrounding walls, the specialist sitting motionless in his chair, the tufts of hair that grew along the man’s folded hands. The physician decided to say nothing else, so Peter rose and was gone from the office.
Ravell, he had realized at once. Ravell.
Peter remembered the delivery, those moments when the dead little girl was brought forth from his wife’s body. Even in his own grief, Peter had felt a sharp surprise at glimpsing Ravell’s face: never had Peter seen another man look so sad. Ravell’s glasses had been spotted with water until he pulled them off and put his fingers to his eyes. Ravell’s lips had grown wet and he bit down to stop them from quivering.
The Doctor and the Diva Page 29