“It’s a big one, son. I’m aimin’ to have a look at the company’s books.”
“He might let you do that.”
“Might?”
“Harry, Monsieur Duval is not one of your mule drivers. You have to remember the man is astute, smart as hell, and somewhat of a power in Port-au-Prince.”
“Well, mebbe you’re right. But rememberin’ ain’t always easy.”
“Nothing’s easy,” I said, suddenly feeling obscurely oppressed, as if the whole turbulent history of Haiti were weighing me down.
When we arrived at the distillery that evening, we were informed by the night watchman that M. Duval had gone. There was a note:
Sorry, but other business calls me away. However, I shall be home at nine. I have the papers with me. Why don’t you and your father join me for a late supper?
Harry said, “I’ve had my supper. Go on without me, son. I’ll catch the papers tomorrow.”
Riding up to Belle Vue, I reflected on the Duvals, on Aurore in particular. Removed from her presence, I could contemplate her more dispassionately. A fascinating young woman, but—instinct warned me—one to keep at a distance. There was an intensity about her, an all-or-nothing air that I sensed in the commanding flash of her gray eyes, the set of her chin, in the seductive, knowing way her lips curved into a smile. Perhaps she was not purposely luring me on, as I sometimes supposed, but merely reacting in the usual flirtatious manner so natural to pretty girls.
Whatever her feelings, I’d have to take care not to become seriously embroiled with Aurore. For in the back of my mind there was always Sabrina, my cool, virginal, desirable Eve. No other woman could banish her image, the heart-shaped face, the gentian-blue eyes so direct and without guile, the petal mouth so sweet under, my lips. I still recalled her kisses with love and pain, still asked, Why, Sabrina? Why didn’t you love me enough to leave Invernean with me?
Entering the gates of Belle Vue I felt such a stab of longing I almost turned back. But M. Duval was expecting me. And, indeed, as I rode up he was standing on the verandah, smoking a cigar.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the distillery,” he said. “But”— peering behind me—“your father . . . ?”
“Gives his excuses. He wanted to retire early, since we are leaving in the morning for the interior. ’ ’
“Ah, yes. Well, do come in.”
We drank a special golden rhum and later, with a light supper of boiled shrimp and rice, a white wine that tasted faintly of anise. Aurore and her mother discussed a church fete to be given on Saturday for the benefit of orphans and wayward girls. Duval and I talked about the distillery.
Though the servant kept replenishing our glasses I made a point of imbibing moderately—at least I thought so. When I got up from the table, however, I had a sudden attack of giddiness. I tried to hide it, but Aurore must have noticed.
“Has the rhum caught up with you?” she asked in a low voice as we entered the drawing room for coffee.
“I—I believe it wassh the wine,” I said, my tongue suddenly gone thick.
“Why don’t you slip out and sleep it off?” she suggested. “There’s a summerhouse at the bottom of the garden. I’ll have a servant show you the way.”
“The papersh ...”
“I’ll explain to Papa.”
“I’m so embarr—embarr . . .” I couldn’t get my recalcitrant tongue around the word.
“Never mind. You won’t be the first guest to enjoy our summerhouse under the same circumstances.”
I don’t quite remember how I got there. I vaguely recall the tropical night alive with the sound of insects, the lizards tshik-tshaking, the bull frogs barking and the moonlight catching the spray of a fountain in silvered iridescence.
I think I stumbled on a step, and a hand at my elbow steadied me. Then I was sinking down into softness and the blessed coolness of crisp clean sheets fragrant with sandalwood.
I awoke to find myself on a bed shrouded in mosquito netting. Beyond the bed a series of wide, floor-length French windows looked out at the moon-drenched garden. A candle flickered on a chest to the right.
My head was clear, my senses curiously heightened. Everything stood out sharply—the slats of the drawn-back jalousies, the gilded fretwork of the overhung roof, the dark-green bushes beyond. I was naked. Someone had undressed me, then covered me with a sheet.
When I sat up, a figure detached itself from the shadows.
“Awake, Monsieur?”
It was Aurore.
“Yes.” Somewhere in back of that cleared brain of mine a thought nudged me. Had Aurore removed my clothes? God! But then I remembered she had said a servant would show me the way. The hand on my elbow must have been his.
“Thirsty?” Aurore asked. She was dressed in some sort of filmy white robe that fluttered as she came toward the bed.
“Yes. I could do with a drink—not rhum, please.”
She laughed. A pitcher and a glass stood on the table by the candle as if waiting for my request. She filled the glass, then parted the netting. “This will help.” And when I hesitated, she added, “The juice of oranges and limes. Rather tart, but refreshing, and, I assure you, not intoxicating.”
I couldn’t see her face but felt the touch of her hand as she gave me the glass. The drink was sour, as she promised, but it cooled my parched throat.
“I ought to go,” I said, but without any sense of urgency.
“Rest awhile,” Aurore said. “The night is young.”
I leaned back on my elbows, watching the play of moonlight beyond the window. Aurore went around the bed, lifting and pinning the netting aside.
“In the daytime you can see quite a bit of our flower gardens from this window,” she said. “There is such a variety of blooms: lilies of the Nile, oleander and hibiscus, poppies, frangipani. And the orchids—such colors! Lavender and cream, yellow, gold, and brown, great clusters of them hanging from the fan palms and mangoes. A macaw who lives in a cacoa tree close by speaks French, English, and Chinese. He sleeps at night, but in the morning will wake you with his chatter.”
“I shan’t be here in the morning,” I said.
“Ah . . .’’ It was a sigh like the wind—doubting, chiding.
She stood at the window, where the moonlight shone through the garment she was wearing, outlining her figure, the straight back, the curved hips, the shapely legs. Raising her arms, she removed her combs, and with a toss of her head her hair fell to her waist in a dark-brown torrent.
I felt cut in two as I had been ever since awakening—one part of me, the Page Morse that clung to a gentleman’s code of respectability, saying that no decent girl would come to a man’s room in a state of partial undress, and the other part, the male animal, saying, Relish your good fortune.
“Do you believe in magic. Monsieur?”
“Not really.”
“Ah . . .” Again that enigmatic sigh.
“And you, do you believe?” I asked.
“On a night like this, perhaps.”
The moon had sunk lower, flooding the room. The candle flame twinkled feebly as a moth fluttered around it with beating wings. I could see the rest of the furnishings now: wicker chairs, several chests like the one beside the bed, and a round marble-topped table on which stood the carved wooden figure of a male Negro. Ill-proportioned, the legs far too small for the torso, the head elongated, it sat like an ancient idol, its most prominent feature the exaggerated, erect emblem of its fertility.
Obscene, yet curiously erotic. I turned my eyes from it.
“Listen!” Aurore exclaimed, suddenly tilting her head. “Do you hear it?”
I leaned forward. Faintly, no more than a distant rhythmic tapping, came the sound of a drum.
One could not be in Haiti twenty-four hours without becoming aware of the drums and their link to Voodoo, a cult, or religion, about which I knew little.
“Is it some sort of native celebration in the bush?” I asked.
“It migh
t be.”
The single drum was joined by another, then another and another, the tapping growing louder by imperceptible degrees, as if the drummers were moving forward inch by inch at a measured pace.
“Where are they?” I asked.
“Shhh!” Aurore put her finger to her lips. “Listen! Don’t question. Just listen.”
The beat became more pronounced, echoing through the moonlit night, a thrumming vibration that stilled other sounds.
“Do you think . . . ?”
“Shhh!”
The tempo increased and the volume swelled, becoming louder and louder until the air around us trembled with the hollow tom-te-tom, boom-boom! rising, now falling, sometimes receding, but always drawing nearer. Tom-te tom, boom-boom!
As I listened I became aware that I was no longer hearing the echoing drums with my mind. Now they spoke to my senses, telling me of jungle-perfumed nights, of things to be learned, hinting at temptations hardly dreamed about, of wild unbridled excitement. Tom-te-tom, boom-boom!
“Aurore ...”
“Hush!” She threw back her head, lifting her face as if to drink in the pulsating sound.
Louder and louder still; the walls throbbed with tom-te-tom, boom, boom, boom! The rhythmic beat entered my blood, beckoning, calling, drawing me down, down through history to primeval times when men and women lived close to the earth, unafraid of their animal passions. I rose from the bed, telling myself to resist, to leave. It wasn’t too late. Now. I must go! If only the drums . . .
“Aurore.”
She turned to me, her moonlit face reflecting a strange, alluring rapture.
“Can’t you hear what they are saying. Page?” she whispered. And with a convulsive shrug she slipped out of her garment and it slid in a froth of white foam about her ankles.
My fantasies of her unclothed paled before reality. Naked, she was stunning. She stood unashamed, the honey-sweet curves, the ripe breasts peaked with tiny, rosy nipples outlined in the ivory light. In the cleft between those tawny globes hung a little leather bag. A jewel, a charm? I did not know, but the sight of that dangling leather pouch enhanced her nudity, rousing me to hot desire.
She held out her arms wordlessly and I moved forward, the intoxicating drums now coursing wildly through my veins, pounding in my brain, their power drowning will, banishing all thoughts of leaving.
Aurore stepped back from the open window, evading me, though her upturned hands still beckoned. Back and back she receded, now in shadow, now in light. And I followed, step by slow step, lured, drawn, moving as if wading through dark mysterious waters. All the while the drums pounded, surging, rising into a mad crescendo, beating like a gigantic heart. And Aurore, her tantalizing body, the full, thrusting breasts, the slim handspan waist, the rounded hips and tapered thighs, one throb away, the pursued wanting to be ravished, yet teasingly elusive. Leisurely, deliberately, erotically, she retreated, her exquisite face passing through a ray of moonlight and then into darkness again. I advanced—the hunter or the hunted? The marksman or the quarry? But I didn’t care. On I came, matching her step with mine until her back rested against the table on which the black idol stood.
Not a word was spoken. The drums made speech impossible, irrelevant, unnecessary. In the half-light our eyes locked. A step—a world—divided us, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered except that I had to have this woman, this Lilith incarnate. The drums rolled in a wild accolade. I yanked her toward me, crushing her in a savage grip, my hungry lips on hers, drinking in the honey sweetness of forgetfulness.
Aurore—Aurore! Auuurorrrre!
I swung her into my arms. Her long dark hair cascaded like a silken caress over my bare arm as I carried her to the bed. She lay where I threw her, one arm flung out, her eyes closed, the dark lashes dusky smudges on bronzed cheeks. I knelt over her, drinking in the breasts with their flushed, roused nipples, the smooth belly, the thatch of curling hair. Dropping down on her I rained burning kisses over her face, her eyes, her throat. She moaned, her head moving to one side, a fan of hair shielding her brow. I could not wait. Parting her legs I entered her. Joined to her velvety loins I began to thrust with brutal urgency, her very slavelike passivity driving me to a reeling fury. The drums rose to a staccato avalanche of deafening sound as shock wave after shock wave raced through my body.
Collapsed, lying over her, I kissed her forehead, her cheek. She did not speak. I moved away and gathered her into my arms. The drums had ceased and a profound quiet lay over the silver-shot night. Even the insects had fallen silent, all peepings and chitterings stilled. A breeze touched my face and I slept.
When I awoke the moon had disappeared. Beyond the window a passing glow worm winked in the starlit darkness. The clamor of myriad insects, the croak of frogs, and the complaints of lizards had resumed, blending into the backdrop of the tropical night. I turned my head and saw Aurore sitting beside me, watching me, still naked, her long hair thrown back over smooth café-au-lait shoulders. Behind her, two fresh candles with glass shades had been lit. Moths fluttered about them.
She did not speak but smiled at me, her eyes reflecting an intimacy, a secret knowledge, reminding me that I had possessed her.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“There is nothing to forgive.” She reached over and traced the outline of my cheek, my jaw, resting her finger on my lips. I kissed it.
“You are a handsome man, my golden god of the sea. Never have I seen anything as magnificent as you, not even in my dreams.”
She bent down and kissed me lightly on the mouth, then on each cheek. Her hair made a fragrant tent, the tips of her breasts and the aromatic leather pouch touching my bare chest. My arms rose to embrace her, but she pulled away.
“Tell me,” she said. “You have a girl—a love in Virginia— somewhere?”
“No,” I lied.
“A beautiful man like you,” she chided.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, “not now. Kiss me.” And I brought her down, claiming her mouth, forcing her lips open, my tongue twisting and twining with hers.
After a long while she drew away again, looking down at me, her eyes liquid with desire. “Page ...” She kissed me, her lips traveling down to my shoulders, my chest matted with a fine fuzz of yellow hair, her mouth trailing fire, sliding down and down until she reached my manhood, erect again. I gasped when she touched it, heat flooding to the top of my scalp. Her tongue licked and stroked, each caress exciting a spasmodic jerk of pleasure. I felt her lips smile when a long, uncontrollable shudder shook me. Temptress! Heathen! But oh, how I loved it, loved the feel of her tongue, the naked, female skin pressed to my legs, the fragrance of her tumbling hair. When she opened her mouth to receive my rock-hard organ, my hips lifted at the electrifying sensation. For a moment or two I let her have her way, then, close to bursting, I pulled her up with a savage jerk, rolled her over, and entered her. She lifted her legs and wrapped them about my shoulders as I drove deep inside, little cries and moans issuing from her mouth, which was pressed against my throat. I inserted my hand under her legs, my finger finding and gently exploring the tiny nub inside, moist now with feverish yearning. Suddenly her nails raked my back and she screamed in the throes of ecstasy. An instant later I too went hurtling into blinding light.
She held me tightly, still joined to her, whispering something in my ear. Creole? French? I did not know. She was a wild, abandoned woman. Never had I experienced anything like her.
“Do you love me?” she breathed, her lips just below mine.
“I want you, I—”
“Do you love me?” she repeated, moving, nudging me over on my back. “Not want—love.”
“Yes,” I whispered, my hands going to the silky pear-shaped breasts.
“Close your eyes and rest,” she soothed. “I’ll be here, just rest, rest, rest ...”
It was daylight. I was on the bed, my clothes neatly folded at the foot, the mosquito netting drawn all around me. Through its gauzy tr
ansparency I saw the garden, sunlight dappling the colorful flower beds. From the cacao palm came the rustle of feathers and a raucous voice declaiming, “Bonjour, bonjour! Le petit dejéuner est prêt. Good morning! Breakfast is ready!”
Aurore was gone.
On the chest the candles had guttered out, blackening their glass shades. Around them lay a ring of dead moths. The bird cried, “Je I'aime, je I'aime! I love her, I love her!”
And the memory of the throbbing drums, our lovemaking, came to me with a rush of shame.
Aurore, as I had suspected from the first, was a sensualist. No respectable woman, no matter how deeply in love with a man, would do the things she had done. Yet how could I condemn her? Perhaps that dark hidden strain of African blood in her had come to the surface, surging up through the layers of genteel breeding, brought forth by the drums. Yet hadn’t I responded also, enflamed, heedless, driven by a raging need? I had pursued her, following her into the dark recesses of this very room, and in so doing had not only satisfied my lust but betrayed her father’s hospitality as well.
And I had told her I loved her.
That was the real shame. Desire, yes—but not love. There was only one woman I loved: Sabrina. Ah, my sweet, sweet Sabrina. I closed my eyes, as I had done so many times before, to bring her face back, to see in memory those beloved features.
And I could not!
I couldn’t remember her, what she looked like, eyes, nose, hair—a blank. I broke out in a cold sweat as I lay there, my brow furrowed, trying desperately to picture Sabrina. And nothing came. Nothing!
Something had happened to my mind during the night— something—but what? Gripped with horror, I rose and dressed in haste. Slipping out to the stable, I retrieved my horse. I did not want to be seen, to be stopped, so I led the animal through the trees, roundabout to the gate. Once outside, I flung myself into the saddle and galloped down to the town as if the very devil were at my heels.
Chapter 23
Pride's Folly Page 28