by Otto Penzler
After a while the younger brother, overcome by pity for the zombies’ misery, for his former love had been included in their ranks, broke, from the softness of his heart, the strictest rule which all must observe, that which forbade the use of salt in their spartan diet, for having partaken of salt the zombies would at once be conscious of their dreadful state and rush back to the cemetery in an effort to regain the lost peace of their violated graves.
Included in this saga was a stupefying dance, when a man and a woman swayed and postured in a lake of red-hot ash and, so far as the audience could see, this is precisely what they did, in fact, do.
It was the crux of the ballet, which was itself the high spot of the evening, and the leading players had not appeared during the previous act. Their extraordinary performance and gaunt and ghastly make-up was breathtaking, and they seemed indeed to have strayed from another world, filling the most blase of the spectators with a profoundly disquieting sense of unease.
Simon struck a match to see who they might be. Mathieu Tebreaux and Helene Chauvet. At curtain fall he turned to David. “This is it!” he said. “It’s quite incredible. Don’t you think so? How in God’s name did they fake the fire?”
“Perhaps they didn’t.” David smiled. “They were probably drugged or doped. Narcotics are not unusual in those voodoo rites; and the soles of their feet are as tough as army boots,” he finished prosaically.
“Be that as it may,” Simon said with enthusiasm, “I’m off to get an interview and,” he glanced at his watch, “I’d better be jet propelled about so doing or I’ll be given no more of these assignments. Not that I’ve designs on Baring’s job. Don’t think that! But I must get back to the office. Will you come along with me to interpret?”
“If you’d like me to do so,” said David. “My Creole dialect may be a bit rusty. It’s been a long time since I’ve used it.”
Simon presented his Press card to the stage doorkeeper and, after a few minutes’ wait, the two men were escorted up to a dingy functional room where the manager of the ballet company was awaiting them.
He was a short fat Negro, and was wearing a dinner jacket with a yellow carnation in his buttonhole. He advanced to greet them, his gold teeth gleaming. “Mr. Cust?” he asked, looking from one to the other, Simon’s card clutched in his left hand and with his right outstretched. “Mr. Lloyd has already left. He will be sorry to have missed you.”
“I am Simon Cust. This is David Roberts, who knew your country well at one time. We were both of us deeply impressed by the performance tonight.”
“My name is Emanuel Louis,” said the Negro. He shook their hands in turn. “Shall we speak in French? I regret that my English is very halting. I cannot express myself as I would desire.”
“By all means,” Simon agreed. “You will have noticed from my card that I represent the Daily Echo. I would like to have the pleasure of meeting some of your cast, in particular Monsieur Tebreaux and Mademoiselle Chauvet.”
Emanuel Louis gave an apologetic smile. “I am afraid, Monsieur, that that is not possible. My dancers give no interviews. I discourage strongly the star system. We work as a team. Personal publicity is strictly against my rules. I would have liked to co-operate but I cannot make exceptions. In any case it would be useless, for neither Mademoiselle Chauvet nor Mathieu Tebreaux speaks one word of English, and very few of French.” He shrugged apologetically. “They come from a remote and backward part of my island.”
“Mr. Roberts,” said Simon, “could translate. He could talk to them in their own patois.”
Monsieur Louis seemed taken aback by this suggestion and the look he gave David was speculative. “In the patois of La Gonave?” he inquired incredulously. “That is indeed unexpected.”
David shook his head. “La Gonave? I’m sorry. No.”
“And I regret, Monsieur, that I can make no variations to the regulations. It is not in my province to do so. You will understand. It is to me a great pleasure that you have enjoyed the show. My poor children are exhausted by their efforts. It is very tiring. Haiti is one thing. A large capital city is another thing altogether.” He was shepherding them towards the door.
“I feel still,” said Simon obstinately, “that I might get somewhere with them by mime, despite the language barrier. I could telephone my copy through to you for your approval.”
Emanuel Louis’ face set. “I have already told you, Monsieur Cust, that what you ask of me is absolutely impossible. May I wish you both a good evening?” His dismissal was curt. Simon opened his mouth, but decided against further argument.
“I’ll drop you off,” David volunteered as they stood waiting for a taxi.
As they neared Fleet Street Simon said: “I wonder just why that fat little bastard wouldn’t let me go back-stage. I’ve half a mind to double back and have another try at reaching them by by-passing the so-and-so.”
“I don’t think you’d succeed,” said David as he lit a cigarette. “And how about your deadline?”
“Bugger my deadline,” said Simon robustly, “and the same thing goes for Monsieur Louis.”
David laughed. “Chacun a son gout,” he said, agreeably, as the taxi drew up at Simon’s office.
THE “BALLET NÉGRE du Port-au-Prince” received fantastic notices, and by the afternoon all bookable seats had been sold out for the six weeks’ season, for the telephones of the agencies had been ringing since early morning. Overnight it had become a “must” for London’s theatregoers.
More than ever Simon fretted about his failure with Emanuel Louis, nor was he at all mollified when he learned that the representatives of rival papers had been equally unsuccessful. During the day he telephoned David Roberts, finally locating him at his club. “After the performance tonight,” he told him, “I’m going to follow that loathsome black beetle back to where they’re all staying. He can’t possibly stick with them every moment, and tomorrow I’ll shadow the place and wait my chance. Care to come?”
“Certainly not,” said David. “The wretched fellow has a perfect right to run his own business according to his own views. And you must be aware,” he added in an over-polite voice, “of my feelings regarding newspaper men, yourself included, and their thrusting ubiquity!”
Simon delivered himself of a few blistering remarks on the subject of the lack of helpfulness of the public in general and of David Roberts in particular, to struggling journalists, and rang off before David could have a chance to elaborate his theme.
At eleven o’clock that night, having contrived to fold his long length behind the driving seat of his turquoise blue Mini-Minor, and with his lights turned off, he sat watching the stage entrance of the Princess Theatre.
He had learned from the doorman, after a friendly talk and a cigarette and the passing of a pound note between them had created the right atmosphere, that the company was called for each night by two buses, but the man did not know, or had been unwilling to divulge, their destination, beyond the fact that it was an hotel somewhere in the Notting Hill direction which catered for “coloureds.” “Accommodation is always their problem,” he had said. “We had the same thing when the ‘Hot Chocolates’ were here, and a nicer bunch you couldn’t wish to meet.”
Simon peered at his watch. It was nearly half-past eleven, and the transport, two thirty-seater charabancs, was in the process of backing in to the narrow cul-de-sac. The dancers, on cue, were coming out into the street, some in their native clothes hidden under coats, others in European dress, and were starting to climb into the vehicles. They talked softly among themselves.
Emanuel Louis stood by one door checking a list, and a gigantic Negro in a light grey suit was similarly engaged by the other. When the buses were full they both jumped in and the vehicles moved off.
Simon had no difficulty in trailing such a convoy and kept at a discreet distance. In Holland Park they left the main road, and after five minutes or so came to a halt before an hotel, which had been made by knocking together two lofty Vic
torian houses. It had “The Presscott” painted in brown letters on the glass of the fanlights, and was sorely in need of renovation.
He was unable to pick out either Mathieu Tebreaux or Helene Chauvet. Louis and his giant aide-de-camp were the last to enter, the latter slamming the door behind him.
There was nothing more that he could do tonight. Simon drove away, making a note of the name of the road as he turned the corner. He would be back in the morning.
ALICE LINLEY WAS always glad of a talk, especially with nice-looking young gentlemen who had the time and inclination to spare to take her for a Guinness. She was established by Simon’s side in the private bar of the Cock Pheasant, perched on a high stool.
“They get all sorts at the Presscott,” she said. “This district isn’t what it was, not at all it isn’t. Gladys, that’s my friend, Gladys and I are seriously thinking about leaving our flat and moving to somewhere more select. Those Jamaicans started it. The whole place is becoming just like the Congo if you ask me. Not that I’ve got any personal feelings against coloured boys. Some of them are very nice really, but it’s no longer such a good address, if you see what I mean.”
Simon drained his bitter and ordered another round of drinks. “That Presscott lot,” he asked, “do they get around much?”
“Thanks,” said Alice. “It’s hard to say, I’m sure. They moved in last Friday, I believe it was. Stacks of baggage they brought. Props and things, I expect. Great boxes and I don’t know what. They’re theatricals. Seem to keep pretty much to themselves. There’s a short chap, the head one he seems to be. He does go out sometimes with a big fellah, black as coal. They’ve got a limousine car.” She compressed her lips in mock disappointment. “Wish I had! Maybe some day I will. It’s a long lane, I always say.”
“Where do you suppose they go?” asked Simon. “I heard somewhere that they were French Colonials,” he added inconsequentially.
“Couldn’t really say.” Alice sounded disinterested. She smoothed the cream silk of her blouse over her full breasts and Simon could not but observe that she had dispensed with a brassiere. “It’s usually in the afternoon,” she went on. “Being theatricals, I’d say they’d need their rest in the mornings.” Her eyes travelled with approval over Simon’s athletic and square-shouldered figure. “Like to come back to my place?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’d like to very much,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t. My office calls.”
“Oh well,” acquiesced Alice obligingly, “perhaps another day. I’m nearly always there until the evening, and you’d be welcome.” She smiled at him. “It might even be ‘on the house.’ I think you’re sweet. Most of my . . . my boy friends are such weeds,” she said, “or else they’re grandpas with pot bellies. It would make a change. I’ve quite fallen for you. Really I have.” They emptied their glasses and stood up, going together into the street. “Ta-ta,” Alice said. “Thanks ever so for the Guinness. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! I live round the corner over the paper shop if you want to find me.” She walked away, swinging her orange plastic handbag, the beehive of her peroxide hair glinting in the sunshine.
Simon went back into the pub and purchased a pork pie which he took with him into the car as he settled down to begin his vigil.
The day was bright and warm. Soon after two o’clock a limousine stopped at the Presscott, and shortly afterwards Monsieur Louis and the large Negro came out of the hotel and drove away. Simon watched the car until it was out of sight, deciding to remain where he was for a spell longer.
Presently, in twos and threes, other members of the company emerged to take the air. The girls were mostly in flowered or patterned dresses, the men in tight suits with elaborately decorated shoes or sandals; but neither of the dancers for whom he was searching was among them.
And now a woman came out by herself. She was taller and broader than the other girls, and her carriage was splendid, and Simon thought that it had been she who had taken the role of “Papa Nebo” in the principal ballet. He pulled the crumpled programme from his pocket, scanning the names of the cast. Here it was: “Papa Nebo” . . . Marianne Dorville.
She was standing on the pavement at the foot of the stone steps enjoying the sunshine that was hardly more than a vitiated version of her own. Simon swung his long legs out of the tiny car and straightened up. Casually he walked towards her. As he drew level with her he stopped and raised his hat. “Mademoiselle Dorville?” he asked.
The woman glanced up at him in some surprise that he should know her name; or could it have been in fear? “Monsieur?”
“You speak French?” asked Simon, using that language.
“I do,” she admitted, still ill at ease.
“I much admired your performance,” Simon said. “I was at your opening night.”
“You are very kind.”
“I was,” said Simon, “enchanted. I am the drama critic of the Daily Echo,” he went on untruthfully, “which is the most powerful of the English papers, and I have come here by arrangement with Monsieur Louis to interview Mathieu Tebreaux and Helene Chauvet . . . and naturally yourself,” he finished gallantly.
Marianne regarded him with some doubt. “That is not possible, Monsieur. We never give interviews. It is not permitted.” She turned away.
“I assure you that it is all arranged,” said Simon. “Monsieur Louis has made a rare exception in my case. If you will take me to him he will tell you so himself.”
“He is not here. He has gone out.”
“Not here?” repeated Simon in dismay. “He must be.” He pulled back his cuff to look at his watch. “But that is a disaster. I have to turn in my copy by four o’clock. My paper is giving your show a tremendous boost. I would be greatly obliged if you would be so kind as to lead me to Monsieur Tebreaux. Otherwise,” he said, relapsing into English, “there will be hell to pay. Hell for us all.”
Marianne’s large black eyes clouded. “Monsieur,” she said, “you are talking nonsense. No interviews are permitted, particularly with Tebreaux and Chauvet. They would be unable to answer you.” She hesitated and went on: “They are talented, yes—but they are also dumb, and comprehend nothing of the outside world.”
“Dumb?” He searched her face. “How do you mean, dumb? Stupid?”
She shook her head and indicated her own tongue. “They cannot speak. They have suffered from this affliction since their birth. Unhappily there are many such in my country.” Her gaze was as impassive as that of an image.
“I see,” said Simon. So they were dumb, were they? And Louis had told him that they could speak only some obscure dialect. It didn’t tie up. It didn’t tie up at all. Regarding her pensively, Simon realized that she was beautiful. She hailed from Byzantium or from the land of the Pharoahs or from the drowned continent of Atlantis. She came entirely from the past. “Where are they?” he shot the question at her abruptly.
“In the room next to Monsieur Louis’,” said Marianne before she could stop herself. “But you will not be admitted. You can spare yourself the trouble.”
“I thank you,” said Simon. He ran past her and up the steps into the lobby of the sleazy hotel. Marianne watched him go in a state of considerable distress. Then she followed him into the house, and darted into the telephone booth which stood in the hall.
Simon took the stairs two at a time. He had no way of knowing when Emanuel Louis would be back. Halfway up he nearly collided with a child that was on its way to the street. It could not have been more than ten years old. Simon took a shilling from the pocket of his trousers. “Monsieur Louis?” he inquired. The information would confine his quest to the two adjoining rooms.
The little boy took the coin, regarding him seriously out of huge dark eyes. “You will find him in room 12, Monsieur.”
“Thank you.” He found himself on a landing crowded with doors. Their positioning made it clear that the big rooms of the old house had been divided and sub-divided again. The numbers ranged from one to ten. He list
ened, but the house was quiet save for a muted crooning from a room on his left and the murmur of women’s voices from further down the passage.
He tiptoed to the floor above, which was a replica of that which he had just left. The same walls of arsenic green, the same cocoa-brown dados and surrounds, and all around like incense was the sweetish smell of coloured people, which was vaguely reminiscent of musk. Simon found it at once both repugnant and exciting.
From the end of the corridor came the sound of imprecations and the rolling of dice. The ejaculations were agitated and guttural. He knocked on the door of number 11. There was no answer. He knocked again. Dead silence. He tried the door-knob and rather to his astonishment it opened at his touch. There was no one there. So it must be number 13. Twice he knocked and once more there was no sign of occupation. There were footsteps coming up the stairs. He could not risk discovery. He went in. The room was high and narrow. At one end an altar had been erected, a twin of that which he had seen in the “houmfort” at the theatre, except that he had an idea that the skulls which he was seeing were not made of papiermache.
There were two mattresses thrown on to the floor, and lying upon them were the couple for whom he had been searching. They lay there motionless, arms to their sides, and their eyes, turned to the ceiling, were filled with sadness and desolation. They made no movement at his entrance nor gave any acknowledgement of his presence. Their clothes were those which they had worn in the ballet in which they had danced.
Simon froze where he stood, unwilling to go further. “My apologies,” he said, “if I am disturbing you. I am a Press reporter and have come here at the request of Monsieur Emanuel Louis. I represent the Daily Echo.” Still there was no reply nor reaction and he stepped forward. “You do not understand French?” he asked. Only their eyes registered that they possessed a semblance of life. At closer quarters their faces were hideous and heart-breaking, the lips drawn back from prominent teeth, the skin taut over jutting cheek bones. “You are ill,” he said gently. “Shall I get you a doctor?” He received no answer and walked forward once more until he stood gazing down at the emaciated forms. “You are hungry?” he suggested. “Is that it? You are hungry?”