Hunting Midnight sc-2

by Richard Zimler

  *

  Three days before Father and Midnight were due to leave for England, I was awakened at dawn by a strange noise. At first, I thought it was Fanny whimpering. Wrapping my blanket around my shoulders, I followed the noise down to our sitting room. There, by the cold hearth, I found my father doubled over in his armchair, sobbing convulsively. I was just retracing my steps to spare his embarrassment when he called my name.

  A candle flame illuminated his eyes. They were so full of misery that I thought he must have received some terrible news. Perhaps Aunt Fiona had died.

  Starving for my touch, he held out his trembling hand to me and I rushed into his arms. His distress was overpowering. “Papa, what’s happened?” I asked.

  “A dream,” he whispered. “I was all alone in an empty house. No heat. No light. Your mother was dead and you were gone — I had no idea where. I was all alone in the dark. And I would remain alone forever.”

  “I am here,” I said, gripping his shoulders, “and I shall not leave you.”

  Wiping his eyes with his hand, he said, “You are kind. And I shall be well now. It was just a silly dream. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry to have frightened you.”

  “I shall take you to your room. Come, let me lead you. As you used to do when I was a wee lad.”

  “No, no. Let me stay here. I don’t want to wake your mother.”

  “Then I’ll stay with you.”

  “Yes, sit with me. It will do me good to feel you next to me.”

  His eyes fluttered closed, and he began to breathe more easily. For a time, he caressed my hair and began to whisper a story to me, about an elf who fell in love with a mermaid, but he never finished it, for he soon fell asleep. Shivering in the cold air, I waited until I was certain he would not wake, then climbed back upstairs, each footfall seeming a step into a strange world where my father was forever alone and weeping.

  We never spoke again of his nightmare.

  *

  On the day of departure, I accompanied Father and Midnight to the wharf. Mama stayed in her room, too distraught to join us.

  The sun was resplendent in the blue sky, casting light over the new bridge that had been built over the river, linking Porto on the north bank with Vila Nova da Gaia on the south.

  “The city is growing,” Papa said. “Just like my son.”

  He smiled affectionately at me and we embraced, for the last time in complete and true friendship, I think. He told me to obey my mother in all things, since even though I was several inches her senior, I was not yet her match in good sense and intuition.

  He promised me he’d be home for Christmas.

  I then hugged Midnight fiercely, which made him grin. He told me that upon his return he would tell me the story of how Gemsbok was wed by Mantis to Honeyguide, which I believe was his way of letting me know that he had noticed my newfound interest in lassies.

  “Go slow,” he warned me, and we kissed each other on both cheeks.

  “You go slow too,” I replied.

  We continued to wave to one another even as they reached the deck. Midnight and I shouted sillinesses about Fanny for some time, simply to keep greater emotions at bay. Then, as the ship pulled anchor, we sang our favorite song: “The Foggy, Foggy Dew”:

  Oh, I am a bachelor, I live by myself,

  and I work at the weaver trade.

  And the only, only thing

  I ever did wrong

  was to woo a fair young maid.

  I wooed her in the summertime,

  and in the winter, too-oo.

  And many, many times,

  I held her in my arms

  Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

  Singing this tune with Midnight at the wharf … I never sang it again until my daughters were born. Even then, I would always hear the African’s voice accompanying my own.

  *

  During their stay in England, I tried to steer my friendship with Maria Angelica into more intimate territories, but I was continually thwarted by the vigilance of her satanically sharp-sighted mother. Once, spotting me below her balcony, she called down to me, “Do not ever think that I should permit my daughter to be escorted by filth like you.”

  I was shocked speechless. Thoroughly disheartened, I thought it best not to risk another approach until Father’s return, so that I could ask his advice on how best to proceed.

  We received two letters from him during his trip. After first reading them alone, my mother shared them with me. The first one recounted some of the wonders of London, most particularly a walk through the gardens of the Royal Palace at Kensington, which, since the removal of the court to Richmond, had been opened to the public on Sundays. To Father’s great joy, his elder sister Fiona had come up from Maidenhead to London for a week to stay in the same inn as Father and Midnight and was doing very well indeed.

  In the second letter, Papa wrote that they had been received at St. Thomas’s Hospital by Dr. Jenner, whom he had found kind and quick-witted. There, they were given a demonstration of the inoculation procedure. Papa was so impressed that he paid to have himself and Midnight inoculated. Dr. Jenner gave Father and Midnight an hour of his valuable time and answered all of the African’s questions amiably, though his Gloucestershire vowels caused them both some ear strain.

  Father told us that he had already booked passage from Portsmouth to Porto on a ship leaving on the Fourteenth of December. Depending on the winds, we were to expect him from the morning of the Nineteenth onward.

  In a separate postscript on the back of the final sheet, he wrote to me: I hope that you are being kind to your mother,for she is the only person in the world who loves you as much as I do. YourAffectionate Father, James Stewart.

  Midnight had also added a few sentences, letting me know that his meeting with Jenner had proved very, very fruitful, and although London was a magnificent place, it was too crowded for his liking.

  I long to be with you both in our beloved Porto, he wrote, signing Midnight with an elegant flourish on the M.

  I was very impressed with the way his penmanship had improved since those first weeks of study when he had insisted on adding wings, snouts, and antlers to his letters.

  *

  Unable to sleep past dawn on the Nineteenth, I played outside with Fanny and Zebra until my mother opened her shutters and threatened to throttle me if they barked one more time.

  Father’s boat was sighted at approximately ten o’clock. To my great fury, Mother refused to let me miss my Friday morning lesson with my tutor, Professor Raimundo, and accompany her to the port. And so it was that I suffered another of his lectures on the glory of trigonometric functions. I could not understand what was keeping my parents, and I soon began to worry that Father and Midnight had missed their ship.

  Professor Raimundo left at noon. Slipping on my woolen coat, I stepped outside into the freezing cold. I considered calling on Senhor Benjamin and asking him to come with me to the wharf, as I was convinced that something had happened. But then I saw them coming up the street, my father’s arm around Mother’s waist.

  My heart leapt with relief, and I ran to them.

  As I got closer, however, I could see that Mama had been crying. When I reached her, she looked up at me with eyes so bruised from pain that I feared she’d been physically battered.

  “Papa, what’s happened — what’s wrong with Mama?”

  “John, let me get her home. Then we shall talk.”

  “Where has Midnight gone? Shall I fetch him?”

  Neither of them replied. Father’s jaw was clenched tight.

  “Is something wrong with him? Did he stay in England?”

  Papa didn’t reply.

  “What happened in England?” I cried. “Is he still there? He’s not hurt or … or — ”

  “Calm down, John, please.”

  I turned the handle on our door and let Papa lead Mama inside. As he escorted her to the staircase, he told me to wait in the sitting room for him. I paced
around and around, consumed by terrifying thoughts.

  Father came down and poured himself a brandy, then prepared a shorter glass for me.

  “Drink,” he said.

  “Just tell me what’s happened.”

  “Do as I say, son.” Realizing that he had spoken too roughly, he added gently, “Please, John, just do as I say.”

  I sipped at the brandy, which burned my throat.

  “Sit,” Papa said, gesturing to Mama’s armchair.

  I continued to stand. “Tell me where Midnight has gone.”

  He put his glass down on the mantelpiece.

  “Midnight … Midnight is dead, son. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no … it’s … it’s not possible. Papa, it’s — ”

  He reached for me, but I took a step back from him.

  “You’re lying! Where is he?”

  “Midnight is gone from us forever.”

  I shook my head. “No, I shall not hear this. No … No …”

  I felt dizzy, as though I were falling into pure darkness. I could no longer remember where Father and Midnight had gone or even why. Papa’s mouth was moving, but I could hear nothing….

  *

  I awoke on the Persian rug in front of our sofa with a blanket covering me. Luna Oliveira was staring at me, which seemed most odd.

  “You fainted, John,” she said. “You are in your home. Your mother is upstairs.”

  Graça joined her now and smiled at me. I felt as though I were in a glass jar. And then everything came flooding back. “Is Midnight dead?” I asked.

  “Wait, John,” she replied, and stepped away.

  From somewhere behind me, Father said he would join us presently. After a short while, he knelt down and helped me to sit up. Lifting a cup of tea to my lips, he begged me to drink. I did as he asked. It was too hot and sweet. “Is Midnight dead?” I asked again.

  Father sipped from the cup himself. “I buried him myself before returning to Porto,” he said somberly. “I’m so sorry, son.”

  Luna and Graça told me that they would visit me again later. After seeing them out, Papa helped me to a chair and sat down opposite me. Leaning back and inhaling deeply to gather his courage, he began the story of what had come to pass:

  “Following our visit with Dr. Jenner, we decided that Midnight ought to see something of the countryside. You see, he found the hurly-burly of London so … so very disorienting. We took a carriage to a small inn in the seaside town of Swanage — a quiet place I’d visited once.”

  There was a nervous, twisted expression on Father’s lips I’d never quite seen before.

  “On our third and final afternoon there, the moist air began to tingle with electricity, and that evening there was a fanfare of thunder and lightning. The rains came, falling in sheets from a leaden sky so low … so very low, John, that it seemed ready to collapse upon the earth. It was a frightful sight. But Midnight was beside himself with excitement. In the morning, I discovered that he had already left to follow the rains.”

  I listened to all this without comment, feeling separated from all things.

  “Now, the next morn,” Father continued, “the sun came out after breakfast. At about ten o’clock, a young man in rude clothing accosted me and told me that he had been sent by his master to take me to the scene of an unfortunate accident. The victim of this accident had been found with a piece of stationery from our inn in his pocket. The youth had described this unfortunate man to the innkeeper and had been told that I’d been staying with him.”

  Papa reached for his pipe from the side table. “I hurried into the youth’s carriage, of course. After half an hour we arrived at a great iron gate, behind which stood a palatial home.”

  Wiping his eyes, he said, “After the gatekeeper let us in, we were met by an old periwigged man. In a puckered voice, he introduced himself as Lord Lewis Pakenham. He begged my pardon for dragging me away from my inn without warning, then took me to the small stone chapel standing next to the main house. There … and there …” Papa hung his head and cleared his throat. “There, John,” he continued, “I discovered a blood-spattered blanket covering a body lying on a straw mattress.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Once the blanket was removed, I saw the gaping hole in Midnight’s chest that had been made by a musket ball. His color had grayed and the expression on his face was none that he had ever worn in life.”

  Father turned to the wall and continued speaking, his voice desolate:

  “Pakenham told me that his gamekeeper had discovered the ‘black boy’ — that’s what he called Midnight — poaching on his land, and he fired three shots at him. It was the very last one that killed him … the last one.” Papa faced me, enraged. “That periwigged English wretch offered me a pinch of snuff from his silver box as though it might make up for my loss.

  “Not wishing for what he called ‘this mishap’ to disoblige me in any way,” Father continued, “Pakenham then offered me a servant for the rest of my stay in England. I declined, of course. There’s little more to tell you, son. Just that the Bushman’s shirt and coat had been found nearby, hanging from an upper tree branch that no one save a cat could have reached. In his waistcoat pocket, among other trifles such as seeds and burrs, had been discovered a single sheet of stationery from the Swanage Inn.”

  Papa produced the piece of paper in question and unfolded it. “Read this, John,” he said, handing it to me.

  As I took it, Papa rubbed my cheek affectionately. I began to read Midnight’s last words.

  It was not a lightning bugyou swallowed, but a lightning bolt. I know that now. And I will tell you a secret. Only very, very rarely does Mantis choose someone who is not a Bushman to carry him. Know that he rides now between your toes. And always remember that you carry him with you wherever you go.

  Upon reading this, vague, cold thoughts filtered through my head like mist. I seemed miles and years away, and I did not understand who Midnight had intended these words for.

  When I expressed my bewilderment, Father patted my leg and said, “They were for you, of course.”

  XX

  The first week after learning of Midnight’s death, I neither dressed nor left our house. Papa took breakfast with me in my room. We scarcely talked or even ate, but his presence was comforting. I was unaware of what my mother was doing at the time, for she remained behind her locked bedroom door most of the day. Very occasionally, in the late afternoon, I would come downstairs to find her embroidering. She refused to speak of Midnight.

  Sitting with her, staring into her lost red eyes, I slowly came to understand that we now lived in a house of silence. Midnight was dead and I was alive — this seemed a great mystery to me.

  By the time Papa returned home from his office in the early evening, Mama had already locked herself back in their bedroom. He and I would eat cheese and bread by the hearth, or sometimes in my room. My bed became a sea of crumbs. He sometimes made fennel soup as well — his one specialty.

  Father got into the habit of leaving Mother’s supper outside their bedroom door, then returning downstairs, at which time we’d hear the door click open and the food being carried inside. Two or three times I placed some late-blooming yellow dahlias from Midnight’s garden onto her tray, hoping this would, in some way, console her, but she never mentioned them to me.

  Father said many times, “We must have patience, lad. Your mother … she is not a woman to be rushed. She lives by her own rhythms.”

  *

  Papa kept telling me that time would heal my suffering, but I did not believe him. He quoted Robert Burns whenever his own words failed him, and I remember these lines in particular, because they reminded me that I’d someday meet Midnight again on the Mount of Olives:

  Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,

  That thus they all shall meet in future days …

  At times, he tried to inspire hope in me, telling me that I was such a likable lad that I would soon find mo
re loyal companions. We both knew this was a lie, since it was obvious by now that I had not a whisker of aptitude for befriending boys my age, but we pretended we believed it.

  *

  After a time, I moved many of Midnight’s belongings into my room. I slept in one of his nightshirts because its weave had captured his smell — or at least, I imagined that it had. I even took his quiver, bow, and arrows with me into the woods one day, but I never managed to hit so much as a hare.

  In truth, I did not want to harm anything but myself.

  *

  I never did ask my father how I might win Maria Angelica’s hand.

  *

  When I felt stronger, he and I took Fanny and Zebra on walks together outside the city. He told me of Dr. Jenner’s keen interest in my ornithological gifts and suggested that I might even consider a period of study with him. He proposed that in another year or two I stay for at least a few months in London, adding that such an experience would surely help me decide what I wished to do with my life.

  He also promised that we would travel together that summer to Amsterdam, a city I had often longed to visit because of its thriving Portuguese — Jewish community. I remember bursting into tears for no reason when he told me. I often cried now with no good cause. Or for reasons that were hidden deep inside Midnight’s grave.

  *

  Locked out of their bedroom by Mother, Father was forced to sleep on the sofa in our sitting room. We stopped inviting guests over and even intimated to Benjamin that it would be better if he stopped joining us for our Friday night meal for the time being.

  Mama would often watch me from her window as I romped with the dogs in the garden. If I waved or called up to her, however, she would draw her curtains.

  Then, one Tuesday morning in the middle of January, she walked into the kitchen dressed in the elegant blue silk dress she normally wore to dinner parties. Gripping her pearl necklace, she announced she was off to market. I expected Father to be as curious as I was as to this change in her disposition, not to mention her odd choice of attire, but he was too relieved to ask any questions. Jumping up, he rushed to her and pressed his lips to her cheek as though welcoming her home from a dangerous journey.