"I hadn't noticed," he said. "I'll admit it sort of looks like a convention this afternoon. Maybe it's Michelangelo's birthday."
"Listen, thirty years in show business," said Lionel dryly. "To me it's nothing."
Norman had caught Hassim's eye, and the Turk now left his table and danced over, arriving with something like an entrechat done by a sow. "Hello there, Norman, Iris love. Norman, you horrid old poop, what have you done with that adorable little wife of yours? I've got a shipment from Hong Kong, all full of marvelous things that I know she wants."
Norman explained that Henny would be arriving for Christmas. "Lovely, lovely, I'll be dying to see her again," said Hassim, puckering his lips most suggestively at Iris. "And no doubt you will be, too, Normie. Oh this dreary bachelor existence!" Off he slipped with a roll of his prominent eyes, in a fit of the giggles.
"Wow," said Lionel.
"He has a lovely shop," said Iris sternly. "And he's a sweetheart to deal with. I like Hassim."
Iris offered to drive Lionel around the island after lunch and show him some of the guest houses. The stage manager was delighted; and, he said, not in the least discouraged by Norman's sad saga.
"Just don't let him buy Hogan's Fancy," said Norman.
2
"Sheila, that valve-I hope the cistern isn't bone dry."
Sheila sat in the cool office, dressed in a fresh white uniform, and holding a clip board full of bills and papers. She had left off her chefs hat, she was not pouring sweat, and her usually wild hair was neatly tucked up. Sheila in repose was pretty, if far too fat, and her eyes were clever and a little sad.
"I did shut off de valve, suh, 'bout half-past two. De water gone down below de crack."
"Bless your heart. You're a tower of strength. Sheila, before we get into the Tilson party-you remember Gilbert? Gilbert once told me that after the last earthquake a man named Hippolyte repaired the cistern. You were working here then, weren't you?"
"I did work here den, yes suh."
"Do you know this Hippolyte?"
She nodded.
"Well, I'm only thinking that instead of getting somebody new who might wreck everything, it would make sense to call in this Hippolyte again."
The cook's face took on a woodenly fierce look, much like an African carving. Norman could not imagine why. Such bafflements were always arising in his dealings with Kinjans, but this time he resolved to press on. The matter was urgent. "Is Hippolyte on the island?" A bare nod. "Is he a good worker?" A shrug. "Sheila, this thing has to be taken care of." No response. "What did Hippolyte do when he was here?"
"Hippolyte he do every ting," grumbled the cook.
"Everything? What do you mean?"
"He fix everyting. Like Mistuh Thor. He fix tings."
"Well, ye gods, then why don't we hire him again? That's exactly the kind of man I need."
The African mask faced him. "Hippolyte fonny."
"Funny? How, funny? What's funny about him?"
There was a pause. "Hippolyte very fonny," the cook elaborated.
"Well, could you find him for me?"
"Don' know, suh."
"D'you suppose Gilbert could find him?"
"Don' know, suh."
"What does he do now?"
"He fish."
"Where?"
"In de ocean, suh."
"I see." Paperman held out his hand defeated. Kinjans usually won these skirmishes. "Let's look at the figures on that Christmas party."
The mask dissolved. Sheila became the harassed, good-humored cook on the instant. "It all written dah, suh. I did talk to de cook over to de Francis Drake. She tell me 'bout de tings Mistuh Tilson like."
Running his eyes down the list, Paperman saw a large red squiggle next to some items. "What's this, Sheila?"
"You does have to fly dose tings down fum New York. De rest I can get h'ah."
"Artichokes? Fresh strawberries?"
"Yes, suh. Tings like dat. And de oysters and dem big steaks. Dey does have to be de best straight fum New York. Mr. Tilson he wery particular. He does give de cook a hundred dollars tip," she said with a shy grin.
Sheila told him her plans for the party: the extra girls she would hire for the kitchen, the young men she would bring in for serving. Tilson liked his party to swarm with waiters. That was simple, she said; half the high school seniors on the island had white mess jackets and satin-striped black trousers, and they loved a chance to wear them. Moreover, Mr. Tilson was known for his generous tipping.
"Now Sheila, what about the hotel guests? We have to give them dinner that night too. We also have to get them out of the way, hours before the party."
"Mistuh Papuh, I been tinkin' about dat, dat gonna be de big problem."
"Well, I've been thinking too. Do you suppose we could have a cook-out for them over at that overgrown little beach below the Blue Cottage? The one Mrs. Ball called Lovers' Beach, you know? Set up a bar, give them drinks free-sort of make a beach party that night for them? Could you handle such a setup, and the Tilson party, too?"
Sheila pushed out her lips, wrinkled her brow, and stroked her chin. "I tink dat work good, suh, dat be a fine idea for true. I got to get more help for dat, but dey plenty I know to get. Lovers' Beach way de odda side de Reef."
"That's what I was thinking."
"Yes, suh. I can do dat, suh. Dat be okay."
Norman was doing quick arithmetic on Sheila's food list as he talked. The Tilson party would require, he saw, an outlay of over two thousand dollars. He would get it back with a big profit, of course-if all went well. Meantime, it would almost wipe out the last of the money intended for the new rooms, leaving him with no margin for emergencies. He still had about eleven hundred dollars in his New York account, his last collections from clients for work performed. But this was a needed cushion for Henny and Hazel, during these uncertain weeks. The possibilities of a fiasco in this huge double party were many and scary. The chances for success rested on this black woman. All he really knew about her was that she was a good cook.
He respected Sheila. Norman could not even picture what his plight would now be if, amid the breakdowns and bad luck of these first two weeks, the feeding of his guests had also been a worry. Sheila had kept the dining room going, smooth as water. She bought the food; she managed the waitresses; she planned the menus. He never questioned the bills, though they were frequent and huge. For all he knew, she was stealing him blind, yet he believed that an audit would show she had not overcharged him by a penny. Paperman did not know why he trusted Sheila, a complete West Indian, inscrutable as any other Kinjan. But he did. For one thing, he had to.
The question was, could he rely on her to carry off this ambitious, heavy operation? He now knew his own incompetence all too well, and the bitter truth in the old saw about the cobbler and his last. He had become honest enough with himself, in these harsh weeks, to see his move to the Caribbean as an eccentric impulse of middle age, a daydream which would have faded harmlessly if not for the misleading encouragement of Lester Atlas. But he was in it now, and it was too late to make himself over. He would never regain the myriad hours he had spent joking over coffee in theatre restaurants, or fooling with forgotten women. He would never be an Atlas. He might never be much of anything. But he was what he was, and now he had to master the Gull Reef Club. What was the alternative to piling risk on risk?
"Suh, I does have to make my soup." Sheila was looking at him curiously, and he realized that he had been staring with unseeing eyes at her list. "All right, Sheila," he said. "We go ahead. We're going to do this thing, cookout on Lovers' Beach and all."
"Yas, suh." She handed him another sheet from the clip board. "De cook over to de Francis Drake she did give me dis address. She say de best ting you must cable dem. Dat de New York place dat send de stuff."
"Sheila-Sheila, it'll be a nice party, won't it? It'll all work out?"
Sheila exploded with laughter, rocking back and forth in her chair, and stood. "I
do believe it be not too bad, Mistuh Papuhman."
As she opened the door he said, "How about this Hippolyte, now? Won't you try to find him? We can't operate on a quarter of a cistern very long, Sheila."
Her jollity disappeared. "Hippolyte fonny," she said with an ugly frown, and she walked out.
3
Lionel ambled into the bar just after sundown, dressed in a dust-pink jacket and light blue linen trousers, which made him blend subtly into the sunset. His green face, especially on the nose and forehead, now had a streaky sunburn. It made a queer effect, somewhat like a half-ripe apple.
"Hi, Norm," he said, "you look mighty relaxed, for a man with all those headaches!" He dropped into a chair beside Paperman, who sat at a small table near the frangipani tree, gazing out to sea and fingering the stem of his martini glass.
"Hello, Lionel. Any luck?"
"Well, Janet did show me one pretty little place over on the north side. Lots of mango and banana trees, and an unbelievable view. It's all tumble-down, and overgrown, and full of fags at the moment-"
"Casa Encantada," Norman said.
"That's it. You could do things with that one." He signaled to Church and ordered a planter's punch. "Ah, Norman, Norman, I tell you, this island is cloud nine. Cloud nine! Look at me! Only three hours in an open convertible, and look at the color I've got! A week in Miami wouldn't do it. And how about that sunset? Fabulous!"
"I know the place has its points," Norman said. "I did move here."
"Its points! You've got it made, Norm," Lionel said. "You're a gosh-darned genius. What an inspiration! I don't know ten fellows in New York who wouldn't change places with you. Why, you even look happy. You look absolutely marvelous."
Norman smiled. The fact was, he felt better than he had at any time since his arrival. He had had a bake in the sun, a good swim, and a long nap. The very cold martini in his hand had been mixed to his precise taste by Church. All the crises seemed to have simmered down; at least nobody had awakened him with pounding and a bulletin of horrible news. It was pleasant to be envied by Lionel. The big generator that fed electricity to the pump was broadcasting its Mack-truck groans behind the hotel. The pump itself was sending healthy rhythmic thuds through the bar floor. The soles of Norman's feet had become almost a second pair of ears or eyes for him. He could sense a halt in the pump, or the menacing drain of water from a faulty toilet, at once; and his soles reported all well. The bar was doing a rushing business. So was the front desk; seven people had checked in today, and nobody had checked out.
"Say, Norm," Lionel went on, "why is Janet West, of all people, holed up here in Amerigo at your hotel? Isn't that a funny one?"
Norman shrugged. "Ask her."
"I did. She sort of laughed and gave me some phonus bolonus story about getting material for a book. Ha! Iris is no writer. Is there some rich fellow up in one of those houses on the hill? Maybe keeping her, or waiting for his divorce to come through?"
Norman shook his head. He had been obtuse about Iris, perhaps, or at least too driven to think of these questions, for in the grueling days since his arrival, he had regarded her only as a comforting presence. His fuzzy idea was that she had "retired" to Kinja, like the Tilsons, and merely talked about writing, as so many idle people did. But of course she was a puzzling woman. There were her frequent-and never explained-absences, especially at dinner and in the evenings. He said thoughtfully, "The only guy I've seen her with is a navy frogman, Lionel. He introduced me to her, in fact. But he's a youngster; why, he's sort of romancing my own daughter."
"Well, maybe he's the answer. I've learned one thing in the theatre," Lionel said, "and that is, that nothing is impossible when it comes to the old push-push. Absolutely nothing, Norman. I can't be surprised, where the old push-push is involved. Especially with a wild woman like Janet -or Iris, as you call her."
Lionel had the usual backstage relish for gossip, and he began to talk about Iris's three husbands, and her bizarre escapades, including two suicide attempts. Much of it was new to Norman. In recent years, Lionel said, Iris had tried hard with Herbert Tramm, a stuffy real estate operator in San Francisco, to live a conventional life. But her failure to have children had driven her back on the bottle, and she had completely dropped from sight. Now here she was in the Caribbean. Darn strange!
Paperman put a hand on Lionel's arm as he talked. "There she comes, and he's with her."
"Who's with her?" Lionel adopted Norman's low tone, interest glinting in his pallid blue eyes.
"The frogman."
Lionel peeked over his shoulder. "Golly, he doesn't look like much, does he? But you never know, Norm. I swear you can't tell. Sometimes these scrawny little fellows are the real tigers for the old push-push."
Iris and Cohn went to a corner table and Iris began talking rather angrily, while Cohn, who wore his gabardine suit and an overbright blue tie, leaned forward on both elbows, taking puffs at a small cigar. Since Norman kept glancing at them, he caught their attention. Iris stopped frowning, waved, and smiled. The frogman came to their table, and invited Lionel and Norman to join them for dinner. The main course turned out to be a fish Cohn had shot, a superb grouper, baked whole. Lionel was so thrilled at eating a fish with a gaping spear wound in it, that Cohn asked him if he would like to come along in the morning when he and Iris were going spearfishing. Lionel almost shouted his assent. By then three bottles of wine had gone around, and they were all quite gay; and Norman was pressed into the spearfishing party. "You're coming, that's all," Iris said firmly, "and for one morning, to hell with this hotel."
Norman had all but forgotten the charm of underwater scenery, one of the things that had lured him to Amerigo. Cohn paddled them next morning far out to the middle of Pitt Bay, in a rubber raft full of masks and fins. Cockroach Rock, where he tied up the raft, was actually a reef that just broke the surface. By standing on the coral, they gave the comic impression of walking on water, far out in a deep wide bay. Beyond the reef the green water turned dark blue, and the ocean floor fell off in a cliff-so Cohn said-to a chasm a mile deep.
It was a magnificent reef, with grand twisting pillars and caverns of pink coral. Groupers, parrot fish, and oldwives cruised goggling through the arches, amid moving clouds of small bright-colored fish. Lionel wasn't satisfied with this spectacle. He insisted on swimming farther out, so that he could tell his Broadway friends he had been in water a mile deep. Norman didn't like venturing out into the blue choppy gulf, but he was unwilling to turn back, with Iris gliding gracefully beside him and Lionel floundering far ahead. The deep made Norman queasy; it was like looking down from the top of a skyscraper, except that there were no cars below, no people; no fish, either, no bottom, no rocks; nothing at all but darkening blue space shafted with greenish sun rays.
They had not been out five minutes when a silver-gray shape rose from the azure shadows, making for Lionel. Cohn's brown body thrust forward and down ahead of Lionel, his fins moving fast, and he made sharp signals at the others to retreat. Norman saw a pointed wrinkled snout on the fish as it drew near, and staring ugly eyes, and slanted vents on the side of the wide head. It made a lazy rolling pass within a few feet of Lionel, and Norman also saw the unmistakable crescent mouth crammed with teeth and turned down in perpetual disappointment. He and Iris fled for Cockroach Rock, and clambered out together gasping.
Cohn shepherded the wallowing Lionel back to the reef, patrolling behind him.
"Hey! What do you know?" Lionel ripped off his mask while still in the water, exulting. "A shark! That was a real shark. Did you see? Golly, Was I scared! That was marvelous. Did you see how close to me he came?" Cohn was scrambling out on the reef beside him. "Hey, why did you keep circling behind me like that?" Lionel said. "I heard you're supposed to punch a shark in the nose. Then it goes away."
"You're absolutely right," panted Cohn. "I forgot that. I have a lousy memory."
Norman said, trying to control the shakiness of his voice, "What's it doing so close to
land? I thought sharks stay way out at sea."
"It's the legislature," Cohn said. "They used to bury the garbage on this island, the way I heard it. But when the Elephant Republicans last beat the Eagle Republicans, they voted along strict party lines to start dumping it at sea, and they bought that old landing craft. It's supposed to go out ten miles, but the fellow who runs it gets seasick, so he just turns in beyond Big Dog, out of sight of land, and shovels it off. We've seen him do it any number of times, and in fact I've done a lot of swimming through garbage. There's an easterly current at Big Dog that sweeps that stuff right down here past Pitt Bay."
"What they need," Lionel said, "is another captain for that landing craft."
"Our UDT commander once suggested that," said the frogman. "They told him Captain Pullman is irreplaceable."
Herman Wouk - Don't Stop The Carnival Page 25