The Sun Place

by Ray Connolly

  “Promises, promises.”

  Cassandra finished her glass and passed it back to Hardin, who mixed them two drinks. At that moment there was a tap on the door. Hardin barked a welcome. A pretty, pareo-attired Polynesian CV and two Bahamian waiters entered the bungalow, carrying trays laden with dinner.

  Cassandra watched silently.

  They worked quickly and noiselessly, their faces ringed in what now seemed to Cassandra to be permanent Club Village smiles.

  In three minutes they were finished and gone, the Polynesian girl being the last to close the door, flashing Hardin a voluptuous smile as she left.

  “Doesn’t the gap between the jobs the local people do here and the ones which girls like that do bother you?” asked Cassandra after a moment.

  “You mean does it bother me that Club Village makes some employees more equal than others?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It bothers me very much. It happens all over the world. In West Africa it’s always the local population who do the waiting on, while the rich Europeans have all the glamorous jobs. In Sri Lanka the locals do the menial tasks, and the better-off Indians, who come down from Delhi and Bombay, get to be CVs. And in Europe, Club Village employs North Africans and Turks to wait in the kitchens and scrub out the rooms. Yes, it bothers me that Club Village is a predominantly white, middle-class organization, and that we come out here to these people’s countries and exploit them. I know it’s a wrong and unfair system, but I don’t know how to change it. Do you?”

  Cassandra had not been prepared for the outburst. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “You didn’t upset me. But you mustn’t assume because a situation exists that I condone it.”

  “I feel thoroughly chastened,” said Cassandra.

  “You mustn’t. It’s just that I am, above all, a pragmatist. I believe in doing only the things I know are possible. I like to choose my own battlegrounds, where I know I have a reasonable chance of winning. Then I gird my loins, so to speak. Now, we can get started before this cold watercress soup freezes over?”

  After the sharpness of their first exchanges, dinner was a pleasant, mellow affair, in which Hardin and Cassandra gradually explored each other’s pasts, their dislikes and likes, and their mutual range of attitudes. It was a period of discovery, a tentative time of seeking out areas of compatibility, and building on them.

  Cassandra was glad that the embarrassment of secrecy was over. Hardin was perfectly happy to be honest about the activities of the club. It was refreshing to be able to talk so openly.

  “Do you really think Dick Pagett died from drowning?” Cassandra asked at last.

  “No. I’m as certain as anyone can be that he didn’t. But I have no idea what did happen to him. That bothers me a great deal.”

  “Hamlet implied that there was someone in the village who might be a little unbalanced,” she said.

  “The only person I know to be unbalanced is Hamlet himself.”

  “He’s certainly weird.”

  “Yes, I think so, too. I’ve requested that he be transferred somewhere else at the end of this season. I don’t think I could stand another six months here with him around. I’ve tried to talk to him, but whenever I do he just ties himself up in riddles.”

  After that the subject was dropped, and at around midnight the two of them found themselves sitting on the chesterfield drinking cognac.

  “Are you expecting me to make a pass at you?” asked Hardin as they both stared into the dying embers of the log fire. In the distance, the sound of the discotheque carried through the pine trees.

  “I suppose so,” Cassandra answered after a moment.

  “If I did, would you make an excuse and demand to leave?”

  “No.”

  “That’s nice,” said Hardin, and, taking her by the hand, he led her silently into his bedroom.

  Cassandra awoke around six, with the sun shining through the shutters into her eyes. Alongside her was the warm, smooth figure of Hardin, still asleep. This was the first time she had slept with a man in several months, and she needed time alone now to savor the pleasures of the previous night. Slipping from the bed, she stole into the bathroom, where she showered and dressed. Then, taking one last look at Hardin, she quietly left the house, carrying her shoes in one hand. The morning was fresh and clean, and, drawn by the sound of the sea, she decided to go for a morning’s stroll along the beach.

  Morning in the Caribbean is a blessed time, and the wind and salt spray quickly washed away the passions of the previous night. It had been, she thought, one of those rare nights which she hoped she would remember when she was alone and depressed. A happy and tender occasion, a moment of romance. She had no illusions that it would lead to anything permanent. Holiday romances were not supposed to last. That was the joy of them.

  Part VI

  Forty-Seven

  Elixir was not really big enough for both Quatre Bras and Ernst Ronay, but Hardin was determined that so long as the two rivals were in his village the atmosphere would be as sweet as possible.

  Ronay arrived first, having spent a night with Beta Ullman in Nassau before hiring a local Trans Island Airways Piper Aztec to fly them to the island. Hardin was at the airstrip to meet them. He did not know whether or not Ronay had any suspicions about his nights with Beta in the Alps, but, from the slightly overpolite way in which she greeted him, he guessed not.

  “I’ve put you in adjoining rooms,” he told Ronay as he drove the two of them up to the village. It had occurred to him that he ought perhaps to give up his bungalow to one or other of the visiting Club Village dignitaries, but that had been no more than a fleeting thought. He was the chef de village, after all. Guests were to be treated like guests and have guest accommodations.

  “Thank you,” said Ronay.

  “Tactful,” murmured Beta.

  “I trust you heard that Quatre Bras also arrives today,” said Hardin.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Ronay.

  “Yes, Quatre Bras, Monsieur Girardot, and someone called Mr. Scorcese from New York are coming down this afternoon. I thought you would have known that.”

  Ronay sighed. “That must have been a very sudden decision,” he said. “I thought the chairman was staying in New York.”

  “Oh, you know the way Quatre Bras is …” said Hardin, vaguely, smiling at Ronay’s obvious discomfort. Through the rearview mirror Hardin caught a glimpse of Ronay’s stern, high forehead knotted in an intense frown. Alongside him, Beta looked anxious.

  While Ronay had wanted to arrive discreetly, Hardin knew that Quatre Bras would expect a traditional Club Village welcome. So, although Hardin despised it, he organized the best-looking CVs in their pareos and bands of flowers, and even arranged the singing of the traditional club song of welcome as the Universal-American Learjet bearing Quatre Bras, Girardot and Anthony Scorcese touched down.

  Hardin could see instantly that Quatre Bras was delighted. Quatre Bras had always loved the theatrical aspects of village life, and Hardin believed that Quatre Bras secretly saw himself as a paternalistic South Sea island chief. Fittingly, as the guests stepped from the jet garlands of flowers were draped around their necks.

  “What a nice surprise,” Scorcese said quietly, trying not to look embarrassed by this display of bogus blue-eyed “native” hospitality.

  Quatre Bras beamed, and led his guests into the midst of the chanting, singing along as he did so, ruffling the long sun-bleached hair of the CVs.

  Girardot, for his part, stood well back and cast his dark eyes over the girls, wondering if he were still young enough to get lucky with any of the less beautiful CVs.

  “So, James, how are things going?” Quatre Bras sat back in a leather chair in Hardin’s office, a large Scotch and soda in his hand.

  “Pretty well, I think,” said Hardin. Since he had Telexed Quatre Bras in Paris with all the important details of what was happening in Elixir, he did not feel it neces
sary to give further accounts now.

  “Nothing yet on Pagett?” snapped the older man.

  Hardin shook his head.

  “This weekend is very important for me, James. Mr. Scorcese is the president of Universal-American Airlines, and we, or certainly I, am hoping that that company will be investing heavily in Club Village in order to facilitate our American zone operations.”

  Hardin nodded.

  “So if Scorcese wants a single thing that is in your power to provide, I would like it provided very quickly.”

  “Would you like me to give up my bungalow?” asked Hardin.

  “No. That won’t be necessary. You’re the chief here. We are the guests … although not exactly ordinary guests. His room is fine. I checked it myself. And Mr. Scorcese made it very clear to me that he doesn’t want any particular favors,” said Quatre Bras. “He’s a very abstemious man.”

  “Very well,” said Hardin.

  “Now tonight, James, I’d like you to find me a table somewhere in the corner, and have it set for eight. And also find me two of the prettiest CVs to be my guests. Give me girls who know what it is to be discreet. Also, ask the head of beverages to serve us his best wine in the regular Club Village carafes, and let the chef know that our table is special. Let’s see if we can’t get Ronay and Scorcese together.”

  Hardin nodded as he considered his list of CVs. Pretty and discreet! That would have to be Chloe and Florinda. They were the most decorative around.

  Beta Ullman was disappointed in Ronay. He had persuaded her to come on a vacation to Elixir and give up a lucrative and prestigious photo session for Italian Vogue, but now that he had arrived he did nothing but complain. He complained mostly about the standard of accommodations, but she knew he was really complaining because he was having to share the village with Quatre Bras.

  “If you don’t like Club Village rooms, we should have stayed in Nassau Beach Hotel, or gone off to Mustique and hired a house so you could hobnob with Princess Margaret,” she said as he lay on his bed in his small room, looking around him as though he were in a prison cell.

  “I just thought that, as I am managing director of Club Village, I might perhaps have been given the bungalow,” he sniffed.

  “But that’s the home of the chef de village.”

  “Who works for me. Hardin is only a glorified CV after all is said and done. He’s hardly that important.”

  “It’s still his home, and I understand it goes with the job.”

  “He might at least have offered,” he said starchily.

  “I understand that Quatre Bras and his guest arc staying in ordinary guest rooms,” said Beta slyly. “And he is the founder and president of the club.”

  “Quatre Bras is a well-known eccentric. He enjoys behaving like a Boy Scout. I imagine it’s something to do with his humble origins.”

  “And you enjoy behaving like a supreme snob,” said Beta, suddenly bitter and angry. “Is that something to do with your origins?”

  Ronay reacted as if he had been stung “A snob … you called me a snob,” he said incredulously. “Coming from a tart like you, my dear, that’s very neat.”

  Beta went suddenly still as she felt the chill of contempt. “What did you call me?” she whispered.

  Ronay knew immediately that he had gone too far. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “It was nothing. I didn’t mean it.”

  “It matters to me. And I think you did mean it,” said Beta.

  She was standing over him wearing a diaphanous shift over her bikini. His arms reached out to grab her thigh, but she pulled away. Ronay looked up at her in surprise.

  “I was making a joke,” Ronay said. “You called me a snob, and I was making a joke.”

  “You are a snob, though, Ernst. You must know that,” she said. “And I suppose I am a tart,” she finished, talking more to herself than to him.

  “Look, I don’t want to argue,” he said.

  “No.” She was suddenly tired and defeated. “Let’s not argue. After all, why should a man like you waste his time arguing with a tart?”

  Ronay didn’t answer. Sharply, he pulled himself off his bed, and began riffling through his briefcase. This was the way he always behaved when he didn’t wish to discuss something. He did not ask for forgiveness. Ronay never apologized.

  “Did I touch a nerve, Ernst?” Beta asked, goading him now.

  “I think we should discontinue this conversation. I have a great deal of reading to do if I am to talk to Quatre Bras tonight,” said Ronay.

  Beta stood looking at him for a minute. Suddenly his wealth, charm, and sophistication seemed less attractive. She had to get away from him.

  “Will you be coming down to the pool later?”

  “Yes, perhaps,” said Ronay, looking up from the report he was reading. “I’ll see you later, anyway. Why don’t you go and see if there’s anything in the boutique you’d like?”

  Beta smiled. Now he was treating her like a hooker. “No. I think I’ll just go and sit in the sun for a while,” she said, and, impetuously, she stepped forward and kissed him quickly on his bald forehead. It was, she thought, almost a kiss of good-bye.

  Beta would have liked then to go back to her own room and cry, but something stopped her. She had always known that despite his protestations of love Ronay must inevitably despise her, but she had always managed to smother the realization. He had not been the first man she had lived on, although he was most certainly the richest and the most powerful. By profession she was a model, and a very good model, but she knew that on all those occasions when her private life had come into conflict with her professional life, the private won. She was what was known in other societies and other eras as a good-time girl.

  Was that a thing to be ashamed of? She used her beauty to give her the best possible life, in the way that people with brilliant minds used theirs to get the best opportunities in life. She was only using her one asset. But was she really a tart?

  It was with these thoughts in her mind that Beta went down to the pool that afternoon and, taking off her robe, ordered herself a white wine and soda and lay face down on one of the only two vacant canvas sun beds.

  A moment later a quiet American voice beside her broke into her thoughts. “Would you mind if I sat down here?”

  She opened her eyes and saw a dark man of about fifty. His body was pale but trim, and he had a slight down of white hair on his chest.

  “Not at all,” she said, and indicated that the canvas bed was free.

  “That’s very kind of you,” came the answer.

  Through half-opened eyes, Beta watched as the man sat down and, opening a John le Carré book, began to read. She had expected him to begin a conversation, and was relieved that he hadn’t.

  Her thoughts returned to Ronay. She had always known that the affair would end in recrimination. Probably he would try to paper over the cracks in their friendship until they got back to Paris, but there was surely no future for them. And she could no longer ignore the ugly implications of their relationship. Very quietly, she began to cry to herself, huge salt tears falling down behind her sunglasses onto the canvas.

  “If you’re going to cry, would you mind doing it quietly?” said the voice at her side. The American was looking at her over the top of his book.

  “I’m sorry,” mumbled Beta absurdly.

  “That’s okay. Just keep your sobs quiet and we’ll get along fine,” said the man and returned to his book.

  What an extraordinary character, she thought, and wondered who on earth he could be.

  On the far side of the pool Karen Sorensen was making friends with the two village beauties, Chloe from reservations and Florinda from the boutique. She had met them while watching a pareo-tying display in which Florinda and Chloe acted as models, and Hardin gave a running commentary in French and then English.

  “The pareo has become a sort of uniform of Club Village,” said Hardin as Florinda promenaded in a deep-blue patterned garment
that was hung, Grecian style, over one shoulder and fastened at the side. “Basically it’s just one large piece of silk, which can be tied in as many ways as you have imagination. There’s just one thing to remember, though: If you tie it on the right, it means you’re anybody’s. But if it’s tied on the left, then you’re spoken for. A lot of trouble can happen when people forget this one basic rule! Of course, if the person you’re supposed to be ‘taken by’ isn’t around, then there’s no trouble at all in changing the knot to the other side and seeing if you get lucky. Isn’t that right, Florinda?”

  With a quick swivel Florinda swung the pareo until it hung down from the other side. Then, together with the razor-cropped and equally beautiful Chloe, she went into an elaborate ritual designed to display the multiplicity of ways in which the pareo could be tied, turning it into culottes, a Mexican poncho, a Roman toga, and a miniskirt. Karen watched in fascination. It all looked so easy.

  “And now we get to the interesting part of our fashion display,” said Hardin as the poolside applause for the girls died down. “We’d like two guests, a man and a woman, who think they can tie a pareo in the normal style as worn in the Pacific islands, where we borrowed the idea. Come on now, one girl and one boy.”

  For some reason Karen found herself near the front of the low stage. She put up her hand. At the same time, a blond-haired scientific-looking journalist from Buffalo joined her. Together they mounted the steps.

  “Right, we have our two volunteers,” said Hardin. “Let’s see how you do.”

  Florinda and Chloe passed each of them a large square of silk. Karen had decided to tie hers in the simple skirt fashion. She folded it over into a triangle, tucked it in at one of the corners, and then attempted to tie it around her waist. It didn’t quite fit. She tried again, and again it slipped off. The journalist was having more difficulties. He had elected to turn his into a toga, but was having even more trouble. After three minutes Karen had the semblance of a skirt around her waist. Her companion was in a state of disarray. Hardin stepped in.

  “All right, that’s enough. Give them both a big hand, ladies and gentlemen. As you can see, it’s more difficult than it looks, but I think you’ll all agree that Karen here is the outright winner, and Buffalo Bill, well, he tried hard. For being good sports we’re going to give you a pareo each, so that you can practice in your own rooms and be the envy of your friends when you get back home. And by the way, our fashion experts tell us that pareos are going to be the very height of fashion this year in New York and Paris. So if any of you would like to buy one to take home, we have an abundance of different colors and fabrics in the boutique right now, which will be open until seven. So hurry now, while stocks last.”