Eden Burning

by Belva Plain

  “The Courzon party has won a decisive victory. It has now been established that, shortly after the results were made known last night, Nicholas Mebane and a large party left on a yacht which had been waiting offshore. It is thought that after a short stay in New York many of the members of his former government will depart for Europe, where they maintain residences….

  “The new prime minister, taking office, promised a cheering crowd that he will restore and maintain decent, democratic government with full guarantees of the rights of the individual.”

  Kate cleared the supper dishes away. For about a month now, ever since Marjorie had gone to New York with Megan to visit her family and look for an apartment, this evening routine had been evolving, so that by now, after his day of customary work at Eleuthera, Francis felt that he was coming home to this kitchen. Here tonight the lowering sun touched alike with a tawny antique light the hanging philodendron, the simple dishes with their brown scalloped edges, and Kate’s white dress.

  “We can have our coffee outside,” she said. “It’s got much cooler.”

  In the yard, shade filtered through the leaves, laying a dusky bloom upon the coffee tray. This evening, gravity lay also upon Francis. Two more days and Marjorie would be back. They would be that much closer to departure time. Everything was speeding; things hovered and impended; there could be no swerving away, no turning back.

  Kate was feeding pieces of cookie to the two curly black puppies whom she had acquired from the pound after the death of the other two.

  “Not good for them to have sweets,” she said, as if Francis had objected, “but now and then I like to give them something …” Her voice trailed off. “John Lamson wants to marry me,” she said.

  For a moment he was not only shocked but confused by the unfamiliar name. Then he remembered. Yes, somebody’s brother-in-law had a cousin who practiced law in Curaçao, someone who flew over on occasion for the big parties….

  “You know,” she said, as if she were asking him to recall some trivia. “With Republic and Southern Oil?”

  A picture developed itself. Yes, shoulders and height and a hearty, positive manner.

  Jealousy almost took Francis’ breath away. It was a physical thing, a blow between the ribs. For a moment he could say nothing. Then he saw that she was waiting, plucking, probably without knowing she was doing so, at the fabric of her skirt. So, let her! he thought angrily. Let her go! And then I won’t have to fall asleep knowing she’s less than an hour’s distance from me, nor pass this street whenever I go to town, nor walk into a crowded room both hoping and not hoping to look across the faces and see her face. Then he remembered that he himself was going away.

  He murmured, “And will you? Will you marry him?”

  “No. I compromised the first time. No.”

  Bravely, he made himself say, “Perhaps you ought. It would be a good thing for you, better than being alone.”

  “No, I said.”

  He set his cup down so hard that the spoon jumped on the saucer.

  “Oh, I wish, I wish—” he began.

  She stretched out her arm to touch his lips. “Don’t. I know what you wish.”

  So they sat silently. The sky darkened until there was only a pale, milk-blue streak left far down at the edge where the earth dipped away from the sun. A late bird, half asleep, gave one startled chirp; a dog, scratching, thumped his hind leg on the flagstones. And again Francis felt that sense of racing time, of vast opening distances and endless loss.

  He looked over at her. She was sitting with her head bent, staring, so it seemed, at nothing. It was so uncharacteristic of her, to seem that small and frail. He had to do something, anything to make her move, to speak, to be his Kate.

  “Would you like a late swim? We could have an hour before I go back,” he offered, feeling as though he were offering a present to a child who has been hurt.

  “We can’t. I forgot that Patrick and Désirée are coming over with a present for me. Something Désirée bought in France.”

  “Poor Désirée! I’m glad she finally got to go.”

  She brightened. “Yes, it was his birthday present to her. He couldn’t really afford it, what with two weddings coming up, but he wanted to.”

  “Laurine’s done well. Franklin Parrish is a catch. A good man and a man with a future.”

  “I like him better than the one Maisie’s got, although her mother’s ecstatic over the engagement.”

  “Do I know who he is?”

  “The Hammond family. Estate Ginevra.”

  Francis whistled. “Knowing Désirée, I should imagine she would be ecstatic. That’s a rather nice little place. I’ve never been there, though; only passed it.”

  “Well, different circles,” Kate said somewhat wryly. “The father’s only about an eighth black, I should think. The Hammonds were in the colonial service for at least two generations, maybe more. He has a manner. Patrician, I guess you’d say.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was invited to lunch with Désirée and the bride. The host was telling us that his great-great-grandmother was the mistress of Lord Whitby. Funny thing, I was thinking while I was there, one of my great-greats, I’m not sure who, was a Whitby. So maybe he and I have some ancestors in common.”

  “Did you mention it?” Francis asked. For some reason, he was curious.

  “No. I don’t know why, but for all my lack of prejudice I felt uncomfortable,” she said honestly. “So I didn’t.”

  “It’s still in us then, no matter what we say?”

  “To some extent, yes. We’re not angels—yet.” She smiled. “Ah, here they are.”

  A car stopped, and a moment later Patrick came around the corner of the house with Désirée.

  “Prime minister,” Francis said, rolling the words on his tongue. The title had dignity, and was only Patrick’s due.

  Patrick carried a flat package in brown paper. “Can we take this inside to the light?”

  The election and the longed-for trip had given Désirée new animation. Now, wearing a dress which, Francis guessed, she must have bought in Paris—for what woman could visit Paris without bringing back one dress!—she was excited with the ceremony of making a gift.

  Patrick, releasing the string, opened to view a painting simply framed with a narrow band of gilded wood.

  “It’s Anatole Da Cunha’s,” Désirée cried. “I bought two for you to choose from, but this isn’t the one I like.

  The other’s fishing boats, really lovely, only Patrick insists this is the better one and you should have it.”

  Under an arbor, beneath grapes hung like stalactites, sat a young pregnant woman, wearing a brown dress. Her thin white hands were folded on the great, swelling curve of her body.

  “But it’s such a plain picture! And who wants a pregnant woman?” Désirée complained. “Of course, it is a Da Cunha—”

  “Take my word for it,” Patrick said, “there is no comparison between the two. This is the one Kate must have.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Kate said, very moved. “Beautiful. So patient, waiting there for the child, not knowing who he’ll be! But that’s an experience you’ve had, Désirée, so you must know. It’s beautiful,” she said again, softly.

  “Well, I’m glad, then. You know how it all came about? There was an item in the paper about Anatole Da Cunha’s death. He never married, you know, just lived with the same woman for years. And she needed money—strange how often these people who’re good enough to become so famous don’t leave any money. Well, there were eleven pictures she had to sell, so I ran over to look at them. I even cabled Patrick for public funds to buy the lot for the museum but he said no, there are things the country needs more right now. So I just bought these two myself. Anyway, by the time I got back they were the only ones left.”

  “I shall hang it over the piano,” Kate said. “It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever had, I want you to know. Now stay a while and we’ll have a drink to
celebrate my present.”

  “You’re sure we’re not intruding?”

  “Sit down,” Francis said.

  The lamplight fell across the picture, which Kate had propped against the piano, casting a spot of brilliance on the face. The artist had painted a three-quarter view; a rich fall of hair encircled round-lidded eyes and a strong nose. There was, Francis thought, with growing wonder, an incredible resemblance to his mother. This is how she must have looked in her youth, he thought, pensive, tender, and always with something reserved, held back within herself.

  His eyes kept returning to the portrait. And shifting into a direct line of vision, he scarcely heard the conversation. It was almost as if, by fixing his will upon the picture, he could force an answering gaze from those living eyes. Absurd! But he did not move, just sat there allowing himself to be entranced. The young woman with her fine, resting hands and bowed head, had brought a kind of peace into the room.

  “You look tired, Patrick,” Kate observed.

  “I am,” he admitted. “I just got back from seeing my mother in Martinique. She’s dreadfully sick and that’s a worry, of course. But I suppose the real thing is an inner tiredness. The truth is,” he said, thrusting his face up abruptly, so that one saw new lines beneath his eyes, “the truth is, I suppose, that I’ll never get over the pain of Nicholas. That struck deep, deeper than I realize, maybe.” No one contradicted him and he went on, “You know, I’m relieved that he and the rest escaped the country. We’d never recover what they took, trials would cost a fortune, and there’d only be more anger and more damage. As it is, we can look forward to a long, long struggle. There are an awful lot of people on this island who want to get revenge for what Nicholas’s people did.”

  Kate brought in a tray of drinks and Francis served them. He raised his glass.

  “Good health to us all!”

  “And especially to you, Patrick,” Kate added, “since you’re the one with the load on your shoulders.”

  “Yes, it’s a load. But we’re off to a good start, all the same. One good thing I did, I made Franklin my minister for finance before the wedding. Otherwise,” Patrick laughed, “I’d be accused of nepotism. Maybe I will be anyway, but I don’t care. There isn’t a better man anywhere for the job.” He spoke eagerly, seeming suddenly to need to talk. “We’re working on slum clearance. I want to get rid of the Trenches before they fester and spread any farther. I’ve got some private investors, a Canadian firm, and the government will guarantee the loan. Another company got in touch with me this week about a food processing plant for tomato paste. Well, we can surely provide enough tomatoes in this climate! Then I’m negotiating with the International Monetary Fund, and oh yes, what else is on the fire this week? A bill to require plantation owners to sell to any tenant who wants to buy his house and plot of land. That’s long overdue.”

  Francis said quickly, “I’ve already done that, did you know? My sugar lands across the road aren’t part of the Eleuthera deal. I’ve sold to every tenant who wants to buy. And I’ve given some as a gift to a few of the very eldest,” he added, not concealing his satisfaction in having been first to do voluntarily what the law was about to force others to do. And then, suddenly aware that he might have seemed proud, he added again, “It’s not that I want to boast about it. I only wanted you to know.”

  “It is much appreciated,” Patrick said, somewhat formally, so that Francis knew he was touched and too shy to reveal how much.

  “Well, I always did what I could. I wanted to. And there were others like me.”

  “Not very many,” Patrick said. He sighed. “The problem is, everything’s too slow. That’s what’s bothering me. We haven’t much time to put things in order.”

  “Aren’t you perhaps too apprehensive? Are things that bad? No one’s starving here, after all. There’s new hope since the election—”

  “These are very dangerous times. Nicholas was correct in much of what he said, except that he tried to fight one evil with another.”

  “And line his pockets,” Kate said indignantly.

  Patrick went on as if he were tabulating quantities, almost summing up for himself.

  “It’s true, I had help from the left. I don’t delude myself. Those young men who fought the secret police, who recaptured the radio station, so many of them came from the ranks of those with whom, it hurts me so to say, my Will is involved—though he denies it. Yes, it’s true they helped.” Patrick stopped, and the room was absolutely still, with the others leaning intently toward the pool of light in which he sat.

  “When you’re desperate you take help from anybody at the moment. But now—now I don’t need to be reminded that the Soviets are in Cuba and Cuba is here, so to speak. Here or next door, which is almost the same thing. Yes, they’re all here, the training camps for terrorists, the Soviet AK-47 rifles, squadrons of aircraft, forty-knot patrol boats, maritime facilities for submarines, jeeps and trucks, all next door. As soon as they think they can knock me and my kind out of here they’ll be in St. Felice, too.”

  The words hung heavily in the air. So, then, it would be the same as having Nicholas back, or worse, Francis thought. Is there no end to it? And he answered himself, No, none, without eternal vigilance.

  Then, as if he had had an afterthought so deeply painful that he had tried to suppress it, Patrick said, “They are already subverting our young.”

  “Oh, Will,” Désirée protested. “Will! How he makes you suffer! I wish—”

  “We all know what you wish,” Patrick told her. “That we had never taken him in.”

  “Well,” she responded, quietly enough, “don’t you wish it, too? Tell the truth!”

  “I couldn’t have done otherwise. If I were to see him again as he was that day I would have to do it all over again.” He looked away for a moment, then back at the picture. “But let’s talk of happier things…. That is a wonderful work of art. I don’t think Da Cunha could ever have done anything better.” He turned to Francis. “So you are really leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Next month. They’ve got the papers ready to sign next week, so we can leave in June.” Francis caught Patrick’s eyes and held them with his own. “I’m terribly ashamed. I haven’t said it before, but it’s something you must surely have been thinking. The way in which I’m leaving, I mean. These people, this casino and all it entails—I hate it all. I hate what it does to the country and I’ll tell you one thing: I’m glad that under your aegis there will be no more of it.” Francis threw his hands out as if he were pleading to be understood. “But given the situation, with no other buyer in sight—And I have to leave. I have to.”

  “I know,” Patrick said. He paused. “Excuse me. Do I—do we—know you well enough to ask, What about Kate?”

  He felt a stinging behind his eyes, a warning of tears, and was painfully embarrassed.

  “She understands,” was all he could say.

  It had grown quite dark. The night life in the scrap of jungle which remained in back of the street rose loud and shrill, a whirring and peeping, a rhythmical buzz and chirp. Désirée, with a gentle tact for which Francis was grateful, moved to the subject of her daughters’ weddings: quite possibly it would be a double wedding, because although Maisie was only seventeen and young to be married, he was such a marvelous boy…. So she prattled until, in a little while, she and Patrick left.

  When they had gone, he sat on with Kate. She had taken out her embroidery and now, with a frown on her forehead, sat working at it, not speaking. Francis said suddenly, “You know if it weren’t for Megan—you do know that, don’t you?”

  “Darling Francis, I do.”

  “I’m so guilty. I brought her into the world, when I should have known better. I gave Marjorie that burden. Gave Megan that burden, too.” His voice trembled.

  “But I’ve told you again and again,” Kate said patiently, “you mustn’t think like that. It won’t help anyone for you to walk ar
ound with all that guilt.”

  “I can’t leave Megan,” he said for the thousandth time and, as he had also done before, went on. “Ah, what a pity! You’re the one who should have children, Kate.”

  “If I had, I would probably never have left Lionel. Poor old Lionel! I don’t know why I always say ‘old,’ because he isn’t.”

  “He was old when he was born, I expect. Like me,” Francis said glumly.

  Kate put down the embroidery. “Like you! I’ve never heard anything sillier!” She reflected. “You know, I sometimes think Lionel’s never really felt anything much in his whole life. But maybe people like him are better off. When I left him, it was only the humiliation that upset him, no pain, while I—” She did not finish.

  And Francis, watching her with her head bent again over the needle and the fine white cloth, thought of how she would be when she grew old, thought of it for no reason that he could have explained except for a cruel awareness that he would not know her when she was old.

  Suddenly he asked, “What will you do now with your life?”

  “Oh, go on living here and working on the paper. This time around I’ll expose the leftists—”

  He interrupted. “For God’s sake, don’t do anything crazy again! Take care of yourself. I couldn’t bear it if—”

  He got up and sat on the floor beside her chair with his head against her knees. She stroked his hair. From her body, as she leaned to him, came an aura of warmth and the sweetness of vétiver, that fragrance of grass and morning that seemed always to go with her.

  “I’ve been thinking—it’s better, after all, that you’re leaving. I couldn’t just live here like this, sharing you with Marjorie and your child. It’s done, it’s always been done as long as men and women have lived on earth, but it’s not for me. And yet if you were here, I’d want to do it. So I’d be cutting myself in two, you see.”

  He kissed her fingers and her wrists where the blue veins crossed, then her arms and her neck.

  “Come upstairs,” she said.