Trade Wind

by M. M. Kaye

  “But there is no reason why I should ever speak to her again,” decided Hero, “and if she is invited to our Consulate, I need only say I have a headache.”

  Clayton’s duties had kept him occupied until well after sunset, and since he returned late for dinner Hero had no opportunities for private speech with him until the meal was over. But gazing at him in the soft glow of the candles she no longer saw him as a man she might one day decide to marry, but as the man she was going to marry: “For better for worse…to love, cherish and obey until death do us part…’ It was in some ways a daunting thought, but in another a comforting one because of its comprehensiveness and finality.

  To love, cherish and obey. She would certainly resolve to cherish and obey. But to love? Could she promise to do that if she were still not sure? Whoever had originally written those words had not considered doubts, and they must have been spoken down the centuries by innumerable women who had not been in love when they said them, but who had, if Aunt Lucy were right, learned to do so later. And it would be very easy to love Clay.

  The candle-light was making him look a little flushed and more than ordinarily handsome, and tonight he was obviously in good spirits, for he kept up an uninterrupted flow of conversation: teasing Cressy, rallying his mother on the subject of her bathing picnic, informing Hero that Jules Dubail had referred to her admiringly as La belle Grecque, and regaling his stepfather with some of Joe Lynch’s latest after-dinner stories—the latter to the evident agitation of his mother, who suspected that he had been drinking and kept glancing anxiously at the two girls.

  Aunt Abby need not have worried, for her daughter and her niece were both far too occupied with their own thoughts to pay much attention to her son’s anecdotes. And though Hero was watching him she was not really listening to what he was saying, and except when directly addressed would probably have remained inattentive to the end of the meal, had it not been for the introduction of a name that caught her attention as abruptly and unpleasantly as though she had been sleep-walking and had run into a wall in the dark.

  “…one of Frost’s women,” said Clay.

  “How do you know?” enquired his stepfather.

  “Saw her once before,” said Clay with a reminiscent grin. “She was looking out of a window of that house of his in the city. The one they call ‘The Dolphins’ House.’ Loveliest thing imaginable—give you my word! Eyes the size of saucers and skin like…Oh, I don’t know; gold, ivory, cream? And a yard and a half of the blackest, silkiest hair you ever saw. She jumped back when she saw me staring, but it wasn’t the sort of face you’d be likely to forget, and I recognized her as soon as I walked into Gaur Chand’s shop. She was in that back room that they keep for their purdah customers, but the door blew open in the draught and there she was, looking at silver bangles or something of the sort. So I walked in and introduced myself, and she pulled her veil over her face and acted as though she’d been somebody’s virtuous daughter instead of just another of Frost’s fancy strumpets.”

  “Clay, dear!” gasped Aunt Abby indignantly: “I will not have you using expressions like that in front of the girls. Or mentioning that sort of woman either. Mr Hollis—!”

  Uncle Nat, thus appealed to, wagged a placating hand at his ruffled wife and said: “No need to take on like that, Abby. The girls are both quite old enough to know that there are such creatures around. They’re out of the schoolroom now.”

  “Even if they are, I still do not consider this a suitable subject for mixed company.”

  Clayton laughed and said: “Darling Mama, you seem to forget that this is not Boston. We’re in Zanzibar, where such things are taken for granted and every man who can afford it has a harem. Look at the local Royal Family—not one of ‘em what we’d call legitimate. Why, they say the old Sultan fathered a hundred and twelve children in his day, and left seventy concubines to mourn him when he died.”

  “No, Clay!” protested Aunt Abby. “No, really dear, I will not have it I know that word is in the Bible and that Arabs may not think anything of having them, but then this man Frost is not an Arab, which puts the whole thing on quite a different footing—a most objectionable one—and I would prefer you to talk of something else.”

  “Of course it’s different. If she’d been a member of some Arab’s seraglio I’d have referred to her as a sarari. But as the fancy-lady of a white-trash slaver she’s no more than a—”

  “Clayton!”

  Clayton laughed again and said: “Very well. Mama. I apologize. What shall we talk of instead? The weather, like Colonel Edwards and the Kealeys and the Platts? Or food, like the Lessings? Or women, like Jules and Joe and No, that’s taboo, isn’t it? It’ll have to be the weather.

  Mohammed Ali tells me that the rains will be here before the end of next week. I told him it was too early, but he swears he can feel it in his bones. Let’s hope he’s right. It’ll be a relief to get some of the garbage washed off the streets and to feel cool in the daytime instead of only at night. What d’you say we go for a ride tomorrow. Hero? Will you come?”

  Hero recovered herself with a start. She had been thinking with angry resentment of men like Emory Frost and the Arabs of Zanzibar, who treated women as creatures to be bought and used and discarded; sad, hapless, servile creatures who had little or no say in their own destiny and must accept a man’s embraces and bear his children whether they cared for him or not. ‘One of Frost’s women’—a cold shiver of puritanical disgust made her flesh shrink and crawl, and she was once again sharply aware of the need to escape to safety.

  Clay said again: “Will you. Hero? Please.”

  She did not know what he had asked her. Only that it was a question. And she answered it as though it was the one question that every woman wishes to hear. She said: “Yes, Clay!” And having said it experienced an enormous sense of relief and of laying down a burden.

  If Clayton was a little startled by the tone of her response he did not show it, and half-an-hour later, in the cool of the garden where the scent of orange blossom provided a suitably bridal note, he had put into words the question that Hero had already answered, and, though not aware of this, had been accepted for the second time that evening.

  It would have been untrue to say that he was surprised, for although he had harboured some doubts when he had first sailed East, he had been confident of the outcome from the moment he had heard of Barclay’s death and Hero’s acceptance of his mother’s invitation to visit Zanzibar. But her capitulation at that moment was a trifle unexpected, since he had, on the whole, seen little of her during the past few weeks. There had been other things on his mind, and as Hero had been preoccupied and obviously in no mood for dalliance, he had thought it better not to press his suit, but to treat her instead with affectionate deference and allow her time to look about her and feel more settled.

  The effect that his lover-like behaviour had produced on the day of her arrival had taught him the unwisdom of rushing his fences, and having realized that she was not yet ready to fall into his arms, he had been prepared to wait until the novelty of her situation and surroundings had worn off and she was disposed to pay proper attention to him. This policy had plainly been the right one, and Clayton congratulated himself on his handling of the affair and was not more than mildly impatient when, on attempting to embrace his newly promised wife, he had been held off with a display of maidenly modesty that in the circumstances he considered excessive, if not actually ridiculous.

  It was going to be the devil of a nuisance, he reflected, if Hero were going to prove as genuinely frigid as her startled reaction to any physical contact would suggest. But the time to deal with that problem would come later; and in the meantime, if she wished to be treated like a Vestal Virgin until the ring was on her finger, he was prepared to humour her. It would not be for long, and as he had no intention of frightening her into changing her mind, he contented himself with kissing her hand with affectionate fervour and doing no more than brush her cheek with his
lips.

  The news of the engagement had a mixed reception from his immediate family. His mother was unable to prevent her pleasure being modified by doubts, and though congratulating him, was a little tearful. Nathaniel Hollis frankly considered the match an excellent thing and his step-son a lucky man, and Cressy temporarily abandoned her apathy to embrace Hero passionately and declare in one and the same breath that she was so glad—so very glad—and she wished she were dead!

  The European community, with one or two exceptions, welcomed the news with enthusiasm, since it presented an admirable excuse for the giving of parties, and Clayton and his betrothed were entertained at a series of dinners, luncheons, tea-parties and receptions, and received the congratulations of a large number of Arab and Asian notables.

  Olivia Credwell was sentimentally ecstatic, but Thérèse Tissot’s written felicitations contained a distinct note of acidity, and there had been no word from the Seyyida Cholé. Or from Lieutenant Daniel Larrimore either, for the Daffodil had left harbour—slipping out quietly on the evening after Aunt Abby’s picnic party, and without her commanding officer having paid his customary farewell call at the American Consulate.

  The Virago, on the other hand, was still at her anchorage in the harbour, and her Captain was frequently to be met with riding through the town with Hajji Ralub or lounging on the sea wall deep in conversation with a motley selection of Arabs, Banyans and Africans, and usually accompanied by Batty Potter and several of the more villainous-looking members of his crew.

  Mr Potter had accosted Hero outside a silversmith’s shop in the city one evening, where she had gone in company with Olivia, Hubert Platt and Herr Ruete to purchase a trinket designed as a birthday present for Mrs Jane Platt.

  Batty had tugged at her sleeve and demanded in a hoarse whisper, redolent with rum, if it were true that she had engaged herself to marry Mr Mayo, and on receiving a hurried affirmative, said sadly: “There now, I was afraid you ‘ad. If you was to ask me, you’re makin’ a mistake and you’d do better to call it off before it’s too late. That’s my advice, miss. Call it off. You won’t suit. ‘Andsome is as ‘andsome does,’ is what I says. But lor!—women never ‘as no more sense than a chicken when it comes to a good-looking young cove.”

  “You don’t even know him!” retorted Hero in an indignant undertone.

  “Not to speak to,” admitted Batty. “But I knows you, miss. Werry well I knows you, after ‘elpin to spill the water out of you and mendin’ your duds and “acking off your “air, and chewin’ the rag with you on the after ‘atch. Ah well, once you fancies you’re in love it’s all up with you, as I knows to me sorrow. But then I never loses me ‘ead and marries ‘em! or not proper—exceptin’ when I was too young to know any better. Well, I ‘ope you’ll be ‘appy, miss.’ He shook his head in the manner of one who has grave doubts, and added: “But don’t say as I didn’t warn you. Marriage ain’t never what you thinks it is. Not by no means!”

  Mr Potter sighed regretfully, mopped his forehead and remarked that it was “cruel ‘ot weather’, and nodding a brief farewell was lost to sight among the colourful crowd that thronged the street.

  Young Herr Ruete, who had seen him go, said: “Who is that old man who speaks with you? Does he require something?”

  “No,” said Hero hastily. “It was only someone who was passing. He—er—said something about the weather: that it was very hot.”

  “Ah—an Englishman!” laughed Herr Ruete. “The heat is indeed oppressive today, but soon it will rain. Lieber Gott! how it will rain. You will presently see.”

  There had been no clouds for several days; and no wind. But a haziness had dulled the clear blue of the sky, and the heat, as Wilhelm Ruete said, had become stifling and oppressive. Even at this hour of the evening Hero could feel the sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades, and she was grateful to her aunt for persuading her to discard her mourning in favour of lighter and paler-coloured muslins. Black poplin was certainly unsuitable wear in such a trying climate. And even less suitable, as Aunt Abby had pointed out, for a newly betrothed young lady:

  “You would not wish people to suppose that you regret your decision, I hope?” she had coaxed. “Because that is what they might suppose if you do not put off your mourning. Black is quite unsuited to betrothals and bridal plans, and I am persuaded that your dear Papa would have fully agreed with me.”

  Hero had capitulated and packed away her mourning; and with it, she hoped, all regrets. The past was over, and she was about to enter a new life in which she would no longer be her own mistress, but Mrs Clayton Mayo, pledged to love, cherish and obey her husband until death did them part. A dress of lilac-coloured muslin, worn with a chip-straw bonnet trimmed with violets and tied under her chin with ribbons of the same shade, had bridged the gap between full mourning and the time when she might venture to wear gayer tints, and Clay had been pleased to commend the result.

  She looked so charming, he informed her, that it was a matter of great regret to him that business in another part of the town prevented him from accompanying her on the expedition to the silversmith’s shop. But they had in fact caught a glimpse of him on their way back to the Consulate, for they had returned by a different route and had seen him emerge from a narrow lane just ahead of them, walking quickly and looking angry and preoccupied. He had disappeared down a side-street before they could catch up with him, and Mr Platt, peering shortsightedly after the retreating figure in the dust-coloured suit and wide-brimmed hat, said: “Isn’t that Mayo? I hope he is not looking for you. Miss Hollis. I promised him that you would be safe with us, but he may not trust us with such a precious possession!”

  He accompanied the remark with a little tittering laugh, and Hero smiled politely and was about to reply when they reached the entrance to the lane and were brought to a halt by a horse and rider who were emerging from it. The lane was a cul-de-sac, and the rider, clad in a light brown habit and wearing a small hat with a heavy veil, was Madame Tissot.

  Thérèse checked her horse to exchange a few pleasantries; explaining that she had lost her way in this abominable maze of streets but had been fortunate enough to encounter Miss Hollis’s fiancé, who had kindly redirected her. She accompanied the party as far as the Consulate, threading her horse between the amiable and apparently aimless crowds and keeping up an uninterrupted flow of small-talk, but as Hero, who had not spoken, did not invite her to come in, she had left them there; including them all in a graceful bow and cantering away in the direction of her own house.

  Clayton had said nothing of the incident when he returned an hour later, and Hero had reframed from mentioning it, for she knew that he disliked Madame Tissot and she did not for a moment believe that Thérèse, who knew the city almost as well as Fattûma, had lost her way. It was far more likely that she had seen Clay take that turning and had followed him in order to force him into conversation with her, or to issue an invitation to one of her “receptions’ that he might have difficulty in refusing to her face. And since Hero did not think Madame Tissot would take kindly to being rebuffed by someone who had once treated her with thoughtful consideration, she felt truly sorry for Clay and took pains to be particularly pleasant to him that evening.

  The heat had not abated with the coming of night and the stars were not as bright or as clear as usual, but appeared dim and small in the moonless dark, and, for once, very far away. Hero had set her bedroom window wide in the hope of catching a breath of breeze, but there had been no wind. Only the cloying scent of frangipani and orange blossom from the Consulate garden, and underlying it a faint and unpleasant stench of sewage, salt water and corruption that was the smell of Zanzibar. Someone was singing in a house on the far side of the garden wall; a woman’s voice, high and sweet, accompanied by the thin, twangling music of a kinanda. And from somewhere much further away, the monotonous tunka-tunk of a drum provided a measured counter-point to the quavering song.

  Listening to that throbbing beat. Hero remember
ed an evening on the Virago and Batty Potter telling her some absurd tale of the sacred drums of Zanzibar that sounded a warning of their own accord when disaster threatened the Island. It did not seem quite so absurd now; though no ghostly hands were responsible for the present sound, for it did not come from some hidden cave in the hills near Dunga, but from the purlieus of the city: a rhythmic and familiar accompaniment to the no less familiar sounds of voices and laughter, the braying of a donkey and the squawling of a pair of alley-cats who were conducting a courtship among the pomegranate trees.

  Hero blew out the lamp, and pulling back the thin muslin curtains, looked out into the hot darkness and thought how strange the night noises of the city sounded now that the surf and the palm fronds were silent And how far away Hollis Hill and Boston seemed—as though they were not only part of another continent, but part of another world: a new, clean world, uncluttered by the dirt and disease and the old, dark tyrannies and ugly superstitions that still crept and swarmed and spawned within a stone’s-throw of her window.

  She shivered at the thought, and for the first time found it frightening rather than challenging. It was not going to be as easy as she had once imagined to clear away the dirt and delusions that men had lived with and tolerated and clung to for long centuries. Or to alter the rules and precepts that had governed the lives of countless generations.