Hunting Midnight

by Richard Zimler

  “What did you do?”

  “I thought it best to keep quiet, but during our next lesson, he did it again. So after he was gone, I told my mother, but she only accused me of being too flirtatious with adults. She said that if he had touched me inappropriately – which she wasn’t willing to believe just because I said so – then it must have been because I’d been leading him on. To punish me, she forbade me from taking further piano lessons with anyone else ever again. John, you know how I adore playing the piano. I was brokenhearted – completely lost.

  “As if that wasn’t enough,” Mama continued, placing a hand to her chest to steady her breathing, “my former teacher spread vicious gossip about me, claiming that I was a wicked Marrana girl and that I’d tried to seduce him.”

  She shuddered when she said that adults from her neighborhood had referred to her for years as “that lying Jewish whore.”

  “So you never took another lesson?”

  Mama grinned slyly. “You know me better than that, John. I found a teacher on my own and for more than two years studied with him in secret. His name was João Vicente, God bless his memory. He didn’t ask for any payment at all. He told me that when I was a rich and famous concert pianist I would pay him back. But then one of my dear elder brothers followed me in secret across the city and told my mother what I’d been up to. You know what your Grandmother Rosa did? She beat me on the palms with a paddle, shouting with each strike that I’d never play music or humiliate the family again. It took weeks before I could even sew a few stitches. I felt like an outcast for years after that. The worst part was that I was prevented from doing what I most loved. I only started to feel like myself again when I left home and could play anytime I wanted.”

  It was Father who saved her life in a sense, since he’d cared not a fig for the rumors about her character and believed only in the love they’d found together. “His first present to me after our marriage was a pianoforte he ordered from London – the one I still have.” Mama’s eyes radiated love for him.

  “Then, when I gave birth to you, John,” she said, tapping my nose playfully, “I knew that I had overcome all the evil done to me. You were my proof that all would be well in my new life.”

  To me, of course, this fierce and intuitive solidarity between my parents made the destruction of their marriage even more terrible.

  We then discussed my life since Francisca’s death, and she listened intently. I had been unaware of how strongly – and for how long – I yearned for this simple act of listening. She in turn spoke to me of her desire to open a music school, where, with Fiona’s help, she might begin to accept scholarship students.

  She burst into tears upon hearing that I’d received a letter from Violeta, for whom she had prayed every night for many years. I refrained from telling her about my plans to see her in New York. I could not yet bring myself to speak of the troubling matters that concerned Mother directly.

  *

  Over the next days, Esther and Graça enjoyed visits to St. Paul’s and Kensington Gardens and were much taken with the perfumeries in Shire Lane and a Fantoccini performance on Oxford Street. Secretly, I posted a letter to Violeta saying that I would be arriving in New York as quickly as a ship might carry me. I added that I’d very much like to make a tile panel for her home, but that it might have to wait for a month or two while I attended to other business that I would explain to her upon my arrival.

  I begged the others for a day alone to rest after the sea journey. From the sideways looks that Mother and Fiona gave me, I was sure they believed I had an afternoon of debauchery in mind. Not so. On Oxford Street I hired a hackney to a shipping agent’s countinghouse in King William Street, where I booked a room aboard the Saxony, which only a few months later would sink famously in a storm. I would be departing from Portsmouth precisely eight days hence.

  I was feeling very relieved to have the ticket in my hand, until I asked the booking agent how long we would be at sea. “Last year,” he replied jovially, “at the very same time, her sails caught every gust of wind and she made the crossing in twenty-four days.”

  I ought to have kept my mouth shut, but I could not help asking, “And if she fails to catch just a few of the breezes?”

  “In that case” – he grinned – “I’d say you were looking at a journey of three months at least.”

  XXXII

  That evening, the girls went out with my aunt to the Covent Garden Theatre to attend a production of Macbeth, with Charles Kemble in the principal role. Though I had long hoped for a chance to attend one of his performances, this was the last play in the world that I wished to see. Mother, too, wanted no part of it, and so we remained at home together.

  Knowing I could not delay discussing my travel plans any longer, I carried the letters addressed to Father from Captain Morgan into the sitting room, where Mother was embroidering.

  “What do you have there, John?” she asked.

  “Letters, Mama.”

  “From whom?”

  Taking a deep breath, I replied, “I shall tell you presently.”

  “Aren’t we secretive tonight,” she said, smiling. Then she saw my distress and added, “But whatever is the matter, son?”

  “Mother, you’ll excuse me if I ask a difficult question, but what precisely do you know of Midnight’s death?”

  “I know just what you know.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  She switched to Portuguese. “I’ll thank you not to adopt that supercilious tone with me.” She put down her needlework and set it on the side table. “John, I am in no mood for whatever nonsense you are planning at my expense.”

  “Was Midnight truly killed poaching?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “That’s what I was told.”

  “Did you not think it strange that there was no grave for him in Swanage?”

  “Indeed. But the minister there explained – John, I told you all this in a letter years ago. Are you losing your memory or is it – ”

  “Did you never suspect Father?” I interrupted.

  “Suspect him of what?”

  “Of having killed Midnight?”

  She sighed, rubbed her temples, and stood up. “John, I fear that sleep is upon me. You’ll have to excuse me, but I – ”

  “Sit!” I shouted, surprised at the vehemence in my voice. “We’re not finished.”

  “You are not to talk to me like that, young man.”

  “I’m thirty-two years old. I shall talk to you as I like.”

  “I see that not even Francisca’s untimely death has improved your manners.”

  I regarded that as a very cruel thing to say. Yet I was also decidedly glad that she’d made a tactical error, if the truth be told, for wounding me in this way served to make us equals; she could no longer oblige me to proceed with delicate caution.

  “John, forgive me,” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly at her own behavior. “That was terrible of me. Please forgive me.”

  “I do, Mama.”

  She sat back down. “Yes, I suspected your father of having caused Midnight’s death. Whether through his negligence or willful encouragement of his hunting on private lands, I knew not. James could be irresponsible at times.”

  “Encouragement?”

  “Permission may be a better word. I still regard your father’s behavior as criminal in allowing Midnight to venture off into the countryside in a land so unfamiliar to him. But it has been so long. Can we not let both of them rest in peace?”

  Convinced that she knew nothing of Father’s having sold Midnight to a slave-trader, I said, “Mama, what if I were to tell you that Midnight might still be alive?”

  She snorted dismissively, so I added, “I’m deadly serious.”

  She leaned toward me. “Are you telling me you saw his ghost? What did you see?”

  Picking up the letters and handing them to her, I replied, “I saw these. Please look at them. They’re addressed to Fa
ther.”

  She opened the first one as though it were a curiosity. “I don’t know a Captain Morgan. And I must say, reading letters addressed to your father makes me feel a bit like a thief. I think it better – ”

  “Read them, Mama, please…. Do it for me.”

  As she read, she complained about the illegibility of the handwriting, hoping, no doubt, that she would be able to dismiss the contents of the letters that easily as well.

  After Mother had read the first of the letters, she said, “John, I’m not sure if this means … if this means what I think it does.”

  “Read them all, Mama. Then we’ll talk. And after tonight, I shall not speak of them again, if that’s what you prefer.”

  She nodded her agreement. To avoid the temptation to watch her while she read, I went to the window and pulled up a chair. I was picturing Mama preparing tea for Violeta and Daniel. How kind she had been to the three of us.

  When I returned to her, her bottom lip was trembling and her cheeks were flushed. She removed her spectacles and said, “John, the English is beyond me. Tell me what this means.”

  “I think you know.”

  “I may. But your English is much better than mine. It is still a foreign language to me. I want to be sure I understand everything.”

  “It means that Father sold Midnight to a man in the American state of Virginia, through a ship’s captain by the name of Morgan. After that, Midnight was sold again and was probably taken to South Carolina. That is a state still profiting by slavery. He could not be located – not, at least, in 1807. And not by Benjamin in years since. In short, it means that Midnight may still be alive – shackled as a slave in South Carolina. Or somewhere else in the United States.”

  “John, you cannot expect me to believe such a tale – to believe your father would do such a thing!”

  “Nevertheless, he did.”

  “But why? Why would he – ” As she spoke, her voice caught on the truth of her own role in this tragedy. “I simply … simply cannot believe it,” she stammered. “I refuse to believe any of it, John. It’s completely impossible!” She held the letters out to me. “Take them, I do not want to read these lies – these damnable lies!” She threw them to the ground.

  “Mother, for how long did you and Midnight …” I could not complete my question.

  She picked up her embroidery, but her hands were quivering and she could make no progress. “Damn my eyesight!” she snapped.

  “How long did you and Midnight – ”

  “John,” she interrupted, “I don’t suppose you might bring me another candle.” She looked up with a determined squint, defying me to continue my questioning. “This eyesight of mine … Old age – it’s positively unforgiving.”

  “I’ll get you a candle, Mother, but there are old secrets I must now be told.”

  She returned to her needlework. “When you are an old man, John, I hope your daughters do not subject you to an interrogation like this.”

  “When I am old, I dearly hope they’ll not have to.”

  I let the silence fester, hoping its weight would unsettle her and prompt her to speak, but she would not utter a word. “You are not going to tell me, are you?” I asked. “Mother, I do not wish to hurt you, but I need to know these things.”

  “I shall not speak of them.”

  “You might consider that I’ve a right to know.”

  “I might not.”

  “I’ve lived with lies for nearly twenty years. And Midnight may still be alive. Don’t you think it would be best to speak the truth?”

  “Truth!” she shouted. “It’s so easy for you to say that word. If these letters sent to your father tell the truth, then I was lied to too, you know!”

  “Mama, you stopped loving me.”

  “That’s not fair,” she replied more gently.

  “You stopped loving me and only truly started again when you came here. Please admit it after all these years.”

  She clung to silence as her only defense.

  “But I kept loving you, Mama, and I kept loving Midnight,” I said desperately.

  “So” – she glared – “it was only you? Is that what you think? We all kept loving Midnight, John.”

  At length I said, “I shall ask you again, Mother. And if you answer truthfully, I shall never mention these things again.”

  “I warn you. If you say another word, I shall ask you to leave and never allow you to come back to my home.”

  Time slowed as we locked eyes as enemies. I had nothing more to lose.

  “Did you and Midnight lie together as man and woman?”

  At that, Mother tried to leave the room, but I caught her arm as she passed me and gripped it hard.

  “Take your hand off me!” she screamed.

  “No! Not till you’ve told me the truth.”

  She tried to jerk free of my grasp, but I wouldn’t let go.

  “John, you’re going too far this time!”

  “I haven’t gone far enough. Not yet, at least.”

  “You’re hurting me. Let me go this instant!”

  “Only if you finally speak the truth, Goddamn it! What happened between you and Midnight?”

  She drew back her free hand to slap me, but I caught it just in time.

  “What would your father say about the way you’re treating your mother?” she demanded.

  I shook her savagely, leaving her speechless with shock. “I don’t care what he’d say!” I hissed. “He’s dead, Mama – dead! And I’m not. I’m here with you and I need the truth. You owe it to me for not loving me all those years!”

  When she burst into tears, I reluctantly let her go.

  “I don’t give a damn about your pride!” I shouted after her as she ran from the room. “It’s Midnight’s life we’re talking about. If you ever loved him, then you must tell me the truth. You have to or – ”

  She slammed her door before I’d finished my plea.

  *

  I smoked in the sitting room, gulping down whiskey to calm my nerves. I wished I could twirl the hands of Aunt Fiona’s clock back to an hour earlier. Not to spare Mother. No, to speak even more harshly. This time, I’d force the truth out of her if I had to.

  When I heard a carriage rattle to a halt by our door, I slunk away to my room, unable to face my daughters. To the sound of Fiona and the girls chattering about the play, I fell into a whiskey-induced slumber.

  When I awoke, Mother was playing the first movement of the “Moonlight Sonata.” In my dressing gown, I crept into her room. I stood next to her and turned the pages. We didn’t speak. She made no attempt to look at me.

  Forgiveness entered my thoughts. Filtering into the soft arpeggios, it became the melody. Was that what Beethoven had composed – an homage to forgiveness?

  My rage had been dissipated by sleep. I was grateful for that.

  When she stopped playing, I said, “Midnight may be living as a slave, Mama. I cannot bear that. It’s killing me. I shall not live again as the man I was until I find him. Mama, I shall try to find him whatever you tell me.”

  “Will you go to America?”

  “Aye. My ship leaves in a week, on the Seventeenth, from Portsmouth. I must leave London the day before.”

  She reached for my hand and brought it to her lips, then rubbed it along her cheek.

  “You still have the most beautiful hands of anyone I know.”

  “Mama, I am sorry for – ”

  “Sssshhh. You were right. What we did to you was terrible – terrible and unfair.”

  She led me to the sofa. She played with my fingers some more, then sniffed their scent of tobacco. I was quite sure this reminded her of the loving presence of my father, as it always did for me. She kissed both my hands, then made them into fists and handed them back to me.

  “John, when you used to go to your tarn, I used to worry myself sick about you. I never told you that because I didn’t want you to be thinking of me sitting at home, concerned for your safet
y. I wanted you to feel free, as I never did as a child. I felt watched. I may have failed as a mother, but I want you to know that I tried as best I could.”

  “You didn’t fail. That’s not why I need to discuss these things now. I shall always be grateful to you for the happiness of my childhood.”

  I stood up and went to the fireplace, stirring up the coals and ash. “Mama, if I do not come back,” I said, “then you must … you must – ”

  “‘If I do not come back’?” she interrupted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I cannot foresee what will happen. I do not know under what circumstances Midnight is being held captive. If I cannot buy him, I shall steal him. One way or another, I will see him to freedom. I cannot resume my life otherwise.”

  “But you will be able to purchase him, will you not?”

  “What if his master does not want to sell him?”

  “Then you will offer more money. I shall give you however much it takes. I must have … I must have three or four hundred pounds that I can give you. They are all for Midnight. And if you need more, I shall sell my jewelry and everything I own to get more.”

  I sat down next to her. “Mama, if I am not able to return for any reason, you must take care of the girls. I cannot go otherwise.”

  “John, this is absurd.”

  “Tell me that you promise to care for the girls if I do not return.”

  “Very well,” she said, her voice breaking, “I swear to raise and protect them.”

  I kissed her on the lips for the first time in many years. “Thank you.”

  We sat in silence for a time, then I gave in to my weariness and rested my head on her lap. She stroked my hair. When I was nearly asleep, she whispered, “I shall tell you my secret, but you must never tell the girls or Fiona. You can tell no one.”

  My eyes were closed. I was drifting away. “You have my word,” I whispered.

  “Your father went upriver quite often, you may recall.” She rested her hand on my chest. “On one of those trips, Midnight and I … we … we – ”

  “You fell in love with each other,” I said. I kept my eyes shut tight, sensing my blindness would help her reveal the truth.