Black Jack was done unloading by dinner. After a twilight meal with a gin and tonic, specialty drink of the house, he took a walk about. He headed west up the main street toward the town center. Along the way, every open door was another hotel pub or grog shop, each with its ample array of particular patrons. They were all engaged in various stages of grumbling, laughing, talking, and drinking, their poses being frozen for an instant as his eyes passed the entry way. Amidst the aimless and uniform babble, he heard certain phrases rise above the drone that darted his ears: Words such as, 'There's a queer fellow'; and 'you can tell by the way he walks'; or 'there's that man'; and 'he’s always alone'; and so on down the street. The clock struck seven as he reached the square. Given three routes, he chose left and carried on with his grand tour of the Beaver. The first building around the block was another hotel chock full of loyal customers. Rounding the corner came the street that ran along the back of his hotel. He noticed that at this hour, no one else seemed to be walking along the avenues. They were all either in the pubs or on horses or horse-drawn carriages. People glared at him as if he were odd. He wondered if it had anything to do with his walking alone.
In fact, it seemed to him that for such a small town, it had an unusually large number of horses and carriages. The entire village's populace, he thought, must be riding around the handful of streets at this evening hour. He watched them. No one was performing any particular business, not even a perfunctory social visit with other passersby. Everyone appeared to be riding, riding, riding; to no end. The constant stares from people who were going nowhere in circles began to annoy him.
During the afternoon, the town had been quite peaceful, he recalled. He had seen people walking from shop to shop in normal fashion, performing the ordinary business of the day. No one, save for the odd bugger, frequented any of the hotel pubs; and hardly anyone carried on in a more than a sublime manner. Now, it seemed, everyone was attempting to make as much noise as possible. In particular, Black Jack noticed a certain device that everyone had placed conspicuously upon the reigns of their steeds. It was all a bizarre spectacle to him, from the single dusty old filly being ridden by a boy in rags to the richest of covered coaches occupied by squires and ladies. Everyone had placed a large cowbell just behind the ear of his horses. Completely baffling to Black Jack was the fact that of the hundreds of bells that he saw, they were all identical; as if one merchant alone had been fortunate enough to import the singular item in bulk. As base and common as it struck him as being, every single rider, poor or wealthy, made it a point to drive his animal as hard as possible with the crop or whip on a frantic charge down each stretch of street. This caused the bells to clang terribly, for no other reason than the sake of the sound. The drivers acted oblivious to the racket, while their poor horses seemed wholly dismayed.
The entire strange scene thoroughly vexed Black Jack and made him weary. He turned left again, heading down the far side of his hotel. Along that street he passed the constable station. He wondered if there were any laws concerning the disturbing of the peace, or illegal use of equipment on animals used for transport. Black Jack could see the officers of the law sitting motionless behind the glass of their building, settled in for another quiet night in the Beaver. So much for stopping the bells, he thought, plodding on. Maybe it’s me who is crazy. He closed his eyes to get perspective on the ruckus. The constant cacophony and tumultuous din of the frivolous devices made him angry. He opened his eyes and walked on, disgusted that such a beautiful town at sunset was marred by a mob of noisemakers.
Around the next corner, the avenue stretched along the river winding its way quietly out of town. Black Jack could see the shade tree where his boat was tied. As he approached, he thought he saw a familiar face in the corner grog shop closest to the stream. In his agitated state, he did not bother to stop. Once upstairs in his room, he promptly closed the large window overlooking the street. He was in room thirteen, the last one down the hallway to the left. The room overlooked the river and the dock.
He buried his head beneath a pillow. After a time, he looked and saw that it was growing darker outside. He moved a chair to the large window and watched the people of the town again. The steady stream of rabble rousers had dwindled to a handful of roving groups. He opened the window. The union of silence with a cool breeze remained unbroken for several seconds. Oil lamps glittered above the street, with charming buildings basking in their glow. Blue twilight frosted with silver flecks softly washed over dusky distant hills. Black Jack inhaled the scene and held it for one refreshing moment. Then, around the corner they came.
Barreling down the boulevard, bells clanging, the parties in the coaches were oblivious to the natural beauty around them. They seemed unaware, he thought, of just about everything. Around and around the town they went, in clusters, pairs, and alone. Sometimes they would follow one another in trains, other times spreading out to canvas the surrounding streets separately. Groups would occasionally stop to congregate and engage in casual conversation. These associations fell along apparent lines of financial status, owing to the similar decor and condition of the carriages that huddled together. Other times, young and old, commoner and citizen of class alike would share a dusty parking lot. All of the people were merely content, in Black Jack's eye, to commingle and pass the evening in a singular meaningless manner for one popular purpose: The trivial pursuit of commotion. It was a race to gain victory over utter and complete boredom at the urban hub of the middle of nowhere; and everyone was the odds-on favorite to show. That is not to say, however, that it did not make for an interesting spectacle.
As Black Jack sat watching from his window above the hotel entrance, a regal carriage with very well-to-do passengers called a halt to its endless chariot race and stopped out front. In the coach was a party of finely dressed men and women, forming two couples. One young man stepped down and helped his lady companion out with much chivalry, as the other pair remained seated. Then, their mischievous antics began to tell their age. Their patting and pawing, slapping and teasing, along with their constant giggling, let Black Jack know that they were probably well less than twenty. The other couple in the carriage became fully consumed with one another, as the standing pair waited for the driver to unload the young lady's bags. Two Maori men, attendants of the hotel whom Black Jack had seen earlier, stepped up graciously to assist with the handling of the young aristocrats' arrival. Black Jack strained an ear to gather what was going on.
"No, Love, you know what Mum and Dad would say. Besides, you'll be fine here. It's only for one night; and you won't be sleeping that long. We’ve still got the rest of the evening!" said the young man, following with a peck on her lips.
She held his hands clasped to her bosom. "I know, Charles, but it’s so hard when we're not together. It will be even more difficult now that we're right in the same town. I can't wait 'til we're married!"
"I know, Love. Soon we'll be together every night. Now c'mon. Run along and drop these bags in the room. We’ve got celebrating to do!"
She turned briskly and followed her luggage in the hands of the houseboys. Black Jack watched as the young man, top hat in hand, waited anxiously in the street for his fiancée to return. Black Jack heard the sounds in the hall as the bustling entourage stormed up to the door next to his. He heard the two men conversing about the room and fumbling with the lock. The jingle of the skeleton key sounded success, and the door was booted open. He heard the clumsy, large window slide open, the bags hit the floor, and the men march back down the hall. Black Jack saw the young man wave and smile as the young lady yelled something excitedly from the open window next to his. Then he heard the door slam, the key turn, and feet softly and swiftly move down the hallway. A moment later she appeared in the street by her future husband's side; and they were off again.
Black Jack did not see them for some time. Being more than summer lovers, he expected them to slip away to some secluded spot and sit beneath a tree; or perhaps find a dim corner o
f one of the nice eateries in town. However, soon enough, around the corner they came. Rambling along, with other horses and riders alongside, they hooted and hollered as they held up bottled libations and imbibed unashamedly. He saw them go around two or three times in rapid succession; and then they disappeared from the lineup of hopeless contestants. Perhaps an hour or more later, they reappeared, louder and visibly less sober than before. They truly did seem to be having a grand time, thought Black Jack, if even in such petite style. Who am I to judge? He wondered. At least they have one another.
At one point later in the evening, the street cleared altogether; and Black Jack was free once again to enjoy the silent beauty of the Beaver Town. He counted to thirty, and amazingly no sound interrupted his serenity. Then suddenly, from across the street, an entirely frightening and unfamiliar sound erupted atop one of the opposing buildings. It emanated from one spot; and as he scanned the darkness for the source of the ruckus, Black Jack's eyes settled upon a stream of white steam and black smoke being pumped from a gray box with wheels and pulleys attached. Black Jack had heard of the new machines called coal-steam engines which were capable of doing the work of many windmills; however, he had no idea what the function of this particular one was, or why it should be in operation after eleven o'clock at night. He only knew that it was one more horrific disturbance of the peace in a place where he thought that there should be absolutely none. Them horses belong on a racetrack, he thought. And that damn engine belongs in the cellar, not on the roof!
The horse-and-carriages began to dwindle in number and intensity of activity, and tranquility began to return to the town in longer lengths shortly after the center clock struck midnight. It was around then as well that he saw them coming down the street. Pulling up in front, the familiar foursome seemed finished. Visibly inebriated, the young man struggled to stagger out of the carriage and remain standing. His lovely partner, also affected by the night's alcohol, tumbled into his arms and planted her unsteady feet. The two embraced one another for dear life as the sober driver stepped into the lobby to retrieve some assistance. The Maori gentlemen from before gingerly approached the couple as the driver remounted his perch and took the reigns in eager anticipation of reaching home. Black Jack heard the Maori men and the young man talking.
"Where is the house maid? My fiancée here needs attending to." Said the man, slurring his words.
"Oh, she's gone to bed for the evening, sir. It's late. The young lady will be shown to her room tonight and attended to in the morning." Said one of the Maori men as the other eagerly nodded in agreement.
The young man, swaying as he held his incoherent lady friend, said, "Shee that see ish! I have to go now, but we will be back in the mornink. Be sir that see ish up!"
The two men gesticulated humbly, smiling egregiously and rubbing their hands. "Very good, Sir. Yes, Sir. She will be shown to her room straight away, Sir." Said each man in alternating repetition of the other.
The young man pushed her into their arms and stumbled back into his seat. Black Jack watched as the carriage drove away and the two men each took an arm of the lady and braced her on their shoulders. The men were not what he would call young and handsome. They impressed Black Jack as being the product of one of the first generation of Maori men to grow up completely within the lifestyle of the Pakeha. Now, in middle age and having had drunk too much, eaten unhealthily, and smoked the same, they showed the effects of being weathered by vice. Their guts protruded heavily over their English belts; and their black hair, although still thick, was receding and peppered with gray. Their features had begun to droop prematurely from the ravages of long nights of libation; and several teeth had since headed south. They were crusty and salty, but not without a certain authentic masculine charm: Much like old yard dogs.
Although walking partly under her own volition, the young lady did not seem to Black Jack to be entirely present of mind as the trio passed beneath the gas lit marquee of the hotel and out of sight below his window. He heard them come quietly down the hall after a time, and then begin to whisper outside her door. He decided to crack his door open for a peek at the parental progress.
As he peered, he saw her bury her face into the chest of one of the men while the other struggled with the keys. Upon his success, he turned and exchanged glances with his mate, and the two looked around warily in all directions. The girl began to babble, seeming to comprehend her arrival at her proper destination. With a concerted push and a slam of the door behind them, the threesome disappeared into the room. Black Jack, tired from his self-appointed night watch, lay down upon his bed and listened for the men's departure.
Inside her dim room, she could barely follow their shadowy forms as the light of the street streamed in past the musty yellow and brown floral drapes, mixing with the glow of the room's oil lamp upon the peeling green foil fleur-de-lys wallpaper. As she felt herself sit heavily upon the bed against the wall next to one of the men, she heard the other man mumble something about “checking on things” from the toilet. Crossing the room, he extinguished the low lamp, filling her eyes with strobing rings of murky colored light rippling over pools of darkness. She strained to focus as she heard the cumbersome wooden window being closed and the curtains drawn, cutting off the supply of cool night air. Small, smooth, wet stones seemed to roll and clack within her cranium, as she became aware of the smells around her. The pungent warm scent of stale red wine and cigarettes snuffed in beer closed in around her along with the sharp, oniony body funk of a presence breathing in her ear. Her neck swanned and jerked, falling forward to meet the dusty wool coat and musky aroma of the man standing in front of her. She struggled to breathe, see, and stop spinning as she felt the coat brush aside her long, fine hair. Why can't the housemaid attend to me properly? She wondered. Why are these men taking such care to see me to bed? Thinking that she heard the room key jingle in the man's pocket, she raised a wavy hand of protest and query, only to find the large, naked stomach of the imposing Maori. She instinctively recoiled, though clumsily, her hand retracing its hairy trail down his underbelly. She felt the weight and breadth of the man's protruding gut. In her altered state, it reminded her of a heavy wool blanket, fresh from the wash, which her mother and she would have lovingly wrung before it was hung. The first pang of fear passed through her navel, starting from her heart and flowing cold down within her inner folds. Then her hand discovered a happy and anxious child, swaddling beneath the man's bulky spread: The organ grinder's cheeky assistant, springing to touch the rims of her supple sipping portal. Sporting a plum hat and dashing vest, it slipped over the moat, through her pearly gates, and clamored over the castle's royal taster, planting a serviceman's homecoming kiss at the rear of her reception chamber and receiving a reflexive hug in return. Utter shock and terror flashed across the top of her head; and then something strange occurred: As the festooned creature playfully probed and burrowed curiously within her face, like a macaque in the caves on the Rock of Gibraltar, she felt the fear take flight. Warmth melted over her. Has my hand betrayed me, she wondered, failing to shun this uninvited visitor at the door? Her fingers held out the last bit of resistance at the threshold, where upon further investigation she found the bold guest's luggage. She felt her bottom becoming as hot butter. The other man, whose hands had been upon her bosom the whole time, now gently grasped her ankles. The two men consorted, and they laid her back upon the bed. She realized that she had never seen a man's face so close to her down there, nor had she felt a man drink from the fountain from whence her bubbly debut vintage now flowed. She wondered if it meant that she would still be a virgin in the morning.
Black Jack drifted through the gentle warm waves of waning consciousness, imagining that he heard frantic scraping, thumping, and rapping upon his wall joining the two rooms. He also heard a sound that challenged his memory. Desperately searching in semi-sleep through his library of sensations, he stumbled across a time in Mississippi when he first heard the stifled, squeaky mews of excited
bunnies busy down in their den. He was privy to that noise now over and over again, almost waking to it several times throughout the long night.
VII
The next morning Black Jack awoke bright and early, having left his curtains and window open. Another fine, sunny day greeted him as he stood and scanned the still street just after sunrise. Making his way downstairs, he carefully stepped over empty and tipped bottles, fag butts, and piles of assorted discarded gastric goods from various stages along the digestive path. Once he had jumped clear of the sputum-stained stairs at the front of the hotel, he did not look back. Black Jack walked briskly toward the river and his boat that would carry him home. Down to the dock he scampered, a sole enterpriser risen with the birds, alone in his endeavors; or so he thought.
As Black Jack finished checking his draft and prepared to cast off the lines, a lone, dark figure appeared slouched on the bench. Startled, Black Jack cried out, "Hello there. How ya goin'?" Black Jack could see in the gray light of the early morning that the stranger held what looked to be a letter in his hand. The large man was olive colored with a head of thick, black hair and a bushy red beard. He wore a long seaman's coat, and high black boots with pointed tips.
The solemn figure replied, "Good, mate, but you might not be."
"What do you mean by that? Do I know you sir?"
The man shook the letter sternly. "No, you don't know who I am; but I’ve heard plenty about you. Come closer and I'll tell you."
"What business is it that you have with me, sir? I am busy, and I must go."
The man said, "I think that you will stay when you hear what I have to tell you." His piercing blue eyes became wide and shiny as he spoke.
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