by Di Morrissey
‘Busy. And you? Discovering all the attractions that make up this interesting city, eh?’
‘Yes indeed. In fact, didn’t I see you down at the Amerindian hostel?’
Antonio’s expression didn’t change. ‘No, I don’t believe so. What were you doing there?’
‘Just buying a hammock,’ said Madi lightly. ‘Do you remember Connor Bain?’ The men nodded and Connor touched her elbow, ‘Our lunch is ready. Excuse us, Antonio.’
‘Enjoy your lunch. I shall see you tonight.’
‘Of course,’ said Connor over his shoulder. ‘Always the same mob, only the gossip changes.’
‘Right on, pal,’ called Antonio with an endorsing guffaw.
‘He’s a charming character, isn’t he?’ said Madi softly. ‘Latin charm, I suppose. What does he do really?’
‘Turns up everywhere,’ said Connor with a grin. ‘No seriously, he is the largest supplier of heavy machinery to the mines. And spare parts. Seems to be very well connected in politics too, with people like our weekend host, the colonel. But then if you aren’t, you’re dead in business in countries like this.’
Connor and Madi took their seats in what looked like a set for a film depicting India in the days of the British Raj, circa 1920s; heavy mahogany chairs, silver cutlery, bone china dinner service, starched linen serviettes. Soup was served immediately.
‘Set menu?’ queried Madison with a professionally raised eyebrow.
‘’Fraid so. Part of the charm of the place.’
The ‘charm’ extended to a main course of roast beef and three vegetables with gravy, accompanied by cut crystal holding black sauce, mustard and pepper and salt.
‘So what is the interesting conversational subject you promised for lunch?’ prompted Madi as they settled into the main course.
‘You.’
‘Boring.’
‘Can’t be as boring as my economics lecture in the car.’
‘Well, you know the basics. Hospitality industry. Married young, divorced, sadder and wiser, now having a wonderful holiday, and hoping to make the big time in London, or equivalent.’
‘Now a dedicated career woman.’
Madison sipped her boiled ice water to consider that one. ‘Well, yes and no. I can’t see why one can’t be organised enough to have the best of both worlds. I suppose it depends on getting the right man and the right job. That’s a big ask these days.’
‘And what is your definition of the right man?’
‘Someone very different from the last one. He’s got to be straight up, honest, communicative, and above all respect me for who I am and what I aspire to.’
‘Where do they make them like that?’ quipped Connor.
‘I’m not sure, but I’ll keep my eyes open this time.’ She put down her knife and fork, leaving much of the course as a comment on the overcooked food. A waitress quickly removed her plate and Madison put her elbows on the table and leaned towards Connor. ‘Tell me about your love life.’
Connor choked on the baked potato he had just taken and there was a flustered grasp for a serviette and glass of water. He regained his composure. ‘I see what you mean about communicating and being straight up, as you put it. Do I have time to compose the right answer?’
‘Right answer for you, or for me? And . . . do we know each other that well?’ grinned Madi.
‘The downside to my job is the travel—which I love—but it isn’t conducive to permanent relationships. I guess I’ve chosen career—’
‘Men always do,’ interjected Madi but Connor ignored the barb.
‘So like you I’m keeping my eyes and options open. Anyway, that’s not the sort of personal question a professional career woman should ask. Why are you interested in my love life?’ he countered with a grin.
‘Human nature interests me. Priorities are changing. It’s hard to know where one fits these days . . . if one cares to know, that is. My mother grew up in the age of the superwoman who went for it all. She gave up her visions, dreams and expectations to raise a family and has felt resentful that she missed out in some way. That’s just surmising, she’s never actually said so. But she and Dad are starting a business together and they’re very happy.’
‘But hence your desire to make good?’
‘Is that how I strike you?’
‘No, actually you don’t. I’m only going on what you say, not what you present. You seem somewhat vulnerable, understandable after a divorce, I imagine. But despite your plans to run the Pierre or Georges Cinq, you come across as a bit unfocused about your future. What’s your real passion in life?’
Fortunately for Madi the dessert arrived. ‘Steamed pudding and custard,’ she exclaimed with delight and dismay. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Obviously you’ll be able to dine out forever on the story of the menu,’ said Connor, clearly disappointed that she’d changed the subject. ‘As I said, it’s all charm. I’m absolutely delighted that the lunch is such a roaring success.’ Madi noticed a touch of sarcasm in his voice. So what had she said wrong this time, she wondered.
Sampling the dessert gave Madi some moments to consider the conversation and whether she wanted to discuss with this man what he called the passion in her life. Her work, she realised, evoked enthusiasm and challenge and satisfaction, but never passion.
And there was no passion in her private life. Her marriage had been a disaster. For the first time Madi was forced to acknowledge she wasn’t passionate about anything. She owned up. ‘A good question, that one about passion, Connor. I’ve got to admit that I really haven’t got a driving passion, if you exclude an enthusiasm for doing well at my work.’
‘No causes to follow?’
‘Nothing you’d call passionate. I’m for the environment, though. How about you? What cause are you championing?’
‘I’m lucky. I’m absolutely passionate about my work. I really feel that I’m in a position to do some good for a lot of people like the Guyanese. New York is an exciting place to be based in, and the rest of the world is full of new challenges. Being on the move so much is a bit of a drag, but there is a constant intellectual challenge as well as the adrenalin charge of making sure I never lose a cent of the organisation’s money.’
Over coffee Connor talked more about the assignments he had supervised in recent years and Madison had to acknowledge to herself that he was right. He really was passionate about his work. He really believed it was helping the people of Third World countries. That, in his own way, he was having a beneficial impact on social justice in the world.
Yet at the same time she found it all a little disturbing, despite the admiration she was beginning to feel for the handsome, suave, capable man across the table. There was something wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was just something about all that unqualified devotion to work that made her feel uncomfortable. Well, maybe it was just that old paranoia raising its head again.
The bill arrived on a little tray in front of a garish plastic and rhinestone brooch on an extraordinarily large bosom. At least that was what Connor first saw, before his eyes rose to meet those of the beaming Guyanese woman who was the luncheon maitre d’.
As he signed the chit, Connor stole a quick glance towards Madi and he caught the smile in her eyes. He’d enjoyed Madi’s company over lunch and hoped he’d see more of her during her visit. He would plan places to take her—dates with interesting women had been his pattern when opportunity presented itself in these outposts.
Madi intrigued him more than most and he couldn’t help wondering about where she might end up. Would she be a tough hotel executive working long hours, going home to a lonely apartment? Or would she throw that over if she met the right man and settle down and raise a family? It suddenly struck him she would make a fine wife and mother—good-humoured, easygoing, and warm was how Matthew had painted his sister. He and Madi appeared to come from a secure and loving middle-class background.
Connor gave little weight or att
ention to Madi’s comment that she might have both career and family. Women he’d seen do that ended up exhausted and frustrated because they never seemed to have enough time to do either job properly. And it certainly wasn’t possible for the wives of men who had to move from country to country like him.
As they left the club Madison noticed Antonio Destra was now sitting with a group of expensively dressed women of several races, all chatting and laughing. ‘There’s Antonio,’ she whispered, nudging Connor.
‘Working the room, as always. He’s indefatigable that man. All the women are the wives of big players in this town, so you can bet your life he’s not just making social chit chat. Their gossip will be of some advantage to him. God knows what, though.’
‘Maybe he just likes women, although he seemed happily married.’
‘Practically every male in South America likes women. Now there’s a popular passion for you.’
‘That’s stereotyping.’ She gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.
Connor sent her home in a taxi because he had an appointment in the city and Madi decided to rest during the afternoon to be fresh for the evening reception. She found the humidity of the country quite exhausting and usually looked forward to her afternoon siesta. However, today she felt exhilarated after the lunch and decided to take her library book with her to the hammock on the verandah, happy to have some idle time to start reading the story of pistol-packing Gwen Richardson.
She flicked open the book and looked at some of the pictures. Gwen and her pistol featured in the frontispiece. Then for most of the time she’d stayed out of the pictures, acting as photographer to record the book’s scenes of Georgetown, the river, and the boatmen and crew who dragged her small boat around the rapids. Madi was entranced to read that Gwen had hired a maid from Georgetown to travel with her. Gwen described Leonora as ‘. . . a young girl from the Demerara River . . . her mother is pure Indian but she could speak English . . . but was so wooden and stolid that I thought at first she would prove to be stupid but she was far from that . . . her unresponsive demeanour was a mask she often adopted to hide her jolly nature’.
Then a shot of a handsome man in a uniform caught Madi’s eye. Despite his stern expression, he was a real Errol Flynn type with moustache and all. Major Maurice B. Blake was all the caption said. I wonder if Gwen took him with her into the jungle, Madi thought. God, on looks alone I’d follow him to the source of the Amazon. I think there’s more to Gwen’s little adventure than the title suggests.
She flicked to another photograph, this time of a camp in the jungle with Gwen looking totally at home in her solitary setting. The description on the opposite page caught Madi’s eye:
‘Now that I had my own landing and such good material to work on I was ambitious to make my camp as beautiful as possible. None of the trees or underbrush along the bank was cut, and they looked very decorative against the dark, gleaming water. From my tent door on the crest of the hill I could see over the tree-tops to the opposite bank, where there was a little creek cutting inland; sometimes before dawn, a long wraith-like wisp of white mist, following its curves, lay on the soft tree-tops, like a great spirit so weary of the night’s revels that it was caught still sleeping, when it should have vanished before the first grey hint of dawn . . .
‘I built a babricot table and benches of straight, fragrant saplings that gave out a delicious scent as I peeled off their outer dark cover and revealed the real cream and gold of their wood. No ancient Gothic banqueting hall was ever made more dignified nor more lovely than mine . . .
‘At night the full moon gave the camp an air of deep mystery, and the pillars and arches, fading away in the gloom, seemed to lead on forever. Through the trees the Kurupung caught the moonlight and broke into a million glittering pieces. In my dining-hall the solitary, narrow moonbeams that turned the leaves to virgin silver were slanting ways for fairies to climb to the leafy tree-tops.
‘Never can I love any place more than I did my kingdom on Terry Hill. I hope to return there some day and have the Indians build me a house of forest timber and roof it with palm leaves. I shall gather orchids and strange flowering creepers and hang them from that fragrant roof. On a nearby hill I shall have a garden of vegetables and fruit trees. I shall have an Indian hunter and a lot of hens and chickens, and there I shall live in perfect contentment and peacefulness.’
‘Go, Gwen!’ thought Madi, already swept up by her description. ‘I wonder if she ever went back and fulfilled her dream.’
Spellbound, Madi turned back to the beginning of the book and started to read, occasionally reaching out for an iced lemon squash on the table beside the hammock.
She was putting the glass back on the table, while reading the book, when she got her first big surprise. Indeed, it was such a surprise that Madi dropped the glass and the squash spilt over the table so she had to scramble to stop the glass rolling off and breaking on the floor.
‘Well, I’ll be dammed,’ said Madi out aloud and she ran inside to the telephone and dialled Matthew’s office number.
‘Matthew Wright.’
‘Matt, Madi. Guess what?’
‘The Sea Eagles have won the Grand Final.’
‘Rubbish, Matt. No, I’ve discovered Gwen is Australian!’
‘Gwen who?’
‘Gwen Richardson. Pistol-packing Gwen, the Guyana diamond hunter.’
‘Really.’
‘Yep. From Ballarat. Because her book had an English publisher I’d assumed she was English. Her father was Scottish and he’d migrated to the goldfields in Victoria. How about that?’
There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘Matt . . . ?’
‘Yeah. I was trying to think of something to say.’
‘Oh.’ Madi was clearly disappointed. ‘Matt, you know that I have been reading about women adventurers all my life. Now here is one from close to home who did some extraordinary things right here in Guyana. It has really inspired me, Matt.’
‘To do what?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Well, explore a bit of Guyana. Everyone keeps saying I must go to the interior.’
‘Yeah, well, they meant on a tour or something, Madi. Not with a pith helmet and a pistol.’
‘Matt, stop being a turn off. I find it very exciting, and I’m going to bore you with lots of Gwen’s adventures from the book. Bye.’
‘Don’t pack a rucksack until I get home. But keep reading. Maybe she comes to a sticky end. And stay out of the sun. Bye, sis.’ He hung up.
At the American Ambassador’s reception she covered the essential small talk with her American hosts and, observing custom, she circulated and found herself in a group that included Antonio Destra and his wife, Celine, who was talking to another woman. Antonio turned to Madi and kissed her hand.
‘Dear Madison, how lovely to see you again. Enjoy your lunch with Connor Bain? He is such a talented man in his field. I think he is going to help this country quite a bit.’
‘Yes, it was nice. First chance I’ve had to talk to him properly. How about you? You were clearly outnumbered at the club.’
Antonio roared with laughter. ‘All part of the rich tapestry of life, Madison. Look I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. He’s in your line of business.’
He steered her across the room to a very distinguished-looking, impeccably dressed man in his mid-forties. Madi smiled to herself. Hotel management type to a ‘T’.
‘Madi, meet Sasha St Herve, manager of the Pessaro Hotel. Madison Wright, Sasha. She’s one of your tribe.’ He laughed loudly again. ‘Excuse me if I leave you to compare notes on room service. I have to talk business with your brother. Catch you later, Madi.’
‘Thanks, Antonio.’
‘One of our city’s characters is Antonio,’ said Sasha, his accent immediately identifying him as Swiss. ‘I was speaking to your brother a few moments ago and he told me you have been working in the hotel industry. Promotions, I believe.’
‘Yes.
Marketing and promotions. I’m hoping to move on and work in London.’
‘You wouldn’t like to do a little freelance work while you’re here?’
Madi laughed, ‘Well . . . it would be different, I guess.’ Her expression changed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Indeed yes. Expertise such as yours is not readily available here. I have a very bright young man from Barbados as marketing manager but he lacks entrepreneurial skills. And especially the ability to target women. I’d like to get the local women into the hotel for lunches and cocktail parties. After all, they are the social organisers in this town. Perhaps we could discuss this further. Would you consider it inappropriate to sit on the terrace for a moment and talk more? This is the Guyanese style of doing business. Naturally if you would prefer to meet at the hotel . . .’
‘There’s no harm in talking. I’d be very interested in the logistics of running a hotel here.’
They settled themselves in smart white patio furniture covered in bold flower prints and took an hors d’oeuvre and a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
‘As you can imagine, being the only international hotel in the country we have to maintain certain standards, which can be a bit of a challenge. Things have improved dramatically here since the old socialist days, but there is still a stigma that our hotel is just for foreigners. I’d like to break down that barrier and attract more of the local population. Once they cross the threshold and feel comfortable, I hope they’ll become regulars.’
‘Are your prices a factor in keeping people away?’
‘Possibly, but a lot of people here have money now. Some surprising types have a surprising amount of money,’ he said, glancing at Madi to see if she’d caught his meaning.
‘Are they the, er, types, you want in your hotel?’
‘Naturally we don’t want the rowdy element from down the rougher parts of town. But we have a good band playing by the pool, a dance area, outdoor dining, as well as the formal restaurant and a coffee shop.’
‘I’d have to look at the hotel and get a more detailed briefing, do some research, and look at the timing because I hadn’t planned to be here all that long. But I can say now that it could be interesting as a one-off project. And rather fun.’