by Alec Waugh
“I must be back to my duties,” the Governor was saying. “I expect that you’d like to be left here, Euan.”
“I think so, father.”
Euan looked at Jocelyn.
“What about a swim?” he said.
“I’d like that.”
She turned to Sylvia. “Why don’t you and Maxwell come with us?”
“You don’t want us. Don’t you want to be alone?”
Jocelyn shook her head. A week ago she would have been scheming for every opportunity to be alone with Euan, but things were different now. It had been amusing to outwit parental scrutiny, but now that they were trusted, it would be cheating. She felt almost awkward now when she was alone with Euan.
“Let’s have a short siesta, then drive out to Petite Anse. There’s a fine long chair on the veranda, Euan, that you can use.”
She was glad to be alone in her room. Her brain was racing. Too much had happened to her, too quickly. She ought to be radiantly happy, but that sense of apprehension still remained.
Across the passage Maxwell lay under the mosquito net, his hands under his head.
“This is going to make a difference to us when we go to England,” he was saying.
“Why should it?” Sylvia said.
“Having one’s sister the Hon. Mrs. Euan Templeton, having her later on Lady Templeton.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Nor had I at first. But it will make a difference. Think of all the people we’ll be related to.”
“They won’t be our real relations, only connections.”
“That’s so, as regards us, but not as regards our children. Jocelyn’ll be our children’s aunt. Her children will be our children’s first cousins. It will make an immense difference to our children when they go to England.”
“You’re looking a long way ahead.”
“One has to look a long way ahead.”
Looking up at the ceiling, he imagined the houses to which he and Sylvia would be invited, the photographs in the Tatler and the Sketch, the paragraphs in the gossip columns; their children would go to Court, might become the friends of royalty, would marry into the peerage. The news reels would show him walking down the aisle, his daughter on his arm. He pictured the christening photographs: himself standing as a grandfather beside a Peer of the Realm. Royalty might accept the role of godparent. There was no limit to the future’s possibilities. Sylvia would live in the reflected glory of their children’s prominence. Surely then Sylvia would appreciate him; there would come into her eyes the look of respect, of devotion that he longed for. He would have become a person of consequence, somebody to whom she could look up. The future was lit with hope, now.
On the veranda below Euan Templeton was drowsing, slipping into sleep. He was without a trouble in the world. He would have laughed, incredulously, had he been told that a mile away in a hotel bedroom an article was being tapped upon a typewriter that would shatter the plans that had been made so confidently across his future father-in-law’s lunch table.
4
The article reached Baltimore three days later. It was headed, “The Color Problem in the B.W.I.” It began, “Everything in the last analysis turns on color. It is the subject that everyone avoids but it is at the back of every social and political issue. To understand the B.W.I. you have to understand how the situation stands in the British Islands. That is a difficult thing for an American to understand, because we tend to see the British problem in terms of our problem, but there is no resemblance between the two. In the first place in the British Isles themselves there is no color or racial problem; there is no colored proletariat; the only colored people that the average Briton sees are men of distinction either intellectually or as athletes who come to Britain as ‘visiting firemen.’ They are treated with respect and deference; they meet English men and women upon equal terms. Very often they marry English women. In the West Indies on the other hand the completely white man is as much an exception as the black man is in Europe. These islands have been colonies for three hundred years; there has been a long tradition of irregular relationships. Slavery was abolished over a hundred and twenty years ago. Emancipation created a depression and the old families one by one went back to England. In very few islands now are there any remains of the old feudal aristocracy except the names. Nearly every family has some trace of colored blood. You would think that this would result in a classless society, but that is not the case. Each class is graded according to the percentage of dark blood in its veins.
“In Haiti before the French Revolution, Moreau St. Mery drew up a list of the various combinations of color that might exist; he showed how a marriage between a man who was one-fifth colored and a woman who was three-eighths black produced a purer product than when a man quarter white married a half colored girl. In the plantation days color was the badge of rank and the tradition still persists.
“In almost every island there is a club that colored men cannot join and another that is barred to white man. All those who pass for white try to make out that they are completely white. In most families a dusky aunt or cousin is kept out of sight on the far side of the island. Everyone has a secret. That is the key to island life: everyone has something to conceal. Let us consider certain typical examples …”
The examples followed.
“In every issue, social and political,” the article concluded, “color is the deciding force: it inspires jealousy, malice, and distrust. It is a malady that you cannot cure by legislation.”
The sub-editor who read the article raised his eyebrows. This was even more atomic than that first article which he had queried. He penciled a memo to the news editor “Surely we can’t print this.” The news editor also raised his eyebrows, but he sent it without comment to the boss. It reached Wilson P. Romer shortly before he left for a family conference. His elder daughter had announced her intention of leaving immediately for Reno. Romer was upset. He had suspected for some time now that all was not well with his daughter’s marriage, but he liked his son-in-law and the boy’s father was a classmate of his. For him the break-up of the marriage would mean the end of a twenty-five years’ friendship.
He read Bradshaw’s article quickly. Where his juniors had raised their eyebrows, he whistled. This was going too far. He supposed Bradshaw was certain of his facts. Was there a risk of libel? He did not see how there could be: it was not libelous to say that a man living in the West Indies had colored blood. It would not damage him professionally: it did not in a modern enlightened community expose him to hatred, ridicule, and contempt. Would he, as a father, have liked to have had such a thing written about his family? Not at all, of course; but the families concerned no doubt knew already: that was the whole point of Bradshaw’s article, everyone did know everything down there. If an editor started to worry himself about what parents felt, there would be no newspapers. He had not been spared trouble with his children. He could visualize the paragraphs that would attend his daughter’s arrival at Reno. He glanced again at Bradshaw’s article. It was a sound, solid piece: the kind of piece that conferred credit on a paper. Let it appear the way it had been written.
5
The airplane that brought the copy of the Baltimore Evening Star to Santa Marta carried on the Governor and his son to a conference in B.G. The copy with Bradshaw’s article was to lie therefore unopened on his desk for half a week. A second copy, however, reached the offices of The Voice. The editor started at the title; this looked like something. He read with mounting interest and irritation. As a journalist he was delighted to be the recipient of such good copy, as a West Indian he resented having his country’s foibles paraded before the public gaze. He read on then suddenly he started: just as the sub-editor in Baltimore had done. This was more than he had bargained for. He stared incredulously at the printed paragraph. Was it really true? He supposed it must be. Now he began to think of it, he was surprised that it had not occurred to him before. But that bore out Bradshaw’s
argument. It was the kind of thing one never spoke of: it was an affair of whispers. Well, it was in the open now.
What was the best use to make of this? The paper went to press in the afternoon; copies were on sale on the following morning. Nothing could be done for twenty-four hours. Nothing material, at least. He leant forward across the desk; he took a sheet of paper: on it he printed in large block capitals “Look out for tomorrow’s issue. Sensational article by an American Journalist on Santa Marta’s Socialites. No one will be talking of anything else tomorrow evening.” He handed it over to the compositor. Now he had a whole day in which to think out the best use he could make of his material.
6
When Bradshaw saw the announcement set in big type, surrounded by white space in the center of the paper, he took a quick short breath. He had not expected this. He had enjoyed the illusion that he could publish what he liked about the island in another country, and no one in the island would hear of it; an illusion that was the reverse side of the belief so common among travelers that they can behave in any way they like away from home since no one at home will know of it. He remembered with concern the third article that he had dispatched a week ago. He must look into this.
He went round to the editor.
“I presume,” he said, “that your paragraph in this morning’s paper refers to me.”
“It certainly does.”
“May I ask what you are printing.”
“The first of your three articles in the Baltimore Evening Star.”
“Have you permission to print it?”
“We have an arrangement with A.P. and U.P. allowing us to print anything from an American or English newspaper, provided we acknowledge it. We pay an annual subscription for this right.”
“I see.”
There was a pause.
“As far as I can remember,” Bradshaw said, “there was something in the first article that is now out of date.”
“We’ve noticed that. It has been cut out.”
“It might have offended His Excellency.”
“You can trust us to print nothing that would in any way embarrass His Excellency.”
“I had a feeling that perhaps in the third article there was something too, about the Governor’ son.”
“I noticed that too: it shall be erased.”
Bradshaw left the office confident that he had no cause for worry. As soon as he was left alone, the editor picked up the copy of the Baltimore Evening Star that contained Bradshaw’s article on Color. He reread the passage that Bradshaw had no doubt had in mind. He could edit it in such a way that he could keep his promise to Bradshaw—he did not want to have Bradshaw trying to obtain an injunction—avoid the suspicion of lèse majesté and at the same time maintain his scoop. He erased two sentences, then settled down to a first drafting of the leading article that would accompany the final article.
7
The daily issue of The Voice of Santa Marta did not reach Belfontaine until lunchtime. On the morning that the second article appeared Maxwell Fleury rehearsed his first speech to his constituents. He had written it out in full, timed its delivery, memorized the salient lines and made a list of the subject headings. He had it now word perfect. The speech was to be given that evening in front of the police station. Sylvia was to come with him. It would be the first time she had heard him speak. The temptation to read over the speech to her had been a hard one to resist. But he wanted to surprise her. He wanted her to be swept away, in the same manner that the crowd would be swept away. She would surely realize then what he amounted to, she would recognize him for a leader. She would see the future that, with him as a husband, might be hers. At last she would be proud of him.
Their servant brought in the copy of the day’s Santa Marta paper. He ran his eye down the double columns of Carl Bradshaw’s article, and saw his own name there. He read it closely. It was an account of the carnival outrage on his property. He was flattered to find himself the central figure of an incident that had been publicized throughout the United States. It should prove to Sylvia that he was not negligible. He marked and memorized two of Bradshaw’s phrases for use in his speech that evening.
8
In Jamestown, David Boyeur was reading the same article. Its predecessor had given him solid pleasure. It had starred him as one of the foremost personalities of the island. The second article was giving him less pleasure. It contained no reference to himself. There might have been, there should have been one: it was at his instigation that the Fleury cane fields had been fired. Bradshaw did not know that, but there should have been some reference to his influence. He would have to give the old boy the tip-off. The sight of Maxwell Fleury’s name gave him an idea. Fleury was making his first speech tonight. If his own plans held, that first meeting should be a meeting to end all meetings. He’d advise the old boy to go there.
9
Carl Bradshaw drove out alone to Belfontaine. It was a cloudless night and though the moon had not yet risen the road was not really dark. He told the chauffeur to park the car a hundred yards outside the village. He did not want the Fleurys to see the car. The Fleurys would be coming from the opposite direction. He walked slowly past the shuttered huts. It was seven o’clock. He wondered why Maxwell had chosen to hold the meeting so late. Perhaps because he had not wanted to disturb the work in the fields.
The road was empty, but a little farther on he could hear the din of a steel band. He was surprised to hear it. Normally steel bands did not play during Lent. A palm tree twenty yards away stood in silhouette against a glow of light. The road turned into the square before the police station. On the veranda in front of the building, which was reached by a short flight of steps, a row of chairs had been arranged behind a trestle table. There was a hurricane lamp at each end of the table. In the room behind, a spotlight had been arranged; it shone with blinding brilliance upon the crowd. Bradshaw stood in the shadow, away from its glare. He did not want to be recognized.
The crowd moving in and out of the light reminded him of the early vorticist paintings, which conveyed a sense of movement through abrupt anglings and curves. There seemed to be several hundred people here: not only the village of Belfontaine but the entire neighborhood. In front of the station, the ground rose from the road toward the foothills; a narrow path lined with two-room shacks led up to them; the doors of the shacks stood open; they were lit with lamps, revealing the bright colors of scarves and blouses. There were three shops, decorated with paper streamers. One of them was licensed to sell liquor. In front of it a five-man steel band was beating out a cacophonous calypso; ragged urchins were dancing round it. There was an air of carnival.
The darkness of the road leading away from the square was pierced by the headlights of a car. The car honked and the crowd divided. The car drove through the square and round to the back of the police station. A minute later Maxwell came on to the veranda, with Sylvia at his side. Behind them followed a tall thin man in clerical dress, the parish priest presumably. Bradshaw wondered if he was an Anglican. He supposed he was. He did not think a Roman Catholic would have attended a political meeting. There was no applause as the three of them took their seats before the table. The steel band ceased, however, and the crowd filtered away from the stores and doorways of their huts, to gather in front of the veranda. The priest rose to his feet and silence fell.
“I am here this evening,” he said, “as chairman of a meeting in which Mr. Maxwell Fleury, who is offering himself for election as your representative in the Legislative Council, will explain his position to you. As you know, the Church stands aside from politics. We support the authorized government of the country. At the same time the Church cannot be uninterested in anything that concerns deeply the members of our congregation. We are anxious that you should have the best possible opportunities of judging for yourselves who are the men by whom you want to be represented. It is for that reason that I stand before you now, to ask you to listen carefully to what Maxwell Fl
eury has to say. Maxwell Fleury does not need to be introduced to you. Few West Indian families bear a name as honored. His father …”
There was a silence while the priest was speaking; at the same time there was a great deal of movement in the crowd. At first Bradshaw could not realize what was happening; then he understood. The single spotlight was so strong that anyone standing in its direct glare was dazzled. You could only see the speaker on the veranda by moving into the shadow. As a result the crowd was splitting into two separate sections with a bright channel dividing them. It reminded Bradshaw of the pictures he had seen in a Victorian Bible, of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea with the waves rising into two walls on either side of them. It would be an awkward audience to address. How good a speaker was young Fleury? Again Bradshaw wondered why he had chosen to hold this meeting in the dark. Surely he could have captured an audience more effectively when it was light. Was it nervousness?
“And now,” the priest concluded, “I will ask Mr. Fleury to address you.”
There had been silence while the priest was speaking: there was silence as he sat down. There was no applause when Maxwell rose. He glanced from one side to the other. He appeared disconcerted by the empty avenue of roadway facing him. He would look, Brad-shaw thought, like a spectator at a tennis match: his head turning first one way then another. Maxwell leant forward, his hands upon the table.
“The elections for which I stand before you as a candidate,” he began.
The silence was abruptly shattered. From the liquor store came the clattering din of the steel band. It was deafening. No voice could have made itself heard above it. Maxwell tried, but the audience was only aware of his mouth opening and closing. Then as suddenly as it began, the music stopped. Maxwell’s voice, breaking into the silence, was like a shrill scream of hysteria. There was a roar of laughter. Bradshaw could not see the expression on Maxwell’s face. His head was in shadow, but the light from the hurricane lamp distorted Sylvia’s features, she seemed to be grinning too. Maxwell waited for the laughter to stop, then began again.