by Karel Čapek
‘Are you thinking?’
‘Yes.’
Holding her breath, the little Cuban leaned towards his face. How strange he was, how severe he looked with his eyes closed; tormented and dreadful. Suddenly his face relaxed.
‘Have you remembered anything ?’
He sighed with deep relief. ‘It’s so beautiful here!’
She had to fight with an absurd impulse; and still it burst out of her, although she didn’t want to say it: ‘Here … it’s not like hell here?’
‘It’s not like hell here,’ he whispered. He was afraid to move his hand, or to open his eyes. ‘It is so new to me. Do you understand, I didn’t like THEM.’
God knows which understood first, the American girl, or the small black Cuban; but she pulled away her hand, and felt a hot wave sweep over her face. What a good thing that it was so dark.
‘Did you … like anyone BEFORE?’ God, how dark it is!
He shrugged his heavy shoulders.
‘You couldn’t help remembering THAT….’ This was said by the American girl for the Cuban knew that it wasn’t right to talk like that with a stranger. But even the big American student was puzzled; up there, in the girls’ college, didn’t they talk about everything; and with young men you could talk openly about anything—God knows why it was so difficult now. She cooled her cheeks with the back of her hand, and she bit her lips.
‘Mr. Kettelring?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have loved a woman. Can you remember ?’
He was silent, leaning forward over his knees. Now it was the little Cuban who so anxiously blinked her long eyelashes. ‘Never,’ he said slowly, ‘have I felt what I do now. That I know, that I know for certain.’
The little Cuban could not breathe, her heart was beating so, her knees were trembling so. That is how it is, gracious God, and it is so beautiful that you feel like crying. But the American brains snatched at that sentence, and quickly turned it over. Yes, it is like this, and I realized it at once, as soon as he said: ‘Señorita, I lied to you.’
‘I am so glad,’ she said, and her teeth chattered slightly, ‘that’ (well, what?)—’that you like it here.’ (No, it’s not that, but it’s almost the same.) ‘I like this garden so much, I sit here every evening—’ (God, that was stupid!) The American girl tried to get on top. ‘Look here, Mr. Kettelring, I will help you to remember, do you want to ? It must be dreadful if you can’t remember who you are.’ Mr. Kettelring jumped as if he had been struck. ‘I mean,’ said the American girl trying to cover herself, ‘that I should be so glad if I could help you! Please-’ She touched his sleeve with her finger. (Only to flirt a bit before I go! Just to go home better!)
He got up. ‘I beg your pardon. I will accompany you.’
She stood before him, as close as if she were holding him with both hands. ‘Promise me that you will remember!’ He smiled. At that moment he seemed so beautiful to her that she nearly cried out with happiness.
She leaned from the window into the scented night; on the balcony above the red-hot fire of a cigar was glowing.
‘Hello, Mr. Kettelring!’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re not asleep ?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not either,’ she communicated happily, and leaned out with her bare arms into the night. Take, stroke, press my shoulders, here I am; feel here how my heart beats.
No, I’m not looking, I daren’t; see I even throw my cigar away into the darkness so that you won’t see how my teeth chatter. Damn, Mary don’t stroke your shoulders, for it’s as if I were doing it.
… I know, I feel it. You have burning hands as if they were lying in the sun. Why is it that my fingers tremble so much ? And yet I’m quiet, quite quiet. I KNEW that it would come. When did I find it out ? You needn’t know everything. As soon as I came into the room, and you got up—so tall, and he doesn’t even know who he is.
The man above on the balcony sighed.
Oh, Mr. Kettelring, please, don’t be silly; but this is very fine of you. One might take you by the hand, and say: Dear liT boy, whose are you ? I should have kissed you on the spot, or something. Maternal instinct, I guess.
Thanks—politely.
No, don’t you believe it. I was afraid of you. You are so mysterious and dreadful—as if you wore a mask. Altogether exciting. I very nearly ran away when you spoke to me in the garden; it was a fright.
I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean, in fact—
But I wanted you to come; you didn’t realize ? These Spanish customs are stupid that won’t let me sit with you at dinner. We have almost to steal a meeting … and at once it’s so strange; my heart beats as if it were a sin or something. Hello, are you still there?
Yes, here I am, here. Don’t look, or I shall jump down, Maria Dolores.
Quickly she covered her arms with a silk shawl; now again she was a black Cuban, sweetly blinking her long eyelashes into the darkness; she didn’t think of anything, merely waited.
Do you realize that a man meets very few white women down there; you don’t know what a miracle it is to have suddenly that fine and dreadful feeling of respect. The desire to kneel down, and not even dare to raise your eyes. Ah, señorita, what wouldn’t I do if you gave me your handkerchief, I should fall on my knees, and be happy to the end of my days.
The Cuban girl’s eyes sparkled, and slowly, slowly, the shawl slid from one shoulder, only a narrow strip of a dim arm, but it was more than ever—Perhaps a bat had fanned her in its zig-zag flight; she shivered, crossed her hands on her breast, and was gone.
And then, already day was breaking, in the garden God’s birds peeped, still from sleep; the American student stole silently, cautiously to the window, and looked towards the balcony. Yes, the little red fire of the cigar is glowing there too, that man was standing there motionless, clutching the rail in his hand; and the girl’s heart ached with happiness.
After that she sat for a long time on the edge of her bed, and smiled in ecstasy down at her white round legs.”
CHAPTER XXXII
“I CAN’T think it out in any other way; she didn’t see him at all next day, it was as if on purpose; Camagueyno dragged him away to the office and somewhere todinner. He vaguely reported this and that; and now it was the Cuban who had to ask questions to make him talk business, and even then he mixed up one thing with another, and Barbuda with Trinidad. The Cuban fixed on him his hollow scrutinizing eyes and laughed lightly, although he was tormented with pain. Again the two of them had supper alone; the Cuban was quite yellow with pain, but he showed no inclination to get up, he only kept on pouring out the rum. Drink, Kettelring, the devil, do drink! And how is it with sugar on Haiti? Kettelring’s memory wasn’t as good as it had been before, he paused, and stammered—Well, drink, man! At the end, Kettelring got up, taking care not to stagger. ‘I’m going into the garden, sir.,My head aches.’
Camagueyno raised his eyebrows. ‘Into the garden? As you please.’ Again that splendid gesture as if it all belonged to the valued guest.
‘By the way, Kettelring, how is your memory?’
‘My memory, sir?’
The Cuban’s eyes narrowed. ‘Can’t you still say—who you really are?’
Kettelring spun round quickly. ‘I think, sir, that I’m known well enough … as Mr. Kettelring.’
‘True,’ mumbled the Cuban, gazing thoughtfully at his cigar. ‘Stupid that you don’t even know if you haven’t… say … been married already a long time, isn’t it?’ He raised himself with difficulty, and pressed his hand to his side. ‘Good night, Mr. Kettelring, I wish you good night.’
Kettelring did stagger a little as he stepped into the garden. A pale and excited girl, wrapped in a shawl, was waiting for him; behind her in the shadow stood that old Mexican Indian, whose eyes blinked anxiously and kindly. Oh, duena, understood Mr. Kettelring, but otherwise everything danced before his eyes: huge shadows, the pink inundation of the flowering corallitas, an intense scent, and the girl i
n a folded shawl. She took him by the arm, and dragged him into the lower part of the garden. ‘Think of it,’ she chattered excitedly. ‘They wanted to STOP me from coming here!’ She was immensely offended like an American girl, but her clenched fists were Cuban. ‘I shall do what I like/she threatened fiercely, but it wasn’t true. This, at least, she didn’t want to do, she did not intend: that in the deepest shade, in the shade of the hibiscus, her shawl should fall to the ground, and that she should hang on the neck of that man who staggered with despair. She raised her face to his, her mouth painfully open with the desire for a kiss. ‘Señorita, India,’ he murmured warningly, and pressed her in his arms, but she only shook her head; she offered him her mouth, the damp shadow of her mouth to drink of her; stiff, beyond herself, with glazed eyes. Suddenly she collapsed in his embrace, exhausted, with limp arms. He let her go; she staggered, her face in her hands, defenceless, urrendered. He picked up her shawl, and put it round her shoulders. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘you must go home now; and I—I shall come back. Not as Mr. Kettelring, but as someone who will have the right to come for you. Did you understand?’
She stood with her head bowed. ‘Take me with you—now, at once!’
He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Go home, God knows how much more difficult it is for me than it is for you.’ She let herself be led back, if only she could feel that heavy hot hand on her shoulder.
A tall peon stepped out from the thicket. ‘Va adentro, señorita,’ he commanded hoarsely. ‘Pronto!’
She turned her face to Kettelring: her eyes shone, God knows with what. ‘Adios,’ she said silently, and gave him her hand.
‘I shall come back, Mary,’ murmured este hombre desperately, fumbling her fingers. She bent down quickly and kissed the back of his hand with moist lips; he could have shrieked with terror and love.
‘Va, va, señorita,’ said the peon huskily, and stepped back. She pressed that hand strongly to her heart, and offered her face. ‘Adios,’ she whispered, and kissed him with her mouth and face full of tears.
The old Indian took her by the waist. ‘Ay, ay, señorita, va a la casa, va a la casa.’
She let herself be led away as if blind, trailing the fringe of her shawl on the ground.
Kettelring stood motionless like a black post and pressed in his hand a small lace handkerchief, with a penetrating scent. ‘Va, señor,’ growled the vaquero almost soothingly.
‘Where is Camagueyno ?’
‘He is waiting for you, sir.’ The peon struck a match on his trousers to light Kettelring’s cigar. ‘This way, sir.’
The old Cuban was sitting at the table, adding up money. Mr. Kettelring looked at him for a while, and then grinned. ‘That is for me, isn’t it?’
Camagueyno raised his eyes. ‘That is for you, Kettelring.’
‘Salary, or a share of the profits ?’
‘Both. You can add it up.’
Kettelring stuffed the money into his pocket. ‘But to let you know, Camagueyno,’ he said as distinctly as he could, ‘I shall come back for her.’
The Cuban drummed with his fingers on the table. ‘Unfortunately in Kettelring’s papers it states that he is married. What is one to do ?’
‘Kettelring won’t come back again,” said este hombre slowly.
Camagueyno winked at him with amusement. ‘Well, sure, personal papers aren’t expensive, they can be bought, can’t they ? For a couple of dollars—’
Este hombre sat down without invitation, and poured himself a drink, he was more sober now than ever. ‘Let’s suppose, Camagueyno. Let’s suppose that it won’t go any other way. But a very good estate would be like a very good name, don’t you think so ?’
The Cuban shook his head. ‘With us in Cuba, a good name is worth too much.’
‘About how much?’
The Cuban smiled. ‘Eh, Kettelring—I can still call you that ?—you know how much MY estate amounts to.’
Kettelring whistled. ‘Do talk sense, Camagueyno. Of course, I can’t earn as much as that in all my life.’
‘Of course not,’ agreed the Cuban, and sniggered. ‘Those times are not any longer, and they won’t be.’
Kettelring again poured himself a drink, and thought deeply. ‘That’s true, sir. But if it happened that your estate got a good deal smaller in a couple of years—then it would be easier to catch up, wouldn’t it?”
They both looked closely at one another. So now the cards were on the table.
‘Let’s suppose, Camagueyno, that somebody knows your affairs and contracts through and through—many things could be done with that.’
The Cuban reached for the bottle of aguardiente, not minding his liver. ‘Without money,’ he said, ‘nothing can be done.’
Kettelring pointed to his pocket. ‘This will be enough for the beginning, sir.’
Camagueyno laughed and showed his long yellow teeth: but his eyes had narrowed to evil and deep loopholes. ‘I wish you great success, Kettelring. I gave you a lot of money, didn’t I ? Well, what’s to be done. A la salud!’
Kettelring got up. ‘I shall come back, Camagueyno.’
‘Adios, muy senor mio.’ Camagueyno bowed in the old Cuban fashion when a valued guest was being taken to the door. ‘Good night, sir, good night.’
The tall peon banged the rails behind Kettelring. ‘Good night, sir.’ And Case X walked away among the flowering hedges of bougainvilleas, along the path that glittered in the starry night like the milky way.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
“Now it was no longer an indifferent man whose indolent eyes gazed at the changing kaleidoscope of harbours and plantations; but a man who went to conquer, a pugnacious fellow with his head held erect; his spirit on fire, and his taut muscles almost humming. As if he had been born afresh. But isn’t this the supreme sexual element in love ? Aren’t we really born from the breasts and lap of the woman we love, and doesn’t this womb cry out for us because it desires to bear us. Now you are mine because in tremors I gave you birth, young and beautiful. And isn’t the attainment of love like the beginning of a new and complete life ? You call it illusion; but has illusion a source less deep than disappointment?
And so let us go on with him, first to Haiti: there was a swamp there in which it was said there were deposits of black bitumen; but that swamp, they said, smelt so strongly that not a bird, toad, or negro could bear to stay near it. He rode there on a horse—say, from Gonaiva, but he had to leave the horse behind, and with his niggers hacked his way, lacerated with thorns, and cut with the high grass which was as sharp as a razor. The negroes ran away, he had to fetch them back, and pay them double; in spite of the attractive wage two fell out on the way, one bitten by a snake, and the other, the deuce knows. He was all screwed up with cramp, and he breathed his last with a yellow scum on his mouth; some poison maybe, but the negroes thought that djamhios had done it, and they didn’t want to go any further. At last he reached the swamp, and saw that it was not so bad; there were clouds of gnats, so a living creature could exist there. It was a dreadful place, black and close, roasting in the glare of the sun; in places it bubbled forth a yellow foamy pus, and there the smell was unbearable. He went back to Gonaiva, bought the land, and made a contract with some thievish mulatto to build for him a road to the ‘Asphalt lake,’ as he called it rather ostentatiously; and after that he went away, say, to Porto Rico.
Well, and now he got down to it: he decided to go for Camagueyno, that is for sugar. Before he used to write to the old Cuban and say that sugar Would go down, but Camagueyno wouldn’t believe it. The great conjecture in sugar has had its day; let me tell you that it will make the old fox tremble. He knew of people who would gladly buy Camagueyno’s lands, shares, or this or that concern; he went to them, and asked how much they would like to give. All right, I give you my word that you will get it for half if you will pay me so much commission. The Cuban is up to his ears in sugar-cane, and he will have to sell helter skelter to scramble out; but we must work him down yet. And
then he rushed, let us say, to Barbuda, Terre-Basse, Barbados, Trinidad; he found that the Cuban was already getting the wind up, and was beginning to sell to save his cash. Kettelring threw himself into the fray with his chin stuck out and his sleeves rolled up. Wait, you wait; offer him one quarter, terminate your contracts, tell him to lick your feet; what is ahead is nothing but a crash worse than ever before. You will be able to buy a sugar factory for the price of scrap iron, and plantations for a handful of pig beans. And the price of sugar is falling, a third of last year’s crop is still in store; what can they do with it, they can’t even use it for fuel, only sweeten the Atlantic Ocean with it; it will be a nice sweet mash, gentlemen.
It was like an avalanche, every man jack began to run away from sugar (they really did), and sell what they had, or what they hadn’t. Well, now old Camagueyno could look for buyers for his sugar factories, and plantations. It is true the old man defended himself well, but in his offers you could also sense a panic; I should like to see how his bushy brows jumped up and down. Well, it’ll pull down a lot of other people with it, but it can’t be helped; did anyone think of poor Pierre? Old planters went about with long faces, not understanding what was going on; nobody would give them anything for their cane, for their coffee, vanilla went for a mere song, bananas perished with Panama disease; and they couldn’t even turn their backs on the islands because there was no one interested in the land either to hire or to buy it. And some years ago this was called the Golden Antilles.
In the end Camagueyno gave up the fight; he had a nose good enough not to wait for the worst, and he sold, as they say, at any price.
The beast, he still got away with a third of his fortune, Mr. Kettelring sighed with satisfaction; little was left of the commissions that he had negotiated, for a life like that is expensive and showy, and here and there he had to be lavish in helping on the course of events. Now the turn of the asphalt was coming. Everybody can’t grow asphalt like sugar-cane, or cacao. You can put your money on asphalt. I’m putting my money on black against white.