Collected Short Fiction (46 page)

‘Well, let’s say the sole bonne femme. With a little spinach. Gentlemen, I’ll tell you straight. The artist in the post-colonial era is in a position of peculiar difficulty.’

‘How would you like the spinach, Mr White?’

‘En branches. And the way you or anyone else can help him is with – money. There it is, gentlemen. The way you can help Pablo here—’

‘The wine list, Mr White.’

‘Go on. We are listening.’

‘The way to help Pablo – ah, sommelier. But let’s ask our hosts.’

‘No, no. We leave that to you, Mr White.’

‘Is with – money. Shall we break some rules? Pablo, would you and your boys mind a hock? Or would you absolutely insist on a burgundy to go with your Chateaubriand?’

‘Anything you say, Mr White.’

‘I think the hock. Tell me, do you have any of that nice Rudesheimer left?’

‘Indeed, Mr White. Chilled.’

‘All right, gentlemen? A trifle sweet. But still.’

‘Sure. Waiter, bring a couple of bottles of what Mr White just said. How do we help Pablo?’

‘Pablo? You give Pablo ten thousand dollars. And let him get on with the job.’

‘What does he do?’ asked Bippy.

‘That’s a
detail,
’ Blackwhite said. ‘So far as my present argument goes.’

‘I entirely agree,’ Chippy said.

‘Waiter,’ Blackwhite called. ‘I believe you have forgotten our hosts.’

‘Sorry, gentlemen. For you?’

‘But if you are interested, Pablo and his boys are a painting group. They work together at the same time on one canvas.’

‘Steak tartare. Like the Italians. Or the Dutch.’

‘Steak tartare. One man painting the face.’

‘Steak tartare. The other painting the scenery. Steak tartare. What am I saying? Just a salad.’

‘Not quite,’ Blackwhite said. ‘This is more an experiment in recovering the tribal subconscious.’

‘Shall we say, en vinaigrette?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know about Jung and the racial memory.’

‘With vinegar.’

‘That’s just about how I feel.’

‘They have produced some very interesting results. A sort of artistic stream-of-consciousness relay. But in paint. A sort of continuous mutual interference.’

‘This sounds very interesting, Mr White,’ Bippy said.

‘We don’t want to offend Pablo,’ Tippy said.

‘Or Sandro or Pedro,’ Chippy added.

‘But we have to be sure, Mr White.’

‘Foundationland has its own rules, Mr White.’

‘Mr White, we have to write reports.’

‘Mr White, help us.’

‘Mr White, we have made this journey to see
you.
’

‘I don’t know, gentlemen. We can’t just
brush
off Pablo and his boys just like that. An appropriate word, don’t you think? Let us see how they feel.’

Bippy, Tippy and Chippy looked at Pablo, Sandro and Pedro.

‘Ask them,’ Blackwhite said. ‘Go on, ask them.’

‘What do you feel about this, Mr Pablo?’ Bippy asked.

‘If any money going, give it to Blackwhite,’ Pablo said.

‘Give it to Mr White,’ Sandro said.

‘Is what I say too,’ said Pedro.

‘You see, Mr White,’ Chippy said. ‘You must shoulder your responsibilities. We appreciate your desire to nurse struggling talent. But—’

‘Exactly,’ said Tippy.

Blackwhite didn’t look disappointed.

The food came. Pablo and his friends began sawing. Blackwhite scooped avocado, poured wine.

Blackwhite said, ‘I didn’t want it to appear that I was pushing myself forward. I wanted you to meet Pablo and his boys because
I thought you might want to encourage something new. I feel that you chaps have got quite enough out of me as it is.’

There was a little dismissing laughter. I swallowed oysters. Leonard peeled prawns.

‘And also,’ Blackwhite went on, ‘because I felt that you might not be altogether happy with the experimental work I have on hand.’

‘Experimental?’ Tippy said.

‘Oh, this sounds good,’ Leonard said.

‘Gentlemen, no artist should repeat himself. My interracial romances, though I say it myself, have met with a fair amount of esteem, indeed acclaim.’

‘Indeed,’ said Bippy, Tippy and Chippy.

‘Gentlemen, before you say anything, listen. I have decided to abandon the problem.’

‘This is good,’ Leonard said. ‘This is very good.’

‘How do we abandon the problem?’ Blackwhite said.

Pablo reached forward and lifted up a wine bottle. It was empty. He held it against the light and shook it. Chippy took the bottle from him and set it on the table. ‘There is nothing more there,’ he said.

‘I have thought about this for a long time. I think I should move with the times.’

‘Good old Blackwhite,’ I said.

‘I want,’ Blackwhite said, ‘to write a novel about a black man.’

‘Oh, good,’ Leonard said.

‘A novel about a black man falling in love.’

‘Capital,’ said Bippy, Tippy and Chippy.

‘With a black woman.’

‘Mr White!’

‘Mr White!’

‘Mr White!’

‘I thought you would be taken aback,’ Blackwhite said. ‘But I would regard such a novel as the statement of a final emancipation.’

‘It’s a terrific idea,’ Leonard said.

‘Tremendous problems, of course,’ Blackwhite said.

‘Mr White!’ Bippy said.

‘We have to write too,’ said Chippy.

‘Our reports,’ said Tippy.

‘Calm down boys,’ Bippy said. ‘Mr White, you couldn’t tell us how you are going to treat this story?’

‘That’s my difficulty,’ Blackwhite said.

‘
Your
difficulty,’ Chippy said. ‘What about ours?’

‘Black boy meets black girl,’ Tippy said.

‘They fall in love,’ said Bippy.

‘And have some black children,’ said Chippy.

‘Mr White, that’s not a story.’

‘It’s more like the old-fashioned coon show. The thing we’ve been fighting against.’

‘You’ll have the liberals down your throat.’

‘You will get us the sack. Mr White, look at it from our point of view.’

‘Calm down, boys. Let me talk to him. This is a strange case of regression, Mr White.’

‘I’ll say. You’ve regressed right back to Uncle Remus, right back to Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox.’

‘Do us another
Hate
and we’ll support you to the hilt.’

‘Give us more of the struggler, Mr White.’

‘Calm
down
boys. Much depends on the treatment, of course. The treatment is everything in a work of art.’

‘Of course,’ Blackwhite said, scooping up the bonne femme sauce from the dish in the waiter’s reverential hand.

‘I don’t know. You might just work something. You might have the black man rescued from a bad white woman.’

‘Or the black woman rescued from a bad white man.’

‘Or
something.
’

‘We’ve got to be careful,’ Blackwhite said. ‘I have gone into this thing pretty thoroughly. I don’t want to offend any ethnic group.’

‘What do you mean, Mr White?’

‘He is right,’ Leonard said. ‘Mr White, I think you are terrific.’

‘Thank you, Leonard. And also, I was toying with the idea of having a bad black man as my hero. Just toying.’

‘Mr White!’

‘Mr White!’

‘Mr White!’

‘I am sorry. I have used a foolish word. One gets into such a way of talking. Reducing the irreducible to simple terms. I don’t mean bad. I just mean ordinary.’

‘Mr White!’

‘Calm down, Tippy.’

‘What do you mean, Mr White? Someone bad at ball games?’

‘And tone deaf?’

‘You just want a cripple,’ Leonard said.

‘The thought occurred to me too, Leonard,’ Blackwhite said. ‘They just want a cripple.’

‘Who the hell said anything about a cripple?’

‘Calm down, Bippy.’

‘Kid,’ Chippy said. ‘Forgive me for talking to you like this. But you are committing suicide. You’ve built up a nice little reputation. Why go and throw it away now for the sake of a few crazy ideas?’

‘Why don’t you go home and write us another
Shadowed Livery
?’

‘Do us another
Hate.
’

Leonard said, ‘I intend to support you, Mr White.’

Blackwhite said, ‘I am rather glad this has turned out as it has. I believe I understand you gentlemen and what you stand for. It mightn’t be a bad idea, after all, for you to extend your patronage to Pablo and his boys.’

‘Anything to follow, Mr White?’ the waiter said. ‘A zabaglione? Crème de marrons?’

‘I require nothing but the bill,’ Blackwhite said. ‘Though those boys look as though they require feeding.’ He nodded towards Pablo and his friends.

The waiter produced the bill. Blackwhite waved towards Bippy, Tippy and Chippy, each of whom extended a trained hand to receive it.

‘Mr White, we didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘But you have,’ Leonard said.

‘I hate you,’ Blackwhite said to Bippy. He pointed to Chippy. ‘I hate you.’ He pointed to Tippy. ‘And I hate you.’

They began to smile.

‘This is the old H. J. B. White.’

‘We might have lost a friend.’

‘But we feel we have saved an artist.’

‘Feed Pablo and his boys from now on,’ Blackwhite said.

‘Yes,’ Leonard said, rising. ‘Feed Pablo. Mr White, I am with you. I think your black idea is terrific. I will support you. You will want for nothing.’

‘Who is this guy?’ Bippy asked.

‘Thanks for the oysters,’ I said. ‘He’s got a million to play with. He’s going to make you look pretty silly.’

‘Who knows?’ Chippy said. ‘The mad idea might come off.’

‘New York won’t like it if it does,’ Bippy said.

‘Calm down,’ said Tippy.

They walked towards the bar.

‘No more winter trips.’

‘Or extended journeys.’

‘No more congresses.’

‘By day or night.’

‘No more chewing over literate-chewer.’

‘Or seminars on cinema.’

‘But wait,’ said Bippy. ‘Perhaps Blackwhite was right. Perhaps Pablo and his boys do have something. The tribal subconscious.’

They were still eating.

‘Mr Pablo?’

‘Mr Sandro?’

‘Mr Pedro?’

I left Blackwhite and Leonard together. I left Sinclair too. He had been in the dining-room throughout. I went down to the kitchen.

On the TV screen Gary Priestland was announcing: ‘Here is some important news. Hurricane Irene has altered course fractionally. This means the island now lies in her path. Irene, as you know’ – he spoke almost affectionately – ‘has flattened the islands of Cariba and Morocoy.’ On the screen there appeared stills. Flattened houses; bodies; motor-cars in unlikely places; a coconut grove in which uprooted coconut trees lay almost parallel to one another as though laid there by design, to await erection. Gary Priestland gave details of death and injuries and financial loss. He was like a sports commentator, excited by a rising score. ‘To keep you in touch the Island Television Service will not be closing down tonight. ITS will remain on the air, to keep you in constant touch with developments. I have a message from the Red Cross. But first—’

The Ma-Ho girls came on in their frilly short skirts and sang a brisk little whinnying song for a local rum.

While they were singing the telephone rang.

Henry had been gazing at the television set, held, it seemed, by more than news. He roused himself and answered the telephone.

‘For you.’

‘Frankie.’

The voice was not that of Gary Priestland, TV compere, master of ceremonies. It was the voice of Priest.

‘Frankie, I am telling you. Stay away. Do not interfere. My thoughts are of nothing but death tonight. Leave Selma alone. Do not provoke her.’

On the TV I saw him put the telephone down, saw the manner change instantly from that of Priest to that of Priestland. Like a deity, then, he supervised more stills of disaster on the islands of Cariba and Morocoy.

The kitchen had a low ceiling. The light was fluorescent. No wind, no noise save that from the air extractor. The world was outside. Protection was inside.

Henry, gazing at the pictures of death and disorder, was becoming animated.

‘Hurricane, Frankie. Hurricane, boy. Do you think it will really come?’

‘Do you want it to come?’

He looked dazed.

I left him and made for the lavatories. The oyster sickness. One door carried a metal engraving of a man, the other of a woman. Their coyness irritated me. One at a time, they raced unsteadily up to me. I cuffed the woman. Squeals. I hurried through the door with the man.

The mirror was steamed over. I cleared part of it with my hand. For the first time that day, that night, that morning, I saw my face. My face, my eyes. My shirt, the doorman’s tie. I was overwhelmed. The tribal subconscious. Portrait of the artist. I signed it in one corner.

‘Yes. When all is said and done, I think you are pretty tremendous. Very brave. Moving among men like a man. You take taxis. You buy shirts. You run houses. You travel. You hear other people’s voices and are not afraid. You are pretty terrific. Where do you get the courage?’

A hand on my elbow.

‘Leonard,’ I whispered, turning.

But it was Henry, a little firmer than he had been so far that evening, a little more rallying, a little less dejected.

‘Hurricane coming, man. The first time. And you want to meet it here?’

I went out. And saw Selma.

‘You,’ I said.

‘The mystery man on the telephone,’ she said. ‘No mystery to me, though, after the first few times. I knew it was you. Henry sent a message to me. I left the Hilton as soon as I could.’

‘Barbecue night. Gary Priestland, master of ceremonies. I know. Selma, I have to talk to you. Selma, you have pulled down our house. I went and looked. You pulled it down.’

‘I’ve got a nicer one.’

‘Poor Selma.’

‘Rich Selma,’ Henry said. ‘Poor Henry.’

We were in the kitchen. The television was blue. The air extractor roared.

‘I sold the house to a foundation. They are going to put up a national island theatre.’ She nodded towards the television set. ‘It was Gary’s idea. It was a good deal.’

‘You’ve all done good deals. Who is going to write the plays? Gary?’