That evening Riley drove the fifteen miles around St. Simon Bay to Trois Fourches, the capital city of Esperance . It wasn't much of a capital, but then, it was not much of an island. As he drove in the fading light he passed the familiar banana and pineapple plantations and the equally familiar natives by the roadside, the men dingy in dirty cotton shirts and blue jeans, the women bright in flowered dresses and flaming headscarves, and all laughing and chattering as usual, white teeth and gleaming black faces shining in the light of the setting sun. As always, he wondered why the always seemed to be so happy.
The reality was that they had very little to be happy about. Most were ground down by a cruel poverty made endemic by overpopulation and the misuse of the soil. At one time, in the 18th century, Esperance had been rich with sugar and coffee, a prize to be fought over by the embattled colonial powers of Europe. But at an opportune moment, when their masters were otherwise occupied, the slaves had risen and taken control of their own destinies.
That may have been a good thing---and it may not have been good thing. Yes, the slaves were free, but a series of bloody civil wars engendered by ruthless men battling for power drained the economic strength of Esperance and population pressure did the rest, leaving an ignorant peasantry eking out a wretched existence by farming on postage-stamp plots and doing most of their trade by barter. Riley had heard that some of the people in the central mountains had never seen a piece of money in all their lives!
Things had seemed to improve in the early 1900s. A stable government had encouraged foreign investment and bananas and pineapples replaced coffee, while the sugar acreage increased enormously. Those were the good old days. Yes, the pay on the U.S.-owned plantations was puny, but at least it was regular and the flow of money to the island was enlivening. It was then that the Hotel Nationale was built and Trois Fourches expanded beyond the confines of the Old City.
But Esperance seemed to be trapped in the cycle of its own history. After World War II came Martinet, self-styled Black Star of the Antilles, who took power in a blood-soaked coup and kept power by equally blood-soaked government, ruling by his one-way courts, by assassination and by the power of the army. He had no enemies---he had killed them all---and there was but one power on the island---the black fist of Martinet. And still the people could laugh!
Trois Fourches was a shabby town of jerry-built brick, corrugated iron and peeling walls, with an overriding smell that pervaded the whole place composed of rotting fruit, decaying fish, human and animal poop, and worse. The stench was everywhere, sometimes eddying strongly in the grimmer parts of town and even more evident in the lounge of the Nationale, that dilapidated edifice from happier times.
As Riley peered across the poorly-lit room he knew by the dimness that the town power plant was giving trouble again and it was only when Davon waved that he could make her out in the gloom. He walked across to find her sitting at a table with a man, and he felt a sudden unreasonable depression which lightened when he heard the warmth in her voice.
"Hello, Riley. Good to see you, fella. Oh, this is Joe Fletcher---he's staying here too. He was on my flight from Miami to San Juan and we bumped into each other here as well."
Riley stood uncertainly, waiting for Davon to make her excuses to Fletcher, but she didn't say anything, so he drew up another chair and sat down.
Fletcher said, "Miss Ellison has been telling me all about you---and there's just one thing that's bugging me. You're British, right? So what are you doing working for the United States Navy?"
Riley glanced at Davon, then sized up Fletcher before answering. He was a short, stocky man with a square face, hair graying at the temples and arrogant brown eyes. He was British himself by his accent, but nobody could have been fooled by his South Beach suit.
"For starters, I am not British," said Riley deliberately. "I'm a West Indian---we're not all black, you know. I was born on St. Kitts, spent my early formative years on Grenada and was educated in England. As for the United States Navy, I don't work for them, I work with them.....there's a bit of a difference there. I'm on loan from the United Kingdom Meteorological Office, U.K.MET, if you prefer."
Fletcher smiled pleasantly. "That explains it."
Riley looked at Davon. "What about a drink before dinner?"
"Good idea. What goes down well in Esperance?"
"Perhaps Mr. Martin will show us how to make the wine of the country---Lacan's Nectar," said Fletcher. His eyes twinkled.
"Oh, yes---do," exclaimed Davon. "I've always wanted to drink Lacan's Nectar in its native setting."
"I think it's an overrated drink myself," said Riley. "I prefer Scotch. But if you want Lacan's Nectar, you shall have it. He called a waiter and gave the order in the bastardized French that was the island patois, and soon the ingredients were on the table.
Fletcher produced a notebook from his breast pocket. "I'll take notes, if I may. It might come in handy."
"No need," said Riley. "There's a little rhyme for it which, once you learn it, you'll never forget it. It goes like this:
One of sour,
Two of sweet,
Three of strong,
And four of weak.
"It doesn't quite scan, but it's close enough. The sour is the juice of fresh limes, the sweet is sugar syrup, the strong is rum---Martinique rum is best---and the weak is iced water. The rhyme gives the proportions."
As he spoke he was busy measuring the ingredients and mixing them in the big silver bowl in the middle of the table.
His hands worked mechanically and he was watching Davon. She hadn't changed save for becoming more attractive, but maybe that was just because absence had made the heart grow fonder. He glanced at Fletcher and wondered where he came in.
"If you go down to Martinique," he said, "you can mix your own Lacan's Nectar in any bar. There's so much rum in Martinique that they don't charge you for it....just for the limes and syrup."
Fletcher sniffed. "Smells interesting."
Riley smiled. "The rum does pong a bit."
"Why haven't we ever done this before, Riley?" asked Davon. She looked interestedly at the bowl.
"I've never been asked before." Riley gave one last stir. "That's it. Some people put a lot of salad in it like a fruit cup, but I don't like drinks I have to eat." He lifted out a dipperful. "Davon?"
She held out her glass and he filled it up. He filled up the other glasses then said, "Welcome to the Caribbean, Mr. Fletcher."
"It's wonderful," said Davon. "So smooth."
"Smooth, yet powerful," said Riley. "You wouldn't need many of these to be biting the leg off the table."
"This should get the evening off to a good start," said Davon. "Even the Sel et Poivre Club should look good." She turned to Fletcher. "Now there's a plan---why don't you come with us?"
"Thank you very much," said Fletcher. "I was wondering what to do with myself tonight. I was hoping that Mr. Martin, as an old island hand, could give me a few pointers on sightseeing on Esperance."
Riley looked blankly at Davon, then said politely, "I'd be happy to." He felt depressed. He had hoped that he had been the attraction on Esperance, but apparently Davon was playing the field. But why the hell had she come to Esperance to do it?
It turned out that Fletcher was a foreign correspondent for a big London daily and over dinner he entertained them with a hilarious account of some of his exploits. Then they went to the the Sel et Poivre, which was the best in the way of a nightclub that Trois Fourches had to offer. It was run by a Louisianan, Antoine Messier, who provided an exiguous South American atmosphere with the minimum of service at the highest price he could charge; but apart from the Officer's Club at Rivière de la Paix Base it was the only substitute for a civilized evening, and one did get bored with the Base.
As they entered the smoke-filled, dimly-lit room someone waved, and Riley waved back as he recognized Rogers, who was whooping it up with his crew. At the far end of the room, a loudmouthed American was bellowing, and even at that distance it was easy to hear that he was retelling, blow by blow, his current experiences as a game fisherman. They found a table, and as Fletcher ordered drinks in perfect and fluent French which the waiter could not understand, Riley claimed Davon for a dance.
They had always danced well together, but this time there seemed to be a stiffness and a tension between them. It was not the orchestra's fault, poor though they were, for while the tune was weird, the rhythm was perfect. They danced in silence for a while, then Davon looked up and said softly, "Hello, Riley. Seen any good hurricanes lately?"
"See one, you've seen them all," he said lightly. "You?"
"About the same. One flight is very much like another. Same places, same air, same passengers. I sometimes swear that the air traveler is a different breed from the rest of us common humanity; like Bowman---that guy over there."
Riley listened to the raucous voice spinning its interminable fishing tale. "You know him?"
"Don't you?" she said, shocked. "That's Bowman, the writer----Big Oscar Bowman. Everyone's heard of him. He's one of the regulars on my flight, and a goddamn nuisance he is, too."
"Yes, I have heard of him," said Riley. Davon was right----there could not have been a corner of the world where the name of Big Oscar Bowman was unknown. He was supposed to be a pretty good writer, although Riley did not feel himself equipped to judge, at any rate, the critics appeared to think so.
He looked down at Davon and said, "You don't appear to find Fletcher a nuisance."
"I like him. He's one of these polite, imperturbable Englishmen we're always reading about---you know, the quiet kind with hidden depths."
"Is he one of your regulars?"
"I met him for the first time on my last flight. I certainly didn't expect him to turn up here in Esperance."
"You certainly went out of your way to make him feel at home."
"That was just hospitality---looking after a stranger in a strange land." Davon looked up with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Why, Mr. Martin, I do believe you're jealous!"
"It's possible," said Riley bluntly. "If only I had something to be jealous about."
Davon dropped her eyes and went a little pale. They danced in stiff silence until the melody was finished, then turned to go back to their table, but Davon was whirled away by the exuberant Rogers. "Davon Ellison! What are you doing in this dump? I'm stealing her, Riley Boy, but I'll return her in one piece." He swept her onto the floor in a caricatured rumba, and Riley returned glumly to Fletcher.
"Powerful stuff," said Fletcher, holding a bottle to the light. "Want one?"
Riley nodded. He watched Fletcher fill up his glass, and said abruptly, "Are you here on business?"
"Good lord, no!" said Fletcher. "I was due for a week's holiday, and since I was in New York, I decided to come down here."
Riley glanced at Fletcher's shrewd eyes and wondered how far that was true. He said, "There's not much here for a holiday; you'd have been better off in the Bahamas."
"Maybe," said Fletcher noncommittally. "Tell me something about Esperance. Does it have a history?"
Riley smiled bitterly. "The same as any other Caribbean island---but a little bit more so. First it was Spanish, then British, then finally French. The French made the deepest impression---you can see that in the language---although you do find the natives referring to Trois Fourches and Lago Misterio and Bayou del Flor, and the language is the most mixed-up you've ever heard.
Fletcher nodded ruefully, thinking of his recent difficulties with the waiter.
Riley said, "When Toussaint and Cristophe threw the French out of Haiti at the start of the 1800s, the locals here did the same, although it never got the same publicity."
"Um," said Fletcher. "How did an American base get here?"
"That happened at the turn of this century," said Riley. "Round about the time the Americans were flexing their muscles. They found they were strong enough to make the Monroe Doctrine stick, and they'd just got over a couple of wars which proved it. There was a lot of talk about 'Manifest Destiny' and the Yanks thought they had a big brotherly right to supervise other people's business in this part of the world. Esperance was in pretty much of a mess in 1906 with riots and bloody revolution, so the Marines were sent ashore. The island was an American protectorate until 1918 and then the Americans pulled out---but they hung on to Rivière de la Paix."
"Didn't something of the sort happen in Haiti as well?"
"It's happened in most of the islands---Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic."
Fletcher grinned. "It's happened more than once in the Dominican Republic." He sipped his drink. "I suppose Rivière de la Paix is held under some sort of treaty?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes," agreed Riley. "The Americans leased the Paix in 1907 for one thousand gold dollars per year---not a bad sum in those days---but deprecation doesn't work in favor of Esperance. President Martinet now gets $1,693." Riley paused. "And twelve cents," he added as an afterthought.
Fletcher chuckled. "Not a bad bit of trading on the Americans' part---a bit sharp, though."
"They did the same in Cuba with Guantanamo Bay," said Riley. "Castro gets twice as much---but I think he'd rather have Guantanamo without the Americans."
"Oh, I'm sure he would, the damn communist!"
"That's why the Navy is trying to build up Rivière de la Paix as a substitute for Guantanamo in case Castro gets uppity and takes it from them. I suppose there is a chance that it might happen."
"Yes, there is a chance," said Fletcher. "I don't think he could just take it by force, but a bit of moral blackmail might do it, given the right political circumstances."
"Anyway, here is Rivière de la Paix," said Riley. "But it's not nearly as good as Guantanamo. The anchorage in St. Simon Bay is shallow---all it will take is a light cruiser---and the base facilities will take twenty years and a couple of hundred million dollars to even approach Guantanamo. It's very well equipped as an air base, though; that's why we use it as a hurricane research center."
"Miss Ellison was telling me all about that," began Fletcher, but he was interrupted by the return of Rogers and Davon and he took the opportunity of asking Davon to dance.
"Aren't you going to ask me to have a drink?" demanded Rogers.
"Help yourself," said Riley. He saw Turner come into the room with another officer. "Tell me, Pat; how did Turner come to make Commander in your Navy?"
"I dunno," said Rogers, sitting down. "Must be because he's a good meteorologist, because he's an officer like a bull's got tits."
"Not too good, huh?"
"Hell, one thing an officer's gotta do is lead men, and Turner couldn't be a Den Mother for a troop of Girl Scouts. He must've gotten through on the specialist side."
"Let me tell you something," said Riley, and told Rogers about his conversation that morning with Turner. He ended up by saying, "He thinks that meteorology is an exact science and that what the textbooks say is so. People like that scare the hell out of me."
Rogers laughed. "Riley, you've come across a kind of officer that's not uncommon in the good 'ol USN. The Pentagon is swarming with them. He goes by the book for one reason and one reason only---because if he goes by the book he can never be proven wrong, and an officer who's never wrong is regarded as a good, safe man to have around."
"Safe?!" Riley nearly lost his voice. "Good God, the man's about as safe as a rattlesnake. The man has lives in his hands."
"Most Navy officers have men's lives in their hands at one time or another," said Rogers. "Look, Riley, let me tell you the way to handle guys like Turner. He's got a closed min, and you can't go through him---he's too solid. So you need to go around him."
"It's a bit hard for me," said Riley. "I have no status. I'm not a Navy man---I'm not even an American. He's the chap who reports to the US National Weather Service, and he's the chap they'll believe."
"Why are you getting so steamed up about this? Something on your mind?"
"I---I just don't know," admitted Riley. "It's just that I've got this godawful feeling that something's about to go wrong."
"You worried about Magda."
"I think it's Magda---I'm not too sure."
"I was worried about Magda when I was puttering around in her guts," said Rogers. "But I'm pretty relaxed about her now."
Riley said, "Pat, I was born out here and I've seen some pretty strange things. I remember once, when I was a kid, we had news that a hurricane was coming but that we'd be all right, it would miss Grenada by 200 miles. So nobody worried except the people up in the hills, who never got the warning anyway. There's a lot of Arawak Indian in those people and they've had their roots down in the Caribbean for thousands of years. They've battened down the hatches and dug themselves in. When that hurricane came up to Grenada it made a right-angle swerve and pretty near sank the whole island. I'm telling you, these illiterate hill people, who couldn't even count money, for that matter, knew that the hurricane was going to swerve like that!"
"Sounds like they just had a feeling," said Rogers. "And they had the sense to act on it. It's happened to me. I was once flying in a cloud when I got that feeling, so I pushed the stick forward a bit and lost some height. Damned if a civilian ship---one of those corporation planes---didn't occupy the air space I'd been in. He missed me by a cat's whisker!"
Riley shrugged. "I'm a goddamn scientist. I can't go by my feelings, only by the things I can measure. That's why I can't show my feelings to Turner."
"Hell with Turner," said Rogers. "Riley, I don't think there's a competent research scientists alive who hasn't gone ahead on a solid hunch. I still say you should bypass Turner. What about seeing the Commodore?"
"Depends on how Magda behaves tomorrow," said Riley. "I want to see if she's a really bad girl."
"Don't forget your feelings about her," said Rogers.
Davon's cool voice spoke from behind Riley. "Do you really have feelings for this bad girl, Magda?"
Rogers laughed and began to get up, but Davon waved him down. "I'm having my feet danced off, and I haven't had a drink yet. Let's sit this one out." She looked at Riley. "Who's Magda?"
Rogers chuckled. "One of Riley's girls. He's got a string of them. Riley, remember Celeste last year? You certainly had fun and games with her."
Riley said, "She roughed you up a bit, if I remember rightly."
"Ah, but I escaped from her clutches."
Fletcher snapped his fingers and said with sudden perception, "You're talking about hurricanes, aren't you?"
Davon said with asperity, "Why must they give girls' names to hurricanes?"
"Because they're easier to remember," said Riley with a straight face. "And so hard to forget. I believe the Association of Women's Clubs of America put in an objection to the National Weather Service, but they were overruled. One round one in the battle of the sexes."
"I'd be interested to see your work," said Fletcher. "From a professional point of view, of course."
"I thought you were on holiday."
"Newspapermen are never really on holiday---and news is where you find it."
Riley found that he rather liked Fletcher. He said, "I don't see why you shouldn't come up to the Base."
Rogers grinned. "Turner won't object; he's a sucker for publicity---of the right kind."
"I'd try not to write any unkind words," said Fletcher. "When could I come?"
"What about tomorrow at eleven?" said Riley. He turned to Davon. "Are you interested in my hurricanes? Why don't you come too?" He spoke impersonally.
"Thank you very much," she said, equally impersonally.
"That's fixed, then," said Fletcher. "I'll bring Miss Ellison with me---I'm hiring a car." He turned to Rogers. "Do you have any trouble with the island's government at the Base?"
Rodgers eyes sharpened momentarily, then he said lazily. "Trouble?"
"It's my understanding that Americans aren't entirely popular here. I also understand that Martinet is a rough lad who plays rough games and he's not too particular about the methods he uses. In fact, some of the stories I've heard give me the creeps---and I'm not a particularly shivery man."
Rogers said shortly, "We leave them alone and they leave us alone----It's a kind of unspoken agreement. The boys on the Base are pretty firmly disciplined about it. There have been a few incidents and the Commodore cracked down hard."
"What kind of...." Fletcher began, but a booming voice drowned out his question. "Say, weren't you the hostess on my plane to Puerto Rico?"
Riley looked up, shadowed by the bull-like figure of Bowman. He glanced at Davon, whose face was transformed by a bright, professional smile. "That's right, Mr. Bowman."
"I didn't expect to find you here," roared Bowman. He seemed unable to speak in a normal, quiet tone, but that could have been because he was just a little drunk. "What say you an' me have a drink?" He gestured largely. "Let's all have a drink."
Fletcher said quietly, "I'm in the chair, Mr. Bowman. Will you have a drink with me?"
Bowman bent and looked at Fletcher, squinting slightly. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
"I believe we met---in London."
Bowman straightened and moved around so he could get a good view of Fletcher. He pondered rather stupidly for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "That's right," he said. "I know you. You're one of those smart-ass reporters who roasted me when Boys With Vigor was published in England. I never forget a face, you know. You were one of the guys who came an' drank my liquor, then stabbed me in the back."
"I don't recall having a drink that morning," observed Fletcher equably.
Bowman exhaled noisily. "I don't think I'll be having a drink with you, Mr. Whoever-the-hell-you-are. I'm particular of the company I keep." He swayed on his feet and his eyes flickered towards Davon. "Unlike some people I can name."
Both Riley and Rogers came to their feet, but Fletcher said sharply, "Sit down, you two; don't be damn fools."
"Aw, to hell with it," mumbled Bowman, passing a big hand over his face. He blundered away, knocking over a chair and heading for the lavatories.
"Not a nice person," said Fletcher wryly. "I'm sorry about that."
Riley picked up the fallen chair. "I thought you were a foreign correspondent?"
"I am," said Fletcher. "But I was in London a couple of years ago when half the staff was down with the flu, and I helped out on local stuff for a while." He smiled. "I'm not a literary critic, so I wrote a story on the man, not the writer. Bowman didn't like it one little bit."
"I don't like Bowman one little bit," said Rogers. "He's your classic Ugly American."
"The funny thing about him is that he's a good writer," said Fletcher. "I like his stuff, anyway, and I'm told that his critical reputation is very high. The trouble is that he thinks that the mantle of Papa Hemingway has fallen squarely on his shoulders----but I don't think it's a very good fit."
Riley looked at Davon. "How much of a nuisance was he?" he asked softly.
"Air hostesses are taught to look after themselves," she said lightly, but he noticed she did not smile.
The incident seemed to cast a pall over the evening. Davon didn't want to dance anymore so they left quite early. After taking Davon and Fletcher back to the Nationale, Riley gave Rogers a lift back to the Base.
They were held up almost immediately in the Place de St. Martin. A convoy of military trucks rumbled across their path followed by a battalion of marching infantry. The troops were sweating under their heavy packs and their black faces shone like shoe-leather in the street lighting.
Rogers said, "The natives are restless tonight; those boys are in war trim. There must be something big going down."
Riley looked around. The big square, usually crowded even at this hour of the night, was bare except for groups of police and the unmistakable plainclothes men of Martinet's security force. The cheerful babble of sound that pervaded this quarter was replaced by the tramp of marching men. All the cafes were closed and shuttered and the square looked dark, grim.
"Yeah, something's up," he agreed. "We had this happen before---six months ago. I never did find out why."
"Martinet always was a jumpy type," said Rogers. "Frightened of shadows. They say he hasn't been out of the Presidential Palace for over a year."
"He's probably just having another one of his nightmares," said Riley.
The column of marching men came to an end and he let in the clutch and drove round the square, past the impossibly heroic statue of Martinet and on to the road that led to the Base. All the way to Rivière de la Paix he thought of Davon and the way she'd behaved.
He also thought a little bit of Magda.
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