It hit her, he saw on her stricken face the apprehension that it just might be true. Then she turned away.
Winds of good fetch or not, it was hours before they came into port into that small port and ancient haven there on the barm and marge of the Carib Sea: For the world is wondrous large — Seven Seas from marge to marge — Lights reflected and shimmered. Music sounded, not the music of any classic instruments, indeed (It is sweet to dance to music, when love and life are fair./ To dance to lutes, to dance to flutes, is delicate and rare./But it is not sweet, with nimble feet, to dance upon the air.); the instruments were raw and the music raucous; the Holiday season had begun, and from St. Nicholas Day on the 6th of December to the Day of Epiphany on January 6th, Holiday would hold sway in a Saturday night that was one month long. To and fro, to and fro, the people: they did not, indeed, talk of Michelangelo, their talk was of the New Year’s new linoleum and of the Christmas turkey and the Christmas ham: of the presence of these traditional favors. Or of their absence. And of the chaparitas and the pint and, if one were especially fortunate, of the quarts and the “galleon” jugs of festive, festive rum. The vendors were setting out the fresh cabbages and the boxes of fresh apples, be sure most of them were ruddv and sweet-scented and (Limekiller knew) Canadian. The shops had set out the currants and the scented glazed citron rinds both alike from the Isles of Greece, and the raisins and the nutmeats from manywhere and the brandy and the cashew wine: to start the making and the baking of many and many a holiday fruitcake. Peppery cowfoot soup was cooking odorously in cauldrons. Millions of mosquitoes whined and hummed, but the Nationals, dismissing these as mere flies, danced around as though there was nothing in the warm night air anything like a vexation or a bother.
And those who had none of these material things (save the flies) and not even any hopes of them? What joy had they of the season? They had the inalienable joys of watching and mingling with those who did have, they would baste their scant bread in the rich smoke of the others’ cook-fires. And would pay with the sounds of their inextinguishable laughter, like the ringing of many rich coins. And they had the infinite joys of song. St. Nicholas did not leave them with nought.
Jack and Felix took down the sail. The sails. The mainsail and the jib. Coasted a ways. Then put over to where their pole, their pole, still hospitted their skiff. Indeed, she said it: There’s our pole and skiff.
A spirit touched his lips with a glowing coal. Enough of Oscar and of Rudyard and Tom. “Rowing in Eden./ Ah, the sea!/ That I might moor myself/ In thee.” She whirled around (Felix), her face demanding immediate knowledge of Who? “Emily Dickinson,” said he. Added, “Critics assure us that of course she had no idea — virginal Emily? — that it might be a metaphor of —”
She said, verv, very rapidly, “Believe that, you’ll believe anything;” said it with emphasis. and without emotion. whirled around and jumped onto the stone coping of Corn Meal Wharf. And was off into the throng. A moment he thought of striding after her, did not. A moment he thought of shouting. something. Did not. Watched and observed that she was not heading toward the Swinging Bridge over the Old Belinda River which bisected King Town, and therefore not toward any of the large hotels with their wicked bars; he observed that she almost at once flitted into Spyglass Alley. And was gone. For a scant fraction of a second he thought she might be making for the Spy Glass itself: a liquor booth, but respectable enough that ah ’oman might enter without total loss of respect or reputation: but almost at once he knew better.
“Tidings of gret jye, Coptain,” a soft, soft voice wished him. He looked down and saw it was the half-hydrocephalic little cripple called, God knows why, Baron Benjamin. (Nicknames in British Hidalgo were a subject on which a thesis might be written: easy enough to say why a certain gaunt, pale missioner was called Holy Ghost and why a certain rough-skinned merchant was known as Mawmee Opple. but why was a certain clerk called “Mr. Mottram” to his face but otherwise referred to as Noncy-hahv-ah-behby-in-de-high grahss? go know.) “I am begging for my charity,” said Baron Benjamin. Limekiller reached into his pocket and found there a coin of two shillings, a fifty cent piece, still here if nowhere else called a florin; gave it to him, and, with a gesture, said, “Keep [meaning, guard] the boat;” and was off. Never so bad a boy or even so brazen a thief would risk the little Baron’s displeasure: “Me no want heem to give me ah bull-eye, mahn!”
Spy Glass Alley was not very long, and its end was quite ended by a great wooden barn of a building, the property of an ancient endowment and popularly called The Hall. Over its wide-open doors was a weathered sign reading, Society for the Promotion of Christian Evangelism, in large letters. Under this, in only slightly smaller ones: Make ye a joyful noise unto the Lord. To one side on a blackboard was chalked in colored chalk, St. Nich Day Dance Join the Funs. Limekiller heard the joyful noise, thought he might as well join: anyway, this was where Lelix must have gone. It was as good a where to go as any, and better than many.
Also about to enter were a man and a woman. Jack politely stepped aside; it was Neville. And Nicholine. Their faces, which had been fairly appropriate for Making a Joyful Noise, drew formally downcast as they recognized him. “Bad show, eh?” said Neville.
“Poor mahn,” said Nicholine.
“Who? What? eh?”
“Major Deak, you know.”
“What do you mean?” Was Neville going to mention the sad decay, the rapidly increasing ageable quality, the illness, the —?
“Ah, you’ve not heard.” Nicholine’s face grew rather cheerful at being arm-in-arm with a bearer of sad tidings. Neville took a deep breath. “Well, he’d said goodbye to Stickney Forster and me and Nicky, and as we were leaving, you know, we saw him start up the steps, and we turned away to stow our gear, you know, in the boat. And we heard him give this ghastly cry. And down he fell! We dashed up directly, but it was clear that he was quite dead.”
Jack at once said, “Heart attack.”
Neville pulled his nose. It was a long and very English-looking nose. “Don’t know about that, old boy. Praps. Been no autopsy. Yet. Broke his neck. Hmm. Quite obvious, angle which. yes. Dead.
“You know…”
And, laying their hands upon him, they passed on into The Hall with him.
Who was in there? Felix, of course. And Alex Brant. Dancing. don’t you know. Jack didn’t mind this anymore than he would have minded an ice-pick up his sphincter. Alex was his friend. Wasn’t he. And anyway Felix didn’t look as though she were terribly intensely enjoying it. Although neither did she look as though it hurt. Why shouldn’t she be dancing with, well, anybody? No reason at all. Though of course Alex was not anybody. He was a lecherous, treacherous son of a bitch. He was probably, among men, his, John Lutwidge Limekiller’s, best friend. Who immediately recalled Clair Hoffman’s definition, worthy of Ambrose Bierce, of Cuckold as Someone whose best friend has it in for him. Immediately after that at once noted and noticed the really impressive number of really charming women, ivory to ebony, who clearly did not equate the Promotion of Christian Evangelism with the wearing of a chastity belt: way they looked at him. Why not? He was certainly lookable, wasn’t he. What said Solomon the King? Rejoice, young man, in the days of thy youth, ere the evil days draw nigh. Was what. At that moment the music stopped. And as he began to look around with more precision, a voice which well he knew in British Hidalgo, and who did not? was heard speaking in a not unpleasantly penetrating tone.