From the minute he and Olly began trying to barter for food, Frank sensed that something was wrong. As they made their way up from the docks the streets seemed strangely empty. The few people in the doorways of houses or bars or on street corners all seemed to be standing for the sole purpose of staring at Frank and Olly as if they were enemy agents. Black food vendors with whom they’d bartered a half-dozen times were now either gone or refused even to talk to them. They went into a bar to find out what was happening.
Even at five in the afternoon Bosso’s was packed. People were standing two and three deep at the long bar along one wall, and the dozen small tables across the room were all filled. Almost everyone was drinking water or a special postwar punch spiked with rum. Imported alcohol had disappeared. Frank and Olly stood awkwardly in the crowded space between the bar and the tables. Everyone in the bar was white except for three black men at the far end surrounded by a halo of conspicuous space. Many of the patrons kept glancing nervously at the entrance as if expecting an important but formidable visitor.
Most of them talked in low voices or whispers, as if they were in church. There was no boisterousness or joy. The one loud drunk who made an effort at jollity seemed to be deranged and soon lapsed into gloomy mumbling. Captain Olly wedged himself between two customers to press against the bar.
“Say, fella,” he asked the nearest bartender, “who died?”
The bartender, a big man with thick glasses and a cowboy hat, came toward Olly with a frown. The other patrons grew even quieter at Olly’s loud outburst.
“What d’ya mean, ‘Who died?’” the bartender sullenly asked Olly.
“The way I figure it,” Captain Olly replied, “everyone’s mother just got run over by a steamroller. Never been in such a dreary place. You got a law against talking in a normal voice?”
“You a stranger here?” the bartender asked belligerently. The two other bartenders, although still mixing drinks, were half-turned, listening.
“Hell, I’ve lived here for days,” Olly said. “You fellas acting as if you’d just learned that your blind date was a Russian missile.”
“You want a drink?” the bartender asked.
“The price of drinks these days being what it is, I think I’ll make water last into my next incarnation.”
The bartender shrugged his big shoulders and moved away to another customer. Olly turned to the tall, slender man on his left.
“What’s bothering everybody, fella, huh?” he asked. The man turned and looked coldly down at him. He shrugged. “The blacks may be going to riot,” he said.
“I see. What’s their gripe?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the tall man said, looking away and lifting his almost empty glass to his lips.
“You don’t seem much bothered,” said Olly.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” the man said neutrally.
“Well, ain’t that nice!” said Olly. “Where you headed?”
The man placed a silver dollar on the bar and then brushed past Olly and left. Olly returned to Frank.
“You give it a try, Frank,” he said. “I guess I ain’t got the personality I once did.”
A big black man with glittering white eyes and a sweat-covered face abruptly stood in front of them. He was dressed in a neat brown suit, totally inappropriate in the sweltering heat.
“You want to know why it’s so gloomy in Bosso’s today?” he asked, smiling, his gleaming eyes either stoned or mad.
“Yeah,” Frank said, “we’d appreciate it,” and, glancing at Olly, followed the man over to the empty space that surrounded his friends. The other two men were dressed in the casual and unpretentious style more usual among Virgin Islanders, white or black.
“These people want to know what’s going on,” the first man said, grinning absurdly at his two friends. “I’ve promised to tell them.”
The other two blacks, subdued and sullen compared to the man who introduced himself as Mr. Sutter, looked at him and then turned back to the bar and their glasses of water.
“Everyone’s a little touchy these days,” Mr. Sutter said.
“Why?” Frank asked.
“Well, you see,” said Mr. Sutter, turning his glittering eyes on Frank, “the obliteration of San Juan has had a certain depressing effect on everyone. We all thought we were safe here and then, boom, we find we’re not. Five days ago the cruise ship St. Augustine, loaded with almost a thousand passengers, most of them white, sailed away from the white enclave at Caneel Bay on St. Johns. Tomorrow the Norway does the same.”
“Where are they going?” Frank asked.
“The St. Augustine is going to Rio de Janeiro, and the Norway, ah, the beautiful Norway, is sailing to, ah, yes, South Africa.”
“Jesus,” said Frank.
“This mass exodus of whites to South Africa is having a certain alienating effect upon some of the blacks,” Mr. Sutter went on, grinning as if he were telling a dirty story. “Certain resentments seem to have arisen. A feeling, as you mainlanders would put it, of being screwed.”
“Are most of the people in here planning to sail tomorrow on the Norway?” Frank asked.
“All but my two taciturn friends here,” Mr. Sutter replied, gesturing at the two blacks next to them at the bar. “They are deficient in gold and in the belief that South Africa is nigger heaven.”
“You’re going?” asked Frank.
“You’re goddamn right. If I’m to choose between my identity as a live rich man or of a dead black man, I’ve no trouble in opting for the Norway and Capetown. The South Africans may not like the color of my skin, but they’ve always liked the color of gold.”
A commotion at the entrance of the bar distracted Frank: the people nearest the door began to talk loudly and, as if a plug had been pulled at the door, everyone in the room began to be sucked toward the entrance.
“They’re coming!” someone shouted, and several men produced guns. A man now stood aiming a .38 at the three blacks at the bar. Mr. Sutter, sweating, grinned grotesquely.
“I assure you,” he said to the thickset white man with the gun, “I am not part of the revolution.” The other two blacks were looking balefully at the man with the gun but appeared to be unperturbed.
“I want you three to turn around,” the white man said, “and lean against the bar with your arms outstretched. I’m going to check you for weapons.”
Captain Olly had left for the entrance, where the sound of gunshots could be heard, but Frank stood watching the confrontation.
“I’m sailing on the Norway, ” Mr. Sutter insisted, trying to establish his connection with the “good guys.” “And although it makes me gag, I must confess that essentially I’m on your side.” None of the three blacks had moved.
“I said turn around,” repeated the white man, looking nervous. “And lean forward, with your hands flat on the bar. NOW!” He poked his gun in Sutter’s ribs and gave him a shove.
“My dear man,” Mr. Sutter began, but even as he spoke, one of the other blacks had sprung forward, grabbed the man’s gun arm, and began wrestling with him. The other came to his aid while Frank stood tensely in surprise and indecision. Within three or four seconds the white man staggered back against Frank, and one of the blacks was crouched down, leveling the gun at them and backing toward the rear entrance of the bar. An explosive roar from the bar sent the man staggering backward, his shirt shredded. The other black fled. Frank turned to see one of the bartenders standing behind the bar with a smoking shotgun. A distant explosion was heard from outside.