"Mr. Bancroft, sir."
"Now wouldn't you know it! Jerry Bancroft! My pal! The lucky old crook!" Gerson looked behind him, at the roomful of compulsive hospitality. "Funny thing, I don't see him standing any drinks all round."
"I don't think he knows about it yet, sir."
"We'll tell him." He turned back to Diane. "Won't we? You know Jerry Bancroft, don't you?"
"Oh, sure."
"D'you like him?"
"He's O.K."
"He likes you," said Gerson, eyeing her. "How about another drink?"
"It's pretty near time for lunch."
"Just one more. Hey, Edgar!"
"You're getting me into bad habits."
"Give me time. . . ." He leant towards her again, gravely confidential; now he was looking down her bosom as if he were thinking of foreign policy, of life-insurance. "Are you planning to go ashore at Martinique?"
"When's Martinique? I've lost count."
"It's this evening."
Diane nodded. "Yes, I'll probably take a look round."
"How about with me?"
She considered, thinking fast, while Edgar put the two rum Collinses in front of them on their little decorative mats. This was the pass, all right, but it needed handling. She didn't want a brawl in public, and she didn't want the alternative—meeting Gerson under some street lamp in the dock area as soon as he could sneak off. Perhaps it was best to be frank, on the same sort of plane as he.
"How about your wife?"
He waved his hand airily. "Oh, she'll probably play bridge or something. She's not too sold on sight-seeing." He dropped his voice. "We could slip ashore, go to some joint, live it up a bit. How about that?"
"I think I'd like to. If you're sure it's all right."
"I'll make it all right." He raised his glass. "Be seeing you, baby. And save it for me."
The harbour-capital of Fort de France was all that a tourist could ask for. By day, its shabby buildings, multi-coloured in artistic shades of blue and pink and brown, had a Mediterranean tang; and by night, its sleazy air of disrepute, its cries and running feet, its smell of drains and ancient seaweed and rotting sugar-cane, all contributed to the authentic atmosphere of romance. When Jack Gerson and Diane Loring, that unlikely pair whom fate (they freely agreed) had drawn together, set off on their tour of the city, they were able to feel that every step they took was a step into the mysterious unknown.
It was still oppressively hot, at nine o'clock in the evening; the easterly trade-winds brought no sea breezes, only the smells and the laden breath of the dark interior; the streets around the quayside, littered with refuse, policed by dogs, were not inviting. But there were still trees, and ambiguous shadows, and bougainvillaea in heavy bloom; and behind them, against the back-drop of the Pointe des Negres, the solid white bulk of the Alcestis remained constant. She was, if need be, their escape route from the hazards o/ foreign parts.
They were arm-in-arm; it seemed safer and, of course, nicer. There were still plenty of people about, mostly strollers doing nothing and beggars doing what they could. The talk in the streets was all French; but it was a transplanted French, guttural and opaque, the kind of French (as a Parisian would put it) spoken in a province one could never quite identify. But when they stopped at a street corner, it was to come upon an altercation which might have been transplanted direct from the Champs-Elysees.
A native taxi, rounding the corner, had misjudged the curve, and its front wheels had mounted the pavement by a foot or two. A dapper policeman, ebony black, advanced upon it, swinging his baton and then pointing it accusingly at the driver.
"Que faites-vous sur le trottoir?" he inquired roughly.
The taxi-driver spat, with great deliberation. "Tattends voire sceur," he snarled, and drove off in triumph.
There was a roar of laughter, a concerted flash of white teeth, from everyone within earshot. The policeman retreated again to the centre of the cross-roads, with as good a face as he could muster.
"You've got to admit," said Gerson, "it's a hell of a romantic language." He squeezed Diane's arm; it seemed logical to do so. "I hadn't realized the Frogs ran this place."
"It's always been French," she answered. "Didn't you know Josephine was born here?"
He was puzzled. "What Josephine?"
"The Josephine. Napoleon."
"You mean, "Not tonight, Josephine'?" "Sure!"
"Well, what do you know!" exclaimed Gerson, marvelling. "In Martinique? I thought she was—hell, I don't know what I thought. Tell me some more."
"It was discovered by Columbus," said Diane. She was quoting from the "Tips for Travellers" column in the ship's daily newspaper, which Gerson clearly had not read that morning. "He thought it was America."
"He must have been nuts," said Gerson, looking round him.
"They had a volcano here," she went on. "Maybe they still have. It killed forty thousand people in nineteen hundred and two. In three minutes."
"Jesus! How do you know all this?"
"Oh, 1 know____"
They had reached another cross-roads; there were lighted streets, and dark ones; the humid air stirred the trees slowly as it passed.
"Time we had a drink," said Gerson. "It's hotter than hell here. What do you say?"
"I'd like a drink."
"Let's find some lousy joint."
But joints of any kind were hard to find. They tried two hotels, but they were crowded with people from the Alcestis; at both of them, a sedate dance was in progress, the couples circling the room as if doomed to do so until Prince Charming cleft the forest and set them free. Then they found what they were looking for; a side-street bar with a deserted dance-floor, and a smoky atmosphere as thick as brown fog. The sign outside said: "Cafe Stork-Club"; and a printed card, on the table they were led to, announced: "Welcome, Alcestis Passengers! Couvert, 1000 Francs."
"Clip joint," said Gerson, with a worldly air. "But they won't clip me." He hammered on the table. "Let's have a little service here!"
"But how did they know we were coming?" asked Diane.
"The boat probably calls here two-three times a year," answered Gerson. "They just trot the signs out. Same for all the cruise boats. ... Do you want something to eat, baby?"
"I wonder what they've got."
"Some native goo."
The head-waiter, dressed like Gerson in a white dinner-jacket and red tie, materialized at their elbow.
"Scotch and soda?" he asked. "Scotch on rocks? Scotch and Coca-Cola?"
"Rum," said Gerson. "And none of your home-made rot-gut stuff! Comprenny?"
"Oui, monsieur," said the waiter.
"We're hungry," said Gerson. "How about that?"
"Hot dog," said the waiter. He was tall and well-built. "Hamburger with French fries. Ham and two eggs."
"Hell!" said Gerson. "We don't want that sort of crap! What would you like, honey?"
"I'd like something local."
Gerson looked up at the waiter. "Something local," he said. "Like —like fish a la mode. What have you got?"
"Calalou," said the waiter.
"How's that again?"
"Calalou," said the waiter. "Mixed vegetable puree with spices and special sauce."
"I guess it can't kill us," said Gerson. "Bring it on. Two double portions. And hurry up with that rum, for God's sake."
"Oui, monsieur," said the waiter.
"You've got to keep up the pressure with these characters," explained Gerson when he was gone. "Otherwise they just fall down on the job." He pressed her hand. "Are you with me, honey?"
"I'm with you," said Diane.
The drinks arrived, and then the food; an enormous platter of unidentified roots and leaves and shoots, covered with a pink sauce of mysterious consistency. Gerson drank deep, talking all the while in a high-pitched, rather quarrelsome voice; he had been drinking steadily all evening, he had told a series of evasive untruths to his wife, and he was defiantly determined to enjoy his freedom. When he had taken a couple of spoonfuls of the calalou, and masticated them thoroughly, he snapped his fingers, summoning the head-waiter again.