Feast of All Saints (74 page)

It was what time now, three o’clock? You see, it means absolutely nothing. He drank the rest of the second bottle and threw it out so it disappeared into the gray water. And men riding along the mud beach below gave him a friendly wave. He stopped, stunned at this gesture, and slowly, limply, he lifted his arm. His boots were white with dust, and the leather was breaking open. Don’t think about it, walk.

But when a cart stopped on the road beneath him, and an old Negro gestured again, not the same one as before, impossible, and the black woman beside gazed up at him, mute, waiting, he walked slowly down the embankment, those heavy careless drunken steps, quite impossible for him to fall over anything at this point, very likely he might have taken wing. “St. Jacques.”

“Get in then, young man” came that heavy American voice, those yellowed eyes studying him, appraising him, “this ain’t no fine carriage, but I reckon it’s a damn sight better than walking clear to St. Jacques, where you headed in St. Jacques, young man, you just sit in the back.” There was time for a murmured answer over his shoulder, before it began to rattle, and rock, the wheels lurching violently over the rough road which disappeared behind him, mile after mile after mile. He became skilled at lifting the bottle, tensing his lips so the glass
could not possibly hurt his teeth, wondering if this old black man wanted a drink, perhaps not with his wife there, in her best Sunday black, her basket covered up there with a white cloth.

Iron fences, wrought iron gates, white columns flashing beyond the trees, the road winding so there was never a vista, the sun teeming on his head, his feet swaying above the dust that rose around him as the wagon jogged on. Hour after hour, don’t look at anything around you, don’t lose courage, a lone
vendeuse
on the road, her basket teetering, that lovely motion to the spine, long-necked, arms dangling, somber, unreadable black face as she passed and receded and became a speck on the white shells and was gone round the bend.

In all the years he had heard the word
Bontemps
he had never pictured the house in his mind.

How explain this to anyone, how even the most casual questions about it offended, much better to pretend it was no concern of his. A very rich plantation, yes, Augustin Dumanoir had said once, and he had not wanted to discuss it, he lived in the Rue Ste. Anne, what had that to do with him?

And even when Tante Josette remarked on having seen it from the deck of the steamboat coming downriver from
Sans Souci
, he had turned his head. “When a man’s that comfortable in the Rue Ste. Anne,” Louisa laughed, “you can be sure he’s not so comfortable at
Bontemps.”

So now as he jumped off the cart, all that rattling and dust finally at an end, and saw his hand shove the dollar bill toward that bowed and grateful old black man, his wife’s eye a slit in her puffy face, he turned for the first time, even in imagination, toward those immense iron gates.

Don’t stop because it’s so beautiful, don’t stop because those oaks are dripping moss along that perfect avenue, and you can see those magnificent white columns, this is a temple, a citadel, don’t stop, he jerked the bottle out, his back to it, the cart creaking and clattering out of sight, and drank again, deeper, deeper, feeling the whiskey go down into his bowels.

Whether it was the largest house he had passed in this endless pilgrimage he could not have said, he was too blind, and moved even now in a trance. It was merely the largest house he had ever seen. And something flickered down that long vista, there was a swish and flash of color between two rounded rising columns, things stirred, people stirred on those verandas hooked to those Grecian columns, the sun a splinter in some elaborate glass. Don’t stop, don’t even move toward that immense and open central gate, that path inviting you to the tiny tabernacle door. He moved slowly, steadily, feet blistered and in pain that did not touch him, toward the side alleyway, rutted by hooves and
carts, and once passing through that side gate, drew closer and closer to the house.

There was music from somewhere, the sharp rise and fall of a Sunday fiddler? And fragrances rising, mingling with the river breeze. A soft triangle of color shifted on the upper veranda, then flashed from one column to another and a faint tiny figure showed itself at the rail.

Don’t think, don’t plan it, don’t think, don’t lose your nerve. Did you think he was the only one who inhabited this palace, that he would be all alone somewhere inside with his pipe and his slippers and those decanters of bourbon, sherry, kegs of beer? Living like some rooting pig in deteriorating rooms? Leon, Elizabeth, Aglae, names came back to him, nothing to do with me, I have but one purpose that guides me, one foot before the other, the path carrying him quite far afield of the house itself, roses rising between this path and the house itself, and some soft cluster of figures up there, perhaps with batting fans, and small talk, and drinks tinkling with expensive liqueurs. Smoke rose from chimneys beyond it, a thick squat building emerged through the branches of the oaks, the rising banks of roses, and beyond that a man was coming toward him just as he drew nearer and nearer to the side of that house only those Corinthian capitols in all their detailed splendor visible now above these trellises, he could see it was the mill that brick building, and some squat old-fashioned bungalow was there, with its slender columnettes and beyond that some little town of roofs and chimneys, the man drew closer and closer, a black face, a familiar dark coat, Sunday best. The man was running, the man was afraid.

“Don’t, get away from me!”

“Michie, what are you doing, Michie, you gone crazy!”

“Let me go, Felix.”

Others were watching, a white man in a shapeless hat, his face invisible beneath the brim, as he turned his horse, its chestnut flanks gleaming in the slanting afternoon sun, and then took off into that little town of cabins, shacks.

“Michie, are you crazy?” came that same voice again and Felix’s frantic face. His powerful hand closed on Marcel’s shoulder, and he moved him bodily and easily toward those shacks. Through the trees dancers flickered and there came that shrill sound of a country violin, voices carrying over the high fluttering leaves.

“Let go of me,” Marcel said again between his teeth his fingers trying to pick loose that hand. A shock went through him, near to nausea, time is of the essence, don’t try to stop me, I must see him, I must hear it from him, all those promises. He stood rigid, his feet being dragged through the high grass away from those distant snatches of color and laughter and above the house rising monstrous against the
sky, cornices, Acanthus leaves, and gables peering down from that lofty roof, windows blind in the sun.

“Let me go!” he turned on Felix, his throat painfully dry, but the coachman had slipped an arm under his and had him firmly around the chest. In a moment he was shifted roughly into the close darkness of a large cabin and saw a woman in a red dress rise uncertainly at the hearth.

“Get out, get out!” Felix said to her, as Marcel tried to swing himself loose, his eyes again turned toward the sky. The woman shied past them, and a horse was bearing down the little avenue between the rows of sloped roofs, porches, gaping doors. Marcel could feel his feet sliding backward against his will as he struck at the coachman, and now he dug his heels into the boards. He knew that horse, it was Monsieur Philippe’s black mare.

And for one instant their eyes met. Monsieur Philippe, hatless, shirt open at the front, clutching the rein. His hair was blown back from his gray-blue eyes, and they were narrow and without a glimmer of recognition, the jaw set as he dug in his knees and rode on.

“Damn you,” Felix threw him back against the hearth where he caught himself and stood up absolutely sick to the pit of his stomach. The room went round and round, and suddenly he was sitting on the stone his back to the fire.

“Now he’s seen you, you damned crazy boy!” Black face glistening in the light of the fire. “What did you come here for, you gone out of your head!” He whipped the bucket of water off the hob.

“Don’t you throw that at me!” Marcel rose, moving mindlessly toward the open door. Felix caught him just as the sky vanished, and the door shut with a crash, Monsieur Philippe with his back to it, his blond hair blazing in the uneven light.

“I got him, Michie, I’ll get him out of here,” Felix said desperately. “I’ll take him, Michie, he don’t know what he’s doing, Michie, he’s crazy, drunk.”

“Liar!” Marcel stared up into those pale eyes. “LIAR!” the word leapt out of him, a convulsive gasp.

Monsieur Philippe was flushed and shuddering, the lips moving in a silent rage. He lifted the riding crop, the long tender leather strap doubled over to the handle and brought it down across Marcel’s face. It cut deep, deep through the waves of drunkenness. Marcel was sprawled on the floor, his hands behind him, and still he looked up. “LIAR,” he cried again, and again it came down across his face.

“Michie, don’t, please, Michie!” the slave was begging him, his arm out taking the third blow of the crop. A warm wet blood was trickling down into Marcel’s eyes, he felt himself losing consciousness, and lurched forward trying to get up on his feet. “Michie, please,
please,” the slave had both his arms out against which the crop struck again.

“Bastard, rotten! Spoilt rotten!” Monsieur Philippe growled, and gave the slave one decisive shove. He brought the crop down against the side of Marcel’s face and Marcel felt the shock of the weight of the handle more than the flesh opening. He could not see. “You dare, you dare!” Philippe roared, his teeth clenched. “You dare!” The crop hit Marcel across the shoulder, across the neck, and the back of the neck, each blow so distant and vibrating, the sting and the pain outside the mind. Again he was losing consciousness. He saw blood on the boards. “You dare, you dare, you dare, spoilt rotten, you dare!”

That slave was bawling; he had himself again in front of the master taking those blows, “Please, Michie, I’ll get him out of here, put him in the wagon, get him back to town.”
Why for me!
And seeing that boot coming up toward his face, Marcel threw up his hands.

He heard his jaw pop, felt the wrenching pain in the back of his neck, and then that last shattering blow to the temple. He rose up and fell forward, and it was finished.

T
HIS WAS
M
ARIE’S ROOM
. It seemed everyone was in the parlor, Rudolphe, Christophe, Tante Louisa, and Cecile. Marie wrung out a rag in the basin by the bed and touched it to his cheek. The throbbing in his head was so intense when he turned to look at her that he almost moaned. But he felt a consummate relief that he was here, and no longer in that wagon bumping down that road. It must be midnight. He had the sudden fear that if he turned his head too far to the right he would see that Felix was in the room.

“Is Felix here?” he asked.

“Out back with Lisette,” Marie said. She was frightened. He reflected he had seen a thousand shades of sadness in her, but he could not recall seeing this fear. So Felix had told them everything, and it was bad enough to bring them all together, bad enough for them to have summoned Rudolphe who was speaking now beyond the open door.

“Well, I suggest you write to her at once, then, and in the meantime I will take him home with me,” he said.

“There’s no need to write to her,” Louisa answered haughtily, “she’s my sister and he’s welcome there anytime, we just need to put him on the boat.”

Cecile was crying.

“I don’t want him going upriver unless she knows he’s coming,” Rudolphe insisted.

“But the point is,” Christophe said patiently, “he should not remain here, not even tonight. If Ferronaire should come here, he should not find Marcel.”

Cecile murmured something choked and inaudible through her low sobs. Rudolphe was saying again he would take Marcel home now.

Marcel struggled to sit up, but Marie said to him quickly, “Lie still.”

“No, I’m not going,” he murmured, and then Christophe stepped into the room. The taller broader figure of Rudolphe appeared behind him, and his voice with its insistence upon reason said,

“Marcel, I’m taking you home with me. You’re to stay there for a few days, get up. You can walk, come on.”

“I’m not going,” Marcel said. He was sick to his stomach and felt that if he climbed to his feet he might fall.

“Do you know what you’ve done today, do you realize?…”

“So I won’t cause you or anyone else any more trouble,” Marcel murmured. “I’m not going to your house, I do not accept your invitation, that’s all.”

“All right,” Christophe intervened, “then come on home with me,” his voice was quite calm and devoid of anger or urgency. “You’re not going to say no to me, are you?” He did not appear to see the expression on Rudolphe’s face, but went on explaining in a low voice to Marcel that he must stay there for a few days until it could be arranged for him to go to the country. If he sees that expression, Marcel was thinking, if he sees the manner in which Rudolphe is studying him, I’ll never forgive Rudolphe as long as I live. It was that old suspicion, which still infected Antoine whenever the teacher’s name was spoken, and clearly, in this dejected state, Marcel admitted to himself what that suspicion was. But it paralyzed him, this look in Rudolphe’s eye, and when Christophe turned and the men now stared at one another, Marcel almost let out a small warning sound.