Authors: Gene Hackman

Wake of the Perdido Star (8 page)

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star

4.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

“The older chap is dead without a doubt,” he said. “Most of him is burned.”

There was a slight stirring from the crew, but no one spoke.

While attention had been focused on the older man, Jack knelt to the side of the younger. He reached out and touched a wristâand was stunned when the hand reflexively grabbed his own. The young man's eyes briefly opened, stared blankly at Jack, and closed
again. The others turned at the sight of the movement and pushed Jack aside.

“This next lad just seems exhausted.” The doctor grasped the young sailor's jaw, shaking him gently. “Wake up, sailor, wake up.” The young man, pale and deathlike, blinked his eyes at the doctor.

“What's your name, lad?”

The sailor's mouth moved but nothing came out. He tried again: “Paul.”

“Would it be Paul the Apostle, then?”

“If it pleases, sir.”

Young Paul fell back, unconscious.

PAUL

M
ARTIN'S SCREAMS ECHOED in Paul's head, though Martin was dead by now, he must be. Paul had seen the burns swell his face and hands, had heard his pleas for water even as they swam from the ship.

Paul remembered the sea, hands pulling him out, the eyes of a young man gazing at him with pity. He fell back again, losing consciousness, then became aware of a crowd around him; sounds, voices, undistinguishable words. He was drenched in sweat, his tears mixed with bodily fluids and seawater. He forced himself to think clearly. How did I get here? How did I . . .

The click of heels on the marble floor signaled to Paul Le Maire that his father's wrath would be upon him. He had spent an hour alone in the sitting room waiting, watching the shadows on the polished floor grow long. The house was still. Drapes brushed
against the sparkling windows. Particles of dust swirled, catching the last rays of sun. Paul knew his father had already heard of his dismissal from college. He relived the scene with anguish. Dean Nathaniel J. Clark had sent for him abruptly.

“Young man, The College of William and Mary has over one hundred years of tradition behind it. The architect of our Constitution was schooled here. By all that is holy . . . ”

The dean alternately pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and dropped his head to see over them, all the while driving his hands deep into his pockets, exploring the dark interior of his pants. “What in God's name has gotten into you, man?”

Au contraire, what has gotten into
you
, monsieur? thought Paul.

Dean Clark glowed with a fury frightening to behold. The students referred to him as the Scarecrow. Long, gangly, disjointed limbs. A misshapen, unhappy face, dominated by a huge, bloodblistered nose. “You are already on probation for your last little episode,” he proclaimed.

Paul could contain himself no longer. He began to laugh.

“How dare you laugh at me!” Standing righteously, the dean took a deep breath and expelled it loudly through his nose. “You, who stood in this very office and begged for another chance.”

Paul knew then it was all over.

“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” The dean's feet pounded the oaken floor. “You've acted the clown in class, ridiculed your professors, and generally disgraced not only this school but your father, who, as you well know, has given a generous endowment to this establishment. But don't think for one minute that his generosity will in any way dissuade me from expelling you if I see fit.” He paused here, cocking his head, waiting for an answer.

“Sir, first of all, may I correct you on one thing? I did not try to ridicule Professor Dawes. He did that on his own,” replied Paul.

“How dare you use that attitude with me!” the dean shouted. “I've attempted to give you a chance to speak in your defense and you have the audacity to correct me?”

“No, sir, I didn't mean it as a correction of you so much as a clarification of the facts as they may have been presented to you.”

The dean slammed his bony fist down on his desk. “I'm going to notify your father immediately! You have the unmitigated gall to stand there and tell me Professor Dawes lied to me about what happened?”

“No, sir. I doubt he would knowingly lie. It's just that he may not understand the reality of what was said, and was embarrassed at being dead wrong. . . . ” Paul paused and with great effort contorted his face into a mask of innocence. “You see, sir, although the quotation Professor Dawes used was substantially correct, he not only used it in the wrong context, but misidentified the author. He mistakenly said it was Isaac Newton who first spoke the words, âIf I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.' Of course, you and I both know the phrase was first quoted perhaps as early as 1126 by Bernard of Chartres, referring to the ancients. Indeed, some would say it was Lucan, barely after the time of Christ. It was not, as Professor Dawes ineptly put it, that the architects of our Constitution gained strength from each other. That may or may not have been the truth, but had absolutely nothing to do with the quotation. So, sir, you can readily see my predicament: I was caught between trying to save the professor's reputation or engaging in a meaningful dialectic to stimulate both myself and the class.”

Dean Clark had listened to him quietly. Now his eyes flashed fire. “Are you quite finished, Master Le Maire?”

“Yes, sir. I would just like to sayâ”

“Please, not another word.” The dean sat quietly at his desk, avoiding Paul's gaze. “You obviously enjoy the fact that you're bright,” he said. “That seems to be undeniable. But let me tell you this, young man.” His voice rose with a tremolo befitting a tenor. “You are being expelled. You can count this as a job you were unable to finish. And I'll leave you with a quote that may give your destiny a purpose: âIn for a penny, in for a pound.' That, sir, is a
true lesson for life and one that strikes close to home, for it is attributed to our former chancellor, George Washington.”

The dean stood triumphantly. “You, young man, are dismissed.” He stepped to the window and proudly looked out at the campus. Paul backed toward the door, torn between wanting to speak and waiting for the dean to turn and change his mind. When it became apparent that he would say no more, Paul tried again.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to speak.” He paused. “I know that I've been a difficult student for you, sir, and that you've gone out of your way to be fair.” He stopped and looked around the room for a moment, sensing he was there for the last time. “Good-bye, sir. And oh, by the way, although our eminent first president and chancellor wrote of this quote, it was actually attributed to Edward Ravenscroft in the Canterbury Guests.”

Dean Clark screamed at the window, “Get out! Now. Get out. Not another word. Get out!”

“Sixteen ninety-five.” Paul eased his way out the door but thrust his head back in through the opening.

“What?”

“Sixteen ninety-five. Ravenscroft. The quote. He wrote it in sixteen ninety-five.”

Despite himself, Paul smiled at the memory but quickly grew somber as his father entered the room. Le Maire Senior planted himself in a spot within arm's reach of his son, who had risen to meet his fate. The particles that hung in the air quickly disappeared, as if frightened by the alien force.

“Look at me.”

Paul Junior could not raise his eyes.

“I said, look at me, damn you.”

“I cannot, Father, for I am too ashamed. I've let you downâ”

“Ferme la bouche.”

A deep-seated dread crept over Paul. He knew that when his father reverted to French he would soon be out of control.

“Tu le dÃ©lectes Ã m'embarrasser.”

“Father, I take no joy in your embarrassment.”

“Je ne posais pas une question, imbÃ©cile. It was a statement of fact.” The older man was smiling at the younger, but it was a mirthless, ominous grin.

“I think I explained quite clearly to you what would happen if you gave me cause to discipline you again en regard de l'universitÃ©?” The man stood in front of Paul, unwavering. His eyes glinted; his chin rose and his hands worried the seams on his trousers.

Paul lifted his eyes to try to meet his father's icy glare.

“You did explain, sir, that I would be physically punished if it became necessary to confront me again on this matter. But then, that was when I was fifteen. I would hope, sir, now that I'm seventeen, that I could now speak of this with you as a man.”

Paul never saw his father's hand streaking toward his face. The blow came without warning. His head spun, his cheek stung, and his eyes clouded.

“BÃ¢tard.” Blows rained down in quick succession. Paul Senior grabbed his son's coat collar with one hand and slapped him as if he were a stranger with the other. “Tu as humiliÃ© cette maison. Tu fais honte Ã toi-mÃªme et Ã cette famille.” His ramrod-straight posture never varied.

“I've disgraced myself only, father. Please allow me to make amends.” Paul tried desperately to ward off the blows, at the same time wishing to take the punishment he knew he deserved.

“Ah bon! Now you wish to be treated as a man? Tu veux seulement rÃ©parer tes erreurs?”

“Yes, Father. May I speak?”

“Pourquoi est-ce que je te permettrais de parler? It is your speech that has gotten you to this place.”

“Father, don't strike me again. Or I'll leave your house forever.” Paul had slipped to his knees, completely submissive. He had never spoken to his father so directly before and expected a new volley of blows.

But the senior Le Maire grasped Paul by both lapels and drew him up tightly to his breast. “Tu es bÃ¢tard. Tout littÃ©ralement. Illegitimate. Your mother is the woman you thought to be your Aunt Jacqueline in Paris. I'm not your father. Nor is the pitiful woman that we both hear weeping in the kitchen your mother.”

Paul gazed back as if in a dream. The older man seemed to take pleasure in revealing these secrets.

“Why do you tell me these lies, Father? I'm your son. You can't hope to punish me with false news of my being illegitimate and expect me to believe it.” Paul's face still smarted from the blows. He looked through tears at this man who had just destroyed his life.

“Va Ã ta chambre. Vas-y. Do not speak of leaving this house until I say so.” With a heavy push, Paul Senior propelled the younger man violently across the room.

This person before him, whom he loved, could not be telling the truth. Impossible. Why, he looked like his mother. Everybody said so. But yes, he also looked like his Aunt Jacqueline, who touched his face in such a familiar way when he first met her. Jacquelineâhis mother? Could it be?

Paul felt he was in the throes of some fantastic nightmare. But the black dream had started well before this day; he had always felt a loneliness he couldn't quite comprehend. His father was more than New England stern: he displayed a distance that Paul could never seem to bridge, even in the most private times. He felt he could never succeed in his father's eyes, no matter how accomplished his studies or how hard he tried in his efforts at the manly arts. Paul remembered being beaten by a sparring partner in fisticuffs. He had risen to his feet again and again, blood streaming from his nose, rather than admit defeat, until the ringmaster insisted the fight stop. Glancing to where his father had stood, looking for the slightest sign of approval, he saw only the man he revered walking out in disgust.

And his mother. His mother? The lady who . . . yes, his mother. She was always good to him, but again, not the source of deep
warmth and understanding he craved. Perhaps irrationally. Perhaps not so irrationally after all.

Paul stared at the space where this man who had been his father had disappeared.

You are right, sir, I will not speak of leaving this house. But I will be gone just the same.

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star

4.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads