The waiter produced the bill. Blackwhite waved towards Bippy, Tippy and Chippy, each of whom extended a trained hand to receive it.
‘Mr White, we didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘But you have,’ Leonard said.
‘I hate you,’ Blackwhite said to Bippy. He pointed to Chippy. ‘I hate you.’ He pointed to Tippy. ‘And I hate you.’
They began to smile.
‘This is the old H. J. B. White.’
‘We might have lost a friend.’
‘But we feel we have saved an artist.’
‘Feed Pablo and his boys from now on,’ Blackwhite said.
‘Yes,’ Leonard said, rising. ‘Feed Pablo. Mr White, I am with you. I think your black idea is terrific. I will support you. You will want for nothing.’
‘Who is this guy?’ Bippy asked.
‘Thanks for the oysters,’ I said. ‘He’s got a million to play with. He’s going to make you look pretty silly.’
‘Who knows?’ Chippy said. ‘The mad idea might come off.’
‘New York won’t like it if it does,’ Bippy said.
‘Calm down,’ said Tippy.
They walked towards the bar.
‘No more winter trips.’
‘Or extended journeys.’
‘No more congresses.’
‘By day or night.’
‘No more chewing over literate-chewer.’
‘Or seminars on cinema.’
‘But wait,’ said Bippy. ‘Perhaps Blackwhite was right. Perhaps Pablo and his boys do have something. The tribal subconscious.’
They were still eating.
‘Mr Pablo?’
‘Mr Sandro?’
‘Mr Pedro?’
I left Blackwhite and Leonard together. I left Sinclair too. He had been in the dining-room throughout. I went down to the kitchen.
On the TV screen Gary Priestland was announcing: ‘Here is some important news. Hurricane Irene has altered course fractionally. This means the island now lies in her path. Irene, as you know’ — he spoke almost affectionately — ‘has flattened the islands of Cariba and Morocoy.’ On the screen there appeared stills. Flattened houses; bodies; motor-cars in unlikely places; a coconut grove in which uprooted coconut trees lay almost parallel to one another as though laid there by design, to await erection. Gary Priestland gave details of death and injuries and financial loss. He was like a sports commentator, excited by a rising score. ‘To keep you in touch the Island Television Service will not be closing down tonight. ITS will remain on the air, to keep you in constant touch with developments. I have a message from the Red Cross. But first—’
The Ma-Ho girls came on in their frilly short skirts and sang a brisk little whinnying song for a local rum.
While they were singing the telephone rang.
Henry had been gazing at the television set, held, it seemed, by more than news. He roused himself and answered the telephone.
‘For you.’
‘Frankie.’
The voice was not that of Gary Priestland, TV compere, master of ceremonies. It was the voice of Priest.
‘Frankie, I am telling you. Stay away. Do not interfere. My thoughts are of nothing but death tonight. Leave Selma alone. Do not provoke her.’
On the TV I saw him put the telephone down, saw the manner change instantly from that of Priest to that of Priestland. Like a deity, then, he supervised more stills of disaster on the islands of Cariba and Morocoy.
The kitchen had a low ceiling. The light was fluorescent. No wind, no noise save that from the air extractor. The world was outside. Protection was inside.
Henry, gazing at the pictures of death and disorder, was becoming animated.
‘Hurricane, Frankie. Hurricane, boy. Do you think it will really come?’
‘Do you want it to come?’
He looked dazed.
I left him and made for the lavatories. The oyster sickness. One door carried a metal engraving of a man, the other of a woman. Their coyness irritated me. One at a time, they raced unsteadily up to me. I cuffed the woman. Squeals. I hurried through the door with the man.
The mirror was steamed over. I cleared part of it with my hand. For the first time that day, that night, that morning, I saw my face. My face, my eyes. My shirt, the doorman’s tie. I was overwhelmed. The tribal subconscious. Portrait of the artist. I signed it in one corner.
‘Yes. When all is said and done, I think you are pretty tremendous. Very brave. Moving among men like a man. You take taxis. You buy shirts. You run houses. You travel. You hear other people’s voices and are not afraid. You are pretty terrific. Where do you get the courage?’
A hand on my elbow.
‘Leonard,’ I whispered, turning.
But it was Henry, a little firmer than he had been so far that evening, a little more rallying, a little less dejected.
‘Hurricane coming, man. The first time. And you want to meet it here?’
I went out. And saw Selma.
‘You,’ I said.
‘The mystery man on the telephone,’ she said. ‘No mystery to me, though, after the first few times. I knew it was you. Henry sent a message to me. I left the Hilton as soon as I could.’
‘Barbecue night. Gary Priestland, master of ceremonies. I know. Selma, I have to talk to you. Selma, you have pulled down our house. I went and looked. You pulled it down.’
‘I’ve got a nicer one.’
‘Poor Selma.’
‘Rich Selma,’ Henry said. ‘Poor Henry.’
We were in the kitchen. The television was blue. The air extractor roared.
‘I sold the house to a foundation. They are going to put up a national island theatre.’ She nodded towards the television set. ‘It was Gary’s idea. It was a good deal.’
‘You’ve all done good deals. Who is going to write the plays? Gary?’
‘It’s only for happenings. No scenery or anything. Audiences walking across the stage whenever they want. Taking part even. Like Henry’s in the old days.’
‘Hurricane coming,’ Henry said.
‘It was all Gary’s idea.’
‘Not the hurricane,’ I said.
‘Even that.’ She gazed at the screen as if to say, look.
Priestland, Priest, was lifting back his head. From details of death and destruction on other islands, details delivered with the messenger’s thrill, he was rising to a type of religious exaltation. And now there followed not the Ma-Ho girls with their commercials but six little black girls with hymns.
She looked away. ‘Come, shall I take you home?’
‘You want me to see your home?’
‘It is up to you.’
‘Hurricane coming,’ Henry said. He began to sway. ‘All this is over. We all become new men.’
‘Repent!’ Priest cried from the television screen.
‘Repent?’ Henry shouted back. ‘All this is over.’
‘Rejoice!’ Priest said. ‘All this is over.’
‘Why run away now?’ Henry said.
‘Why run away?’ Priest said. ‘There is nothing to run to. Soon there will be nothing to run from. There is a way which seemeth right unto a man but at the end thereof are the ways of death. Repent! Rejoice! How shall we escape, if we neglect so great a salvation.’
‘Emelda!’ Henry called. ‘Emelda!’ To Selma and to me he said, ‘Not yet. Don’t go. A last drink. A last drink. Emelda!’ He wandered about the kitchen and the adjoining room. ‘All these plastic flowers! All these furnitures! All these decorations! Consume them, O Lord!’
Mrs Henry appeared in the doorway.
‘Emelda, my dear,’ Henry said.
‘What get into you now?’
He unhooked a flying bird from the wall and aimed it at her head. She ducked. The bird broke against the door.