His collection was better than Gladstone’s. Gladstone had invited him to his English country house for a “spanker” and to see his exotic whips and chains, but when he told Gladstone, Lord of the Exchequer, about the collections in the South, Gladstone caused a “sensation” by making a pro-Confederate speech on the floor of Parliament. He urged England to recognize the Confederacy.
Swille removed his jacket, picked up a copy of The Southern Planter which had a special edition on the new “fettering” devices. They were all right, but they couldn’t compare with his. His had been based upon those described in Henry’s History, 1805 edition, Volume VII. He had had them shipped over from a deserted English castle. To make sure they were effective, he had Jim, the black stud, try them on him personally. He always tried out the fettering equipment personally so’s to determine whether he’d gotten his money’s worth. He loved the sound of the screams coming from various parts of the plantation, day and night. Eddie Poe had gone bonkers over his equipment and used some of it in his short stories. He put the book down, walked over to the bed and lay down. He picked up the phone next to the bed.
“Mammy, would you bring me some ‘Siesta,’ perhaps some of those Tennysonian poppies which were shipped over from the Epicurean Club last week?”
The Epicurean Club was going to recommend his barony at their next meeting. Baron Swille. Or how about Sir Baron Swille? That’s too cluttered. Maybe the Marquis d’Swille.
Barracuda entered the room carrying a silver tray in the center of which was a logo of the House of Swille: a belligerent Eagle with whips in its talons. She wore a purple velvet dress with silver hoops, a pongee apron with Belgian lace, and emerald earrings. Lying on the platter was an apothecary bottle full of an emerald-green quivering liquid. Next to this was a hypodermic needle and a syringe. He rolled up his sleeve. Mammy Barracuda put the tray down on the table and prepared the injection. She shot it into Swille’s arm. He convulsed slightly. Then he began to babble. “Quite good, quite good, Mammy,” he said, wetting his lips.
“Anything else, Arthur?”
“No, Mammy, just tell them to warm up the chopper for my trip. I’ll be leaving as soon as my ‘Siesta’ dissipates.”
“All right, Massa Swille.” Mammy Barracuda left the room.
He couldn’t miss the lecture at the Magnolia Club tonight. Some huge blond brute was speaking. He bent his arm, covered the needle hole with a patch, rolled down his sleeve.
His mind was swimming. I’ll fix these Confederates come busting up to my place. Let Lincoln and Davis fight it out like the backwoodsmen they are. Why, that Davis, putting on airs. The Kentucky cabin he was born in had only three more rooms than Abe’s. Can’t even control his generals. If they’d chased the Yankees after Bull Run like he said, they’d won the war. No, they had to sit around having tea. Let Davis and Lincoln kill each other off, and then during the confusion I’ll declare myself King, and, as for Queen, Vivian.
Vivian, my disconsolate damsel, if only you … my fair pale sister. Your virgin knees and golden hair in your sepulcher by the sea. Let me creep into your mausoleum, baby. My insatiable Vivian by the sea, remember how we used to go for walks down to the levee and wait for the Annabel Lee. You were only fourteen years old, yet ours is a romance of the days that were. You, having difficulty making up your mind whether to “pass” from dismay or despair, me feverishly penning letters tainted with lily oil from my apartment on the Bois de Boulogne. And that night before you died, you were just right. What would I do without our great love, a love as old as Ikhnaton, the royal love, the royal love … the royal.
Swille is walking in the clouds in a great city. Floating toward a castle. He comes to a door with Islamic-type designs on it. Can this be? The door opens, and there before him is a great round table at which is seated a brilliant company. Can this be real? Ethiopian minstrels wearing silver collars, silk and embroidery are playing their instruments. And there Vivian sweeps out toward him and puts her hand in his. She is wearing the negligee she “passed” in, and she’s singing their favorite song. Fairy bells. Fairy bells. And the King … King Arthur says, “Come forth, my children. Baron and Baroness Swille.” And they begin to walk as the knights shout, raising their swords and lifting their crystal goblets, “Baron Swille. Baroness Swille.”
Barracuda enters the room. She rouses him.
“Barracuda, what on earth’s the matter? I’m having my ‘Siesta.’ I …”
“Your ‘Siesta’ gon have to wait. It’s your wife again, Arthur. She looks real Emancipated. Dark circles under the eyes. Peek’d. She say she not going to talk unless she fed intravenous. She say she on strike. All she do now is lay in bed, watch television, read movie books and eat candy. She drinks an awful lot, too, Mr. Swille. She be listening to that Beecher Hour show.”
“Well, Mammy, in that case, you know what to do.”
“That I do,” Barracuda says, rubbing her hands together, “that I do.”
17
BARRACUDA ENTERS THE MISTRESS’ room. Surveys the scene. Puts her hands on her hips. The Mistress flutters her eyes. Turns her head toward the door where Barracuda is standing, tapping her foot.
“Oh, Barracuda, there you are, my dusky companion, my comrade in Sisterhood, my Ethiopian suffragette.”
“Oooomph,” Barracuda says. “Don’t choo be sistering me, you lazy bourgeoise skunk.”
“Barracuda,” the Mistress says, raising up, “what’s come over you?”
“What’s come ovah me? What’s come ovah you, you she-thing? Got a good man. A good man. A powerful good man. And here you is — you won’t arrange flowers when his guests come. You won’t take care of the menu. You won’t do nothing that a belle is raised to do.”
“But, Barracuda, Ms. Stowe says …”
“I don’t care what that old crazy fambly say. They ain’t doin nothin but causing a mess. Now it’s about time you straighten up.”
Barracuda walks over to the bed, takes a box of candy from next to where Ms. Swille is resting, throws it to the floor.
“Barracuda!”
Barracuda ignores her Mistress’ pleas and knocks over the whiskey bottle on the stand next to the bed, then throws back the covers.
“Barracuda, I’ll catch the flu. I’m always catching the flu.”
“Get out dat bed!”
“Why … what? What’s come over you, Barracuda?”
Barracuda goes to the window and raises it. “This room needs to air out. Oooooomph. Whew!” Barracuda pinches her nose. “What kind of wimmen is you?”
“Why, I’m on strike, Barracuda. I refuse to budge from this bed till my husband treats me better than he treats the coloreds around here.”
“Now, I’m gon tell you one mo time. Git out dat bed!”
“Barracuda! This has gone far enough.” The Mistress brings back her frail alabaster arm as if to strike Barracuda. Barracuda grabs it and presses it against the bed. “Barracuda! Barracuda! You’re hurting me. Oooooo.”
Barracuda grabs her by the hair and yanks her to the floor.
“Barracuda, Barracuda, what on earth are you doing to my delicate fragile body. Barracuda!”
Barracuda gives her a kind of football-punt kick to her naked hip, causing an immediate red welt.
“Barracuda, now that’s enough, you … you impertinent, black Raggedy Ann, you.”
Barracuda pulls her razor, bends down and puts it to Ms. Swille’s lily-white neck. “You see that, don’t you? You know what that is now? Now do what I say.”