Long Distance Life Part 38

Now everybody was speaking English, it's quite impossible to walk there, but what if you just put one foot in front of the other, no, don't take the car uptown, just walk, walk. Walk as if nothing can stop you.

"Now, you listen to me, Marcel, he brought you up in the planter's tradition, you've never gotten those hands of yours wet except to wash them, well that's over now, and you'd best face it, there is nothing dishonorable..." I will not do it, I refuse to do it, tell him I refuse the apprenticeship. "You're not thinking." "Leave him alone, Rudolphe, it's too raw, it's too deep a wound." "You're not thinking." "Leave him alone, Rudolphe, it's too raw, it's too deep a wound." I REFUSE! I REFUSE!

You knew it was not going to happen, didn't you? You knew in those months before Christophe ever came home, you were never getting out of here, it was just something to believe to keep you going, to make youth tolerable, to make life possible, Rue l'Estrapade, the Pension Menard, Ecole Normale, Quartier Latin, Theatre Athenee, Musee de Louvre. Don't cut back to the river now, this is the Irish Channel, and they'll kill you, that cesspool, those filthy immigrants, no, stay in the Nyades Road, walk, walk, as if nothing can stop you.

He stopped in the shade of an oak, tipped the bottle again, one full flask left in the right pocket, one full flask left in the left, the Carrollton car chugging by on the shimmering track, steam against the blazing sky, the clang of church bells. I am walking to the Parish of St. Jacques.

To understand this properly, one has to have lived with him, seen him day after day in those soft slippers, that blue robe, pipe smoke layered over the dining room, that wad of bills. "Ti Marcel, my little scholar..." "He took my Maman to bed, Michie, same as he took yours!" "Ti Marcel, my little scholar..." "He took my Maman to bed, Michie, same as he took yours!" One has to have seen him marching up that garden path, the cape flaring to the rustling leaves, that horse chomping in the Rue Ste. Anne, those presents, those parcels, peeling off those bills, send the boy in style, style, style, style! One has to have seen him marching up that garden path, the cape flaring to the rustling leaves, that horse chomping in the Rue Ste. Anne, those presents, those parcels, peeling off those bills, send the boy in style, style, style, style!

What is it, noon? Take out that splendid pocket watch with the small curling inscription from Hamlet and read it, don't even bother to smooth your vest, it fits too perfectly, noon, and this is the old city of Lafayette already, you are making good time.

Somewhere before he reached the city of Carrollton at the bend of the river, he threw the first bottle away, seeing it shatter on a rock, this was country now, the swamp encroaching, those little kitchen gardens, a cow with an immense eye and delicate lashes peering at him from the high gra.s.s behind a broken fence. Over and over the cars pa.s.sed on the tracks, and now he was pa.s.sing those frothy verandas and ladies with pink parasols, this is the country now, you are moving through the Parish of Jefferson toward the Parish of St. Jacques.

It seemed the steady motion of his feet obliterated thoughts, all those voices had become music, and what was cutting and ugly had melted slowly into a rasp and then a hum, one foot placed in front of the other, the soles of the boots getting thinner, he knew perfectly well that were he to stop, there would be pain, the sh.e.l.ls were actually cutting through these boots, this expensive leather, and a white dust adhered to the edges of these trousers. "...some measure of responsibility with regard to your means, Monsieur Ferronaire has been quite generous, means suited to an apprentice in the undertaking trade, perhaps Lermontant can be some guide, you understand, of course, to date Monsieur Ferronaire has been, well, shall we say, very generous, but as of now, some measure of practicality with regard to your means, apprenticeship, proper attire of course, but these bills outstanding, some measure of reduced means..."

And with each carriage rolling, crunching in the white sh.e.l.ls, the dust rose, a wagon with people staring, an old black man gesturing, no, thank you, I prefer to walk. I wonder if this is an impossibility, all the way to St. Jacques, I suspect it might be considered so, but not for me. He uncapped the second bottle, drinking without having to stop, he should have thought of this before, and why not mount the levee, go ahead, feel that chill wind coming off the river, cutting this drench of sun. He started up through the gra.s.s, a swarm of insects rising, and with a careless hand slapped at his face, at the sudden sting on the back of his hand. Another drink, and there it lay, the Mississippi, that immense sluggish gray current, and riding downstream with all the speed of the current, a lofty, beautiful steamboat, twin stacks belching into the clouds. The breeze was cold, positively cold, imagine that. But it was perfect now, the way that everything was outside of him, the stones cutting through his boots, the thin layer of sweat beneath his shirt, that itching stubble on his face, this chilling wind. I have always been terrified of those trees falling like that right into the river, the current eating at the land, carrying off something that immense and so solid, a tree that inland could lift the brick banquette right over its roots, but it does not frighten me now.

A white man stopped him.

He saw the horse coming a long way off along the river road below and ahead and then the horse took a path to the top of the levee, and Marcel stopped, waiting, as the horse bore down on him, again it was so distant, those pounding hooves, and looking at the man, it was as though he had heard the request without the words.

He'd never shown those papers to anyone, did he have them, he always carried them. His hand slid mechanically into his breast pocket while his eyes stared out over the river, at a great ma.s.s of logs and dead vine borne downstream like a perfect raft. The man's voice was surly, something not to be borne, and in an instant, he knew it without even looking up, the man couldn't read. "Born in New Orleans, Monsieur, of free parents, Baptismal certificate, St. Louis Cathedral, no, Monsieur, business, Monsieur, in the Parish of St. Jacques."

"You're walking to the Parish of St. Jacques!" The horse lurched and danced, the papers shoved down into his face. It was like s.n.a.t.c.hing for the bra.s.s ring to get a hold of them, runaway n.i.g.g.e.rs with free papers runaway n.i.g.g.e.rs with free papers. He cleared his throat, eyes raised cautiously, decorously, yes, that is a better word, decorously, this man cannot possibly hurt me, he has nothing to do with me. "On the Ferronaire plantation, Monsieur, business." Those papers of yours better not be fake. But you can't read them But you can't read them, can you can you, you swaggering fool you swaggering fool. No, Monsieur, in the Rue Ste. Anne, all my life, at the corner of the Rue Dauphine. Merci Merci, Monsieur, Bonjour! Bonjour!

I told you he couldn't hurt you, he has nothing to do with you, and without looking back, go ahead, lift the bottle to your lips, he's gone anyway. This breeze is positively cold. A bell clanged somewhere, and round the bend it came, another of those magnificent steamboats, with faint music floating over the water, carried past his ears on that chill wind. It seemed they were waving from the decks, to him? He looked down across the river road, the white columns of a distant house peeping through the trees, an open carriage pa.s.sing soundlessly below and out of this wind, a woman waving, her skirts made of some soft green. Don't look at the house, don't look at the carriage, look at the river and keep moving, your feet are on fire.

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 d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.s 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 vendeuse on the road, her basket teetering, that lovely motion to the spine, long-necked, arms dangling, somber, unreadable black face as she pa.s.sed and receded and became a speck on the white sh.e.l.ls and was gone round the bend. on the road, her basket teetering, that lovely motion to the spine, long-necked, arms dangling, somber, unreadable black face as she pa.s.sed and receded and became a speck on the white sh.e.l.ls and was gone round the bend.

In all the years he had heard the word Bontemps Bontemps he had never pictured the house in his mind. 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 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." 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s. 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 pa.s.sing 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 gra.s.s away from those distant s.n.a.t.c.hes 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 d.a.m.ned 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.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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! Why for me! And seeing that boot coming up toward his face, Marcel threw up his hands. 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.

PART THREE.

I.

THIS WAS M MARIE'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 b.u.mping 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.

"You have room for him there?" Rudolphe asked dully. But before Christophe could answer, he said decisively, "I think Marcel should come with me."

Marie had risen and gone out.

A dark expression pa.s.sed over Christophe.

"My G.o.d, man," he whispered. "If you still don't trust me with the tender youth of this community, why don't you shut down my school!"

Rudolphe was stunned. He glanced pointedly at Marcel as if to say how can you speak this way before the boy. His mouth pressed shut. "I admire you, Monsieur," he said coldly. "This was simply my advice."

"Oncle Rudolphe," Marcel said, climbing slowly to his feet and steadying himself by the bedside table. "I want to go with Christophe. Oncle Rudolphe, you must allow me not not to be a burden to you just now." to be a burden to you just now."

"Marcel, Marcel," Rudolphe sighed, shaking his head. "You are never half the burden to anyone that you are to yourself. Will you stay quietly at Christophe's until we can reach your Tante Josette at Sans Souci Sans Souci, do I have your promise, will you behave for just a little while as if you were in your right mind?"

Marcel's wretched confusion was aggravated by these sharp and loving words, and one perfect and distinct moment was yielded to him, that of Monsieur Philippe with that riding crop, and the boot, and those words, you dare, you dare, you dare you dare, you dare, you dare. What in the name of G.o.d have I done? Christophe slid a firm arm around his shoulder and urged him forward; he moved without saying a word.

Cecile was in the door, and her face was streaming with tears. Marcel shut his eyes. If she says something angry, I will deserve it and I cannot bear it, he thought. But her hands stroked tenderly at the sides of his face, ignoring the rough beard there and she kissed him quickly and pressed him close.

"Stay at Christophe's," she whispered. "Promise me..."

Marie had come in with a valise, and he realized it contained his clothes. He wanted to say something to Marie, to Cecile, to all of them, but he could think of no words.

Rudolphe was giving orders as he left, the coachman Felix was not to be told where Marcel was, he was to tell his master, if asked, that Marcel was "no longer at home." It had a dreadful finality to it, and Marcel thought vaguely, yes, that's it, I have not brought the roof crashing in on them, no matter how outraged he is, he will never desert them, it's merely that I can never live under this roof again.

Juliet dragged her long boat-shaped tub across the carpet and stoked the fire. She peeled off his clothes and told him to get into the water when it was hot enough and she soaped him all over, rubbing the suds well into his hair. He could see the soot on his hands and how it had become sticky when Marie had tried to clean it off. He lay back against the rim of the tub and shut his eyes.

"Do you know what I've done?" he asked wearily. The cuts on his feet burned in this hot water and he could not decide whether this was pleasure or pain.

"Hmmmm, we are a fine pair, mon cher," mon cher," she said, "both mad it seems." she said, "both mad it seems."

When she had dried him off and wrapped him in a thick white robe, she sat him against her many ruffled pillows, and brought the straight razor and the basin, and put a towel around his neck.

"Lie back," she whispered, and deft as a barber began to lather his face. He put his hand up to feel the cuts. It seemed the swelling had died down some, and it felt again like the contours of his own face. "Close your eyes," Juliet said. "Go to sleep." And as if he had just discovered this was permissible, he fell into it, only vaguely aware that she had finally finished and had put the covers up over him, and blown out the lamp.

Remorse. It was one of those words he'd heard but never actually made his own. Guilt he understood, but remorse? He felt it now, however, he was certain, and with it the most agitated dread. With the days of drinking sending tremors through his limbs, and all the house quiet, the streets beyond quiet, and Juliet sleeping deeply in the barest glint of the moon, he lay awake trying to reconstruct the why and the wherefore of what he had done.

It had seemed he had had to go to Bontemps Bontemps, but why? No one knew the etiquette of this strangely stratified Creole world better than Marcel knew it, so why? What had he hoped to do to his white father, what had he expected that outraged and anxious white man to do to him? He shuddered, inflicting those blows again in his mind, his sickened and exhausted body unable to sleep anymore, the image of Philippe's convulsed face confronting him again and again. He wanted to hate Philippe, but he could not. He could not see himself as he had been before he entered the gates of Bontemps Bontemps, he could see himself only as Philippe had seen him. And his actions were senseless, utter folly, and had brought misery on himself, his mother, his sister, on them all.

Finally, unable to bear his thoughts a moment longer he rose, pulling on his pants and a soft full-sleeved linen shirt that was Christophe's, and in his bare feet he padded silently to the door.

A meager relief touched him as soon as he saw the light at the end of the hail. There was the smell of the kerosene of Christophe's lamp, there was the barely audible but steady scratch of Christophe's pen. And savoring this relief Marcel let his eyes drift over the ceiling and the walls. The pa.s.sage was barren and damp as always, but it was warmly familiar as was everything about him, even the moonlit face of the Old Haitian peering from the open dining room door. And only now did it come clear to Marcel that the day's violence was over, and that somehow the sanctuary of this house had been yielded to him again. He was in his refuge. And just possibly, as it had happened in the past, the world outside would become blurred, unimportant, even a little unreal. He moved impulsively toward Christophe and felt his relief deepen as he saw the figure bent over the desk, shadow leaping on the wall as he dipped his pen.

A soft grace emanated from the figure. It wasn't merely Christophe. Rather it was Christophe carrying on in spite of the day's insanity, Christophe undeterred from the usual and very significant tasks. It suggested balance, well-being. And Marcel, standing silently in the doorway, felt an overpowering desire to fall into Christophe's arms.

There had never been real touching between them. Not even the jostling which boys might occasionally enjoy. And in fact, Marcel had never embraced another man in his life. But he wished now that he could overcome the reticence that seemed inveterate to both of them, and that he could just hold Chris for a moment or rather be held by him in some natural way as brother might embrace brother, as a father might hold a son. Those old suspicions were remote to him, they were trivial and mildly irritating, and seemed something that was part of a confused and dimming world beyond these walls. But he sensed this reticence in him had never been part of those concealed fears; it had nothing to do with gossip or the specter of the Englishman; it was merely his nature, and more or less the nature of all the men he knew. But the desire for this embrace, the need for it was so acute now that he would have left Christophe's door if Christophe hadn't laid down the pen and turned around.

He turned the small bra.s.s key on the lamp so that he might see Marcel in the shadows, and he gestured for him to come in. "Drink a little of this," he said turning to the wine on his desk. "But slowly, it will help."

It was that same calm he had evinced in the cottage, miraculously at odds with Rudolphe's disgust and Cecile's tears. Marcel took the gla.s.s from him and drank deeply.

"Slowly," Christophe insisted. He gestured for the chair.

"Rather stand," Marcel whispered. He moved to the mantel, setting the gla.s.s before him, and stood over the empty hearth. It was quite possible that the pressure of the boards against the blisters of his feet felt good.

Christophe was watching him. "Rudolphe's already written to your Tante Josette," he said. "Have you ever been upriver to this plantation, Sans Souci?" Sans Souci?"

At the mention of the place a bitter tremor pa.s.sed over Marcel. It seemed quite impossible that he was going there.

"I don't know those people," he said in a low voice. "Or rather I know them and that's all. They aren't my family, they s.n.a.t.c.hed my mother off the street in Port-au-Prince when the war was on, when Dessalines was ma.s.sacring the French. That's the connection. She was four years old. They brought her up." He winced. He had never told this to anyone, not even to Marie who did not know it, and without realizing it he shut his eyes.

"They're your family then," Christophe said. The tone was un.o.btrusive, gentle. "It's been that way all these years, hasn't it?" The voice was perfect compa.s.sion, devoid of self-consciousness. It was intimate and easy and nothing more.

"They are not my family," Marcel whispered, but he stopped, unable to continue because that desire had welled in him again to reach out for Chris, and he wanted to say you are closer to me, more a part of me than they are, but he could not. He glanced at the figure who sat at the desk. It was that old posture, habitual with Christophe, so still and contained that it seemed he was posing for the Parisian Daguerreotype all over again.

"What are you really thinking?" Christophe asked.

Marcel shook his head. He rested his arm against the mantel. The room was thick with shadows and the gray night, misty perhaps, showed luminous against the black shutters over the street. But Christophe's face in the small dim circle of the lamp was gently illuminated and the yellow-brown eyes were probing and patient and calm.

"Thinking," Marcel sighed. "That I behaved like a fool," he said. "I hated him for what he did, and for letting me know it like that through the notary, Jacquemine. He never meant to send me to Paris. He lied. And now I've done something unpardonable, and he has the right to despise me for it, the right to disown me. I've earned my disinheritance as if I deserved it all along."

The world outside was coming back, in spite of the house, in spite of this room.