Authors: Austin Clarke
“I never knew, Henry man, that a man could be so blasted happy with one o’ them women!” He could not contain his elation and his success. It seemed to have gone to his head, more than the rum he was drinking. “The first time I see Brigitte naked, oh Jesus Christ.…”
“That’s a lot o’ woman, eh, boy?”
“But how you did feel the first time, Henry?”
“What first time?”
“When you and Agaffa first had rudeness together.…”
“Like a king!”
“Man, I didn’t know what the arse to do!” Boysie took a large mouthful of rum, washed it round in his mouth, and then swallowed it. “The first time, after all these days I rushing the woman, and gorblummuh! When I tell you that she likes dicky, I mean dicky man! Henry, when I see them legs, Jesus Christ, you don’t know I nearly went mad.…”
“Goddamn, Boysie, you’s a goddamn sex maniac!”
“But you could remember the way you did feel, the first …”
“Like a goddamn king, Boysie. Like a goddamn king!” But Henry was saddened by the way his first conquest was affecting Boysie. He could see Boysie leaving Dots, because of Brigitte; and Brigitte turning Boysie’s head behind his back; and Brigitte eventually destroying Boysie, because he was in love with a symbol.
“Cover up for me, man,” Boysie asked him. “Dots going call you; and you would know what to say.” He left, as happy as a lamb in love. He was seeing Brigitte the following day, Friday.
Standing in the kitchen sometimes, during these past days of tension and worry, Bernice realized, with some degree of surprise, that she never really did get to know Mr. Burrmann. Even after three years. She knew he ate properly, like a gentleman. When he is at home, there is a great absence of noise. This is all she knew about him. She knew a little more, perhaps: she knew the shape of his hands; and the shape of his fingers. She remembered once, when a fingernail was broken (she noticed it while she served the main course), he had trimmed
it before she served dessert. And since she saw the back of his head more than the front, she knew also, when he needed a haircut. “I wish I could get inside that man’s head,” she wished one day, watching the back of his head. But she knew she never would: not even Mrs. Burrmann seemed able to.
Bernice didn’t spend much time these days worrying about Mrs. Burrmann, who was busy preparing for her Mexican holiday. She had been drinking less; but Beethoven was still being played, as loudly as ever. Bernice wondered whether this record would ever wear itself out: the record seemed everlasting; the record and her problems were so similar.
On the Friday, sometime before lunch, Estelle took a turn for the worse. She had a temperature of 101 degrees. Bernice was going frantic. This was the relapse which Brigitte had warned her about. While Bernice prepared lunch for Mrs. Burrmann, who was leaving on the afternoon plane, she worried about Estelle: should she tell Mrs. Burrmann, or should she wait until she left. “On this one day, this damn woman gotta have lunch at home!” Mr. Burrmann arrived home and he too, was having lunch. “Oh Christ! look at my crosses today!” Beethoven was playing, although nobody was listening. It was the Fifth Movement,
in allegretto
, the Shepherd’s Hymn and Thanksgiving. She recognized them; but today, there was nothing to be thankful for.
“Well, Bernice, I hope you enjoy the summer,” Mrs. Burrmann said, waiting to be served the soup. “I’ll be away for about two weeks or so.”
“Yes, ma’am. Have a good time.”
“Thanks. The kids won’t be back from camp before I return, so you’ll be free. I hope Estelle will get a chance to see some of our lovely country before she goes back.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And as she was about to serve Mrs. Burrmann, the bowl slipped and the hot soup fell into her lap. Mrs. Burrmann lost her colour, and her temper.
“You clumsy …” But she caught herself in time. “Oh, I’m sorry, Bernice … guess everybody is a bit shaky with the excitement of leaving …”
“Darling …” Mr. Burrmann said. (It was the first time in three years that Bernice had heard him use this term to his wife.) “It’s nothing.… We’re all excited today, somewhat.…”
“I’m sorry, Bernice. Forgive me, Sam, darling,” she said. (Bernice could not understand what was taking place in this house!) “Imagine that this is the first time in how-many-years? … three, that Bernice has ever spilt anything.… We should give her a reward.…”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Bernice said, not feeling sorry at all. But that was the end of it. Nothing more was said, either by Mrs. Burrmann or her husband. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Burrmann came downstairs in another, more beautiful, summer frock. She was carrying the soiled dress; and she came to Bernice, put one arm round her neck, kissed her on her neck, and gave her a ten-dollar bill and asked her to give the soiled dress to Estelle. “Take care of Sam, for me, please!” (“What the hell is this I hearing?” Bernice thought.) “That’s for your good record … one spill in three years; and take care of yourself, Bernice.” Before she left the house, she turned the record player off. The house seemed so odd without Beethoven in it.
“I’ll run you up to the airport, dear,” Mr. Burrmann shouted from where he was, somewhere. Bernice noticed this act of kindness, of love. Some damn thing happening or have happened in this household, she thought. And I don’t know what it is! And apparently, because she could not understand
what was taking place, what transformation had set in, she threw the soiled dress into the garbage pail. But she kept the ten-dollar bill. “Some damn thing taking place between them two. He loving her up, and she loving him up, just as if they going on a second honeymoon.… ” The house was hers. But it was like holding dominion over a battlefield. Her summer was spoilt. Spoilt beyond repair. But she was glad that soon, she would be completely alone in the house, to take care of Estelle, more efficiently. “Estelle, child,” she said, “I coming up soon, and spend some time with you.” She was back in her old habit of talking, and arguing aloud, with herself. Before going up, she decided to call Henry. She was thinking a lot of Henry these days: sometimes, she told herself she was a fool to have offended his show of love that night; sometimes she reassured herself that she was better off to be alone, without a man. She was nervous now, because she had nothing to talk about. Her dullness was one of the reasons Henry thought might cause him to stop seeing her. “I am getting scared ’bout Estelle, Henry,” she began, talking to Henry on the telephone. “Estelle running a fever, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, you can only wait,” he said. And as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. Bernice didn’t know what else to say. What she wanted to say, and what she wanted to know, was too personal; and she did not want to be embarrassed. “Look, Bernice, talk! I busy as hell, and I expecting a important phone call.”
“You-all men always busy when somebody decent want to talk business with you! I call you like a human being, to ask you a simple question concerning Estelle, and all you could tell me is, you busy, you busy. But be-Christ, you never too busy running after white woman!”
“Goddamn, Bernice.”
“It is all right, though. It is all right. Monkey say wait … and I is only Bernice. I ain’t a lady, like Agaffa.…”
“Goddamn, Bernice! That is different. Anyhow, listen to me! I am a man. I know what I’m doing. If I, a black man, is going with a white woman, well, goddammit, that’s my fucking business, and furthermore, it is different from a white man screwing a black woman like Estelle, or …” But it was too late. When she heard her sister’s name, she threw down the telephone. She had spoilt it. She knew it. At the other end, Henry felt he had spoilt it, too; for he was just beginning to have a genuine interest in Bernice. He did not love her — not the way he had (and still did) love Agatha; but he felt he could learn to love her. “Goddamn,” he said. His whole day was spoilt.
Bernice was worried too. She had visions of white men raping her sister; and in each case, the men had no faces. She saw one man who resembled Mr. Burrmann in physique; and when she went round to look, the face was the face of Henry. She was going mad, insane; tied up in her hate and bitterness. She went up to look for Estelle, and she sat beside her, and rubbed her back with alcohol, and ran her hand over Estelle’s hair, and pulled the covers up; but she was still confused by the visions of men without faces. She went back down to get some orange juice for Estelle, and on the way up, she met Mr. Burrmann. Something strange went through her body; she suddenly disliked him intensely; and wanted to kill him.
“How is Estelle?” he asked, in an off-hand manner. “Is she all right now?”
“Yes, Mr. Burrmann.”
“I thought she was not feeling well.…”
“Well, no, sir,” Bernice said, “really and truly, she ain’t
feeling so good. But she is past the worst now.” He handed her two envelopes. One was from Barbados, from Lonnie; and the other contained her wages.
“I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “So, take care of the house. I’ll whip up something for myself, so you needn’t bother to prepare dinner now, and, oh … tell Estelle … here’s the gentleman’s name on my card … tell her not to forget her appointment on Monday morning. Ten.” Bernice took the card, greatly puzzled, but not wanting to seem inquisitive. He reassured her, “It’s all right. Estelle’ll understand.” Bernice waited until he closed the door of his study, before she opened the manilla envelope with her wages. “Christ!” she exclaimed, when she saw the amount. They had given her an increase in wages. She made a mental note right then, to put an end to her sabotage of their groceries and drinks. Two hundred and fifty dollars a month was her wage now. But she did not understand why this sudden increase. “They are up to some blasted trickery with me, I bet yuh,” she told the money, putting it into her apron pocket. And there was, suddenly, and with reason, a new brightness, a new cheerfulness to her summer. She hoped Estelle would get better soon, so they could enjoy the summer and the money. But her exhilaration died as quickly as it came. She had to read the letter from Lonnie. And she sat down, anxious to get back to Estelle with the orange juice, and read:
“Darling, Bernice, love, This is Lonnie. I am pining after you real bad these days. I was going to write you long long time before now, but since I had to look after the business you ask me to look after, I could not write before this time. I visited Mammy. She is in the Poor House, all right. But I think it is a good thing that Estelle put her there, because after I had a talk with Nurse Forde who is the charge
nurse in charge of Mammy, Nurse Forde told me that Estelle was right to put Mammy there. Mammy put on weight and she fat. Nurse Forde say not to worry. Mammy is in good hands in the Poor House. Nurse Forde say she remember you. The island looking like New York these days. People building new buildings, almost everybody — but me — have a new car that they buy on the time-payment plan, and a lot of American ships in the harbour and the whole town full with those blasted noisy Yankee sailors. But with me, things bad as usual Rough, rough as hell, if you ask me. But I am not going to ask you again to send for me, because that is a decision that only God could make you decide …
She could take no more of the letter; she folded it; and was about to rip it up, when she changed her mind, and put it in her pocket. She must remember to keep it in her handbag, and read it sometime later. She climbed the stairs, slowly, thinking of Lonnie and of Henry, and of her increase in wages … and thinking of Estelle. “Poor Lonnie,” she said, “poor little stupid Lonnie!”
Violence had always been close to Bernice. Frequently in her dealings with Mrs. Burrmann, and with the children, this violence seethed beneath the surface of her smiles. She had contained all this for three years, in a situation which was no bed of roses. Even at times, when violence seemed to her the only honest, dignified solution to a problem (one such problem was Estelle’s earlier behaviour; and another Mr. Burrmann himself), she had still kept it off. Sometimes, she told herself that the blood Estelle had lost, and was still losing, was not caused through violence; but through love. Sometimes, she wanted to kill Estelle. Mainly, she thought of her sister as
someone abused by love. But Bernice learned to live with it; and Estelle herself, had apparently accepted it as a small portion, a taste of her new life, her life in a new world. Reading the Muslim newspaper,
Muhammad Speaks
, as diligently as she used to, Bernice somehow never accepted returning violence and hate for the white world, as the paper seemed to suggest. And it was this violence, and this hate, which caused her to change eventually to reading
Life
magazine, because too, it contained many colour photographs. She was thinking about all this part of her life, this Friday night, while sitting at the window in her apartment. Estelle was resting; though she still carried a temperature.
“What you think is going to happen, Bernice?” For a while, Bernice had to ask herself if someone had spoken, so accustomed was she to the silence in the room. “Bernice, are you there?” The room was in darkness. Bernice had turned off the dressing table light, as soon as the car parked in front of Brigitte’s house. She had turned off the light because she thought she recognized the car. She had seen it parked there many times before. It was Boysie’s car. (He had redeemed it. from the people who had towed it away, because of overdue payments.) Estelle called her again, and before she could return from giving her the orange juice, the man got out of the car. She couldn’t recognize the man, but she swore it was Boysie. It could only be that whoring Boysie, she said. Bernice looked up at Brigitte’s room, and swore at the curtains because they were too thick for her to see through them. She could see only movement in Brigitte’s room. She never once saw reality. “Blasted curtains!” she swore, and Estelle heard her.
“Bernice?”
“Yes, Estelle.”
“I’m really sorry, Bernice … about everything.”
“I understand, child.”
“I wrote Mammy a letter today, while you were downstairs.” Bernice remembered her own letter from Lonnie. She made a note to finish reading it.