The bar was a square wood-paneled room decorated—perfunctorily—with fishnets and pot buoys and slapdash “native” landscape paintings. The bar itself was a stained, unfinished plywood counter that ran the length of one wall. The plastic-and-chrome bar stools were cheap mailorder merchandise.
A jukebox, turned cacophonously high, poured forth a jumble of unrelated tunes: reggae, Johnnie Ray’s “Cry,” Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel,” and songs by Patti Page, Jo Stafford, Kate Smith, and The Big Bopper.
The room was packed with dancers, all young and all black. Some wore motorcycle boots, some sandals, some mod platform shoes. There were miniskirts and short-shorts and caftans and slacks. Hairdos were Afros and ringlets and pomaded ducktails.
It was a kaleidoscope of cultures and periods and, at the same time, no culture at all. They were generations removed from their African heritage and isolated from all other cultural patterns. There were no models to emulate, no fads to follow. Taste was determined by the supply brokers in Miami. What refuse from the market place they could buy in bulk for next to nothing they would ferry to the islands at exorbitant markups. It was a couple of hundred years in time, but only a step in commerce, from the days of trade beads and blankets.
Maynard made his way through the crowd, to the bar. Through a forest of black hair he saw Whitey’s platinum curls. He elbowed his way down the bar toward Whitey, but stopped when he saw that Whitey was preoccupied, locked in a boozy kiss with a girl.
The only empty seat at the bar was beside a white man with a long mane of silver hair. Maynard sat down and ordered himself a double scotch.
He felt the man staring at him. It was not furtive or subtle; the man had swiveled on his stool and was staring. Maynard tried to look away—down the bar, at his drink, at the ceiling—but he felt uncomfortable.
He turned and faced the man and said, “Hello.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “A veritable phoenix, risen from the ashes.”
“What?”
“Cleansed by fire. You have seen the eye of God and lived to tell of it.”
“What?”
The man smiled. “That was a hairy escape today.”
“You heard about it.”
“About
it? I heard it. It was a clarion of excitement amid the deafening din of tedium that is our lives. Let there be blood so we can have horror, death so we can feel fortunate, souvenirs for the children to gather. Dullness begets ghouls.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Maynard drained his glass.
“Lucky for you. Unlucky for us. Back to fish chowder and onanism. How long are you here for?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. If I can get a charter out.”
“If you’re dependent on Wescott’s grace, your tomorrow will be the last syllable of recorded time. He’ll wait till he can find a pilot from whom he can euchre at least a jolly C-note. Wretched Nubian.” He thumped on the bar, and the bartender poured his glass full of gin. “And one more for my shipmate here.”
Maynard demurred. “Thanks. I should get some sleep.”
“Tush, lad. There’ll be time enough for sleep when the journey’s done. Pour the man a drink, Clarence, and I’ll pick his sodden brain for news of the lido.”
Maynard pushed his glass toward the bartender. “Thanks,” he said to the man. “I’m Blair Maynard.”
“I know that. And you work for
Today.
The drums tell all.” He smiled.
The man seemed to have no intention of introducing himself, so Maynard said, “And who are you?”
“Who am I?” He feigned offense. “I am the Colorful Island Character, the one you expect to see on the two-dollar tour of out-island speakeasies, the rum-soaked relic of broken dreams, the sun-struck sage who, for the price of a drink, will spin wondrous webs about what might have been, had not Fate—that fickle strumpet—struck me down in my prime. Am I boring you? Pray, be not afeard: My style is full of poises. Get it? That’s a pun, chum, and not a bad one, either.”
Maynard laughed. “What’s your name?”
“Name? What’s in a name? He who steals my name steals trash, but he who steals my purse . . . aye, there’s a thief. Label me as you will, and let your fantasies fashion my persona. My safari shirt speaks volumes; Here is a man who fancies himself an adventurer, a vagabond of the veldt. Is he a true romantic, or did he send a money order to L. L. Bean? My white ducks—redolent of a past of leisure and lucre, or pantaloons plucked from the food plane? My sandals—sabots of sorrow, a beachcomber’s brogans, or just the cheapest shoes I could find? My name? It’s Windsor. And thereby hangs another enigma. Am I really a distant relative of Her Britannic Majesty—a black sheep shunted off to the colonies to avoid embarrassment—or did I make it up, am I a swart Levantine trying to pass as Kraut royalty? Is there substance to the shadow, or is it all a balloon full of bullshit?”
“You tell me,” Maynard said.
“And spoil your fun? It’s up to you to decide. What is real, and what is schticklied o’er with a pale cast of naught?”
Trying to smile, Maynard said wearily, “To tell you the truth . . .”
Windsor raised his hand. “Say no more. I’ve done it again.” He banged his glass on the bar. “Clarence! Another cordial. And one for my benighted victim. He’ll accept if I promise to pay. None of your sly looks, you mongoose! I said I’ll pay, and I will. My word is my bond, you know that.” Windsor fished in his pocket for a wad of crumpled bills, which he spilled on the bar. He turned to Maynard. “Usually, I can tell: By the time I bore myself, my audience is comatose. But it has been so long since I’ve discoursed with a man of quality . . .” He stopped, and grinned. “God, I sound sincere!”
Maynard laughed quietly. “Is that so rare?”
“For me? Unheard-of. Colorful Characters are supposed to be mysterious, and mystery involves a lot of lying.”
“Is your name really Windsor?”
“I think so. I mean, yes. It’s what I’ve been going by for so long that it is, even if it isn’t, if you follow. I blather so much that I sometimes come to accept my fictions as truth. But that one’s so oft repeated that I’m pretty sure it’s true. There used to be a precedent Norman, but I suppressed it. ‘Norman Windsor.’ What dizzy dam would name her foal ‘Norman’?”
“How long have you been here?”
“I was born here. People are, believe it or not. White people, I mean. I went away, for a decade or two, to seek my fortune. But Dame Fortune turned her back on me. Or, rather, my students turned their backs on me. So I returned to this sceptered septic system.”
“You were a teacher?”
“I was a pedagogue; I remain a pedant. I took honors in anthropology—raise your eyebrows if you like, but it’s a fact—and I thought to share my wisdom with the young. The wonders of the Maya, the primal beauty of the Tasaday, the craft of the Sumerians, the genius of the druidical cults. There is such arrogance in the present. We assume—outrageous
hubris!
—that what
is
is better than what has ever been. The evolutionary fallacy that growth and change mean improvement. Tumors grow and change, too. That’s how civilization has progressed. Simple, efficient societies are festering with the tumors of innovation, justified by political placebos like ‘democracy’ and ‘human rights’ and ‘the dignity of man.’ The dignity of man! Where is the dignity in a greedy, solipsistic animal whose only goals are survival and the fulfillment of every sensory itch? The sensible man, the worthy man, recognizes other men for what they are and indulges his so-called social conscience to the same extent that he pulls his pud: till that particular itch is sated.”
“I can see why you ran into trouble as a teacher,” Maynard said, smiling. “It’s ‘in’ to be a born-again Christian. It’s not ‘in’ to be a born-again Machiavel.”
“Machiavelli be damned!” Windsor shouted. “Dumb dago hack didn’t have the balls to practice what he preached. Nobody has. I venture that you can’t name me one society that functions properly, where everybody gets what he deserves and nobody feels like hoisting somebody else on a plutonium petard.”
Maynard pondered for a moment. “What about the Amish?”
“The Amish!” Windsor snorted. “Not even close. Prisoners of some cockeyed version of the Christian ethic. No. In all the world, there are precisely three and a half pure societies. The half is a group in the deep woods of the Ozarks who still speak Elizabethan English. The reason they’re only a half is because the Elizabethan England they hark back to was a fairly organized society. Civilized, if you will.
“The two purest are in the Philippine jungles. One is the Tasaday, who were discovered in 1971—living in the Stone Age. The other was discovered last year—the Taotbato, a cave people whose primitive society has survived unchanged for God knows how many hundreds, or thousands, of years. Discovery will ruin them both. It always does.”
“And the other one? You said there were three and a half.”
Windsor gazed at Maynard for a moment, then took a draft of gin. “It’s not important. I’m blathering again. Anyway, I had tenure, until some collegiate counsel built a calumnious case against me.”
“What do you do now?”
“This and that. Catch a fish. Rent a boat. Lie beneath a tree and wait for my one-way ticket to the undiscovered country. What journalistic jewels did
Today
dispatch you here to recover?”
“I thought the drums told all.”
“Sometimes they stutter. A hot story? A Navidad profile? Carnival in Caicos? Sewers in paradise—the offal truth?” Windsor winced. “It must be getting late. Never mind. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. Secrets are baggage I can do without.”
“Hardly a secret,” Maynard said. “I wish I knew enough to
have
a secret.”
He told Windsor about the missing boats, about his conversations with Florio and Makepeace. He edited details only for brevity. “The frustrating thing is,” he said at the end of his recital, “I don’t believe there is a cover-up of any kind. I think it’s a case of people not knowing and not caring.”
“You’re right.” Windsor nodded emphatically. “My ebon fellows are not capable of a cover-up. Somebody’s tongue would come unleashed, just for the fun of seeing a rival at the gibbet. What you have here, I warrant, is a poacher here, a sinking there, a bit of drug-foolery over there, until it all adds up to a hearty roll call. Not very satisfying, but very true.”
“You sound convinced.”
“I’m convinced,” Windsor said. “I learned long ago not to look for substance behind every shadow. Now”—he drained his glass and slid off his stool—“I must away to the embrace of Morpheus. I’d say ‘Au revoir,’ but you’ll be off in the morning. And so, ‘Adieu.’ ”
“Thanks for the drinks.”
“My great pleasure.” Windsor took a step, and then something checked his departure, something he could not resist. “In thy orisons be all my gins remembered.” He cackled.
Maynard laughed and saluted with his glass.
Windsor patted him on the shoulder. “A pity you’re leaving. I so enjoy being appreciated.”
Maynard was drawn from the depths of his dream by Justin shaking his shoulder and whispering, “Where’s the pistol?”
“Under my pillow. Why?”
“That policeman’s at the door.”
Maynard climbed out of bed and opened the door. Sergeant Wescott stood on the doorstep, sweat coursing down his puffy cheeks. Gnats circled his head.
“I have your plane,” Wescott said.
“Terrific. What time?”
“Eleven o’clock . . . tomorrow.”
“What’s the matter with today?”
“Couldn’t get nobody to come.”
Maynard wanted to argue, but he knew it would be useless. “Okay. But I’ll have to make a call today.”
“No calls. Phone still broke.”
“How did you call to get the plane?”
“Fella come through the airport this morning.”
“There was a plane here this morning and you didn’t come get us?”
“Fella didn’t want to take you.”
“You mean he wouldn’t meet your price, right?”
“Hey! Who you think you are? I try do you a favor . . .”
“
I
would have met your price.”
“Two late now. Give me a hundred dollars.”
“What for? The plane won’t be here till tomorrow.”
“Good faith. Or the fella won’t come back.”
“Sergeant . . . go suck your thumb for good faith.”
Wescott reached out and took Maynard’s elbow. “I think maybe I put you in jail till the plane come.”
Maynard looked down at Wescott’s hand, then up into his tiny eyes. “If you don’t take your hand off me,” he said evenly, “I’ll break your goddamn neck.”
Wescott released Maynard’s arm. Maynard stepped back inside the room and slammed the door.
“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” Justin said. “Now there’ll never be a plane.”
“There’ll be a plane. That pig wants his hundred bucks.” Maynard shook off his anger. “Now . . . you heard it all, buddy. What do you want to do today?”
“Don’t you understand, Dad?” Justin seemed about to cry. “Mom’s gonna
kill
me!”
“Justin . . .” Maynard hugged him. “Don’t worry about your mom. Don’t worry about anything. You want to go fishing?”
“I don’t even have a pole.”
“We’ll find one. You’ve got your knife; we’ll make one. Maybe we’ll rent a boat. Did you ever catch a barracuda? Do they fight!”
After breakfast, Maynard took Justin to the front desk and inquired about fishing. A frayed, mold-stained cardboard placard on the desk advertised charter fishing trips aboard the
Mary Beth.
Maynard poinied to the sign and asked the clerk, “How much is a half day?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh . . . maybe I can contribute to the fuel.”
The clerk chuckled. “Don’t cost nothin’ ’cause he don’t go nowhere. Boat broke and all his rods broke, so he quit and go home.”
“Why do you keep the sign there?”
“Public relations.”
“I see,” Maynard said patiently. “Where can I rent rods?”
“Can’t.”
“All right. I’ll jury-rig a couple. How about a boat? A Whaler. Even a Sailfish.”
“Got none. Doc Windsor, he got some, but he don’t rent ’em no more.”
“He said he did. Last night.”
The clerk shrugged. “Maybe he does, then. Things change around here too fast for me.”