did not have to. Soothed down any disturbance that might fluster him; quieted even the mild objections her own aunt raised, and sat next to him more alive and responsive and attentive than even his own wife was, basking in the cold light that came from one of the killers of the world.
Jadine who should know better, who had been to schools and seen some of the world and who ought to know better than any of them because she had been made by them, coached by them and should know by heart the smell of their huge civilized latrines.
Sydney closed his knife and fork and said, “Other folks steal and they get put in the guest room.”
Jadine shot a look at Son and said, “Uncle Sydney, please.”
“It’s true, ain’t it? We were slighted by taking in one thief and now we are slighted by letting another go.”
“We are quarreling about apples,” said Margaret with surprise. “We are actually quarreling about apples.”
“It is not about apples, Mrs. Street,” said Sydney quietly. “I just think we should have been informed. We would have let them go ourselves, probably. This way, well…” He looked as if even staying on at the table let alone the job was hopeless.
Valerian, at the head of his Christmas table, looked at the four black people; all but one he knew extremely well, all but one, and even that one was in his debt. Across from him at the bottom of the table sat Son who thought he knew them all very well too, except one and that one was escaping out of his hands, and that one was doing the bidding of her boss and “patron.” Keeping the dinner going smoothly, quietly chastising everybody including her own uncle and aunt, soothing Margaret, agreeing with Valerian and calling Gideon Yardman and never taking the trouble to know his name and never calling his own name out loud. He looked at Valerian and Valerian looked back.
The evening eyes met those of the man with savannas in his face. The man who respected industry looked over a gulf at the man who prized fraternity.
So he said to Valerian, in a clear voice, “If they had asked, would you have given them some of the apples?” The whole table looked at Son as if he were crazy.
“Of course,” said Valerian. “Some, surely, but they didn’t ask; they took. Do you know how many Americans here want special treats and goodies from the consulate? Especially at Christmas. They sent us one crate, and those two, along with that girl they bring, took them, or tried to. I stopped them. Besides, it wasn’t the apples alone. It was the way they acted when I caught them. After trying to lie out of it, they didn’t even apologize. They got arrogant—the woman called me names I haven’t heard since I left the army. So I fired them. Those apples came at great expense and inconvenience from the consulate. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Inconvenience for who?” Son asked. “You didn’t go and get them. They did. You didn’t row eighteen miles to bring them here. They did.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to explain my actions, defend them to you?”
“You should explain it to somebody. Two people are going to starve so your wife could play American mama and fool around in the kitchen.”
“Keep me out of it, please,” said Margaret.
“Precisely,” said Valerian. His evening eyes had a touch of menace. “You keep my wife out of this. I rather think you have caused her enough mischief.” Somewhere in the back of Valerian’s mind one hundred French chevaliers were roaming the hills on horses. Their swords were in their scabbards and their epaulets glittered in the sun. Backs straight, shoulders high—alert but restful in the security of the Napoleonic Code.
Somewhere in the back of Son’s mind one hundred black men on one hundred unshod horses rode blind and naked through the hills and had done so for hundreds of years. They knew the rain forest when it was a rain forest, they knew where the river began, where the roots twisted above the ground; they knew all there was to know about the island and had not even seen it. They had floated in strange waters blind, but they were still there racing each other for sport in the hills behind this white man’s house. Son folded his hands before his jawline and turned his savanna eyes on those calm head-of-a-coin evening ones. “Whatever mischief I did,” he said, “it wasn’t enough to make you leave the table to find out about it.”
“You will leave this house,” said Valerian. “Now.”
“I don’t think so,” said Son.
Margaret raised her hand and touched Valerian on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Valerian. Let’s just…”
“It’s not all right! Whose house is this?”
“We got them back,” she said. “I made the ollieballen with them.” Her voice was limp. Maybe if they all just ignored that “I don’t think so,” it would disappear. It didn’t. It clicked like a key opening a lock.
“That’s not the point!”
“Well, what is the point, I’d like to know. It’s Christmas…”
“I am being questioned by these people, as if, as if I
Jadine spoke. “Valerian, Ondine’s feelings were hurt. That’s all.”
“By what, pray? By my removing a pair of thieves from my house?”
“No, by not telling her,” said Margaret.
“So what? All of a sudden I’m beholden to a cook for the welfare of two people she hated anyway? I don’t understand.”
Ondine had been watching the exchanges with too bright eyes, chagrined by Margaret’s defense of her interests. Having caused all the trouble, now she was pretending that Ondine was the source of the dispute. “I may be a cook, Mr. Street, but I’m a person too.”
“Mr. Street,” said Sydney, “my wife is as important to me as yours is to you and should have the same respect.”
“More,” said Ondine. “I should have more respect. I am the one who cleans up her shit!”
