These thoughts are in her mind as they pass Saint Grimaud, the harbor town. Once a French administrative center, it is now a crumbling backwater where zebu graze in the weedy promenade, and washing is spread to dry on the battered cannons above the port. Near the central market, vendors and customers in bright lambas stream by bearing baskets of vegetables and sacks of rice on their heads, pushing past schoolchildren in tattered smocks, bush taxis crammed with passengers, mud-caked tractors transporting field hands. A turn at a crossroads lined with food stalls leads past an overgrown European cemetery, then across a river where half-clothed women pound washing against stones. And soon the dusty brick-colored road bursts into open country, carrying them through a roiling sea of sugarcane, dotted with abandoned hulks of dead machinery.
“A few more years and this cane will all be gone,” remarks Senna. For this arrival, he has already assumed his vacation persona: hair in a military crop, camouflage vest, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that suggest that to complete the look he should have an AK-47 slung across his back. “Since independence, the sugar bosses have been getting by with the old French machines. Even when the Marxists were in power back in the seventies, they didn’t turn their noses up at colonial leftovers! But it’s been too long—the soil is worn out, and the gear is falling apart.”
“Can’t your company help?” asks Shay, thinking of the clanking combine harvesters somehow connected to Senna’s work. She sees sugarcane as an emblem of historical evil, but she is sure that the abrupt death of an industry will create extreme misery.
Senna laughs and pats her knee. He has no sentimentality when it comes to business. And he loves to explain things to his overeducated wife, robust truths about the way the world functions outside of books. “We charge actual money, which nobody has here,” he says. “No, it’s going to happen: the cane will die, this land will go up for grabs, and tourism will close the gap. Golf courses, big hotels, like on Zanzibar and Mauritius. That’s the future for places like this. But tesoro, you know we’re not here for work. Did I tell you the story of Libertalia?”
“Libertalia is a myth,” says Shay mildly, for the umpteenth time, as she settles her sunglasses and tightens her scarf to protect her short hair from the blowing dust. She doesn’t go into the literary genealogy she found when she sourced the legend: how it appears in just one book, A History of the Pyrates, posited to be the pseudonymous work of Daniel Defoe; how the tale fits into the utopian travelogue tradition that runs back beyond Thomas More, to Plato and Eusebius. And how she was surprised to discover that, in modern times, William Burroughs chose Libertalia as the setting for his apocalyptic novella Ghost of Chance. But Shay has no inclination to lecture her husband about literature. He wouldn’t listen anyway, and, strangely enough, this is one of the things she admires about him.
Senna has gotten increasingly worked up as they approach the Red House and his big reveal; he schusses the truck around the pits and gullies of the broken road like a kid on a dirt bike. They pass a congeries of discolored cement huts built for fieldworkers, where ducks and chickens wander, women pounding rice in tall wooden mortars look up curiously, and small ragged children run out waving. “Salut, vazaha!” they holler.
Dust billows as Senna jolts to a stop beside a half-buried railroad trestle road once used to transport cane. At the crossing is a corroded warning sign still displaying the faint image of a small locomotive, like a nursery school drawing. There the land rolls downhill and offers the first view of the roof of the Red House rising above treetops against the impossible blue glare of the sea beyond.
“Look what a palace I built you!” Senna makes his proclamation now, throwing his hands open wide in an impresario’s grand gesture.
And Shay is surprised to feel her breath catch in her throat. Conflicting emotions seize her: a flare of feminine pride that Senna should have tried so hard to impress her, but also alarm. She realizes that she’s been hoping the house wouldn’t be beautiful—has vaguely felt that it would be easier to accept if it were tasteless: overblown, like a reception hall at a tacky beach resort, or cramped, like a badly proportioned summer cottage—the kind of place you end up loving like an annoying relative.
Instead she sees a lofty thatched roof peak, with something impressive about its isolation and its size, taller than the tallest palms that fringe the long bay. Shay recognizes the harmony of the proportions, and in the same moment feels that something about the place is all wrong. Not its architecture, but its mere existence is an error in a way she can’t yet define, but which goes far beyond being an emblem of wealth in a land of poverty. What she does know, immediately, is that—of course—it was never built for her. The reality is that here, in this remote corner of the world, her new husband has raised a monument to an unseemly private fantasy. And now that she has seen it, she somehow shares the blame.
Into her mind comes the opening line of Out of Africa, a book that she has both loved for Blixen’s lapidary prose style and deplored for the grandiose paternalism that shapes the author’s vision. “I had a farm in Africa…” As a college freshman, eager to establish herself as a cultural warrior, she once wrote a passionate essay describing those few words as the rallying cry of imperialist oppression. For what does had mean, eighteen-year-old Shay typed furiously, but the act of rape?
Now these thoughts dissolve as
