CHAPTER XI

A week slipped by before we returned the Howells' call. Then, one brilliant morning, I drove with Bill into Havana and together we transacted some embarrassing monetary business at the bank. After which I expressed a desire to go shopping. The sidewalks were quite impassable: so narrow that, for the most part, the pedestrians, unhurried, strolled in the hardly wider streets. The shops held me, fascinated. And I was not a little annoyed at the manner in which Bill conducted my purchases--here a gorgeous feather fan, there a piece of lace: and in another spot a deadly and lovely bit of Toledo workmanship, executed with rare finesse on the hilt of a stiletto. Yet, I too, was determined not to return to Green Hill without a trunk laden with gifts for my dear people there. Once, I slipped away from my husband, who was deep in conversation ... of a political nature, judging from the volubility of the shop-keeper who engaged his attention ... and, entering a store some five or six houses away, I tried out my absurd and garbled knowledge of Spanish, with terrifying results. For the little lady who guarded the delicate linens flooded me with such an impressive flow of wholly unintelligible syllables, that, baffled, I beat an ignominious retreat, followed by her to the very door. On the street I met Bill, hatless and disturbed out of all proportion.

"Please never do that again, Mavis," he commanded, taking my arm. "I am not willing to have you roam the streets of Havana alone."

I drew my arm away.

"I am quite capable of taking care of myself," I said with frigidity, "especially in broad daylight."

"This is not Green Hill," he answered enigmatically, "nor yet New York."

I started to reply, but a glance from a passing dark-eyed individual, immaculately attired in white, quelled me. I had never before encountered anything quite so sweeping, so totally inventorying, so insolent. I had the immediate sensation that I was in one of those nightmare dreams, in which one walks upon a public highway, quite unclothed. Unconsciously, I cast a reassuring glance at my lavender linen, and breathed again. I must have gasped, for Bill looked from my blazing cheeks to the wayfaring gentleman. Something belligerent came into his eyes, and then he looked into mine, lifting his brows.

"You see?" he remarked.

It was plain that I had seen. I said nothing, but hastened my steps.

"Where did you leave your hat?" I asked sweetly.

We retrieved the object and went to where we had left the car, driving to a restaurant, high over the harbor, where, on the second floor, we lunched deliciously, on palatable creatures sinisterly named Morro crabs, and other delicacies. A gun boat lay, far off, at rest on the blue waters, and here and there the black funnels of steamers lifted darkly against a burning sky. People at neighboring tables bowed to my companion. Several came over to us and were presented to me: a ruddy-faced Englishman, of military bearing, and with an ineffable air of detachment from his surroundings: a member of the American Legation, a lean, bearded man, with an unamerican name and a dark face, reminding me of an ancient Spanish nobleman whose picture I had once seen: a fair-haired, attractive boy, and others whom I have forgotten. And the meal could hardly have been termed a tête-à-tête. I was heartily glad of it.

Until the calling hour came, we amused ourselves with a survey of the crowded districts of the city. An appalling number of tourists passed and repassed us, obviously bent on the same idle occupation. Pretty girls in bright sweaters and tennis-shoes: fat mothers, similarly clad: and patient, bored men, silent or loquacious, chewing black Cuban cigars, following their women folk in and out the shops. And on the broader thoroughfares, I saw the Cuban women driving in open victorias, powdered and wonderfully dressed, regarding the "touristen" with slightly cynical, always beautiful, eyes.

The Howells' great house, a stone structure on the Vadado, was a revelation of formal and chilling luxury. As we waited for Mrs. Howell to come to us in the drawing-room, Bill murmured under his breath,

"'I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!' Isn't it amazing?"

Before I could answer, our hostess swept in, accompanied, almost preceded, by an overpowering wave of perfume. I had no time to reply, but found myself nodding at him in sympathetic appreciation. All through the somewhat stilted conversation which followed, the stately tea, and the meteoric appearance of Mercedes, as chatty and brilliant as some tropical bird, I seemed to cling to the solidity and confident familiarity of my husband as the one real thing in an unreal room.

But, leaving, I was forced to confess to myself the real friendliness and cordiality of these alien people towards me, a stranger at their imposing gates.

It was Mercedes who explained to me that the feminine quality of Havana did not go a-shopping in sport clothes.

"You would not do it," she said, "on your Fifth Avenue. We do not do it here. It is not the custom. We wear our smartest gowns and our highest-heeled shoes."

She made an entrancing little moue at the thought of sweaters and rubber soles. And, with a feeling of commiseration toward my comfortably sport-clad compatriots, dashing through Havana streets, lavish of exclamation and of purse I was foolishly glad that something had prompted me to look my coolest and prettiest before setting forth on the expedition.

I remember that day well, for it was on the same evening, back once more in the palm-enclosed gardens of my new home, that Juan, the native workman appeared, shortly after dinner, a broad-brimmed hat clutched to his sunken chest, his face working oddly, demanding to speak to the doctor.

I heard scattered words--"fiebre" and "agonia," and the name "Annunciata" repeated again and again. And, finally, when Bill rose with a quiet, brief sentence, I caught a long-drawn "ah-h" and "Dios! muchisimas gracias, Senor!" from the old man.

"Juan's daughter is ill," Bill told me quickly. "I'm going with him. Shan't be long. Go to bed, Mavis, you look done up. It's been a long day."

Stopping only to get his hat and an emergency case, he was gone with the excited, anxious old man, and I was alone in the big room.

Something he had said to me, far back in what now seemed the past ages, came to me vaguely, something about the "poetry of healing." And I pondered upon it for a long time, till a falling log roused me, and I went to bed. But not until I heard a familiar step on the path did I consider sleeping. I slipped on a negligée and went to my door. He was coming toward me, tired, I thought, and troubled.

"Bill!" I called softly.

He stopped a moment, peering into the dim light which streamed through the half-open door into the narrow, long hall which separated our rooms.

"Mavis!" and then, reproachfully. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"You've been gone hours," I said, conscious of a childish petulance. "How is she?"

With a hand on the latch of his own door, he considered me. I must have looked a sight, half-asleep, my hair in braids down my thinly-clad back. But if he thought so, he did not say it.

"All right now," he answered. "But she was a pretty sick girl. And, of course, they had applied home-made remedies, liberally sprinkled with superstition! It looked like a case of ptomaine to me. Anyway, she'll be on the road to recovery--and more beatings--tomorrow. It was," he concluded with a smile, "a rather disconcerting evening. Half a dozen people praying all over the place, and, when I left, kissing my hands! Lucky I've had some experience in dealing with the natives before this."

"I'm glad," I said. "Poor old Juan!"

"It was nice of you to wait up," said Bill suddenly. "Thanks!"

I became acutely conscious of the hour and of my appearance.

"I--I was interested," I said lamely.

"Yes, that's it," he answered, a smile lighting up his worn face, "it's not often that you--honor me."

It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, "my interest is solely in old Juan and his daughter." But I didn't. It didn't seem quite fair, and wasn't strictly true.

"Good-night," I said, withdrawing, "I'm glad she's all right."

From his closing door his words floated back to me,

"_Buenas noches, cara mia!_"

Annunciata recovered, and to Sarah's outspoken disapproval I had her come often to the house. She sewed excellently, and embroidered even better, and I was glad to be able to give her small odds and ends of work to do. She was a lovely thing: rounded, and supple, with a clear, creamy-brown skin. But chancing one day to observe her mother on the road below the house I was smitten with a prophetic horror for Annunciata's future. For the woman, who could not have been more than thirty-five was as bent and gnarled as a Northerner of sixty, wrinkled like a monkey and with something of that creature's patient, if malicious wisdom in her eyes. I began to realize that Juan, too was according to our standards a man still in his early prime. I was confused by such an ordering of Nature. I said something of this to Bill but he only answered, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

"Southern fruit ripens quickly."

"It doesn't seem fair," I said, rebelliously, thinking of Annunciata and her slow, indolent grace. At sixteen I--but perhaps I was not a good example.

"Our girls are children at sixteen," I told him.

"You are a child at--what is it--twenty-two," he answered.

I did not pursue the personal application further. But it was not right that this young thing should be a woman so soon, and so shortly destined to be old. Youth--and Age. There are no timid blossomings, no gracious gradations in the South.

We were, very quietly, rather gay those days. I had been several times to luncheon at the Country Club and had met a number of delightful Americans there. It was all very new and exciting. And so invariably beautiful! And I was absurdly glad that Bill ranked very high in the estimation of the other men, as a golfer. Watching remnants of the game from the long, wide Club-porch, I was astounded by the seriousness with which grown men pursued an innocuous white ball for miles and miles of green turf. Once, in the late afternoon, together with a party of several women including Mercedes Howell, I followed a match game for a time. The exotic view, the stunted palms, the small lizards that ran almost from under our feet, animate emeralds, the glimpse of blue water from a hill, enthralled me. But I think that the small, black or tan boys who carried the clubs and who bet their prospective fees with whole-hearted enthusiasm on the respective merits of their employers amused me more than anything I had ever seen. And it was of course solely from sympathy with my husband's ebony attendant that I knew a certain triumph, when, long after we women had tired and returned to the club-house, the men came in, hot and shrieking for cool drinks, proclaiming Bill as victor. He had "saved the game by supernatural putting" his partner, the fair haired boy I had met in the Havana restaurant, announced enviously.

"You should be proud of him," he added, sitting down beside me.

"I am," I said dutifully.

Bill, en route to a mysterious thing called a locker, paused to cast a mirthful look at me, and quite against my will I laughed. I am certain that the blond one, who answered to the name of Bobby Willard, thought me demented.

A number of people called upon us almost every day, motoring out for luncheon or tea. Our little household ran smoothly, and happily. Sarah and Nora gradually became excellent friends, and, evenings, I would often hear Silas's low voice in the kitchen, and going in to consult Nora, would surprise his lean form, sprawled in a kitchen chair, two legs of it off the floor, smoking his inevitable cigar, a coffee-cup at his elbow. To Wing and Fong, Sarah, to my astonishment, perceptibly unbent. It was apparent that the two silent little Asiatics regarded her with admiration and awe. Bill suggested that she was doubtless trying to convert them. But I could not believe that!

Peter was perhaps, the most whole-heartedly happy of any of us. Never very far from Silas's side, he assumed a lordly dictatorship over the natives, and picked up an amazing amount of Spanish, in his excursions about the plantation. Silas taught him to ride, too, on a lean little Cuban horse, and would ride out with him, in the early mornings, tremendously amused at the grave manner in which Peter would return the white-toothed salutations of the passersby. In those days, also, I elected to oversee Peter's neglected education, and, with more ambition than efficiency, would devote the half hour before his supper time to teaching him to read. Bill, with his pipe and his newspaper, would attend these sessions, from a far corner of the room. And I could not refrain from reflecting how, to an unenlightened observer, very domestic we would appear. That the thought had not escaped Bill, too, was apparent by a remark he made one evening. Coming to the mantel-piece, he looked at the two of us for some time, and said,

"You make a charming picture, you two children. Exemplary," he added with a smile.

I made no comment, but bent lower over the page on which the pregnant legend, "This is a cat," appeared in large letters, flanking an appropriate illustration.

Those were days, even, and uneventful in the larger sense. There were varying episodes, incidents, which however did not break into the continuity of a life that seemed a half-waking dream. Once, I went fishing with Bill and Bobby Willard. It was pleasant, drifting over the peacock-blue waters, and of our not inconsiderable catch nothing remains in my memory save the almost unnatural beauty of certain gorgeous fish, colored red and blue and purple, with little sail-like fins.

I had my first swimming lesson in many years, at that time too. And the picture of the beach, the feel of the velvet-soft, brilliantly blue water, the laughing people and the many children, stayed with me for a long time. At my second dip, I actually swam three strokes, not, however, without Bill's solidly protective arm. He swam magnificently himself. Mercedes Howells, transformed into a most seductive mermaid by a bright green bathing suit, was most outspoken in her admiration.

"What a wonderful figure," she said, in a wholly audible aside to me.

I was forced to agree, but swallowed a good deal more water than was comfortable in the process.

Bill, in spite of his vigorous exploits in the water, seemed content to spend most of his swimming hour with Peter and me. But after he had sent us to the bathing pavilion to dress, he swam far out to join Mercedes, and when I came from my cubicle again, they were just coming out of the water together, a splendidly matched pair, laughing, vital. A curious languor came over me as I watched them walking across the beach.

"You're tired," said Bill, dripping before me.

"A little," I admitted.

So after that, I swam rarely. The ride in from Guayabal was long and tiring. And once or twice a week, I stayed at home, while Bill went forth in the motor, to golf and swim, coming back in time for dinner.

I was never bored. There were letters from Father to answer: a difficult diplomatic task; letters too, from the Goodriches, who were dashing about the Continent at a breath-taking speed. Peter had half an album filled with postcards before his parents had been on the other side two weeks! And of course I had to take innumerable snapshots with the little kodak Bill bought me in Havana, in order to pictorially report Peter's progress. Uncle John wrote often, sometimes to Bill, sometimes to me, and now and then to us both jointly. The advent of the mail was a real joy. No one seemed to forget us, everyone demanded an immediate reply. And it was difficult not to put off letter writing until the morrow. For I had not been in Cuba more than twenty-eight hours before the "manana philosophy" had laid hold of me.

In my secret drawer a little pile of poems grew. I was amazed at the way the songs came to me, sang in my brain and would not be still until I had put them on paper. In my heart, I harbor a timid ambition of one day showing them to Uncle John. If he would publish them, privately, I could send a copy to Richard Warren. After all--they were his: his and Cuba's and mine own.

Between tea and dinner, the days when Bill was not at home, I would walk. Sometimes with little Peter, or with Annunciata, sometimes alone, save for little Wiggles. Little by little I grew to know the natives by name and station: went, even into their one-roomed houses, dark and smoky, thatched with palm leaves, and odorous with charcoal stoves. One amusing acquaintance I made was that of old Manuel, who lived not for from our gates. Annunciata took me there, affirming that of all the Guayablan sights, this was one I must not miss. Bill was horrified to hear of my call at Manuel's pitifully poor dwelling. But he went there himself later, to see if in any way, he could alleviate the very obvious poverty and probable suffering of the ancient creature. For the tradition had it that Manuel was one hundred and twenty years old. Certain it was that he remembered Havana when it was little more than a cow-pasture. Age had shrunken him to the stature of a child, but his eye were still bright, his features cleancut, his grey hair and beard still curling and vigorous. The village people took a certain pride in their ancient, and he did not lack for visitors. Propped up on a make-shift bed, wrapped in rags, from which his bare thin legs protruded, he received me with great dignity. And we talked for fully half an hour: that is to say, Annunciata talked, and Manuel talked, and now and then the former would translate a phrase or two into her scanty English. It was from Bill, however, that I heard most of the old man's story.

It was on one of my solitary excursions that the sudden night surprised me, a quarter of a mile from home. The smoke-blue rim of mountains grew black and menacing, and the song of the light winds in the palms turned to a sinister whispering. With Wiggles at my hurrying heels, I fairly fled through the night, ashamed of my unreasoning terror. A group of Rurales, the native soldiers, passed me with a clatter of hoofs. Later, a bare-footed native, riding saddleless, singing in a curious, eerie monotone, to ward off the evil spirits, rode slowly by. There was a heavy perfume in the air, and a young moon swung delicately into view. But I had no heart for beauty, and almost stumbling into the hedge of Spanish Bayonets which fringed our property, I came through the open gates into the light from the house, with a half-sob of relief, and an exceedingly youthful fear of justifiable chastisement. But it was some ten minutes after I had come home, that I heard the car, with Bill at the wheel, swing up to the portico. That evening, discussing the past day, I refrained from mentioning my little adventure. For it was an adventure, mysterious, strange, and somehow terrifying.

The evenings were pleasant. We read a great deal, aloud, and I was surprised to find my husband no mean critic, widely read, and with keen appreciation. We sat, always before the fire, and much of the time I would forget to listen to the sense of the words, hearing only the sound of the attractive, flexible voice, and watching the flames on the big hearth. I never wearied of that. There was a wonderful poem in the logs, flowering blue and rose, gold and scarlet: charring to white and red, which seemed like some extraordinary fungus-growth: singing and flickering, intensely alive in disintegration.

And so the days drew into March, and still we lingered. Bill, persuaded by neighbors that even May was bearable in Cuba, spoke of staying at least until the middle of April. I did not care. Father was still in Canada, and Green Hill would have been empty without him. It was a Lotus-eater's life and I was content. The sight of the great, purple orchids, fragile and almost unbelievably beautiful, clinging to the palm-trees, was enough to keep me happy for a whole day. To look from the windows through the luxuriance of the bourginvilla vines to the golden-freighted orange-trees was a rare delight. To see the cane-fields in the wind, the hibiscus under a noon sun, the peacocks pacing the white walks before sunset, was to live a poem. If, now and then, on still nights, a restlessness and nostalgia for something keener, sharper, something unnamable and unknown, would seize me, it would vanish again before the breathless, expectant dawn. And, if one grew melancholy, there was always Arthur to turn to--a bird, philosophic and unexpected, who had developed a feud with Wiggles. To watch the two of them, Arthur resplendent and mocking on his perch, Wiggles, a black lump of outrage dashing up and down before the door of the wire cage, which was as big as a small room, was a sight to dispel dull care. And from someone, Arthur had learned endearing names. "Pretty darling!" he would articulate, his head flirtatiously to one side, his beady eyes fixed on mine, his claw extended with quite the grand manner. And, when, nettled by his tone, I would advance to the cage, he would slide off to the other end of his perch and demand bleakly, "Coffee! Gol dern! Bow wow wow!" a climax that never failed to arouse Wiggles to frenzy.

And so, between beauty and laughter, firelight and sunshine, we trod, all unknowing, perilously close to tragedy.