The Laments (13 page)

The twins were still shrieking with laughter. They had come to the point in the story where the dog was covered in poop. But Howard had risen from his chair, and after exchanging a quiet word with Julia, he opened his arms and Julia rested her weight against him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Will.

“A man died. Far from here. An American president,” said Howard.

Will hadn’t seen his mother look this vulnerable since she had given birth. The resignation in her posture was alarming, and he couldn’t help asking more questions.

“Who? Who was that?”

“A man named Kennedy,” she added, wiping her cheek.

The name was unfamiliar. To Will’s young ear it sounded more like “Candy.” A man died. Far from here. A man named Candy. It was tragedy even an eight-year-old could understand.

Even in a faraway little town like Albo, people suspended their small talk to discuss the assassination. The Laments noticed that everyone adapted the news to his own philosophy. Buck Quinn, for example, considered America the lawless expanse depicted in the few westerns he’d seen. “No respect for authority.
That’s
what’s wrong with America,” said Buck when he heard the news. “Wouldn’t surprise me if it was a black who shot the president.”

“Actually, they caught the man and he was as white as you are,” Howard replied.

THOUGH KENNEDY’S DEATH
would be a seminal event for millions, Buck Quinn considered the election of Northern Rhodesia’s first black president, in 1964, to be the defining event of his life. Within a year, Northern Rhodesia had become Zambia, and Quinn began talking about moving to Southern Rhodesia to stop the same thing from happening there.

Shortly after President Kaunda’s election, Matthew Quinn came over to play with Will carrying a plastic hand grenade, with two cartridge belts strapped across his shoulders, bandolier style. Will begged to wear them, but Matthew refused.

“Promise to fight for the whites?” asked Matthew.

Will nodded.

“Even if you’re the last man standing?”

Julia spotted Will parading around the garden with the belts trailing against his shins. She was horrified, and began to fear that her influence on her son was being subverted every time he ran out to play with the neighbors.

HOWARD WAS PLEASED
that Julia was having misgivings about Albo. “
That’s
why we have to go to England,” Howard said. “The English are a bit more civilized and enlightened. As Shakespeare said . . .” Then he paused with an abashed smile. “What was it he said, darling?”

“‘This happy breed of men,’” replied Julia, “‘this little world,/This precious stone set in the silver sea . . .’”

England was an obvious destination for the Laments. Her history was taught in every colonial school, her daily conventions cast across the globe, from boiled egg and toast in the morning to afternoon tea. You might say being British was its own religion, with the queen as its pope, the objects on its altar being the brand names found in every colonial grocery: Tate & Lyle, Marmite, Fortnum & Mason, and Crosse & Blackwell.

THOUGH JULIA CONCEDED
that the family should leave Albo, she observed that whenever the Laments moved, they lost something. Howard, for example, always felt a little betrayed by Julia after Trixie’s affair. He couldn’t understand her affection for such a reckless woman, and Julia couldn’t explain it to him. It was more than motherhood and similar childhoods they shared—Julia believed that she and Trixie were after the same elusive goal, and with more time together, they might have found the words for whatever it was. After Albo, Howard and Julia lost all affection for colonial society. And as the Laments packed for England, a few more things were mislaid—a gray stuffed elephant belonging to Marcus, a little magnifying glass Julius used to burn holes in newspapers on sunny days, and Will’s lacquered Chinese pencil box. Though Julia promised to replace these items, one intangible thing was lost forever—no matter where he went after Africa, Will would always feel like a foreigner.

They boarded a train driven by steam engine for the almost-three-thousand-mile trip to Port Elizabeth. Will watched the engine’s shadow flicker across the rusty shacks, trees, rocks, and pasture, while coal particles bounced against the windows of their sleeper like black hail. The twins endured this ride with limited patience, much screaming, and many bribes; it was only when Howard entertained the boys with stories of England—the slaughter of the Stuarts, and graphic details about the bubonic plague in London—that they were willing to let the miles roll by without complaint. They crossed the Victoria Falls, continuing south through Matabeleland and Bulawayo, past desert and bush dotted by herds of impala, wildebeest, and zebra, then across the border to South Africa, through Pietersburg and Pretoria, to Port Elizabeth, where the Indian Ocean and the Atlantic converged.

And Rose was waiting for them.

The Audience

Her hair was pinned tightly to her head, but Will recognized his mother’s wild tresses and the freckles on her cheeks concealed under a powdery sheen. He also saw his mother in Rose’s eyes—their direct and combative stare, now fixed expectantly on him. She was quite beautiful, he thought, though she possessed one curious imperfection—a bluish vein on the left side of her face, giving her beauty an icy cast.

“Now, Will, what do you say to your grandmother?”

Will sensed, from this greeting, that he should stand to attention.

“How d’you do?” he replied, on his feet.

This seemed to please her. But her reply was directed at Julia.

“Not a family voice, nor family features. Where
does
this child come from?”

“I’m from Rhodesia,” he said. “But I’ve lived in Southern Rhodesia, Bahrain, and Zambia—and,” he added with pride, “tomorrow I’m going to England!”

“Mmm, you’ve certainly traveled a
lot
for a boy your age,” Rose said, glancing reproachfully at his mother.

She smiled at Will.

“Your parents,” she continued, “never stop moving.”

To Will, this implied the sort of wriggling a mouse or lizard might do. “I like your house,” he ventured.

“He’s certainly polite,” murmured Rose to his mother. “And why didn’t you bring the twins?”

“They’d tear your house down,” said Will confidently.

“This is a hotel; it would hardly matter to me,” said Rose.

“They’re only four,” said Will. “I’m almost nine.”

“So you are,” said Rose. “And for that, you get a present.”

She led him into the bedroom, a plush bed covered by a white spread with blue blossoms. Everything was white and blue here—including his grandmother. On the dresser he noticed a silver-framed picture of a younger woman with the same icy beauty.

“That’s for you,” said Rose, directing Will’s attention to a parcel on the bed.

“Thank you,” he said. From the looks of the thin, rectangular bundle folded in brown paper, it wasn’t a toy. By instinct, most children recognize the difference between a playful gift and a responsible one.

“Open it,” she said, sensing his hesitation.

The box of ivory writing paper had the watermark of a castle; there were matching envelopes, and a silver fountain pen. Will looked to his mother, who gave him a sympathetic but cautionary glance.

“Thank you, Granny,” he said.

“I mean for you to write to me, Will.”

“I don’t write very well,” he said.

“You will improve if you keep at it,” she said. “I will expect you to tell me what’s what,
wherever
you are in the world. Promise?”

He nodded. “I promise.”

God of the Sea

To a child, an ocean liner is confinement aboard a roaring kettledrum: the relentless throb of engines; fences and rail-ings everywhere; first words learned aboard ship—
DO NOT ENTER
. The
Windsor Castle
seemed too regal a name for this floating prison with its overpainted pipes, hatches, rivets, and shiny brass levers. Most of all, Will feared the elderly folk propped in endless rows on deck, shrouded in blankets, stoic faces in sunglasses, their noses pasted white with lotion.

Once, when he broke into a sprint to get past them, Julia hoisted him up by his shoulders.

“Don’t
ever
run on deck,” she snapped through cat’s-eye sunglasses and scarlet lips. “If you slip and fall here, you’ll either give somebody else a broken leg or end up in the
inky black
.” Julia was referring to the water, too far down to touch, an undulating expanse cut by the ship’s steel prow, leaving an unraveling froth that for two weeks would trail the ship like a scar across the hemispheres.

“I won’t ever again,” Will pledged.

And she released him. In truth, Julia was more worried about the twins. Will had a certain athletic grace, but his brothers, at four, were clumsy like her, and also reckless. On the first day of their voyage, Julius split his lip on the gangplank railing and Marcus skinned his knee on the steel stairs. Furthermore, she doubted the competence of the ship’s doctor. He was the gentleman at the captain’s table who gulped down three glasses of sherry before the entrée (and four afterward). The burst capillaries in his cheeks confirmed his habit. This might not have bothered her if he had shown that he could at least hold his wine, but after the crème brûlée was served, he burst into song—a ballad about a one-legged prostitute in Singapore—and slurred the words.

“Will, I’m counting on you to keep the twins safe from the
inky black
.”

“Yes, Mummy!” replied Will, embracing this role with all his heart. Perhaps,
perhaps
he could win back the adoring smile of those sun-splashed mornings when he was an only child. For now, Julia was inaccessible, harried, consumed with the challenge of keeping his siblings from misstep and mischief. And on those rare moments when she looked at her eldest, he feared the yearning expression he recognized in her eyes from long before.

So it was that Will made a silent vow to draw his mother’s affection back with unceasing loyalty.

THERE WERE BRIDGE GAMES
on the
Windsor Castle,
and Will was entrusted with the twins while his parents played with another couple—Mr. and Mrs. Perkins.

“How nice to have children,” sighed Mrs. Perkins, a large woman with dimples where her elbows should have been, and small, widely set blue eyes. “I wanted children, but Horace didn’t.”

Mr. Perkins didn’t reply to this. He was balding, with bushy nostril hair and round tortoiseshell glasses. Julia saw that Mr. Perkins was a child in adult guise: he sulked when Mrs. Perkins was diverted by conversations with strangers and caught her attention by tugging at her fingers like a toddler.

“But, darling, by not having children we’ve been able to spend our money on holidays,” said Mr. Perkins, beaming. “Like this one! We’re going to America next!”

Mrs. Perkins gave him an impatient glance. “Horace, the Laments have
three
children, and they’re on holiday just like us.”

“And we’d never have time for bridge,” said Mr. Perkins. “We’d have to afford a babysitter, too!”

“
They
don’t have a babysitter,” replied Mrs. Perkins. “The eldest takes care of the young ones. That’s the beauty of it.” She sighed, and paused to regret a road not taken.

Howard sensed that Mr. Perkins was beginning to wish for different bridge partners.

AT THIS SAME MOMENT
, Will was trying to prove his age and competence against the twins. Howard’s shaving mug had been shattered in an experiment in the bathroom. One of Julia’s slippers was stuffed down the toilet. Perhaps the twins needed to run around and blow off steam.

“If I let you out into the corridor, promise you won’t run or scream?”

“No,” said Marcus.

“No,” echoed Julius.

“You
must
promise,” said Will, “or we’ll stay in here all night.”

How eagerly they changed their answers. As Will unlocked the cabin door, and shrill cries launched their getaway, he realized Pandora’s box was open, and he was compelled to keep them from harm. There were no stars that night, just a fuzzy smear of moon behind a scrim of clouds. Anybody who fell overboard would be lost for good.

On the upper level, the twins hurdled chairs and crashed into the last old gentleman left on deck. As his chair collapsed, the man’s jaw fell open, and something rolled out of his mouth, down his chest, and across the deck and clattered past the railing, bouncing into the
inky black
.

Julius blinked. “Sorry.”

The gentleman’s mouth, blacker and inkier than the sea, hung open as he gazed around the chair.

“By teef! Where are by teef!”

“What?” said Julius. “I can’t understand you!”

The gentleman turned to Julius and opened his mouth, pointing at his puckered maw.

“By teef!”

Horrified, the boy ran as far from the old codger’s deathly gob as he could get. Moments later, Will chanced upon the old man, bent on all fours, hobbling toward the railing.

“Have you seen two boys, sir?” asked Will.

The old man looked up at Will, his eyes glittering and, touching his gums, gestured to the
inky black
.

“Gone. Gone. Down dere!”

Will gazed over into the darkness, hot tears filling his eyes. The old codger was now spitting into the wind, his arms flailing as if to accompany some ghastly incantation that sealed his brothers’ fates. Grief-stricken, Will clutched the railings, his knees bobbing with fear, wondering whether he should take the leap himself rather than confess this tragedy to his parents.

Then he heard a giggle. Peering upward, he saw two beaming faces on the upper deck.

Impelled now by revenge, Will screamed their names out and leaped up the stairs, capturing each sibling by the arm just before he faced the brilliant white uniform of a ship’s officer.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said the uniform. Above the gold-braided collar was a strong chin, with a thin mustache above the lip, and, farther up, eyes as gray as the limitless horizon on a grim day.