Fiction from The Literary Review
Madonna of the RaindropsWhen the first rains failed to arrive even by the eighth of June--they should have started on the sixth, Angelinh' Granny had agreed--the voices of Little Arnold and his friends could be heard as they went singing in scraggly procession through Tivolem's winding lanes:
Cast rain upon our fields, we pray.
Send showers to us from heavens above.
Full knee-deep water we implore.
She welcomed him warmly enough, but was plainly troubled. "Three days without a drop of rain," she grumbled, "and this is the first time in fourteen, fifteen years such a thing has happened." "Bad for the crops," the curate agreed, accepting the scalding hot cup of tea Marie-Santana pressed on him at her grandmother's behest. He poured some of it from cup to saucer, blowing strongly across the top to tame its fire. "Drink it hot," Angelinh' Granny commanded. "The hotter you drink it, the sooner it will cool you down. Lord knows, you come walking uphill in this weather, and at this time of day, you're going to need a lot of cooling." Father Pires, good curate that he was, did as he was told, and endured the scald. He had stopped by because he had been told she was his second-oldest parishioner, not quite as old as Dona Esmeralda, but more or less housebound. Now, he was beginning to like the crusty old woman. "Our people are troubled," Angelinh' Granny continued. "They keep watching the skies. I do, too. Wouldn't you? Half the fields have yet to be plowed. The seed sits in our houses, waiting to be sown. I keep telling myself, God the All-seeing must surely know that our fields are thirsty now." "He knows; I assure you God knows!" the curate said soothingly. "But in case He had forgotten, the vicar reminded Him this morning, wisely asking for just enough rain to meet our needs. To have asked for too much would have been as bad as asking for too little." "Two such hot days in a row should have sucked the rain clouds out of the sea already," Angelinh' Granny persisted. "And yet. . . . Mar'-Santan', child, go see if the sky looks like rain." "Not a cloud up there, Granny," Marie-Santana reported. "The sky's as clear as when I checked it last, just an hour ago." "Well, I must be off," the curate said, getting to his feet. "That tea was a great help." "If you must. But you'll be baking out there. Don't know why anyone would want to climb to the top of the hill on a scorching day like this, especially you in that black soutane." "I want to see the village from up there," he said. "Get a good look. There's talk of building a chapel on the hill. Pedro Saldanha--you must have heard. He had a vision. I want to see what it's like, up there." He blessed them both at the door, and as he turned to leave, Granny asked him to bless the house. He could only murmur a quick prayer, promising to return with holy water and an acolyte to bless it room by room. Beyond the gate he turned right on to that part of the lane that wound past Dona Elena's house and joined the goatpath to the top of the hill. It was the siesta hour, and Dona Elena's garden lay still and deserted. Beyond the crotons and the jacaranda, the massed roses, the passion flowers and other flowering vines, the house slept. Father Pires realized he had escaped the need for another protracted visit and yet another cup of tea. He was grateful for this small mercy; sometimes he felt that the training future priests received in the seminary was quite inadequate; that besides doctrinal instruction and training in the rituals of Holy Mother the Church, they should also be given courses in how to hold down, or effectively refuse, endless cups of too strong, too milky, or too-sweet tea. The lane branched off to the right into a winding path that brought him to the upper reaches of the Tivolem nullah. Ignoring the goatpath that forked off to the left and would have taken him to the crest of the hill, he crossed the nullah with some difficulty, stepping from rock to exposed rock, balancing himself on one and testing the other for stability before daring to take another step. Since the rains were late, there was not much more than a trickle of water here, but it was spread out, and he did not want to get his shoes wet, not when he still had so much steep climbing to do. Father Pires now followed the stream to its source, a spring bubbling up between rocks into a limpid pool. The trees grew thickly here, not so much woods as a miniature forest. At his approach a grey heron took wing and thrashed its way powerfully aloft. A kingfisher on watch froze itself into invisibility. Dragonflies ignored him, continuing to hover at the edge of the pool. In the upper reaches of a giant banyan tree a kutturr bird called hoarsely to its mate. Bulbuls warbled; he looked for, but could not see their nest. A kite, riding the languid air currents up above, banked steeply, flapped its wings once, then dropped on to a tree, causing its topmost branches to sway. The kutturr and the bulbuls fell silent. The kingfisher stayed immobile. Father Pires became aware of his own loud breathing; the only other sounds were the burbling of the water and the buzz of dragonfly wings. Down by the spring the priest squatted and, cupping a hand, scooped up and drank in the coolness of the water. It was sweet enough to warrant another swallow; then, dipping a handkerchief into the pool, he cooled his face, wiped the nape of his neck, and stood up to go on his way. The banyan tree towered above him; from its massive outspread branches, slender shoots reaching downward sought the ground. Some had already touched earth; of these, several had burrowed deep and anchored themselves and begun to thicken into secondary trunks, thick as a man's thigh; others, slender and ropelike, hung free, tantalizingly close at hand. He reached out and grasped one, testing his weight against it, remembering with pleasure the thrill he had felt as a child swinging out from just such a tree over what had seemed like a huge abyss, yet may have been no wider than this stream. Making sure he was not being observed, he took three quick steps back, and was about to kick free of the ground when he heard a twig snap. Abashed, he let the shoot slip from his grasp, to find the intruders were only a cow and her calf, coming down to drink. But the fear of discovery was upon him, and, brushing by them, he resumed his climb. Father Pires now found himself trudging up a trail that zigzagged ever more steeply uphill; he had regained the path Marie-Santana had used when she went looking for the boatman, a path made by goats far more surefooted than he. Their droppings were everywhere. There was no shade; only a few low-branching cashew trees dotted this section of the hill. At one point he sought to save himself a meander by climbing ten paces directly to the next level above; a hand's-reach from his goal he saw that he had misjudged the steepness of the incline; he could go no farther. With his knees bent, his palms flat against the warm tilt of the hill, he paused to catch his breath. His calves and thighs ached from the unaccustomed exertion. His heart beat faster as a quick look below showed him the peril he was in; a single slip could send him rolling downhill, perhaps to his death. By a strong effort of will he calmed himself. He could not remain there for ever, he had to make a choice--either he conquered the remaining bit of slope confronting him, or he slithered down as best he could to the path he had left. He decided to press forward; he could not bear to look down once again. A silent prayer to his guardian angel strengthened his resolve. Gingerly reaching down and taking off each shoe in turn, he tossed it to the upper path; then, inch by inch, grasping at scrub and grasses and working his feet into any toehold he could find, he gained the path himself. There he stood and gave thanks; it had been a close call. Nearing the hilltop minutes later he perceived what Marie-Santana down below had been unable to see--a massed bank of gray clouds glowering on the western horizon, and the threat of an impending squall. On the plateau at last, he turned to look at the village spread out below him. The church itself, with its broad Portuguese-style facade--no spires--lay some way to the north, framed by a mass of coconut trees, its courtyard abutting the road. Beyond the church and adjoining the road, nestled in the shade of a mango tree, he could see the marketplace, where Jesus might have preached had He been around. And if Jesus, why not His curate? In the months since his arrival in Tivolem, Father Pires had learned the answer to that question: because Jesus had been fortunate--He had not had a vicar placed above Him to tell Him what He could and could not do. But the thought, impractical for now, could be tried out once he himself took over the parish, his parish. His parish? Recognizing the face of temptation, he murmured, "Get thee behind me, Satan!" and crossed himself. This side of the church, partway up the hill and well off the main road where it branched west towards the coast, he spotted Senhor Eusebio's flat-roofed house and terrace and, next to the nullah, that landlord's holdings--the low, thatch-roofed clump of adobe cottages in which Atmaram and Kashinath lived with their families, with Govind as their neighbor. Over to the right, on a bylane and aloof from the rest of the village, lay the long twin roofs of Dona Esmeralda's centuries-old house. Farther up the lane that wound past Senhor Eusebio's garden, and a couple of hundred yards closer to where he stood, Father Pires spotted Dona Elena's home and garden. Eusebio and Elena were rivals of a sort, he had discovered from church records; with Eusebio's return to Tivolem they had begun celebrating the feast of St. Cornelius in alternate years, after Dona Esmeralda had dropped out of the picture, and each year the feast had been more lavish than the year before. He saw possibilities there for a little fundraising--Pedro Saldanha's chapel-building funds might need supplementing. Between Senhor Eusebio's home and Dona Elena's stood another group of houses whose occupants he could name--Angelinh' Granny and Marie-Santana (the wayside cross facing their gate was a clear marker); Annabel and Mottu and their son, Little Arnold; the gossip Josephine who lived all alone; the pushy violinist from Kuala, what's his name, Fernandes. The remaining homes he could not identify; they were half-hidden by trees, and the perspective from this height did nothing to jog his memory. The task the curate had set himself this particular afternoon was finding on the crest of the hill the one spot that would be most visible from down below; and he wanted it also to be visible from the Arabian Sea, some twelve miles to the west. He paced about the broad hilltop, but try as he might, a view of the ocean eluded him; not all the teaspoonfuls of iodine extract his sister the doctor had made him swallow in his teens had helped add an inch to his five feet in stature. Right now, since longer legs were out of the question, he would have settled for eyes bulging atop his head, like a fly. He looked for a low cashew tree to climb; the only tree nearby, a mango, stood some fifty yards or so to the rear, its branches too high for him to reach. Frustrated, he picked a large stone and stood on it, catching at last--eureka!--a glint of sun upon a dancing ocean. This, then, he exulted, would be the spot on which his dream chapel would be built--Pedro Saldanha's chapel. Right here! Not just the villagers, not just the people using the road, but even voyagers on ships plying from Goa's ports to Bombay and then to Africa and Europe would see it, and pause a moment to pray. To those returning from abroad it would be a welcoming landmark; to those leaving, a symbol of hope, a promise that someday they too would return. He looked west again, to where the ships would be--the storm was now pushing that much closer, the sea quite gray. He should be heading down. Sunshine still bathed the hill on which he stood, however, as well as the village below, and he chose to linger awhile. In the increasingly harsh light the contrast between hilltop and village was startling. Where he stood the grass had been baked brown by the sun, but down in the valley the trees and carefully tended gardens remained lush and luxuriantly green. He knew the green was deceptive; the umber fields that stretched beyond the church had only been partially readied, as Angelinh' Granny had told him; the untilled areas showed just how brown and parched the soil had really become. At the cross in front of Granny's house a knot of people had begun to gather, and their numbers kept increasing. Seeing them drop to their knees on the hard and stony earth to pray for rain, he knew their anxiety, and wished he could ease it; rain was on the horizon, and approaching rapidly; he could see it, they couldn't. He wondered whether this was what it felt like to be an all-knowing God--to be watching dispassionately, from a height, and then to face the eternal dilemma: seeing the present and the future as one, to intervene, or not, to save mankind from its fears and its folly. Free will, and all those endless arguments that went on and on, as the poet Omar said, "about it and about." Perhaps God did walk the mountaintops; that's where Moses had found Him. That could also be why so many wise and holy men, Hindus though they were, went half-naked he had been told into the snow-capped Himalayas, seeking God, and sat there cross-legged, gazing in the face of Eternity, never wanting to come back. If one found Him there, why would one come back? To be God, up on a height, would be to see the unfolding of great and minor events, to see the comings and goings of antlike creatures, to see them lighting candles, burning incense, making impossible promises, trying to bend Him to their will--to see all this, this earnestness, these aspirations, this longing for the ethereal and the sublime, and all the attendant foolishness; to see all this, and perhaps to smile, indulgently. A man, a child, seeing a group of ants all marching together in single file, might watch awhile, and then go his way--or he might step on them and grind them into the dust. But God? Would God reach out a hand, and pick one out of the line of march--possibly a leader--and test him, as well as those now left behind? Or would He too at some point step on them all, and pulverize them? In the Old Testament, isn't that what He did? The faint sounds of plaintive singing broke into Father Pires's musings and brought him back to reality; that, and the rising clatter of a swiftly advancing rainsquall. As the first warm drops splattered on his face--Heaven's blessing, was how he described it later--he knew exactly what his chapel, Pedro Saldanha's chapel, should be called: the Shrine of the Madonna of the Raindrops. He raised his arms in gratitude, at the precise moment when a giant peal of thunder rolled from the black clouds surging above him, and a split second after a bolt of lightning shivered the tree at his back.
The Day of the BaptistAngelinh' Granny, too frail to walk down all those steps to the wayside cross, watched all the preparations for the litany from her own threshhold; then, beads in hand, she joined in the prayers and the singing, her hoarse voice hardly audible even to herself. With the house at her back she could not see the hilltop, but she saw the sky turn pitch black, while slanting, brilliantly clear sunshine still bathed the scene before her. In the middle of Alma Redemptoris Mater the rains came, and the smell of the drinking earth was incense wafting to heaven.Next morning, aging men the color of burnt clay carried wooden ploughs on their shoulders to the fields, where oxen were then yoked to the ploughs in pairs; and Little Arnold on his way to school stood transfixed as he watched the men plodding behind the bulls, turning red earth to shadowed gold. The great common field had long been divided into smaller squares and rectangles by bunds of mud a span or so in height and almost twice as wide; each time the bullocks came to one of these, the men lifted the ploughshare out of the ground and set it down again into the soft soil on the other side. Little Arnold knew where the family strip was, and waited as the oxen patiently ploughed it; and when they were done he watched the women sowing rice seed by hand in graceful sweeping arcs, handful after handful till the strip was done. And he still stood rooted there till the oxen came back again, dragging a plank on which a man rode to press the seed down into the soil with his weight. The watching child wanted to share that bumpy ride, to feel the soil give way beneath him, the lumps collapse, but he saw from the sun that he was late for school already, and ran right up to the door of his classroom and still got scolded for his lateness. Day after day, dark towering clouds blew in from the ocean, and howling winds and Tivolem's hills and Saint Anthony in the bamboo grove together swept them up into cooler air. People cast an eye on the approaching storms and quickened their pace, but not till the first lightning bolt hissed out of the blackened sky, and its deafening thunderclap made their hearts skip a beat, did they think to open their umbrellas or begin their mad rush to shelter. By then the wind was slamming windows shut even before servants could get to them, and grape-sized raindrops drove the livestock home. For more than a week, rains blanketed the village, cascading off rooftops, leaking into Dona Elena's kitchen, finding new chinks in Dona Esmeralda's old twin roofs and driving that lady frantic, flooding Senhor Eusebio's rooftop terrace and seeping into his house, stripping the earth from Atmaram's coconut trees and toppling one of them almost onto Govind's roof, turning lanes into streams and the once-dry nullah into a thundering torrent. In the fields the squares between the retaining bunds were submerged in water; beneath those bright vermilion lakes the seed began to sprout. Yet Angelinh' Granny kept working her beads because Saint Anthony's feast was still days away and she did not want the saint to slacken off. He rewarded her faith. Not until June 14, the day after his feast, did the skies clear. Then the sun shone bright, the fields grew thirsty again, and Angelinh' Granny began working her beads harder than ever. Her fellow villagers were less worried. With the feast of Saint John the Baptist coming on June 24, they knew the saint would see to it that the broad and deep well at each house, by now already half full (except Angelinh' Granny's, which was deeper than most), would by that date have been filled almost to overflowing. Else, how would the villagers go in neighborly groups from house to house, singing hymns in the saint's honor, jumping into each family well and swimming around it with joyous abandon as though they had just been baptized in the River Jordan? It was a day of celebration, Saint John's day was, and many of the menfolk would be more than a little soused, having found it difficult to resist the tiny shots of cashew liquor that would be pressed on them by each household; and on this one day Josephine Aunty would be particularly so, even though she claimed she hardly touched a drop of that same feni from January through December, and took only a tiny sip on feast days and birthdays, at funerals, anniversaries, and on other days of similar merit. This Saint John's Day, Josephine Aunty stood next to the parapet of Angelinh' Granny's well, and there in the water six feet below her was Forttu the tavernkeeper; also swimming happily around were Govind, and Kashinath, and Cajetan Braganza, the postmaster, he the only one wearing pink bathing trunks that came down to the knee instead of plain white shorts or a loin cloth. The well had sides of rough-hewn stone, and was no more than some twelve feet across, so all one could do was kick off from one side and glide or dog-paddle one's way to the other; unless, that is, one swam like Marie-Santana. Off to one side, clinging to a cranny with his left hand while reaching out tentatively to the center with his right, was Mottu. The postman was a weak swimmer, and the water was deep; having picked up the nerve to jump in, he had panicked on surfacing and then immediately made his way to the side, spilling water out of both sides of his mouth like a ship steaming into port. He held on to the crevice for minutes, content to watch others jump in one after the other. Only when Forttu was in the well with him did he take a deep breath, puff up his cheeks like a bullfrog, and push against the wall with his feet, easing himself towards the other side. The glide went well, until he remembered to use his arms, when he splashed himself almost to a standstill before he had quite reached the center. "Keep going!" cried Forttu, but Mottu was turning in fear with his mouth wide open and swallowed a great draught of water. Still, he managed to fight his way back to the side again, where he stayed puffing and panting, making a great show of kicking up bubbles with his feet while clinging to the wall for dear life. Little Arnold, standing on the parapet near Josephine Aunty with two dried yellow coconuts tied to his back, watched his father threshing about, saw the panic in his face, and found the sight less than reassuring. Here he was, all of six years old, going to jump into that yawning abyss for the very first time, right into those forty feet of clear water, so clear that, when the surface was still, one could see the small turtle swimming far below, and sometimes even a water-snake lying on the bottom; and if his father was having so much trouble down there, after all those years of holding his nose and jumping in feet first, what was the point of jumping in when one didn't know how to swim at all, even though one was no longer a baby but really six years old, and had coconuts at one's back to keep from drowning? "I'll hold your hand," Marie-Santana said, climbing on to the parapet beside him, and Josephine Aunty drew in a sharp breath of disapproval because Marie-Santana should not be jumping into that well at all with all those men down there just waiting to see her dress go ballooning up over her head. But Little Arnold backed off, even though he knew Mar'-Santan' Aunty was the best swimmer in Tivolem, where most women did not swim at all. He had seen proof of her prowess in that terrible cloudburst when Atmaram's coconut tree, its base eroded, narrowly missed falling on Govind's house, when the stone quarry that had been cut into the hill on Tivolem's western edge had been filled to overflowing, and people had gone to look at it in wonder, all that water forming a great lake in the side of the hill, rocks and trees towering up on all sides, the water deep red at first but, after settling, clean and inviting and frighteningly deep, and Marie-Santana alone of all the people standing gazing in wonder there had decided to jump from the highest rock wall, dress and all, and had swum back and forth--dog paddle, frog kick, back float, and even the Australian something, lifting her hands clean out of the water, the way the feringhee did--fifty times and more the length of that quarry, until the last admiring onlooker had gone home, leaving her no option but to clamber out as best she could. People had criticized her then for swimming in public, some doing it by saying, "What do you expect? She has been corrupted by living overseas"--overseas being understood to be ever a den of iniquity--and others saying, "She was born over here, she should have known better," and Josephine Aunty saying sometimes the one thing and sometimes the other, depending on who she was talking to. Little Arnold admired the way Mar'-Santan' Aunty had climbed so fearlessly on to the quarry wall, her toes curling over the edge, and the way she had jumped into the water in one fluid movement, her skirt tucked tight between her knees, her left hand holding her nose daintily and not the way Uncle Forttu did; by contrast Uncle Forttu seemed gross though he was a load of fun when he wanted to be. She had jumped in with her right arm raised high above her head, so that when her toes hit the water and the spray splashed upwards every which way and her body went under and the great green bubble sizzled where she had been, one could still see her hand sinking ever more slowly beneath the surface, until only the tips of her fingers remained visible. Little Arnold wished he could do all these things, but knew he could only do them after he had learned how to swim, and his mind told him that until he had learned how to swim it would be foolish to go jumping into quarries and wells that deep even with Mar'-Santan' Aunty holding his hand, coconuts or no coconuts. Besides, this was St. John's Day, and he heard Josephine Aunty say half-aloud that only men were supposed to jump into wells on this day, and he didn't want to be the one to get Mar'-Santan' Aunty in trouble by getting her to jump into the well with him after she had already done the wrong thing once by going swimming in the quarry. But though Little Arnold hung back, Marie-Santana jumped into the well, nevertheless, as Forttu was climbing out. Mottu was chagrined; since the time she had rebuffed his drunken advances on the Mapusa road, he had kept out of her way; yet here she was, in the same well with him, and no way out for him but to leave, thus drawing attention. The other swimmers, who had pulled over to the side, stayed there clinging to the wall while she surfaced; seeing Forttu preparing to jump in again, she too got out of the way, and stood quietly treading water off to one side. Though she was facing away from Mottu he felt sure she had seen him, clinging there in the shadows. "Watch child," Forttu said, handing Little Arnold a small conch. "Toss it in." Little Arnold tossed the shell in and watched it spiral slowly below the surface, its progress distorted by the water still sloshing to and fro. Forttu at his side stood watching it too, a kingfisher waiting for the right moment to swoop, until suddenly he snatched a quick deep breath and gripped his nose and jumped, folding his knees and feet beneath him, and the surface of the well when he hit turned into one huge roiling bubble, and there was Forttu's head going down right in the middle of it, and as the bubble subsided he flipped himself over, the soles of his feet white against liquid green, the shell far below now invisible but still spiraling down, and Forttu fast as a turtle in hot pursuit. He came up triumphant and gasping for air, the white conch held high for everyone to see, and Little Arnold forgot his fears long enough to bend down and cheer. Then Forttu clambered out once more, and stood smiling encouragingly right beside him, and said, "Come on, let's jump." Little Arnold wanted to jump in right then, his heart said jump but his knees said no, and his feet being closer to his knees pulled him back from the brink. "Pinch your nose shut," Forttu said, and Little Arnold did, and the next thing he knew Forttu had picked him up with a hand beneath each armpit and had tossed him right in the center of the well. Little Arnold saw the water rush up at him, leaving him no time to cry out. He closed his eyes the instant the well swallowed him; but the next second he opened them to see bubbles sprouting in front of him, bubbles flashing by him, bright bubbles, brighter by far than water. He felt water in his mouth, and tried to spit it out. Two hands he could see, in front of his eyes, pumping furiously up and down, up and down. Two feet he could feel hard at work, knees jerking up far as they could go. At his back an irregular thumping, a tugging at his waist--the coconuts a pair of hands yanking him back to the surface. The water getting brighter and lighter. Much lighter. He had not known water so blue could so quickly turn so green. Mottu, heart in mouth, watched his son break the surface and flounder around in a circle, getting his bearings, the yellow coconuts at his back bobbing along with him. Little Arnold sputtered; but seeing the sheltering wall and friendly faces at hand, he paddled their way, making more noise than progress. "Come, come!" Govind coaxed, and Kashinath too reached out an encouraging hand, a hand that was ever so gradually withdrawn as the boy fought his way towards it. "Come!" When just a stroke or two away, Little Arnold lunged for Kashinath's shoulder, missed, and went down gulping water. But the coconuts pulled him up again, and with a quick flip of the wrist Govind was at his side, guiding him deftly to where he could get a grip on a crevice. He clung there, panting, not letting go, lips trembling a little, as Forttu jumped in again, and after him Kashinath, and after him Mar'-Santan' Aunty in her dress that was now clinging to her so tight she no longer had to tuck her skirt between her knees. Each time they jumped in, Little Arnold shut his eyes against the spray, and the shock wave pushed him against the well wall, and the great bubble that crested in the center reached out to him and first buoyed him up so he took a sharp breath and then bobbed him up and down, while myriad tiny bubbles prickled against his feet and belly and burst against his chest. "Over here, Little Arnold," Marie-Santana said, "come over to this side." She was treading water right next to his father. Little Arnold let go, felt himself go under, turned clawing to the wall till he found his fingerhold once again. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Push your feet against the side. Come on, push! The coconuts will help you float." Still he shook his head. She kicked off and glided halfway across, where she once again stood treading water just out of his reach. "Look! No hands. It's easy. I'm close to you now. Come on, I'll catch you. I'm right here!" Marie-Santana stretched out her hands to him and smiled, and the child let go of the wall, and once again the agitated wavelets spread out in all directions as he struggled to reach her. "Move your feet, Little Arnold. Kick! Kick!" Annabel and Josephine Aunty, watching up above, clapped their hands as he inched forward. Little Arnold looked up at his mother and beamed, forgot to keep up his puppy stroke, and promptly sank beneath the surface. When he came up he found not only Mar'-Santan' Aunty there ready to help but also his father, concerned for him and no longer afraid for himself. He felt good. "You'll swim like a fish," Marie-Santana said, backpedalling till she was again just out of reach. "Come on, let's see if you can catch me." When the time came he did not want to leave. "You see, there's nothing to swimming," Mottu said to him once they were out of the well and headed home to lunch. "Nothing at all. You saw that yourself. Keep your mouth and nose above water, work your hands and feet. All you have to do is keep moving."
Mottu was unusually preoccupied at dinner that night. His thoughts were on what had
happened in the well that morning; his jumping in, and Little Arnold on the parapet, and
Marie-Santana appearing out of nowhere. Forttu could have taught the child to swim; Forttu
was always teaching others how to swim; but no, Marie-Santana had to climb up beside Little
Arnold and hold his hand and try to get him to jump. Even when the child had refused, and
she had jumped in by herself, and he Mottu in the well had turned his face half away so she
would not think he was there gaping at her, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever there was to
see, Marie-Santana had swum round and round within inches of where he was clinging to the
wall, and when her face came out of the water for air and her mouth was open so were her
eyes and she was looking at him. Then when Forttu had tossed Little Arnold in and the boy
was dog-paddling as any novice would she had swum to where Mottu was and had treaded
water and called the child to her. Or was she calling him ? Now he was sure she was. All that
jumping in, those fancy strokes, showing off for whom, if not for him? And when she treaded
water, bobbing up and down in her tight wet dress, tempting him with her mango breasts--a
mating dance, that's what it was. The changeable minx! He should have given her a sign,
perhaps a secret sign that he was on to her game and willing, even with Annabel there at the
mouth of the well, looking down. |