Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

“I like Jamaica,” he said flatly.

“This is the Parade, sir,” the driver interrupted gently. “Did you want to get out here, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Andrews,” Michael said. “We’ll only be an hour or so.”

“I’ll wait for you in front of Issa’s, sir.”

“Very well,” Michael said. He opened the door and stepped into the sunshine. He held his hand out to Diane and she followed him onto the curb.

“Why did you say ‘Very well’?” she asked.

“What should I have said?”

“ ‘Very well’ sounds so British. You never say that in New York.”

“Well, this isn’t New York. This is the British West Indies.”

“That’s no reason for you to put on airs. The driver must be laughing himself silly.”

“He isn’t laughing at all. He’s thinking he’ll get three dollars for the ride and a two-dollar tip, that’s what he’s doing.”

“Not everyone thinks the way you do, Michael,” she said. “God, it’s hot. Can’t we get over in the shade?”

They crossed the street and began walking under the narrow awnings lining the narrow sidewalk. The natives rushed past, carrying bananas to the wharf, carrying shopping baskets, intent on their personal affairs, their clothes bright and gaudy. Bicycles flashed in the sunshine, an ancient bus creaked around the circle near the straw market, a nighttime sign warned DIP YOUR LIGHTS.

“What did you mean by that?” he asked.

“By what?”

“By everyone not thinking the way I do.”

“About money. Everyone doesn’t think it’s that important. The driver may be thinking about other things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Michael, like his family, or his wife, or... or... even taking a vacation in New York one day.”

“He could never afford a vacation in New York.”

“In Kingston then.”

“He’d never be able to afford that, either.”

“Well, that doesn’t make him any less a man.”

“What is it, Diane? Does my earning power annoy you? Must I constantly compete with my own wife in addition to the daily...”

“You’ve told me about the Madison Avenue ratrace, thanks. Please spare me.”

“I’m awfully sorry, but that’s the way things are. If you think...”

“Then change the way things are! Before it’s too late!”

“I’ll go out and buy a machete, would that suit you? And we’ll live in a lovely corrugated tin hut. And you can do wood carving while I’m out chopping sugar cane. Would that satisfy your need for self-expression?”

“It’s not a joke!” she said, her voice suddenly loud on the sun-hushed street.

“All right, let’s end it, Diane,” he said softly.

“End what?”

“The argument,” He paused, puzzled. “What did you think I meant?”

“I don’t know.”

They stopped stock still in the center of the street.

“The argument,” he said.

“Yes. I heard you.”

“Well, what did you think I meant? All I meant was the argument.”

“Yes.”

“Well...” He shrugged. “Well, let’s end it, all right?”

“All right.”

He nodded and tried a tentative smile. Their eyes met and held for an instant.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“No. It’s too early.”

“Well, would you like to get out of the sun? These awnings don’t help at all. I’m hot. Aren’t you, Diane?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, let’s get out of the sun, all right?” He shaded his eyes and looked up the street. “There’s a place.” He turned to her. “Antiques. Want to give it a try?”

“If you like.”

They walked up the street in silence. The building was on the opposite side of the road, its front painted a bright tropical green. The sign Michael had seen hung from a rusted wrought-iron support.

An arrow pointed to a narrow flight of steps on the side of the building. The wall at the top of the steps was painted a shocking pink. The green of the building and the pink of the wall blended like the stem and bloom of a wild tropical flower, merged to give an impression of lush savagery stained with brilliant sunshine. The steps rose to the pink wall in golden fury, seemed to collide with the wall and a second painted red arrow indicating the door of the shop. They climbed the steps slowly, she moving with unconscious, femininity in the form-fitting white tapered slacks, he holding her elbow and moving gracelessly beside her, his expensive camera dangling from a leather strap around his neck. As they climbed the steps, he could not resist adding, “A man has to make a living, Diane,” and then they reached the landing and entered the shop and were immediately blinded.

Slowly, their eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room.

Two windows opened on the street outside and twin shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom, dust motes tirelessly climbing them to the low ceiling. The walls were hung with clocks, and clocks peered into the gloom from behind the dust-covered fronts of ancient cases. A mesh cage was at one side of the shop, enclosing a table covered with the intricate wheels and springs of a disemboweled watch, a jeweler’s loupe, a miniature screwdriver, a pair of tweezers. Dust seemed to cover everything. Dust and heat permeated the shop, became the shop’s lifeblood. Dust and heat seeped into every crack and corner until the shop seemed to possess a secret pulsing sound, the sound of silence and gloom and heat and dust commingled.

The old man came from behind the mesh cage, dust-colored himself, a big man wearing a white shirt and pale-blue trousers which hung sloppily over a loose paunch. A yellow silk tie was knotted carelessly about his neck. He breathed heavily as he walked toward them, his eyes touching Diane’s face and then shifting slowly to Michael, who wiped sweat from his upper lip with a clean white handkerchief.

“Yes, sir?” the man said. He did not smile. His eyes were dark black in a dry face the color of dead ashes. His black hair, turning gray, clung wetly to his forehead. A laborious wheeze came from his thick lips when he spoke. “Yes, madam?”

“We’re just looking,” Michael said.

“For what, sir?”

“We’re not sure. We... uh...”

Michael hesitated. He had not expected this. He had expected a neat, precise refuge from the sun, a tourist shop with a clean tourist façade and not this cluttered den of stronger heat and hanging dust.

“Some clocks, perhaps, sir? Or some coins? Or some jewelry for the lady?”

For a moment, an awkwardness crowded into the shop. Michael knew instantly that they’d made a mistake, and he could see that Diane wanted nothing more than to get out of this small dark cave. Moreover, he felt the proprietor was fully aware of their discomfort and would be happy to see them leave. But none of them wished to appear rude, and so they went through the shallow pantomime of buyer and seller, no one truly intending to buy or to sell, the awkwardness not one of intent or purpose but simply one of ineptitude, a stuttering bow to the absurd demands of civilization.

“My name is Barker,” the fat man said. “This is my shop.”

He extended his hand clumsily to Michael, and Michael gave it an unenthusiastic shake and then dropped it. Barker turned to Diane and extended his hand again. She took it cautiously, as if she were picking up a loathsome object preparatory to dropping it in the trash basket. Barker held her hand and brought it closer to his face as if he were about to kiss it in the Continental manner. Then, still holding it, he examined the slender fingers and said, “A ring for madam, perhaps?”