John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

“The filth was changed, however, after he passed through it.”

“I’ll grant you that,” Delamare says grimly.

“Others of us he raised up rather prettily. You won’t argue that, I trust.”

He sucks in a breath. “What the hell are you getting at?”

“Clem’s not the only doxie in this house.” I look at him and wink. “We all have our little accomplishments—”

This proves too much for him at last. No sooner have I spoken than I’m splayed face-first across the gravel, red and yellow daisies blooming in my eye-sockets and my brain. Delamare’s image is there as well, fist out in front of him, face drawn tighter than a drum-head.

“You’ll do as you think best,” I say, rolling onto my back with a little groan.

“It’s unwise to speak to me that way, Virgil. That eye of yours holds no power over me.”

I push myself upright. “Evidently not.”

“He never raised me up, that dirty nigger-monger. He never made a gentleman out of me. ” Delamare glares down at me, struggling for breath. “Just the opposite.”

“He taught you a few things—; you’ll not deny that,” I say, keeping my eyes on his fists.

“He took me from my home,” Delamare says. “That’s the only thing I’m grateful to him for.”

“Yes. Your ‘home’. I remember about that.”

But he’s already decided to forgive me. He reaches down a hand. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that whore of yours, Virgil. I regret it.”

I look up a moment, unsure of him, then take his hand. He helps me solicitously to my feet—; his anger is gone as quickly as it came. Soon I find myself endeavoring to console him.

“Don’t feel too poorly, now, Oliver. I had it coming.”

“That temper of mine is an awful thing, Virgil—: I know it is.” He looks at me contritely. “I shouldn’t have fired on those darkies, I suppose.”

“Nonsense! It was your duty as a Confederate squire,” I say, for some reason liking him better than I’ve ever done. I take hold of him by the coat and pull him onwards and upwards toward the house. “Come on along, now—; no more dawdling. The inquisition grows impatient.”

THE COLONEL CHOOSES to conduct his interview with Delamare in the parlor, flanked by book-shelves stripped to their paper backing, cracked picture-frames, and arm-chairs too heavy or hideous for the Yankees to bother carting away on their last sweep of the country. A bell-jar on an end-table — which once held a porcelain figure, perhaps, or a taxidermied bird — has been fashioned into a thermidor for the Colonel’s dwindling supply of snuff. The flock-paper hangs in great drooping folds off the walls, and the French parquet has been gouged in waxy arabesques, each looted heirloom leaving its testament in sawdust. It’s a tribute to the Colonel’s self-regard that he manages not to look more absurd among this mass of humiliated objects. Seeing him there on the hump-backed settee, dressed as always in his suit of cavalry gray, it’s hard not to shed a tear or two for the Confederacy. Any society that succeeds in producing so perfect a caricature of itself should, in a just world, flatter Providence no end.

“You boys sure took your Catholic time,” the Colonel growls, looking not at Delamare but at me. “Did you perhaps not understand, Mr. Delamare, that one of our number has been killed?”

“It took some time to find him, Colonel,” I mumble.

“Why don’t you look me in the eye when you ask me a question, Wheezy?” Delamare says.

The Colonel heaves an indulgent sigh. “You’ve always been an arrogant little coon, Oliver, ever since Kennedy emancipated you out of that mash-hut he found you in. No doubt the Redeemer was right, at the time, to encourage your airs—: the runaways you dealt with must have been bedazzled by them.” He grins at us, showing his snuff-colored teeth. “At this point, however — as you must surely be aware— the Trade has been suspended, and the Redeemer, God rest him, has been sent down the privy. So let’s share an honest word together, you and I.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” I say, turning to go.

“Not at all, Virgil! You stay on for a spell.” The Colonel’s watery eyes dart back to mine. “We may have need of you to mediate. Isn’t that so, Mr. Delamare?”

I curse them both silently. “I’m not sure how useful I’d be, Colonel. Mr. Delamare only recently boxed me on the jaw.”

The Colonel nods. “You stay on a while, Virgil.”

I shrug and sit on the floor beside Delamare, facing the Colonel across a tea-table set on three cracked, palsied-looking legs. Over the next hour Delamare’s whereabouts on the night of the murder are gone over in insufferable detail, exactly as in a legitimate inquiry—: one might almost fancy the Colonel to have served in the military police. I can’t help but admire his delivery. Clearly he was paying close attention at his court-martial.

The technique is not without effect on Delamare, either. In no time at all he’s gone skittish as a doe. “No-one voted you chief god-damned constable,” he mutters. “I know the Redeemer never did.”

“You owed Goodman Harvey money, did you not?”

“Everyone owed that little badger money.” Delamare shoots me an accusing look. “I owed him less than most.”

The Colonel keeps his eyes fixed on Delamare’s cravat, as though his face — and his answers, for that matter — were but a tiresome distraction. “Did you owe Goodman Harvey money, Virgil?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

Delamare snorts. “Virgil doesn’t enter into relations with his fellow human beings, grandfather. I thought you knew.”

I clear my throat. “That’s not entirely true, Oliver. I lent you five dollars just last Saturday.”

The Colonel gives an arid laugh. Delamare stares back at him with a look of mute expectancy that puts me in mind of a nigger at auction. On Delamare, however, the look has a very different meaning. Leaning back on the stool, he says softly and melodiously—:

“The Redeemer said as much, before Virgil did him under. He predicted this whole vaudeville, you know.”

The Colonel says nothing for a time. Then, blinking his eyes slowly, as a heifer might do to discourage a gnat, he leans stiffly forward. “The Redeemer — spoke to you about the future?”

Delamare nods and points at me. “He could read it, Colonel. From Virgil’s smoky eye.”

The Colonel’s face jerks toward mine, but I remain as I am, looking evenly at Delamare.

“Is this some manner of minstrel-theater?” the Colonel says. “A comedy production of some kind?”

Delamare shakes his head politely. “He said that after he was gone you’d begin to drop, one after the other, like bull-frogs after a spawn. Those were his words, not mine. You’d be pared down, grandpappy. Pared down to the marrow.”

“Virgil?” the Colonel says. His voice is pricklish as a pin.

“First I’ve heard of it,” I say, truthfully enough. “Who’d be pared down, Oliver?”

Delamare yawns. “All of you, Virgil. The entire Trade.”

“You were part of the Trade yourself, as I recall it,” the Colonel says sharply. “An integral part. Have you forgotten?”

Delamare says nothing. The floor-boards along the inner wall creak subtly—: someone is listening at the door.

Knowing who it is, I rise. “This puts me in mind of another question,” I say, gesturing toward the hall. The Colonel nods—; he’s heard the sound as well. By the time I’ve crossed the room and opened the door she’s moved off to a table topped by a vase of bone-dry marigolds. But she makes no show of being busy with them.

“Hello, Clementine,” I say, testing the door to make sure it’s shut behind me.