his hands on the arms of the chair to lever himself upward. A wedge of sunshine passed across his face. Instead of reaching for his cane, he limped his way to the window on his own. He shoved one hand into his trouser pocket and braced the other one on the top of the window frame, while he squinted through the glass at the street outside.
“Keeping an eye on the riot?” I said.
“The riot is largely over, it seems. Good old Sir Leslie spoke to the ringleaders over at Government House and promised to look into things. Then the police sent everybody back over the hill.”
“Really? That’s all?”
“Not quite. I don’t doubt there’ll be trouble tonight. But the point is to keep the trouble where it belongs, at least so far as the police are concerned.”
“Naturally. I’m sure they’ll be talking about nothing else at the Red Cross tomorrow. The iniquity of the coloreds, how they should be grateful to have jobs at all, how it’s just what you’d expect from a Negro to smash up the property others have worked so hard to build.”
Thorpe turned his head from the window. “Do I detect a certain bitterness, Mrs. Randolph? A certain radical tenor to your thoughts?”
“I’m no radical. I just happen to think the Bay Street crowd is a pack of bigots, that’s all. And the labor situation is plain unfair.”
“And that’s why you wandered into town today?”
“I wandered into town today because it’s a story, and I’m a journalist.”
“A journalist,” he said. “That’s all?”
“What do you mean, that’s all? What else would I be?”
The sunshine from the window slanted across his face, half alight and half in shadow. His white shirt hung from his shoulders, which were wide and bony, and while the bones were meatless they were also thick, giving him an air of authority, of trustworthiness: the kind of shoulders that could bear a great deal, could bear the weight of his troubles and yours; could bear the weight of your resting head, if you were tall enough to reach them. Then his hair, all ablaze in the sunshine. His serious eyes, oh. You could not evade scrutiny like that. You could only bear it. You could only sit there and let him take his fill, let him examine your lines and creases, your twitches and stitches, let him judge the stuff of which you were made.
“This island,” he said at last. “This damned little island. Only a few hundred square miles of barren limestone.”
The electric fan whirred above us. My arm throbbed, my head ached. I said, “When did you arrive back?”
“Two days ago.”
“You’re still staying at Wenner-Gren’s place?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s in Mexico, isn’t he? The FBI put him on a blacklist of some kind, the second we got into the war, because of his Nazi friends. He’s been stuck in Mexico since December.”
“Oh, is that what you heard?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well, Wenner-Gren’s not a Nazi. He’s a businessman, that’s all.”
“Then why did the FBI blacklist him?”
Thorpe produced a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and removed his spectacles. “I suppose you’d have to ask the FBI. I’m just a scientist, Mrs. Randolph. My concern is plants, not people.”
“Some people, surely.”
“Oh, I don’t know. People so often disappoint one. Plants, on the other hand. They simply exist, you see. It’s up to you to discover their nature.” He replaced the glasses on his nose. “How’s the old arm feeling?”
“The old arm will be just fine.”
“All the same, I believe I’m going to sleep with you tonight.”
“You’re going to what?”
“I mean on the sofa, of course. Someone’s got to keep an eye on things.”
“The sofa? What sofa?”
Now the grin, like the rising of the sun. “In your bungalow, of course. I’m springing you out of here.”
“What?”
“I had the feeling you’re not the sort of woman who enjoys lying around in hospital beds.” He tossed the basket onto the bed. “Come along, then. If you’ve quite finished your cake. You’ll find a change of clothing in there.”
“But how—the doctors—”
“The doctors in Nassau, like the rest of the population, proved remarkably susceptible to corruption.” He reached for his cane and moved to the door. “And of course, I assured them I’d keep the closest possible eye on you.”
So Thorpe carried me home to the bungalow in the sidecar of his motorcycle and fed me the dinner that Veryl had left out for us. He allowed me neither cigarettes nor the demon liquor, although after he sent me to bed with a