5 The Palm Porch

I

BELOW, a rock engine was crushing stone, shooting up rivers of steam and signaling the frontier’s rebirth. Opposite, there was proof, a noisy, swaggering sort of proof, of the gradual death and destruction of the frontier post. Black men behind wheelbarrows slowly ascended a rising made of spliced boards and emptied the sand rock into the maw of a mixing machine. More black men, a peg down, behind wheelbarrows, formed a line which caught the mortar pouring into the rear organ of the omnivorous monster.

“All, all gone,” cried Miss Buckner, and the girls at her side shuddered. All quietly felt the sterile menace of it. There, facing its misery, tears came to Miss Buckner’s eyes and a jeweled, half-white hand, lifted gently to give a paltry vision of the immensity of it.

“All of that,” she sighed, “all of that was swamp–when I came to the Isthmus. All.” A gang of “taw“-pitching boys, sons of the dusky folk seeping up from Caribbean isles, who had first painted Hudson Alley and “G” Street a dense black, and were now spreading up to the Point–swarmed to a spot in the road which the stone crusher had been especially cruel to, and drew a marble ring. Contemptibly pointing to them, Miss Buckner observed, “a year ago that would have been impossible. I can’t understand what the world is coming to.” Gazing at one another the girls were not tempted to speak, but were a bit bewildered, at this show of grossness on their mother’s part. And anyway, it was noon, and they wanted to go to sleep.

But a light, flashed on a virgin past, burst on Miss Buckner, and she became reminiscent. …

. . . . . . .

Dark dense thicket; water paving it. Deer, lions, tigers bounding through it. Centuries, perhaps, of such pure, free rule. Then some khaki-clad, red-faced and scrawny-necked whites deserted the Zone and brought saws to the roots of palmetto, spears to the bush cats and jaguars, lysol to the mosquitoes and flies and tar to the burning timber-swamp. A wild racing to meet the Chagres and explore the high reaches of the Panama jungle. After the torch, ashes and ghosts–bare, black stalks, pegless stumps, flakes of charred leaves and half-burnt tree trunks. Down by a stream watering a village of black French colonials, dredges began to work. More of the Zone pests, rubber-booted ones, tugged out huge iron pipes and safely laid them on the gutty bosom of the swamp. Congeries of them. Then one windy night the dredges began a moaning noise. It was the sea groaning and vomiting. Through the throat of the pipes it rattled, and spat stones–gold and emerald and amethyst. All sorts of juice the sea upheaved. It dug deep down, too, far into the recesses of its sprawling cosmos. Back to a pre-geologic age it delved, and brought up things.

Down by the mouth of a creole stream the dredges worked. Black in the golden mist, black on the lagoon.

With the aftermath there came a dazzling array of corals and jewels–jewels of the griping sea. Magically the sun hardened and whitened it. Sandwhite. Brown. Golden. Dross surged up; guava stumps, pine stumps, earth-burned sprats, river stakes. But the crab shell–sea crabs, pink and crimson–the sharks’ teeth, blue, and black, and purple ones–the pearls, and glimmering stones–shone brightly.

Upon the lake of jeweled earth dusk swept a mantle of hazy blue.

II

“W’en yo’ fadah wake up in de mawnin’ time wid’ ‘im marinah stiff out in front o’ him–”

“Mek fun,” said Miss Buckner, rising regally, “an’ be a dam set o’ fools all yo’ life.” She buried the butt in a Mexican urn, and strode by Anesta sprawling half-robed on the matted floor. “Move, gal, an’ le’ me go out dey an’ show dis black sow how we want ‘ar fi’ stew de gunga peas an’ fowl.”

“Oh, me don’t wan’ fi’ go to no pahty,” yawned Hyacinth, fingering the pages of a boudoir textbook left her one evening by an Italian sea captain, “me too tiad, sah.”

“An’ me can’t see how de hell me gwine mek up to any man if me got fi’ fling in him face a old blue shif’ me did got las’ week. W’en is Scipio gwine bring me dat shawl him pramise fi’ giv’ me?”

“Me no fond ha-tall o’ any ‘Panish man,” cried Anesta, “an’ me don’t see how me can–”

Miss Buckner swung around, struck. “Yo’ t’ink so, he, his dat wha’ yo’ t’ink? Well, yo’ bess mek up unna mind–all o’ unna! Well, wha’ a bunch o’ lazy ongrateful bitches de whole carload of unna is, dough he?”

Suddenly she broke off, anger seaming her brow. “Unna don’t know me his hindebted to him, no? Unna don’t know dat hif hit wasn’t farrim a lot o’ t’ings wha’ go awn up yah, would be street property long ago–an’ some o’ we yo’ see spo’tin’ roun’ yah would be some way else, an’ diffrant altogaddah.”

“Ah know not me.”

“Ah know Oi ain’t owe nobody nothin’–”

“Yo’ think yo’ don’t! But don’t fool yourselves, children, there is more to make the mare go than you think–I see that now.”

She busied herself gathering up glasses, flouncing off to the party.

The Palm Porch was not a canteen, it was a house. But it was a house of lavish self-containment. It was split up in rooms, following a style of architecture which was the flair of the Isthmian realtors, and each room opened out on the porch. Each had, too, an armor of leafy laces; shining dust and scarlet. Each had its wine and decanters, music and song.

On the squalid world of Colon it was privileged to gaze with hauteur, for Miss Buckner, the owner of the Palm Porch, was a lady of poise, charm and caution. Up around the ribs of the porch she had put a strip of canvas cloth. It shut out eyes effectively. Glancing up, one saw boxes of rosebush and flower vines, but beyond that–nothing. The porch’s green paint, the opulent flower pots and growing plants helped to plaster on it the illusion of the tropical jungle.

There clung to Miss Buckner an idea of sober reality. Her hips were full, her hands long, hairy, unfeminine, her breasts dangling. She was fully seven feet tall and had a small, round head. Her hair was close to it–black, curly. Courageously she had bobbed and parted it at a time when it was unseasonable to do so, and yet retain a semblance of respect among the Victorian dames of the Spanish tropics.

Urged on by the ruthless spirit which was a very firm part of her, Miss Buckner was not altogether unaware of the capers she was cutting amid the few beings she actually touched. Among the motley blacks and browns and yellows on the Isthmus, there would be talk–but how was it to drift back to her? Via Zuline? Shame! “Who me? Me talk grossip wit’ any sahvant gyrl, if yo’ t’ink so yo’ lie!” But the lack of an elfin figure and the possession of a frizzly head of hair, was more than made up for by Miss Buckner’s gift of manners.

“Gahd, wha’ she did got it, he?” folk asked; but neither London, nor Paris, nor Vienna answered. Indeed, Miss Buckner, a lady of sixty, would have been wordless at the idea of having to go beyond the dickty rim of Jamaica in quest of manners. It was absurd to think so. This drop to the Isthmus was Miss Buckner’s first gallop across the sea.

And so, like sap to a rubber tree, Miss Buckner’s manner clung to her. Upon those of her sex she had slight cause to ply it, for at the Palm Porch few of them were allowed. Traditionally, it was a man’s house. When Miss Buckner, beneath a brilliant lorgnette, was gracious enough to look at a man, she looked, sternly, unsmilingly down at him. When of a Sabbath, her hair in oily frills, wearing a silken shawl of cream and red, a dab of vermilion on her mouth, she swept regally down Bolivar Street on the way to the market, maided by the indolent Zuline, she had half of the city gaping at the animal wonder of her. Brief-worded, cool-headed, by a stabbing thrust or a petulant gesture, she’d confound any fish seller, any dealer in yampi or Lucy yam, cocoanut milk or red peas–and pass quietly on, untouched by the briny babel.

In fact, from Colon to Cocoa Grove the pale-faced folk who drank sumptuously in the bowl of life churned by her considered Miss Buckner a woman to tip one’s hat to–regal rite–a woman of taste and culture. Machinists at Balboa, engineers at Miraflores, sun-burned sea folk gladly testified to that fact. All had words of beauty for the ardor of Miss Buckner’s salon.

Of course one gathered from the words which came like blazing meteors out of her mouth that Miss Buckner would have liked to be white; but, alas! she was only a mulatto. No one had ever heard of her before she and her five daughters moved into the Palm Porch. It was to be expected, the world being what it is, that words of murmured treason would drift abroad. A wine merchant, Raymond de la Croix, and a Jamaica horse breeder, Walter de Paz, vowed they had seen her at an old seaman’s bar on Matches Lane serving ale and ofttimes more poetic things than ale to young blond-headed Britons who would especially go there. But De Paz and De la Croix were men of frustrated idealism, and their words, to Miss Buckner at least, brutal though they were, were swept aside as expressions of useless chatter. Whether she was the result of a union of white and black, French and Spanish, English and Maroon–no one knew. Of an equally mystical heritage were her daughters, creatures of a rich and shining beauty. Of their father the less said the better. And in the absence of data tongues began to wag. Norwegian bos’n. Jamaica lover–Island triumph. Crazy Kingston nights. To the lovely young ladies in question it was a subject to be religiously high-hatted and tabooed. The prudent Miss Buckner, who had a burning contempt for statistics, was a trifle hazy about the whole thing.

One of the girls, white as a white woman, eyes blue as a Viking maid’s, had eloped, at sixteen, to Miss Buckner’s eternal disgust, with a shiny-armed black who had at one time been sent to the Island jail for the proletarian crime of prædial larceny. The neighbors swore it had been love at first sight. But it irked and maddened Miss Buckner. “It a dam pity shame,” she had cried, dabbing a cologned handkerchief to her nose, “it a dam pity shame.”

Another girl, the eldest of the lot (Miss Buckner had had seven in all), had, O! ages before, given birth to a pretty, gray-eyed baby boy, when she was but seventeen and–again to Miss Buckner’s disgust–had later taken up with a willing young mulatto, a Christian in the Moravian Church. He was an able young man, strong and honest, and wore shoes, but Miss Buckner almost went mad–groaned at the pain her daughters caused her. “Oh, me Gahd,” she had wept, “Oh, me Gahd, dem ah send me to de dawgs–dem ah send me to de dawgs.” He was but a clerk in the cold storage; sixty dollars a month–wages of an accursed silver employee. Silver is nigger; nigger is silver. Nigger-silver. Why, roared Miss Buckner, stockings could not be bought with that, much more take care of a woman accustomed to “foxy clothes an’ such” and a dazzling baby boy. Silver employee! Blah! Why couldn’t he be a “Gold” one? Gold is white; white is gold. Gold-white! “Gold,” and get $125 a month, like “de fella nex’ tarrim, he? Why, him had to be black, an’ get little pay, an’ tek way me gal picknee from me? Now, hanswah me dat!” Nor did he get coal and fuel free, besides. He had to dig down and pay extra for them. He was not, alas! white. Which hurt, left Miss Buckner cold; caused her nights of sleepless despair. Wretch! “To t’ink a handsam gal like dat would-ah tek up wi’ a dam black neygah man like him, he, w’en she could a stay wi’ me ‘n do bettah.” But few knew the secret of Miss Buckner’s sorrow, few sensed the deep tragedy of her.

And so, to dam the flood of tears, Miss Buckner and the remaining ones of her flamingo brood, had drawn up at the Palm Porch. All day, the sun burning a flame through the torrid heavens, they would be postured on the porch. Virgin to the sun’s gentle caresses, with the plants and flowers keeping the heat at bay, they’d be there. Slippers dangled on the tips of restive toes. Purple-lined kimonos falling away gave access to blushing, dimpled bodies. Great fine tresses of hair, the color of night, gave shadows to the revelations, gave structure.

III

“Come, Zuline,–hurry–it’s getting late.” The porch was vacant, dusk had fallen, and Miss Buckner wore an evening gown of white taffeta, fashioned in the Victorian epoch. It was tight and stiff and created a rustle, and there was a black bandeau pasted on to her skull.

Sullenly the girl came, and gathered up the debris. “Sweep up dis ash, an cayh dis slip in Goldy’s room, de careless t’ing,” said Miss Buckner.

She went to one of the dusk-flooded rooms and seized a studded dagger which she stuck among the watches and brooches which shone on her bosom. She patted it, made sure it was safely a part of the glittering pattern, and ordered the night on.

“Get up, girls,” she shouted, invading room after room, “it is late, get up!”

“Hello, Sailor Mack. Hit any home runs to-day?”

“An’ you, you Kentucky millionaire–how many ships came through the locks to-day?”

“Bullocks–did you say?”

“Fie!”

“Oh, Mistah Council,” she said, “how do you do?” Young Briton, red-faced, red-eyed, red-haired. Yellow-teethed, dribble-lipped, swobble-mouthed, bat-eared.

He kissed the proffered hand, and bowed low. He was gallant, and half-drunk. “Where’s my girl, Anesta,” he said, “by God, she is the sweetest woman, black or white–on the whole goddamed–”

“Sh, be quiet, son, come,” and Miss Buckner led him to a chair among a group of men.

Constantly, Miss Buckner’s hand kept fluttering to the diamond-headed pin stuck in her bosom.

. . . . . . .

Chaos prevailed, but Miss Buckner was quite sober. All about there were broken vases, overturned flower-pots, flowers, women’s shoes. All the men were prostrate, the women exultant.

As midnight approached, the doorbell suddenly rang. And Miss Buckner rose, cautioning serenity. “All right, boys, let’s have less noise–the captain’s comin’.”

In Anesta’s lap there was an eruption, a young Vice-Consul staggered up–shaking her off, ready to face the coming of the visitor.

“Sit down, Baldy,” she implored, “come back here to me–“

“Skipper, eh? Who is he? Wha’ ya hell tub is he on?” He was tall and his body rocked menacingly.

“Put that goddam lime juicer to bed, somebody, will ya?”

“Yo’ gawd dam American–why–“

Anesta rose, flying to him. “Now, Tommy,” she said, patting his cheek, “that isn’t nice.”

“Let the bleddy bastard go to–“

But apparently an omnipotent being had invaded the porch, and a deep-throated voice barked sweetly down it, “Anesta, darling, take Baldy inside, and come here!”

“But, mother–“

“Do as you are told, darling, and don’t waste any more time.”

“No, Gawd blarst yo’–nobody will slip off these pants of mine. Lemme go!”

“Be a gentleman, sweet, and behave.”

“What a hell of a ruction it are, eh?”

“Help me wit’ ‘im, Hyacinth–“

Ungallantly yielding, he permitted the girl to force him along on her arm. He stepped in the crown of Mr. Thingamerry’s hat. Only yesterday he had put on a gleaming white suit. Done by the Occupation, the starch on the edges of it made it dagger sharp. Now it was a sight; ugly drink stains darkened it. Booze, perspiration, tobacco weeds moistened it. His shirt, once stiff, was black and wrinkled. His tie, his collar, and trousers awry. His fire-red hair was wet and bushy and rumpled. Black curses fell from his mouth. But six months in the tropics and the nights and the girls at the Palm Porch had overpowered him. Held him tight. Sent from Liverpool to the British Consulate at Colon, he had fallen for the languor of the seacoast, he had been seized by the magic glow of the Palm Porch.

Seeing the Captain, Miss Buckner was as bright-eyed as a débutante. Instinctively her hands fled to her beaming bosom, but now the impulse was guided by a soberer circumstance.

The Captain was smiling. “Well, good lady,” he said, “I see you are as charming and as nervous as usual. I hope you have good news for me to-day.” He bowed very low, and kissed the jeweled hand.

“Oh, dear Captain,” exclaimed Miss Buckner, touched by the Spaniard’s gentility, “of course I have!” And she went on, “My renowned friend, it is so splendid of you to come. We have been looking forward to seeing you every minute–really. Was I not, Anesta, dear?” She turned, but the girl was nowhere in sight. “Anesta? Anesta, my dear? Where are you?”

It was a risky job, wading through the lanes of wine-fat men. As she and the Captain sped along, she was careful to let him see that she admired his golden epaulets, and the lofty contemptible way he’d step over the drunken Britons, but she in her own unobtrusive way was hurling to one side every one that came in contact with her.

“Christ was your color. Christ was olive–Jesus Christ was a man of olive–“

“Won’t you wait a moment, Captain–I’ll go and get Anesta.” And she left him.

About him tossed the lime-juicers, the “crackers”–wine-crazed, woman-crazed. He turned in disgust, and drew out an open-worked handkerchief, blowing his nose contemptuously. He was a handsome man. He was dusky, sun-browned, vain. He gloried in a razor slash he had caught on his right cheek in a brawl over a German slut in a District canteen. It served to intensify the glow women fancied in him. When he laughed it would turn pale, stark pale, when he was angry, it oozed red, blood-red.

Miss Buckner returned like a whirlwind, blowing and applying a Japanese fan to her bosom.

In replacing it, a crimson drop had fallen among the gathering of emeralds and pearls, but it was nothing for her to be self-conscious about.

Very gladly she drew close to him, smiling. “Now, you hot-blooded Latin,” she said, the pearls on the upper row of her teeth shining brighter than ever, “you must never give up the chase! The Bible says ‘Him that is exalted’ … the gods will never be kind to you if you don’t have patience. … No use … you won’t understand … the Bible. Come!”

Pointing to the human wreckage through which they had swept, she turned, “In dear old Kingston, Captain, none of this sort of thing ever occurred! None! And you can imagine how profusely it constrains me!”

“Anesta, where are you, my dear? Here’s the Captain–waiting.”

Out of a room bursting with the pallor of night the girl came. Her grace and beauty, the tumult of color reddening her, excited the Captain. Curtseying, she paused at the door, one hand at her throat, the other held out to him.

It was butter in the Captain’s mouth, and Miss Buckner, at the door, viewing the end of a very strategic quest, felt happy. The Captain, after all, was such a naughty boy!

. . . . . . .

The following day the policia came and got Tommy’s body. Over the blood-black hump a sheet was flung. It dabbed up the claret. The natives tilted their chins unconcernedly at it.

Firm in the Captain’s graces Miss Buckner was too busy to be excited by the spectacle. In fact, Miss Buckner, while Zuline sewed a button on her suède shoes, was endeavoring to determine whether she’d have chocolate soufflé or maidenhair custard for luncheon that afternoon.