of mission rather than pleasurable expectation that he strapped himself into his seat to the tinny strains of an airline calypso, followed by the pilotâs welcoming address. How was it that all pilots seemed to have such rich, confident, infinitely reassuring voices? Was it an occupational requirement, along with navigational skills and perfect blood pressure? Did their refresher courses include tips on phrasing and elocution? The plane reached the limitless blue sky of its cruising altitude; Andre unbuckled his seat belt and tried to stretch his legs, conscious of rising damp from paddling through New York puddles. That, at least, would be a pleasure to leave behind for a day or two.
The light at Nassau airport made his eyes ache; the afternoon heat, like a moist towel wrapped around him, made his winter clothes cling to his chest and back, clammy and thick. He looked among the aging Chevrolets without success for a cab with air-conditioning, and spent the drive to Cooper Cay like a dog, his face hanging from the open window to catch the breeze.
Denoyer had arranged for him to have a room at the clubhouse, but before any visitor was permitted to penetrate that lush and heavily defended ghetto, there were some minor formalities to be completed. Forced to stop by a green and white striped barrier that blocked the entrance,the cabdriver sounded his horn. A burly, languid man in peaked hat, military uniform, and mirror-finish boots emerged from the gatehouse and sauntered over to the cab. He and the driver chatted like old friendsâold friends with plenty of time on their hands and nowhere particular to go on such a pleasant day. Eventually, the two of them having brought their personal histories up to date, the uniformed man noticed Andre wilting in the back and asked whom he was coming to see. Returning at a slow march to the gatehouse, he picked up the phone to check with headquarters. It appeared that all was well. He nodded to the driver. The barrier was raised. The cab, with another blip on the horn, drove through, and Andre entered a Shangrila reserved for those with a net worth in excess of ten million dollars and a good Bay Street lawyer.
The road began as a broad, straight avenue bordered by fifty-foot coconut palms before curving past a number of driveways that led to enormous white or pink houses. Discreet, crisply painted signs nestling among the bougainvillea identified each vast edifice, with equally vast false modesty, as a cottage: Rose, Coral, Seagrape, Palm (of course), Casuarinaâtheir gardens trimmed to a whisker, their shutters closed against the sun. Andre found himself comparing the surroundings to Denoyerâs other hideout, on Cap Ferrat. Despite the differences in the vegetation, in the quality of the heat and air, in the architecture, there was one striking similarity: the atmosphere of tranquil, somnolent wealth, the feeling that the rest of the world was a very long way away. Normal mortals, keep out.
The road curved again to skirt the emerald greens of the inevitable golf course, on which nobody walked. Progress from hole to hole, from shot to shot, was made by means of electric carts painted in the green and white livery of Cooper Cay. Passengers dismounted, hacked away, and remounted. Physical exertion was kept to a minimum.
Pulling up to the wide sweep of stone steps in front of the clubhouse entrance, the cabdriver showed a sudden burst of alacrity prompted by thoughts of a tip. He jumped out and wrestled Andreâs bag from his hands, only to have it wrestled from him in turn by one of the clubâs bellboys, a giant with gleaming teeth and a green and white striped waistcoat. Andre distributed cash to waiting hands, the bills damp with perspiration, and made his way into the cool, high-ceilinged lobby.
He was shown to his room, overlooking the pool, and relieved of some more damp money. Without stopping to unpack, he stripped off his clothes and stood under a cold
The light at Nassau airport made his eyes ache; the afternoon heat, like a moist towel wrapped around him, made his winter clothes cling to his chest and back, clammy and thick. He looked among the aging Chevrolets without success for a cab with air-conditioning, and spent the drive to Cooper Cay like a dog, his face hanging from the open window to catch the breeze.
Denoyer had arranged for him to have a room at the clubhouse, but before any visitor was permitted to penetrate that lush and heavily defended ghetto, there were some minor formalities to be completed. Forced to stop by a green and white striped barrier that blocked the entrance,the cabdriver sounded his horn. A burly, languid man in peaked hat, military uniform, and mirror-finish boots emerged from the gatehouse and sauntered over to the cab. He and the driver chatted like old friendsâold friends with plenty of time on their hands and nowhere particular to go on such a pleasant day. Eventually, the two of them having brought their personal histories up to date, the uniformed man noticed Andre wilting in the back and asked whom he was coming to see. Returning at a slow march to the gatehouse, he picked up the phone to check with headquarters. It appeared that all was well. He nodded to the driver. The barrier was raised. The cab, with another blip on the horn, drove through, and Andre entered a Shangrila reserved for those with a net worth in excess of ten million dollars and a good Bay Street lawyer.
The road began as a broad, straight avenue bordered by fifty-foot coconut palms before curving past a number of driveways that led to enormous white or pink houses. Discreet, crisply painted signs nestling among the bougainvillea identified each vast edifice, with equally vast false modesty, as a cottage: Rose, Coral, Seagrape, Palm (of course), Casuarinaâtheir gardens trimmed to a whisker, their shutters closed against the sun. Andre found himself comparing the surroundings to Denoyerâs other hideout, on Cap Ferrat. Despite the differences in the vegetation, in the quality of the heat and air, in the architecture, there was one striking similarity: the atmosphere of tranquil, somnolent wealth, the feeling that the rest of the world was a very long way away. Normal mortals, keep out.
The road curved again to skirt the emerald greens of the inevitable golf course, on which nobody walked. Progress from hole to hole, from shot to shot, was made by means of electric carts painted in the green and white livery of Cooper Cay. Passengers dismounted, hacked away, and remounted. Physical exertion was kept to a minimum.
Pulling up to the wide sweep of stone steps in front of the clubhouse entrance, the cabdriver showed a sudden burst of alacrity prompted by thoughts of a tip. He jumped out and wrestled Andreâs bag from his hands, only to have it wrestled from him in turn by one of the clubâs bellboys, a giant with gleaming teeth and a green and white striped waistcoat. Andre distributed cash to waiting hands, the bills damp with perspiration, and made his way into the cool, high-ceilinged lobby.
He was shown to his room, overlooking the pool, and relieved of some more damp money. Without stopping to unpack, he stripped off his clothes and stood under a cold
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