Read Online Don't Stop the Carnival by Herman Wouk - Free Book Online
Authors: Herman Wouk
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Can we visit it?"
"Not that one." She started the car, and drove out of the lot. Iris drove fast, nervously, but well. "It belongs to one of our rich homos. He has it fixed up as a guest cottage. Quite delightful-Victorian furniture, Corots, and what have you. Marvelous place for parties."
"Are there many of the gay boys here?"
"Whole prides of them, sweetie. They live on the income of uncounted shares of U. S. Steel, Allied Chemical, A. T. & T., and so forth, most of them, and their taxes go to meet a good part of the island's budget. Of course we have poor ones, too."
"Balanced economy," said Paperman.
They were driving down the highway between high straight walls of cane. They passed a withered black woman riding a donkey loaded with pineapples. Meadows growled. "There's more to Amerigo than meets the eye," Norman said.
"More than you'll find out if you spend the rest of your life here. Just this little island of twelve thousand people. Layers under layers under layers."
He said after a silence, "Do you think you'll act again?"
"I expect not."
"Why not? You were marvelous. Such a gift doesn't disappear."
"Well, you're very kind, Norman, but the sort of reputation I got myself seldom rubs off. And besides-" Iris glowered at the road, driving very fast. "Oh, hell, if I do ever act again, just make sure you're not around, that's all. The fallout poisons reservoirs five hundred miles away. Anyway, what am I talking about? The next time would be the death of me. It's absolutely out of the question."
Talking about her career, she now seemed more like the Janet West he remembered. Motions of her head, a trick of pushing out her lips, the powerful rise and fall of her voice brought back to his mind moments of her performances in movies. He could recall how awed he had been, seeing the skyrocketing young film star backstage at the rehearsals of the second Follies for Free Spain. Her hair had been light brown then, rippling to her shoulders. Hardly more than nineteen, she had moved like a squaw in the wake of her husband, Melvin Swann, a suspected communist, but such a success at playing brutal likable villains that Hollywood was then tolerating him. He was either dead now, or drifting around Europe. Paperman was reluctant to ask Iris about him. He knew that some time during her public crack-up, so pitifully early in her career, they had been divorced.
My God, what a beauty she had been! How touching her inexpert willing efforts to sing and dance in the radical skits! Iris Tramm, as a thirtyish blonde encountered on a tropical island, was attractive enough. As the red embers of the briefly incandescent Janet West she was pathetic, startling, and even more appealing.
They drove into the town. (Georgetown was its name; in native parlance it was "dung tung.") The Chevrolet began a tortuous climb along ill-paved streets, steeper, narrower, and more winding as they went up, lined with perilous open sewer trenches, unpainted little wooden houses, and shacks of tin cans hammered flat. None of these places had glass in their windows. The people lived in mazes of plasterboard partitions not reaching to the ceiling, but the interiors were neat, and some walls had bright-tinted religious pictures. All along the way flowering shrubs grew from patches of earth or big lard cans. Children below school age scampered about in little shirts, or less. The progress of the gigantic Chevrolet through the tiny streets was greeted with many a bashful grin and unconcealed penis.
"These people don't live well," he said.
"This is the Caribbean."
"Is there unrest here?"
With a crooked smile she maneuvered the car past a sharp and narrow corner. "Remember, Norman, these people haven't just arrived from Idlewild. They've never seen Park Avenue or Westport."
As they zigzagged uphill, head-on meetings with other vehicles
"Not that one." She started the car, and drove out of the lot. Iris drove fast, nervously, but well. "It belongs to one of our rich homos. He has it fixed up as a guest cottage. Quite delightful-Victorian furniture, Corots, and what have you. Marvelous place for parties."
"Are there many of the gay boys here?"
"Whole prides of them, sweetie. They live on the income of uncounted shares of U. S. Steel, Allied Chemical, A. T. & T., and so forth, most of them, and their taxes go to meet a good part of the island's budget. Of course we have poor ones, too."
"Balanced economy," said Paperman.
They were driving down the highway between high straight walls of cane. They passed a withered black woman riding a donkey loaded with pineapples. Meadows growled. "There's more to Amerigo than meets the eye," Norman said.
"More than you'll find out if you spend the rest of your life here. Just this little island of twelve thousand people. Layers under layers under layers."
He said after a silence, "Do you think you'll act again?"
"I expect not."
"Why not? You were marvelous. Such a gift doesn't disappear."
"Well, you're very kind, Norman, but the sort of reputation I got myself seldom rubs off. And besides-" Iris glowered at the road, driving very fast. "Oh, hell, if I do ever act again, just make sure you're not around, that's all. The fallout poisons reservoirs five hundred miles away. Anyway, what am I talking about? The next time would be the death of me. It's absolutely out of the question."
Talking about her career, she now seemed more like the Janet West he remembered. Motions of her head, a trick of pushing out her lips, the powerful rise and fall of her voice brought back to his mind moments of her performances in movies. He could recall how awed he had been, seeing the skyrocketing young film star backstage at the rehearsals of the second Follies for Free Spain. Her hair had been light brown then, rippling to her shoulders. Hardly more than nineteen, she had moved like a squaw in the wake of her husband, Melvin Swann, a suspected communist, but such a success at playing brutal likable villains that Hollywood was then tolerating him. He was either dead now, or drifting around Europe. Paperman was reluctant to ask Iris about him. He knew that some time during her public crack-up, so pitifully early in her career, they had been divorced.
My God, what a beauty she had been! How touching her inexpert willing efforts to sing and dance in the radical skits! Iris Tramm, as a thirtyish blonde encountered on a tropical island, was attractive enough. As the red embers of the briefly incandescent Janet West she was pathetic, startling, and even more appealing.
They drove into the town. (Georgetown was its name; in native parlance it was "dung tung.") The Chevrolet began a tortuous climb along ill-paved streets, steeper, narrower, and more winding as they went up, lined with perilous open sewer trenches, unpainted little wooden houses, and shacks of tin cans hammered flat. None of these places had glass in their windows. The people lived in mazes of plasterboard partitions not reaching to the ceiling, but the interiors were neat, and some walls had bright-tinted religious pictures. All along the way flowering shrubs grew from patches of earth or big lard cans. Children below school age scampered about in little shirts, or less. The progress of the gigantic Chevrolet through the tiny streets was greeted with many a bashful grin and unconcealed penis.
"These people don't live well," he said.
"This is the Caribbean."
"Is there unrest here?"
With a crooked smile she maneuvered the car past a sharp and narrow corner. "Remember, Norman, these people haven't just arrived from Idlewild. They've never seen Park Avenue or Westport."
As they zigzagged uphill, head-on meetings with other vehicles
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