Read Online Don't Stop the Carnival by Herman Wouk - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Herman Wouk
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stopped them twice. Once Iris backed around a corner to make way for a taxi. The next time it was she who halted, while the driver of a rickety truck full of live goats waved merrily, gave her a white-toothed grin, and backed out of sight up a steep curving hill, to the loud protests of the terrified goats. "There's a gentleman," said Paperman.
"Oh, mostly they love driving backwards. It's the direction of choice in the Caribbean."
The shacks became fewer as they reached a cooler altitude far above the main town. Soon they were in green countryside, driving along a high ridge on a new two-lane road, with splendid views of the town and the harbor. The houses up here were of a different class: some of white-plastered cement block, with red tile roofs, some of fieldstone, and some eccentric constructions of redwood and glass. These homes ranged from medium size, by American standards, to sprawling mansions, all with large gardens of bougainvillea, scarlet poinsettia, high thickly flowered hibiscus hedges, and lavish plantings of tall-fronded banana trees.
"Beverly Hills," said Paperman.
"Signal Mountain. Same thing. The people here are known as the hill crowd."
"Who are they?"
"Some shop owners. The old plantation families. Retired rich folks. Retired military. Homo couples. Assorted drunks living on trust funds. Mostly white, but there are some old leading colored families."
"Sounds interesting."
"I wouldn't know. The minimum time for acceptance by the hill crowd, so they say, is ten years."
"How about that governor? Is he accepted?"
"Sort of tolerated."
It was a spectacular ride. Paperman delighted in the ever-changing panoramas of the town, the azure sea, and the green hills. The road grew more winding and the scenery became wilder: forested hills and valleys plunging down to red-brown crags and the breaking sea. They rounded a sharp curve, and the town went quite out of sight. This was the other side of Amerigo, more precipitous and even greener, a jungle green. Norman said after a long silence, "Iris, what's eating the governor?"
She briefly turned her head full at him, her large eyes wide. "A number of things, I believe. He did a lot of work to bring out the colored vote on the West Coast for Eisenhower, they say. Expected the Virgin Islands as his lump of sugar, but got Kinja instead. Then I guess there's that wife of his, up in Washington with his two boys, and evidently not about to come down and make him a home, or to divorce him either." She paused. "I also expect His Excellency's never been too happy about finding himself inside a colored skin." Iris swerved the car into a dirt road. "Hang on now."
They went bumping down through tangled woods: some wild palms, papayas, and mangoes, but mostly tall trees like birches with swollen lumps on their trunks, big wooden tumors. She said these were termite nests. The road became steeper and stonier. They were going down and around a hill, entering another climate of dry hot wind, and the car was raising a cloud of red dust with an acrid smell. One cactus plant after another appeared: clumps of straight spiky tubes, barrel cactus, prickly pear. The ground became flinty rubble. More and more the trees gave way to cactus, thornbush, and the great spikes of century plants. The car stopped, for the dirt road ended. Beyond lay a narrow stone trail into the thorns. "I don't know," Iris said. "I've only done this in a jeep before. It's a hell of a walk down from here and we have all that picnic stuff-shoot, let's see what kind of cojones they put in a Chevy nowadays."
They jolted forward. He rolled up his window in a hurry, after a long thorn branch raked blood from his cheek. The car groaned, bounded, shuddered, clanked; it struck its axles and underside with jarring, screechy blows. Meadows whimpered. Iris fought the wheel coolly. "All right, you Detroit son of a bitch,
"Oh, mostly they love driving backwards. It's the direction of choice in the Caribbean."
The shacks became fewer as they reached a cooler altitude far above the main town. Soon they were in green countryside, driving along a high ridge on a new two-lane road, with splendid views of the town and the harbor. The houses up here were of a different class: some of white-plastered cement block, with red tile roofs, some of fieldstone, and some eccentric constructions of redwood and glass. These homes ranged from medium size, by American standards, to sprawling mansions, all with large gardens of bougainvillea, scarlet poinsettia, high thickly flowered hibiscus hedges, and lavish plantings of tall-fronded banana trees.
"Beverly Hills," said Paperman.
"Signal Mountain. Same thing. The people here are known as the hill crowd."
"Who are they?"
"Some shop owners. The old plantation families. Retired rich folks. Retired military. Homo couples. Assorted drunks living on trust funds. Mostly white, but there are some old leading colored families."
"Sounds interesting."
"I wouldn't know. The minimum time for acceptance by the hill crowd, so they say, is ten years."
"How about that governor? Is he accepted?"
"Sort of tolerated."
It was a spectacular ride. Paperman delighted in the ever-changing panoramas of the town, the azure sea, and the green hills. The road grew more winding and the scenery became wilder: forested hills and valleys plunging down to red-brown crags and the breaking sea. They rounded a sharp curve, and the town went quite out of sight. This was the other side of Amerigo, more precipitous and even greener, a jungle green. Norman said after a long silence, "Iris, what's eating the governor?"
She briefly turned her head full at him, her large eyes wide. "A number of things, I believe. He did a lot of work to bring out the colored vote on the West Coast for Eisenhower, they say. Expected the Virgin Islands as his lump of sugar, but got Kinja instead. Then I guess there's that wife of his, up in Washington with his two boys, and evidently not about to come down and make him a home, or to divorce him either." She paused. "I also expect His Excellency's never been too happy about finding himself inside a colored skin." Iris swerved the car into a dirt road. "Hang on now."
They went bumping down through tangled woods: some wild palms, papayas, and mangoes, but mostly tall trees like birches with swollen lumps on their trunks, big wooden tumors. She said these were termite nests. The road became steeper and stonier. They were going down and around a hill, entering another climate of dry hot wind, and the car was raising a cloud of red dust with an acrid smell. One cactus plant after another appeared: clumps of straight spiky tubes, barrel cactus, prickly pear. The ground became flinty rubble. More and more the trees gave way to cactus, thornbush, and the great spikes of century plants. The car stopped, for the dirt road ended. Beyond lay a narrow stone trail into the thorns. "I don't know," Iris said. "I've only done this in a jeep before. It's a hell of a walk down from here and we have all that picnic stuff-shoot, let's see what kind of cojones they put in a Chevy nowadays."
They jolted forward. He rolled up his window in a hurry, after a long thorn branch raked blood from his cheek. The car groaned, bounded, shuddered, clanked; it struck its axles and underside with jarring, screechy blows. Meadows whimpered. Iris fought the wheel coolly. "All right, you Detroit son of a bitch,
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