Read Online The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert - Free Book Online Page B

disfigured corpses were still being discovered each morning in dumps on the outskirts of the city, and no one trusted the government-run radio station’s reports that life had returned to normal. The other radio stations—as well as the newspapers—were still closed by decree.
    Somehow Mme Freeman remained oblivious of what was going on. Or perhaps just indifferent. Despite her considerable talents, it could not have been easy for her as a woman to have achieved the success that she had; perhaps she had grown to accept conditions such as these as the cost of doing business.
    M. Guinee said he often found Mme Freeman strolling the hotel grounds, admiring the modest gardens. One afternoon he came across her seated on one of the stone benches beside the fountain, hands folded in her lap as she gazed at the treetops. They had spoken a few times before, always of insignificant things, especially about the weather and her continual astonishment that it never changed. She had always been pleasant, and on this afternoon, he told me, he would not have minded speaking with her again, but he knew it would be inappropriate for him to approach her without cause or invitation. The hotel had strict policies regarding interactions between staff and guests.
    As it happened, however, Mme Freeman called out to him as he passed.
    â€œWhat’s the name of this tree?” she asked, pointing to a cluster of golden yellow flowers dangling from a branch above her head.
    â€œIt’s a trumpet tree,” M. Guinee said. She nodded admiringly.
    â€œAs you can see”—he reached out for one of the blossoms—“its shape is like the bell of the instrument.”
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” she said. “Everything here is beautiful. I’ve never seen flowers as wonderful as the ones you have here. At home in the States I have a rose garden I tend to myself. I won’t let the gardener near it. The rest of the gardens are his, but that one’s mine.”
    She and M. Guinee spoke for a few minutes more, and—as M. Guinee would later describe it to me—he had already wished her good day and turned to continue on his way when suddenly he stopped. He said the idea struck him just like that, without any premeditation.
    â€œMme Freeman,” he said, turning back toward the bench, “I know of a place I think you would like very much.”
    And so M. Guinee told her about the road to Saint-Gabriel, and about the stone wall and the estate beyond it, about the forty-five acres of unspoiled tropical rainforest, the last of its kind on the island. Of course, he did not suggest taking her there himself; such an idea would never have occurred to him. But so enchanted was she with his description of Habitation Louvois that, after they parted ways, Mme Freeman found the hotel manager and demanded M. Guinee be given the rest of the day off to do just that. Both the manager—himself a mulatto—and M. Guinee said it was impossible. A black native man and a white foreign woman alone together—never.
    Of course, M. Guinee and his employer were each too well mannered to explain the reason.
    â€œPerhaps my wife could escort you,” the manager suggested. “M. Guinee could tell her driver the way.”
    Mme Freeman would not hear of it. “Either Mr. Guinee takes me,” she said firmly, “or I’ll go alone.”
    M. Guinee related all of this to me with a sheepish grin, as if to say, What can you do with a woman like this?
    Seeing no alternative, the manager arranged for a car, and M. Guinee brought it around front. As Mme Freeman came down the steps, he hurried over and held open the door to the backseat, as he had seen the chauffeurs do many times before. But Mme Freeman had other ideas. Upon reaching the drive, she brushed past him and let herself into the passenger seat.
    â€œMadame,” M. Guinee said, reopening the door she had just closed. “I’m afraid