Black Diamond Read online

  Captain Bridgewater had started out as a freebooter, but his travels had changed him. He’d been moderately chastened by his ordeal in the storm, although through the exercise of his superb seamanship he’d managed to save his vessel. And as soon as he landed on the island – as the sole survivor of his ship’s company – he became a better man: he fell in love. The girl who won his heart was a curvaceous strawberry blonde: she caught his eye as she was about to be sacrificed to the idol. The diamond – so she told him haltingly, in her newly learned English – was angry. It had to be appeased. She had been chosen for the job on the basis of her unusual appearance and perhaps also because her parents had been foreign; they had died many years ago when she was still a baby. No one would tell her how they met their fate, but she guessed that the jewel had claimed them. She herself had never been persecuted. She’d been treated as an honored guest. Now she wondered if, all along, the priesthood hadn’t been saving her for this moment.

  As soon as the commercials began again, Sandra ran to the bathroom and then to the kitchen. There wasn’t time to make another cup of coffee. She settled for a glass of water. She sipped slowly as the movie continued.

  The hero, as she might have suspected, was captured. But, since he’d done a good deed earlier in the story when he’d rescued two men from execution, he had helpers in the community. So hope was not completely lost, in spite of the fact that he was tied up in ropes when the girl was being led off to the place of sacrifice. As the camera switched back and forth between the hero in his bonds and the heroine, being dragged towards a bed of coals, the helpers struggled with the hundreds of knots and Sandra – not daring to swallow the last drops of water in case she missed something – whispered, ‘Hurry, hurry up.’

  The ending used the same back-and-forth device: although the captain was now freed, he had to get to the girl in time. He raced across the island, while she – surrounded by a muttering mob of fanatic acolytes – gained a few minutes of life; the high priest had to chant the right words over her before she could be thrown into the fiery pit. Close by her stretched a long, burning track of live coals. That was the testing place for liars. You were supposed to have an even chance of getting to the other side if you were telling the truth. But three people had already burst into flames halfway to the finishline and Sandra knew, from the way things were shown, that they’d been telling the truth. Of course, that kind of thing wouldn’t work. It was like those penalties for witches: if they sank, they were innocent; if they floated, they were in league with the devil. But at least on the coals you’d have the possibility of escape. If you were in the pit, you stayed there until you burned to a crisp.

  The hero ran, the heroine wriggled and screamed, the high priest intoned gloatingly. Behind and above him the perfect diamond sparkled with light. It seemed like an object from another world. The mob – louder and more restive by the minute – kept looking up at it. The priest droned, the heroine moaned, the hero raced. And at last, just as the captain broke onto the scene, another element was added: a sudden, deep rumbling. Way off in the background, smoke began to rise from the volcano. The sky darkened, the grumbling was like thunder, the earth shook. Everyone screamed, even the two hulking guards who were holding the girl. The hero ran up and took her by the hand. But the high priest, seeing him, pointed and shouted to his priestly warriors. They moved forward, their spears ready. The escape route was cut off. The only way out was to go through the fire.

  Sandra leaned over to put her glass down on the floor without taking her eyes from the screen. The volcano erupted, showering sparks and ashes everywhere. Hero and heroine dashed through the mob and reached the fiery walkway, which – miraculously – they negotiated without harm, although parts of their clothing exploded into a bright, gassy cloud around them. They reached the far side and stepped out on to the ground. That was the kind of thing true love enabled you to do. The high priest was in fits. He ordered people to go after them. A few started out, but the fire engulfed them. And suddenly everybody realized that the priest wasn’t helping. In fact, he was spending most of his time sending other people to their death. What was left of the mob advanced on him. His bodyguards tried to protect him but when they saw that the maddened crowd was backing them into a corner with him, they quit worrying about their leader and tried to save themselves.

  The phone rang. Sandra knocked over a stack of cassette tapes to get to it fast; she thought it would be Bert, repentant and sentimental, ready to propose something really nice, to make up.

  It was her Aunt Marion. They didn’t see each other very often. Aunt Marion had always been independent. But in the past three years six of her friends had died and once more her family had become a necessity to her, though she still didn’t like them much.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Nothing bad, dear. No, just inconvenient. I’m supposed to be away for the weekend, but now the only day the men can deliver the window is Saturday. They can’t even take it to McHutchin’s, because he’s in Bangor for his son’s wedding. And I couldn’t cancel my outing with Elsie.’ Elsie was one of the two surviving friends. ‘I don’t suppose you could let them in for me, could you?’

  ‘I guess I could.’ So far, Aunt Marion had proved to be someone who appreciated and returned favors, not a person who took acts of kindness to mean encouragement towards further – and possibly, unending – imposition. ‘What time did they say they’d deliver the thing?’

  ‘In the afternoon. “Sometime after noon,” they said. You know how they are.’

  ‘What time are you leaving?’

  ‘Oh, early. As early as possible. But you could get the key from, um, the usual place, you know.’

  Sandra knew. One of the reasons why her aunt had singled her out was that she was quick to pick up that sort of hint. There were other members of the family who were more cheerful or obliging, but some of them were pretty dense. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘I won’t repeat it over the phone. Yes, sure. I can be there about ten o’clock.’

  ‘How kind of you, Sandra. That really is a relief. If that window doesn’t go in soon, I can see myself waiting all winter for it. You’re an angel.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it could work out very well. I’ve got a lot to think about over the next couple of days.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ Aunt Marion too was fairly quick on the draw. ‘I hope it’s something nice.’

  Sandra laughed. She said she wasn’t sure: she probably wouldn’t know about that until she’d done the thinking.

  ‘I’ll make up the bed in the guest room,’ her aunt said. ‘The second on the left, at the top of the stairs. And there’s plenty of food in the icebox.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Sandra told her. ‘And if you leave a phone number, I’ll call you.’

  Aunt Marion said that that would be perfect and Sandra was truly a friend in need. She hung up.

  As soon as she put the receiver down, Sandra began to think it was possible that all the time she’d been talking to her aunt, Bert might have tried to get in touch with her. Maybe she should call him up, to find out: to see if he’d changed his mind. He could come with her to Aunt Marion’s; spend the weekend. She’d have to ask first.

  She lifted the receiver and immediately put it down again. That would be weak and silly. And if she felt angry at herself, it was – naturally – his fault. He was the one she should be mad at.

  The adventure movie still rampaged across the television screen. She stepped back into the living room. The mob yelled and brandished spears, while fire shot up into the sky like celebration rockets. She sat back down in her chair.

  The hero and heroine made a rush for the cool jungle and the sea beyond, where his boat was waiting. In the background you could see the priest being thrown into the burning pit, his two guards following him. The sound of their screams was covered by the roaring of flames, the crack and crashing of the volcano. Sparks rained from the sky. Hero and heroine speeded up, but things did
n’t look good. As they entered the tall foliage, the earth was shaken by new rumblings, the idol shuddered on its pedestal. The crowd groaned and the statue split, sending the diamond vaulting high into the air, projected like a shooting star over the heads of the embroiled mob.

  It fell right in front of the escaping lovers. The heroine gasped. She bent down to where it lay nested in a halo of light, its outlines almost hidden by the twinkling sparkles of its radiance. Her hand opened towards it. But the hero pulled her back. He kicked the jewel out of the way and dragged her forward. They crashed through the trees. Behind them the vegetation became an incandescent river of writhing flames and whizzing fireballs. They reached the shore, plunged into the water, swam to the boat. And the last anyone saw of them was their embracing forms against the white sail of The Dauntless. The boat slipped quickly away from the burning island. Every sail was full, straining towards freedom. And large letters spelled out the words, ‘The End’, over the two faces as they approached each other from left and right for a central clinch – the ecstatic kiss that was to be both conclusion and beginning. Sandra sighed. She relaxed. Right up to the end, she’d been worried that something would go wrong.

  There were other shows to watch afterwards, but she’d had enough. He wasn’t going to call.

  She took the bath she’d been putting off. Then she brushed her teeth. If he’d tried to phone, that was too bad.

  She sat propped up in bed with a magazine open on her lap. She read for a while, but she lost interest. Her mind kept going back to the South Sea island in the movie: the exotic jungle, the pagan crowds baying for blood, the idol that guarded its shimmering diamond, the escape of the two lovers as the island went up like a torch. That was what she loved about the movies – they gave you everything like a dream. It wasn’t just that she liked them, even though they weren’t true: she liked them precisely because they weren’t. In real life, what would have happened to the hero and heroine? That would have been a different kind of human sacrifice. She could imagine it: eight years later, the two of them trying to make a living in an American city somewhere; the heroine would look back and say to herself, I had a fortune right in front of me and he kicked it away. What kind of a fool would do that? We could have lived like kings. And he’d be thinking, If only I’d gone for the diamond and not the girl. I’d be happy now, have new women whenever I liked, and my own boat again – my own island, if I wanted it; freedom for the rest of my days, and a good life for all my children, even if I had hundreds of them.

  And what would have happened to the diamond? It would be all right, even if the island sank to the bottom of the sea. It was not, like human love, vulnerable to change. That was the trick to real life: you could walk through fire for each other and still end up wishing you’d never married.

  She put the magazine on the night table and turned out the light.

  *

  The next morning she packed a nightgown, the summer sandals she wore as bedroom slippers, the book she’d been intending for months to read straight through. She set out early enough to miss the traffic in town.

  It was a cloudy fall day but the sky looked as if the weather might clear up later. It had been a bad year for trees. The long drought in June and July – maybe even the strange spring weather before that – had done something to their leaves: instead of turning color, they’d just dried up and gone brown. Halloween was less than a week away and still there had been no beautiful trees to look at. Everyone felt disappointed. It was like seeing a spring when the fruit trees failed to blossom.

  All night long she’d expected the call from Bert. Now she was glad that she knew how things were. She was also happy to get away from the city for a few days. She drove fast. Before she arrived, the sun came out. She hummed a little tune as she entered the neat, picturebook suburb in which Aunt Marion had a medium-sized frame house surrounded by flowerbeds, lawn, picket fence and everything else her neighbors had too. It seemed a nice place to live – peaceful and pretty, and not – as she used to think of such districts – dull, houseproud and undoubtedly full of bigots.

  Aunt Marion had left a note by the telephone. There were instructions about the stove, the lights, how to double-lock the front door and what to do to the handle of the guest-room toilet if the water kept running. A long list of foods followed – all the delicacies Sandra could and should help herself to. And then there was the information about the window. Sandra had trouble reading the name of the delivery firm, but she got as far as Lo-something. She put the note into her pocket and went to the kitchen. She inspected the icebox crammed with food. It almost looked as though her aunt had spent the night cooking meals for her: a fish casserole, puddings, cold chicken and ham. There were glass containers of peas and rice. And in the cold room were two cakes, several full jars of cookies, fudge and walnut brownies. Unless Aunt Marion had made a lot of new friends recently, she must have been holding bridge parties at her house, or entertaining people from the garden club she belonged to.

  Sandra walked back to the dining room and on to the living room. It had been several months since she’d been in the house, yet everything seemed to be exactly as when she’d last seen it. She took her suitcase upstairs. Most of her visits to Aunt Marion had been for the day. She hadn’t spent the night in one of the guest rooms since her childhood. And it had been years since she’d stayed long enough to explore the neighborhood.

  She unpacked. After that, she wandered downstairs again. The house was beginning to feel strange. It was an odd thing about empty houses; this one felt quiet in a way that wasn’t restful. It was as if the absence of the owner had brought on a parallel absence within the house: as if the air had died.

  She got out her book. As she read, the sun outside brightened and warmed the room around the big, high-backed chair she’d chosen. She sank deep into the story. It was about a southern belle who was falling in love with a scoundrel; he wanted to take over her family’s plantation. The heroine was struggling hard against her feelings and wondering whether she ought to let him dance with her at the cotillion, when the doorbell rang. Sandra jumped.

  She opened the door without bothering to look first. It could have been anyone, but in a suburb like this it would be ridiculous to suspect the kind of attack that happened in big cities. Life wasn’t like that here.

  Three hefty workmen stood on her aunt’s gray-and-white painted porch. One of them – the one in charge – had rung the bell. The two others held between them a large pane of glass in a frame; they had rested it where it was just about to dig into one of the strategically placed potted geraniums that made the porch look so cheerful and welcoming, or – as Sandra had once believed – so maddeningly tidy. All three men wore white overalls. The leader had removed his cap.

  She welcomed them with a smile, showed them through the house and opened a door next to the pantry, where Aunt Marion had said the window should go. Gardening equipment and vases had been pushed back to make room. When the time came to slide the window into its space, the man in authority lent a hand. ‘Over to the right,’ he told the others. ‘Don’t let her down yet. Look out for the edge there, Jake.’ It all went smoothly. Nothing was broken or knocked over. Everyone seemed pleased. Sandra thanked the men profusely. She told them how delighted her aunt would be. They said they were glad to help out: you needed the windows to be right, now that the cold was coming on. The one named Jake gave her a little wave and all three trooped out.

  She closed the door behind them. She hadn’t offered a tip, since Aunt Marion’s note had expressly cautioned her not to let the men have anything. I’ve given them plenty already, she had written, and this window is late.

  She waited until the workmen had driven away, then her city habits forced her back to the front door. She put the chain on and turned the lock.

  All the rest of the morning she read. She made herself a sandwich and salad lunch, listened to some music on the radio and went out for a walk. She could have driven to another town, gone to
a museum or tried to get into an afternoon show somewhere, but she felt that she was responsible for keeping an eye on the house. She didn’t think that she should get too far away. If the year and the trees had been better, she’d have cruised around the countryside and looked at the fall colors.

  While she walked, she thought about Bert, about how she was going to start regular exercise at the Y this year – swimming or aerobics; about whether she could afford to go away in the spring and, if so, where she should go. She realized all at once that if she could get together the money for a really nice trip somewhere, she wouldn’t want to take it with Bert. If he were with her, her time would be spent in paying attention to him, not absorbing new sights and thoughts. Maybe he’d felt the same way. That could be the reason why he hadn’t wanted to spend the weekend with her.

  She’d been out walking around the neighborhood with her aunt twice before: once when she was about eight years old, and once again three years before her Great-Aunt Constance had died. On that visit they’d gone to look at a nearby memorial – a bronze statue erected to a woman who had dressed as a soldier in order to follow her husband into battle during the time of the Revolution. Sandra remembered the statue as pretty and looking rather like the portrait of a musician, although – perhaps because of the ponytail hairstyle – too obviously a woman.

  She walked until she realized that as far as the statue went, she was lost. It wasn’t to be found in the direction she’d taken. She turned back, trying not to feel upset. Just lately – no doubt because of Bert – whenever anything didn’t pan out, she’d add it to her list of what wasn’t going right for her.