Drum (38 page)

"A thousand pardons, mademoiselle." Drum bowed formally from the waist, "May I return this precious kerchief which one of you just dropped?"

The girl nearest Drum lifted her pretty heart-shaped face and without smiling showed him the kerchief in her hand.

"You err, monsieur," she said, shaking the kerchief out to its full length. "It could not possibly be mine, unless. . . ." She glanced at her companion. "Veronique, did you by; chance drop your kerchief?"

"La," the other cried, "I do believe I did, Jeanneton."

"Then allow me." Drum proferred the wisp of perfumed: cambric. "Could this be it?"

"Merci." The girl fluttered her eyes at Drum. "How very kind you are. It is indeed mine and I should have been desolated at its loss. It was embroidered by the good sisters in the convent."

"And I return it with regrets, mademoiselle, for with sucU a delicious odor, I would like to keep it as a souvenir of a very charming young lady." Drum was not to be outdone in gentility although the allusion to the convent embroidery was difficiilt for him to top.

She took it from him. For a moment there was a strained silence. The formalities had passed—the gentilities had been observed. Now, if formality and gentility were still to be the order of the evening, there was nothing more to say or do except for the two men to bow and pass on and the two girls to curtsey and walk away in another direction. Buf none wanted that. The proprieties had served their purpose! Contact had been made and a lowering of barriers could no^ take place.

"Might we accompany you girls wherever you are going?" Drum essayed one more propriety.

"My sister and I are only returning to our home after i visit to friends. It is unfortunate that our way led througt Congo Square for it is hardly safe for two girls to walk alon« here," Veronique responded.

"And we would welcome your company, but, helas, mea sieurs, we are not acquainted," Jeaimeton answered.

"I am Drum," he slipped his arm inside Veronique's elbow "And this is my very good friend, Blaise." He nodded at Blais< but looked at the girl, Jeanneton.

"And I am Veronique," the girl on Drum's elbow added "and this is my sister, Jeanneton. We are of the household a old Madame Mercier. We would welcome your escort ant your protection, messieurs."

Drum and Veronique walked on ahead, Blaise and Jean neton following. They walked slowly, arm in arm througl the now almost deserted streets, illuminated only at the cob ners by the dull gleam of a lantern and occasionally by .

circle of light from an opened porte-cochere. On the grilled ipper balconies, cigars glowed and dresses made smudges )f white as the occupants of the houses sought the cool of he evening air.

Drum's arm slipped out of Veronique's arm and circled ler waist. Her hind reached for his and rested inside its noist warmth,

"You are Drum, the famous fighter?" She leaned her head igainst his coat. "He of the house of Madame Alix in Dumaine Street?"

"I am he," Drum answered, proud to think the girl had leard of him.

"They say no man can whip you." • "That is true." Drum held her more tightly. "But what a nan cannot accomplish a woman can. I would not like to ose to another man but I am always happy to surrender to a voman."

"We shall see." Her arm encircled his waist under the jreen coattails and she felt the warmth of his body through he thin shirt.

They sauntered slowly through the dark, quiet streets, and jy the time they had reached the block where the Mercier lOuse stood, their hands had explored and discovered mu-ually entertaining delights. These explorations were but a jrelude to a more intense gratification. That both Blaise and Feanneton had been similarly employed Drum could see vhen he looked at them.

At the comer of the block of the Mercier house, they lalted and the two sisters drew apart for a whispered conversation. Drum looked at Blaise.

"Doing all right, boy?"

"Just following you. When I sees you do something, I do ;t. Figure if you can do it, I can. So far have figured •ight."

The whispering between the girls stopped and they re-.urned to Drum and Blaise.

"Can you be very quiet?" Veronique asked.

Drum nodded.

"Then come, but do not speak and perhaps it would be [)etter if you removed your shoes when we arrive."

That was welcome news to Blaise, whose new shoes were inflicting tortures on his poor feet. He immediately leaned lip against the wall and slipped off his shoes and stockings.

The girls led them down through the dusty alley that led

to the back of the house. With her finger to her lips, cautioning quiet, Veronique pointed to Drum's shoes, then bidding the two fellows to wait, she and Jeanneton quietly opened the door. Veronique stepped inside and they could hear her footsteps on the flagging. In a moment she returned with her finger on her hps and they followed her through a paved comer of the inside court, along a narrow wooden balcony to another closed door which Veronique opened. Once inside, no candle was lighted and the Ught from the window gave only the vague outlines of a double pallet on the floor. Jearmeton closed the shutters which made the room dark and imbearably hot but gave them added security.

Now the prelude was over! Gentility and propriety were shed as hastily as the clothing which was stripped oS in the darkness. Flesh touched flesh. The only sounds were the ecstatic moans of the girls and the heavy breathing of the men which combined with the movements of bodies. At times, in the darkness. Drum was not sure whether it was Veronique or Jeanneton who was in his arms but he did not care. One was as avid as the other.

The minutes leaped into hours. Once they all lay frozen in immobility as a step was heard outside on the balcony. It dragged along slowly while they all held their breath.

"My father," Veronique, or it might have been Jeanneton, whispered in Drum's ear.

"Veronique! Jeanneton!" They heard the hoarse whisper through the shutters. "Are you home?"

"Out, mon pere." Veronique's words were fraught with mock slmnber.

"And Jeanneton?"

"IcL" Jeanneton also feigned sleepiness.

"Good night, my darlings." The steps continued to drag along the balcony. A door opened and closed and again there was silence.

Drum breathed deeply again. Although lips pressed and hands caressed it was impossible to establish the rapporl that had previously existed. Drum and Blaise had fully accomplished what they had come for and now, with gratification, there was no urgent need for re kindlin g dead fires. Drum felt himself drifting off to sleep. But daylight must not find them there, and he shook Blaise awake. Together they dressed hurriedly in the dark, not bothering with such complexities as tying cravats, putting on socks and shoes and

buttoning shirts. Quietly, Veronique opened the door and stepped out on the balcony, then beckoned to them to follow. Drum brushed her lips in passing and felt her fingers linger on the throbbing artery in his throat. Then, following her, stepping carefully so as to avoid creaking boards, they descended from the balcony to the firmer stones of the courtyard and out into the alley.

The door closed and Drum and Blaise were alone in the alley. The dust felt good to their bare feet, the cool air fanned the sweat from their bodies and they strode along, arm in arm—two cocks of the barnyard who had demonstrated their ability to rule the roost.

As they walked they started to sing, at first softly and then more loudly. One song led to another until Blaise started in to sing the ever popular . . .

Danse, Calinda, bou-djoumb! bou-djoumb! Danse, Calinda, bou-djoumbi bou-djoumb!

Drum's thoughts retvuned to Calinda. Suddenly he wanted her—not as she was, big with child, but as she had been. The joy that he had had that evening evaporated with the knowledge that nobody could give him the pleasure Calinda could. He had wanted what he had sought, he had obtained it and he had reveled in it; now he regretted it. Suppose, oh just suppose that Calinda had done to him what he had done to her—that she had gone out, foimd another man and spent the night with him. Mon Dieu! He would kill any man she had been with. Now he began to understand her intense jealousy of him. The very thought of another man touching Calinda caused a cold sweat to break out on his forehead. He looked at Blaise beside him, happily singing in his unattached innocence. He looked at Blaise's suit and realized how much Calinda would have treasured a new dress. Aiel he should have thought of her before Blaise. But he owed Blaise something for saving his life and so did Calinda. Surely he could not begrudge the gift, for Blaise was a good friend. Blaise was his only friend. He shrugged his shoulders. Why should he regret these few hours with Veronique and Jeanne-ton? After all, Calinda would never know and what she didn't know would not hurt her. But the song Blaise was singing still disturbed him.

"Sh-h-h, you braying donkey, we'll wake up the whole city. And keep your big mouth shut and walk softly on those big feet of yours. Maman said she'd leave the back door un-

locked so be quiet when you go up the stairs. Wonder what time it is."

As if to answer him, the sereno called out in the next block,

"Four o'clock on a warm, dry, spring morning."

"And we get up at six," Blaise sighed.

"Come on." Drum quickened his steps and when they neared the alley that ran behind the Academy of Music, they walked softly on their bare feet. Drum pushed open the door, but instead of the quiet darkness they anticipated, the kitchen was lighted and Rachel stood in the doorway. "It's about time." She was stem and disapproving. "An afternoon in Congo Square does not last till four in the mortiing."

"Is it Drum?" Calinda's voice from the little closet off the kitchen was strangely weak.

"Yes, it is, and high time it was." Rachel grabbed Drum's shoulder and pulled him into the kitchen, then pushed him towards the door of Calinda's room.

Halfway across the kitchen Drum heard a soimd he had never heard before or which, if he ever had, he had paid no attention to. It was the cry of a newborn baby. He looked at Rachel, his eyes wide with a question. She nodded her head. He tiptoed to the door.

A tallow dip in a tin candlestick on the floor shed its light on the pallet where Calinda lay. Her face was pale—almost the color of Blaise's pants, Drum thought—but she managed a wan smile and with one hand she drew down a corner of the sheet that covered her. Dnmi came closer and saw the little head that nestled in the crook of her arm. He took another step towards Calinda and the little mouth opened in a wail. Calinda moved slightly and offered her full breast to the open mouth. The wailing ceased. Drum knelt reverently beside them. His finger hesitated, then touched the little head ever so lightly, and he leaned down to kiss Calinda's hand supporting the baby's head.

"My son?" Drum whispered.

"Your son," she answered, drawing down the sheet further to expose the naked child.

"Indeed he is a wonderful son." Drum's finger traced the wrinkled forehead, the button of a nose and the softness of the cheek to the chin. "He is beautiful, Calinda."

"He is lighter than I am. Drum, but not as light as you.'*

"It doesn't matter. He will be bigger and stronger and I hope better than I am."

"I would not want him bigger, Drum, and he could not be better than you."

"I am not good, Calinda. I am not good. . . ."

Her fingers closed his lips. "You might tell me something I do not want to hear. I am happy now and if I heard it I would be unhappy. Do not tell me."

"There is nothing to tell." Drum's finger lingered on the little head. "Can Blaise see him?"

"Yes, I want Blaise to see him."

Dnmi walked to the door of Calinda's room and called Blaise in. Rachel followed.

Blaise studied the little head. He saw nothing particularly wonderful about the wizened, old-man features but he could not tell Drum that. He groped for words.

"He'll grow up to beat you. Drum."

"Beat me? Sure he'll beat me. He'll be the fightingest fighter of all."

The baby's mouth slipped from the nipple. His eyes closed in repletion and he slept. Calinda looked down at him.

"He's Drum's son," she murmiu-ed.

"And that's what we'll call him," Drum smiled at her—

"What?" Calinda asked.

"Drumson." Drum's finger rested lightly on the baby's cheek.

Despite ms happiness at the birth of his son, Drum's thoughts often returned to his night with Veronique and Jeanneton. Even though he had Cahnda again, he still desired the two light-skinned sisters. But his desire seemed as nothing compared with his pride of parenthood.

To him it was a scarcely comprehended miracle that somej chance moment of his ecstasy had, without any conscious determination of his own, produced this new life. Somehow he felt that there must be some power beyond himself that had performed this miracle, for certainly the ecstatic moment of his orgasm could not be the contributing factor. There must be something else I Outside of the expression "Mon Dieu" which Drum repeated parrot-wise, he had no knowledge of religion, no understanding of God, no cognizance of any greater meaning to life than the satisfaction of his desires of the moment. A man ate when he was hungry; he slept when he was tired; he fought when he was opposed; and he took a woman when his blood was hot. Of all the demands of his body, the last was what dominated him most, but that this mere yearning of the flesh could result in hisi siring of a man-child was the supreme miracle he could not comprehend. And yet, through the chance meeting of his mother, Rachel, with some other man, he himself had received life. He thought about this unknown man who had sired him, and wondered about him. Who was he, what had become of him, what was he like? He would have asked Rachel about him, but she had never been willing to speaki about this unknown man, this father to her child. He must have had a face; what had he looked like? Was his body big and strong? Was he tall and well formed? Was he more of a man, Dnmi wondered, than he himself was? It was difficult for him to imagine Rachel in any man's embrace^ Had his father received as much joy from her as he did from