Mason & Dixon (9 page)

 
strange Engines, and obviously desperate for a shore-cook'd meal. None of this has appear'd to him in any mirror he's consulted.

Until June, most of their obs will be of Jupiter's Moons playing at Duck and Ducklings, and of fix'd Stars such as Regulus and Procyon, as well as the zenith-Star at the Cape, Shaula, the Sting in the Tail of the Scorpion,— all so as to establish the Station's Longitude as nearly as possible. Many nights in that Season proving to be stormy or clouded over, there will be plenty of time for Mischief to shake her Curls, pinch some color into her Cheeks, and, assuming ev'ryone 'round here is not yet dead, feel free to make a few Suggestions.

"Meet my Daughters," Cornelius is ever pleas'd to introduce them to Strangers, "— Jemima, Kezia, and Kerenhappuch." They are, in fact, Jet, Greet, and Els, as he fails, in fact, to be quite Job.

Jet, sixteen, is obsess'd by her Hair,— as if 'twere a conscious Being, separate from her, most of her activities thro' the long Cape Quotidian are directed by its needs,— from choosing Costumes to arranging Social schedules, to assessing, from the way they behave when in its Vicinity, the suitability of Beaux.

The middle Daughter Greet having chosen good Sense as a refuge when she was seven, Attention to her Hair,— as her older sister has more than once chided,— is limited to different ways of covering it up. Withal, "I am the Tavern-Door 'round here," she cries of her Role as Eternal Mediatrix, for should Els grow too frolicksome, Greet must team up with Jet to restrain her,— yet, should Jet pretend to wield Authority she hasn't earned, Greet must join with Els in Insurrection.

Els, tho' a mere twelve by the Calendar back home, down here in the Southern World began long ago the active Pursuit of Lads twice her age, not all of them unwilling. Of the three Sisters, she seems devoted most unreflectively to the Possibilities of Love, her judgment as to where these may best be sought being the nightly Despair of her Sisters. She never needs to touch her Hair, and it is always perfect.

Cornelius Vroom, anxious as others in the House upon the Topick of Nubility and its unforeseen Woes, has forbidden his daughters to eat any of the native Cookery, particularly that of the Malay, in his Belief that the Spices encourage Adolescents into "Sin," by which he means Lust that

 
crosses racial barriers. For it is real,— he has known it to appear, more than once, here and up in the country, where his Brothers and their families live. He keeps loaded Elephant-Guns in both the front hallway and the Dispens in back. Deep in the curfew hours, in bed with his pipe, he imagines laughter outside the windows, even when the wind drowns out every sound,— slave laughter. He knows they watch him, and he tries to pay close Attention to the nuances of their speech. Somewhat as his Neighbors each strenuous Sunday profess belief in the Great Struggle at the End of the World, so does Cornelius, inside his perimeter of Mauritian smoke at the hour when nothing is lawfully a-stir but the Rattle-Watch and the wind, find in his anxious meditations no Release from the coming Armageddon of the races,— this European settlement so precarious, facing an unknown Interior with the sea at their backs, forced, step after step, by the steadfast Gravity of all Africa, down into it at last— It is another way of living where the Sea is ever higher than one's Head, and kept out only provisionally.

The first moment they find themselves in a Room together, Jet hands Mason a Hair-Brush. "There's a bit in back I can't reach,— please give it a dozen Strokes for me, Charles?"

"Nor does she allow just anyone do this," Greet entering, crossing, and exiting, "I hope you feel honor'd, Sir," with a look back over her shoulder that is anything but reproachful. A moment later she's back, with Els, who comes skipping over to Mason, and without a word, lifting her skirts, sits upon his lap in a sinuous Motion, allowing the Lace Hems to drop again, before squirming about to glance at his Face. "Now then, my English Tea-Pot," reaching to pinch his Cheek, by now well a-flame, "shall I tell you what she really wants you to do with that Hair-Brush?"

"Els, you Imp from Hell, I shall shave your Head. Mr. Mason is a Gentleman, who would never have such designs upon my bodily Comfort," putting out her hand for the return of the Hair-Brush, " - would you, Charles?"

Mason sits, torpedo'd again. To refuse to return the Brush would be to issue an Invitation she might accept. Yet if he hands it back, she'll shrug and go flitting on, tossing her Hair about, to someone marginally more interesting, and he'll face Hour upon insomniack Hour with the Fevers

 
of erotick speculation ever dispell'd by the Cold Bath of Annoyance at himself. Els continues meanwhile to reposition her nether Orbs upon Mason's Lap, to his involuntary, tho' growing Interest. Greet comes over to place her hand on his Brow. "Are you well, Sir? Is there anything I may bring you?" Fingertips lightly descending to his already assaulted Cheek, her eyes Crescent and heated. Her Lips, at least as he will recall this later, beginning to part, and come closer.

"Girls." Johanna bustling in. "You are disturbing Mr. Mason, 'tis obvious, and," switching to Cape Dutch, "in here it begins to smell like the Slaves' Chambers." The three maidens immediately snap to Attention, lining up in order of Height, trying without success to avoid all Gaze-Catching.

When they've been sent away cackling, their mother places an unpremeditated hand upon Mason's arm. "As a man of Science, you understand the role of Humors in adolescent behavior, and will not respond, I hope, too passionately. Is that the word, 'Passionately'?"

"Good Vrou, rest easy,— these days Passion knows me not,...alas."

She gazes long enough at his Member, still erect from the posterior Attentions of her youngest Daughter, before looking him in the eye. "I cannot imagine, then, how 'twill be, once you and It are re-acquainted."

"Should that occur," says Mason, fatally but not yet mortally, "pray feel welcome to attend and observe at first hand." She looks away at last, and in the Release Mason feels an Impulse to smite the Wall repeatedly with his Head. "Then again, your Duties may oblige you to be elsewhere."

She brushes against him on her way out the other Door, raking him with a glistening stare. "0, too late for that, good Sir, far too late."

What is wrong with this family? He feels stranded out at the end of some unnaturally prolong'd Peninsula of Obligation, whilst about to be overwhelm'd by great Combers of Alien Lusts. He now recognizes the Hair-Brush Dilemma in a different form. This time, whatever he may say in reply, will be taken and 'morphos'd, however Johanna wishes. He feels a sudden rush of Exemption. It does not matter what he says.

That night, the Sky too cloudy for Work, Mason is awaken'd by the naked Limbs of a Slave-girl, who has enter'd his Bed. Dixon is not yet

 
return'd, tho' 'tis well past the Gunfire. "What the Deuce!" is his gallant greeting. "And,— who are you, then?" He recalls having seen her in the company of various Vroom Girls.

"Austra, good Sir,— 'tis a common name here for Slaves."

' 'The South.'..." He is peering at her in the moonlit room. "I am Mason. Charles Mason."

She takes his Chin betwixt her Thumb and Finger. "A few basic points, Sir. First, no unnatural Activities. Second, no Opium, no Dagga, no Ardent Spirits, no Wine, and so on. Third, their Wish is that I become impregnated,— if not by you, then by one of you."

"Ehm..."

"All that the Mistress prizes of you is your Whiteness, understand? Don't feel disparag'd,— ev'ry white male who comes to this Town is approach'd by ev'ry Dutch Wife, upon the same Topick. The baby, being fairer than its mother, will fetch more upon the Market,— there it begins, there it ends."

"What, no Sentiment, no Love, no— Excuse me? 'Approach'd'? Ahrr! Of course,— was I imagining m'self the first? And you, how many of these expensive little slaves have you borne her?"

"Why be angry with me, Sir? She is the Mistress, I do as she bids."

"Why, in England, no one has the right to bid another to bear a child?"

"Poh. White Wives are much alike, and all their Secrets are common knowledge at the Market. Many have there been, oblig'd to go on bearing children,— for no reason but the man's pride."

"Our Women are free."

'' 'Our'? Oh, hark yourself,— how is English Marriage any different from the Service I'm already in?"

"You must marry an Englishman, and see."

"Not today, Sailor. Yet take warning,— the Mother will set her three Cubs upon ye without Mercy, and make her own assaults as well, all of it intended to keep this rigid with your Desire,— and the only one in the House you'll be allow'd to touch is me."

" 'This'? I say, what's that you're doing there? You really ought not to— “

"Having but an innocent Squeeze, Sir. Keep me in Mind. I'll tell them I couldn't wake you up." She proceeds carefully as she may to the door, expecting at ev'ry step to be assaulted,— he snorts, and paws the Counterpane, but doesn't charge. Exiting, looking back over a dorsal 'Scape immediately occupying all of Mason's Attention, "See you tomorrow at Breakfast,— remember to save one of those 'cute Frowns for me." And Damme, she's off.

Next morning, none of the five Sprites is able to engage the Eyes of any other. Dixon wolfs down griddle cakes and Orange-Juice, whilst Mason glumly concentrates upon the Coffee and its Rituals. Cornelius comes in briefly to light his Pipe and nod before proceeding to his Work, which involves a good deal of screaming at the Slaves. Mason's Day, long and fatiguing, is spent popping in and out of doors, being caught alone in different rooms with different females of the household, by others, who then contrive to return the favor. Only slowly does it dawn on him that this goes on here all the time,— being likely the common Life of the House,— and that he but happens to have stumbl'd into it as some colorful Figure from the Fringes of the World, here for a while and then gone, just enough time for ev'ryone, barring some unannounc'd bolt of Passion finding a Target, to make use of him, perhaps not quite time enough for them to come to despise him.

So Mason prays for clear nights and perfect seeing,— nonetheless, his throat closes and dries, his heart's rhythm picks up whenever the Clouds cover the Sunset, and the Fog rolls swiftly all the way up to the Observatory, and over it, and on up, and he knows he'll be facing anywhere up to five distinctly motivated Adventuresses, each of whom, as in some fiendish Asian parlor-game, is scheming against the other four, the field having shifted from Motives of Pleasure to Motives of Reproduction and Commerce. Its being for them a given that nothing of a Romantick nature will occur,— nothing does. Mason is usually left with an inflexible Object, which, depending upon the Breeches he's wearing that day, not to mention the Coat, is more or less visible to the Publick, who at any rate, as it proves, are quite us'd to even less inhibited Displays.

Dixon does his best not to mention it, waiting rather for Mason either to brag, or to complain.

Eventually, "I know what you're looking at. I know what you're thinking."

"Who? I? Mason."

"Well, what am I suppos'd to do about it?"

"First, get out of thah' House."

Mason makes quick Head-Turns, to Left and Right, and lowers his Voice. "Whilst you've been out rollicking with your Malays and Pygmies,., .what have you heard of the various sorts of Magick, that they are said to possess?"

Dixon has in fact heard, from an assortment of Companions native to the Dutch Indies, Tales of Sorcery, invisible Beings, daily efforts to secure Shelter against Demonic Infestation. "They are not as happy, nor as childlike, as they seem," he tells Mason. "It may content us, as unhappy grown Englishmen, to think that somewhere in the World, Innocence may yet abide,— yet 'tis not among these people. All is struggle,— and all but occasionally in vain."

Mason cocks his head, trying to suppress a certain Quiver that also
gives him away when at Cards,— a bodily Desire to risk all upon a sin
gle Trick. "Would you happen to enjoy Entree to this world of Sorcery? I
am anxious as to Protection
              
"

"A Spell...?" Dixon suggests.

"Emphatickally not a Love-Potion, you understand, no, no, quite the contrary indeed."

Dixon, to spare himself what might else prove to be Evenings-ful of Complaint, says, "I've met people who are said to possess a special Power,— the Balinese Word is Sakti. It has not, however, always been successful against Dutchmen. Would this be a Hate potion, then, that tha require?"

"Well, certainly not Hate. Inconvenient as Love, in its own way,— no, more of an Indifference-Draught, 's more what I had in mind. 'Twould have to be without odor or Taste, and require but a few Drops,—

"I could have a look about, tho' 'tis more common here to accept what they happen to offer...?"

Difficult indeed are the next few Nights as Dixon, searching the Malay Quarter for an Elixir to meet Mason's specifications, beneath lam-pless staircases, in the bloody lulls of cock-fights, is merrily insulted from one illicit Grotto to another. Oh, they've heard of the Philtre, all right, 'tis quite in demand, in fact, as much by one Sex as the other. As the Company seeks to confine all the Dutch of the Cape Colony behind a Boundary it has drawn, and to rule them radially from a single Point, the least immoderate of Feelings, in such a clos'd Volume, may prove lethal. Over the Mountains, to keep all tranquil, entire Tribes work day and night shifts, trying to supply a lively Market. Imitations and Counterfeits abound.

Mason is not seeking the Potion for himself,— rather, his Scheme is to introduce it into the Soup-Bowl of his Hostess, who is kept tun'd to her own dangerous Pitch thro' the Attentions of a number of young Slave-girls chosen for their good looks,— they haunt her, whisking the flies from her skin, oiling it when the South-easter makes it dry as Pages of a Bible, draping it with silks from India and France. They feed her pomegranates, kneeling quickly to lick off the juice that runs down her hand before it reaches her sleeve. Cornelius has a Peep in from time to time. Though he usually departs with an Erection, it is possible that he is feeling the pain of an ineptly shot Beast. But his Expression doesn't change. He sucks upon his Pipe, removes it from his mouth to cough, and, continuing to cough, ambles away.