Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys [38]
Now disgust was rising in me like sickness. Disgust and rage.
‘All right,’ he yelled, and moved away from the door. ‘Go then … get out. Now it’s me to say it. Get out. Get out. And if I don’t have the money I want you will see what I can do.
‘Give my love to your wife –my sister,’ he called after me venomously. ‘You are not the first to kiss her pretty face. Pretty face, soft skin, pretty colour – not yellow like me. But my sister just the same …’
At the end of the path out of sight and sound of the house I stopped. The world was given up to heat and to flies, the light was dazzling after his little dark room. A black and white goat tethered near by was staring at me and for what seemed minutes I stared back into its slanting yellow-green eyes. Then I walked to the tree where I’d left my horse and rode away as quickly as I could.
The telescope was pushed to one side of the table making room for a decanter half full of rum and two glasses on a tarnished silver tray. I listened to the ceaseless night noises outside, and watched the procession of small moths and beetles fly into the candle flames, then poured out a drink of rum and swallowed. At once the night noises drew away, became distant, bearable, even pleasant.
‘Will you listen to me for God’s sake,’ Antoinette said. She had said this before and I had not answered, now I told her, ‘Of course. I’d be the brute you doubtless think me if I did not do that.’
‘Why do you hate me?’ she said.
‘I do not hate you, I am most distressed about you, I am distraught,’ I said. But his was untrue, I was not distraught, I was calm, it was the first time I had felt calm or self-possessed for many a long day.
She was wearing the white dress I had admired, but it had slipped untidily over one shoulder and seemed too large for her. I watched her holding her left wrist with her right hand, an annoying habit.
‘Then why do you never come near me?’ she said. ‘Or kiss me, or talk to me. Why do you think I can bear it, what reason have you for treating me like that? Have you any reason?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have a reason,’ and added very softly, ‘My God.’
‘You are always calling on God,’ she said. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘Of course of course I believe in the power and wisdom of my creator.’
She raised her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth turned down in a questioning mocking way. For a moment she looked very much like Amélie. Perhaps they are related, I thought. It’s possible, it’s even probable in this damned place.
‘And you,’ I said. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she answered calmly, ‘what I believe or you believe, because we can do nothing about it, we are like these.’ She flicked a dead moth off the table.
‘But I asked you a question, you remember. Will you answer that?’
I drank again and my brain was cold and clear.
‘Very well, but question for question. Is your mother alive?’
‘No, she is dead, she died.’
‘When?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘Then why did you tell me that she died when you were a child?’
‘Because they told me to say so and because it is true. She did die when I was a child. There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about’
‘Two at least,’ I said, ‘for the fortunate.’ We were silent for a moment, then I went on, ‘I had a letter from a man who calls himself Daniel Cosway.’
‘He has no right to that name,’ she said quickly. ‘His real name, if he has one, is Daniel Boyd. He hates all white people, but he hates me the most. He tells lies about us and he is sure that you will believe him and not listen to the other side.’
‘Is there another side?’ I said.
‘There is always the other side, always.’
‘After his second letter, which was threatening, I thought it best to go and see him.’
‘You saw him,’ she said. ‘I know what he told you. That my mother was mad and an infamous woman and that my little brother who died was born a cretin, an idiot, and that I am a mad girl too. That is what he told you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,