Free Hemingway's Notebook by Bill Granger Page A

really Communists?”
    “Yes, of course,” said Colonel Ready.
    The reception droned on and became more listless, as damp as the muggy evening warmth that clung to the room. A small group of musicians played cocktail party music that recalled tunes played in New York hotel lobbies in the 1940s.
    Rita Macklin never finished her first glass of champagne. Colonel Ready disappeared for a while with the American consul and then reappeared alone. The people of the room all seemed to know each other and talked in whispers, like members of a close, large family thrown into an unfamiliar territory. There were a couple of people who said they were reporters, and at the hors d’oeuvres table was the archbishop of St. Michel.
    Simon Bouvier had the face and build of a French peasant, which was what his father had been. The archbishop had been standing at the table laden with food and he had been eating and talking for nearly an hour. He nibbled at the sweaty side of salmon, at the melting aspics and the rum-soaked fruit, at the petit fours, at the rolls and crackers and various soft cheeses that were running on their plates.
    Rita Macklin asked him about the religion on the island.
    “Everyone is Catholic, of course,” he said.
    “Is the church very… involved?”
    “In what way?”
    “There are rebels in the hills—”
    “Oh. They are Communists. The hills have many believers in many religions. Unfortunately, few of them believe in our religion.”
    “What religions?”
    “The voodoo is in the hills.”
    “Really? Still?”
    “And the Communists. Such a violent religion that is,” said the archbishop and he shoved a cracker full of Camembert into his mouth and chewed loudly on it. He grinned at her. “Oh, yes. We have missionaries as well, but they don’t bother me and I don’t bother them. I am quite content with matters as they are.”
    “Catholic missionaries.”
    “Nuns who do not wear the habits of their order. Radicals and Communists as far as I am concerned. But then, I am a conservative.” The archbishop smiled. “It is a comfort to me to be conservative.”
    She started to speak and could think of nothing to say to him for a moment. Here was another one. The bishop took a piece of dark bread and reached for the bowl of Russian caviar. The caviar smelled like rotted fish. The old prelate was sweating but did not seem to notice it.
    “Where are the nuns? I mean—”
    “I really don’t know. They have no convent. They live like single women. Colonel Ready asked my advice about them but I said they were harmless enough. They want to convert the people in the hills.”
    “You said everyone was Catholic.”
    “Which means that hardly anyone is Catholic at all. There are no churches in the hills but the hills have many believers.”
    “In voodoo.”
    “Perhaps. Perhaps in other things. It is difficult to understand what people who stay in the hills believe in. In any case, it is beyond me.” He turned back to the food table and dismissed her.
    The evening ground on. Conversations came and went in fragments that mimicked the humid wind that failed to cool her. Once, near midnight, Rita went to a window in the reception room and looked down in the courtyard. She saw two policemen with truncheons prod a large, fat white man across the courtyard. Harry Francis looked up in that moment and saw her in the window and then disappeared behind a large metal door that led to the police headquarters and the cells in the basement near the morgue.
    At five minutes after midnight, with nearly half the guests gone, the president of St. Michel and his sister appeared at the door that led from their private quarters. Colonel Ready had stopped once to explain to Rita that they were always late to their own parties; it was a calculated gesture, even as it was rude. Claude-Eduard thought it was sophisticated.
    As they entered the room, the tired musicians perked up. The pianist mopped his brow and then began at fast waltz