Free The Comedians by Graham Greene Page A

are a little dogmatic about eggs. But we’ve got our own Yeastrel.’
    â€˜And I have my Barmene,’ Mrs Smith said.
    â€˜Just a little hot water,’ Mr Smith said. ‘Mrs Smith and I are very mobile. You don’t have to worry about us. You’ve got a fine bathing-pool here.’ To show them the extent of the pool Martha began to move the ray of her lamp towards the diving-board and the deep end. I took it quickly from her and turned it up towards the fretted tower and a balcony which leant over the palms. A light already glowed up there where Joseph was preparing the room. ‘There’s your suite,’ I said. ‘The John Barrymore suite. You can see all over Port-au-Prince from there, the harbour, the palace, the cathedral.’
    â€˜Did John Barrymore really stay here?’ Mr Smith asked. ‘In that room?’
    â€˜It was before my time, but I can show you his liquor bills.’
    â€˜A great talent ruined,’ he remarked sadly.
    I couldn’t forget that presently the light rationing would be over and the lamps would go on all over Port-au-Prince. Sometimes the light was out for close on three hours, sometimes for less than one – there was no certainty. I had told Joseph that during my absence ‘business’ was to be as usual, for who could tell whether a couple of journalists might not stop for a few days to write a report on what they would undoubtedly call ‘The Nightmare Republic’? Perhaps for Joseph ‘business as usual’ meant lights as usual in the palm trees, lights around the pool. I didn’t want the Presidential Candidate to see a corpse coiled up under the diving-board – not on his first night. It was not my idea of hospitality. And hadn’t he said something about a letter of introduction he carried to the Secretary for Social Welfare?
    Joseph appeared at the head of the path. I told him to show the Smiths to their room and afterwards to drive down town with Mrs Pineda.
    â€˜Our luggage is on the verandah,’ Mrs Smith said.
    â€˜You’ll find it in your room by now. It won’t stay dark much longer, I promise. You must excuse us. We are a very poor country.’
    â€˜When I think of all that waste on Broadway,’ Mrs Smith said, and to my relief they began to mount the path, Joseph lighting the way. I stayed at the shallow end of the pool, but now that my eyes were accustomed to the dark I thought I could detect the body like a hump of earth.
    Martha said, ‘Is something wrong?’ and flashed her light up towards my face.
    â€˜I haven’t had time to see yet. Lend me that torch a moment.’
    â€˜What was keeping you down here?’
    I let the torch play on the palm trees well away from the pool as though I were inspecting the light installations. ‘Talking to Joseph. Let’s go up now, shall we?’
    â€˜And run into the Smiths? I’d rather stay here. It’s funny to think I’ve never been here before. In your home.’
    â€˜No, we’ve always been very prudent.’
    â€˜You haven’t asked after Angel.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    Angel was her son, the unbearable child who helped to keep us apart. He was too fat for his age, he had his father’s eyes like brown buttons, he sucked bonbons, he noticed things, and he made claims – claims all the time on his mother’s exclusive attention. He seemed to draw the tenderness out of our relationship as he drew the liquid centre from a sweet, with a long sucking breath. He was the subject of half our conversations. ‘I must go now. I promised Angel to read to him.’ ‘I can’t see you tonight. Angel wants to go to the cinema.’ ‘My darling, I’m, so tired this evening – Angel had six friends to tea.’
    â€˜How is Angel?’
    â€˜He was ill while you were away. With the grippe .’
    â€˜But he’s quite better now?’
    â€˜Oh