DieterM
02-27-2011, 08:52 AM
Will Nelly be able to remember the precise message? Miss Otis anxiously fiddles with her lace collar. To express oneself properly is of the utmost importance, even through a servant. It has been a tantalizing trial to find the right words, an almost artistic research to compose the sentences. Since last evening, Miss Otis has lived in a nightmarish worry-go-round that has prevented her from sleeping. At last, when the new day has shown up at the horizon, she has worked out the acceptable formula. Thus, it will not do if Nelly mixes up the precise wording; it will absolutely not do if Nelly says something else instead, or if Nelly forgets and – God forbid! – improvises. These words have been thoroughly weighed and finally approved. So, will Nelly remember them? Miss Otis has to be sure of that.
Nelly answers, 'Yes, Madam, I will remember.' She frowns for a second, concentrating. Then, she recites ceremoniously and with some gravity, 'Good morning Mrs. Brannigan, I hope you are well. Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today, Madam. She sends you her warmest regards.'
Miss Otis nods at each word, well well, she thinks, no doubt, this is it. When Nelly has finished, Miss Otis smiles for the first time and says, 'Very well done, Nelly. That will be all, thank you. You can go now, Nelly.'
The maid walks out of the parlour in a rustle of black and white fabric. Miss Otis stays behind, her delicate pale fingers folded in front of her ample velvet dress as if she was saying a prayer. Very well then, she thinks.
Very well, indeed. Things are slowly falling into place. Calm and relieved, that's how Miss Otis feels at this precise moment. The first step is done, the first hurdle overcome. She breathes deeply. For many an hour, she has been hesitating. Whom should she send? Young Nelly? She often suspects her of being pert, if not outright brazen – it's something in the maid's gaze; Miss Otis is certain to have recognized it once or twice, a hint of hidden rebellion. Hasn't the girl looked her straight in the eye just now, while taking her instructions? Hasn't she held her head up just a bit too high? Hasn't the trace of a smirk played around her full lips?
Oh, maybe the maid has heard the rumours! Miss Otis gasps and clutches her throat. To think that her maid could be laughing at her… Then, the lady calms down again. It doesn't matter anymore. Soon, she will not have to worry about Nelly or any other of the servants.
But will the maid be able to live up to her mistress's expectations? Or wouldn't it have been safer to rather send Mr. Phelps? Again and again, Miss Otis has been playing with the thought. Loyal Mr. Phelps! Miss Otis trusts him unconditionally because he has already been serving her late father, and quite excellently so. But after an intense inner struggle, Miss Otis has dismissed the very idea of sending Mr. Phelps. One must not attract more attention to oneself than convenient, she has thought. Mr. Phelps would confer to the matter at hand a significance that some could be led to judge excessive. Moreover, she will need Mr. Phelps in a few moments. She can't decently walk all the way down to the Low Town, after all…
All said and done, Nelly is the best choice. The only choice. Miss Otis sighs. Her wandering gaze falls on her father's portrait. How noble he looks, how stern and solemn, how conscious of his importance in this world, on this island. He has bequeathed on her a family name that requires a certain attitude, a certain nobleness of the soul. 'You are an Otis,' he has always told her. 'Never forget your name and what you owe him. Never forget where you come from. Never forget an Otis has a glorious path to follow. An Otis never strays.'
Miss Otis straightens her spine, rubs her hands and walks toward the door. What has to be done has to be done. She is an Otis, alright. An Otis doesn't tarry, an Otis doesn't delay the unavoidable.
****
The day feels new and fresh even if one knows that soon, the temperatures will be hot, the air moist and sticky. Miss Otis is wearing her polite smile, like a mask, while staring down the driveway to High Street. How long does it take to prepare the carriage? she asks herself. Oh, she doesn't feel impatient, just immensely curious. Especially as the preparation of the carriage is a problem she has never considered before. Strange, strange indeed, the way her thoughts wander to and fro, this morning… Breadfruit trees cast a welcome shadow on the white and grey pebbles, the perfectly trimmed lawn. Jasmine and vanilla perfumes mingle with the smell of the Coconut-Pineapple-Pie the cook has prepared for breakfast. A salty whiff rises from the sea down below.
Miss Otis presses her purse tightly against her velvet-covered thigh. Her grandfather has planted most of these trees and bushes. If he – God bless his soul! – could see her now... Would he be proud? Would he approve? Of what she has become? Of what she is about to do?
Miss Otis turns and looks up the slender columns of the splendid, white, huge mansion she calls her own. It has been constructed on the highest point of High Street. High Street, the only place where decent people can live on this island… A cooling breeze often sweeps around Otis Mansion, the most respectable, most impressive house of the archipelago. Miss Otis' regal eagle nest. Now, she really feels like the young eagle that has to learn how to fly at last. She steps back and studies the facade as if she wasn't going to see it again.
Let's get it over with, she thinks. There's no way back.
Then, Mr. Phelps drives up the carriage. He jumps down from the driver's seat, takes off his hat and helps Miss Otis up. 'Good morning, Madam,' he says subserviently. 'Shall I drive you to Mrs. Brannigan's?'
'No,' Miss Otis replies with dignity, 'I shall not be able to lunch with Mrs. Brannigan today. Bring me down to Market Square, Phelps.'
'Very well, Madam.' If Mr. Phelps is surprised, he doesn't show it. He bows instead, then takes the reins.
****
The days and weeks on this island come and go, always dressed up in the same fashion. Nothing ever seems to happen. Nothing is allowed to change. The wheels of time and destiny turn and turn without messing up the natural way things are meant to be. That’s something almost heavenly, Miss Otis thinks. Something very reassuring, at least. While Mr. Phelps drives her carefully down High Street, she leans back, serene, composed, looking peaceful. That’s how her father has taught her to appear in public. She inhales the perfumed breeze and gazes at the luxuriant vegetation, the palm trees and mango trees and coconut trees and jacarandas, the impeccable lawns, the gardenia, the roses, the jasmine grapes falling gracefully over the walls. For no apparent reason, Miss Otis thinks that they look like funeral wreaths, today. The sky stretches out above her, blue and boundless, with inoffensive white clouds lending it the necessary depth and meaning.
From Clarenton Mansion, the notes of a piano come adrift. Someone is playing Mozart, and rather skilfully, too. ‘Listen, Phelps,’ Miss Otis says, talking over the clip-clap-clop of the horse’s hoofs. ‘It must be the young Elizabeth. How well she plays the piano! Isn’t it lovely, Phelps?’
‘Yes, Madam. Lovely indeed,’ Mr. Phelps answers without turning around.
Miss Otis nods. She simply had to say out loud how lovely the music is. This observation, she is certain, will help Mr. Phelps to make the difference between what is beautiful and what is not. Each time they pass before the Clarentons’ house and young Elizabeth is practising, she comments on the girl’s skills and the music they hear. It is a ritual, essential in its own way, like all rituals. Rituals, Miss Otis believes, lend harmony and coherence to one’s life. They prevent things from falling apart.
****
In the first curve where the road takes a turn to the left, Miss Otis catches a glimpse of the glistening black cliff and the sea down below. Turquoise, with white crowns dancing gaily on toy waves. ‘It’s always so pleasant to look down at Milton Bay,’ Miss Otis remarks.
‘Yes, Madam,’ Mr. Phelps replies, respecting his role as he always does. Of course, he never looks over the edge, he never notices the beauty of that eternal movement. Mr. Phelps takes care of the carriage and the horse; his task claims all his attention; he has no time to gaze leisurely at his surroundings. This is why Miss Otis deems it her duty to point out what he is missing. A seagull floating near the cliffs cries out. It sounds like a wounded man’s last cry.
When they have safely left the dangerous curve behind, Mr. Phelps says at last, ‘What a splendid day, Madam.’
Miss Otis appreciates. ‘Very much so, Phelps. Very much so.’ She pats her purse, cautiously avoiding the tell-tale bulge at its bottom.
****
Down, down they go, inescapably. There is the Brewsters’ property, already half overgrown with weed. What a pity, Miss Otis thinks: the Brewsters gone, and nobody disposed to purchase their former residence. This is such a smudge for High Street! How wonderful the Brewsters’ garden has been! A pity, really, it is! One should find a new proprietor to look after it, at any rate!
If only there was a possibility to save what the Brewsters have constructed over the years! Miss Otis could afford to buy their land. But oh, she wouldn’t dare. What would she do with a second property? And what would people think? One has to hold up one’s rank; one can’t go and give in to one’s whims or quirks of the moment.
Miss Otis turns aside; she cannot bear to see ruins where there has been so much splendour before. It’s so sad, so very sad, to be reminded of what has happened to Mrs. Brewster’s son! she muses. He has been an unbalanced young man, alright. Miss Otis has always thought so. But to leave the island at twenty in order to seek fortune in Belize! What a horrid, what a ludicrous idea! As if the young man couldn’t have made a career, and a solid one with that, on his father’s sugar plantations here on the island! But no, he wanted to go to that haven of pirates and outlaws. Then, he married that dreadful woman; an indigenous, they say. That has been his downfall, of course. He found a way to get killed in a brawl, up in Belmopan, some weeks after his disastrous wedding.
The Brewsters were devastated. Who wouldn’t have been? Shortly after that tragedy, Mr. Brewster started to drink. People talked behind his back. People snickered and pointed at him whenever he appeared in public. Until, finally, Mr. Brewster fell off the cliff above Milton Bay. They only found his body a week later, half eaten by sharks. Poor Mrs. Brewster! Of course, she was the one to suffer most. This is the eternal lot that befalls women. Mrs. Brewster was forced to leave the island, heart-broken but dignified. Miss Otis signs herself to ward off the bad fortune that sticks to the very memory of those sad, sad events. Her purse, unusually heavy, bumps against her bosom in the process and reminds her of her own destiny.
Oh yes, the Brewsters' tragedy can yet teach any decent person a lesson, Miss Otis pursues her line of thought. It shows the inherently evil and wrong nature of all that strives for change without real necessity.
One doesn’t choose. One has been set up in a particular place. One shall not try to upset the given course of things. One shall not even question the hidden purpose, the secret agenda. What good can it do to worry? Why struggle? Why go against the heavenly plans? Why try to seek the impossible way out? The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, Miss Otis thinks. She straightens her velvet dress, places the heavy purse in her lap and prepares herself for the change in her own life. Change that has been called for, change that is absolutely necessary to keep up a semblance of continuity.
****
The wheels turn, the carriage rolls and spirals downwards, every now and then jumping over the odd stone. The world pursues its slow progress toward a nameless tomorrow, blindly and unfeelingly carrying Miss Otis to where her destiny lies. These last hours, she has repeatedly asked herself whether it will hold glory or doom for her. In the end, she has decided, her future is in the hands of the Lord; she has a mission to carry out, whatever the cost.
Clip-clap-clop… Mr. Phelps in front is steering the carriage, safely and expertly. One can only be thankful to be reminded that things tend to be the way they must be. Miss Otis is sitting behind. Her hands press the purse and its precious content against her velvet-covered thighs; she’s sitting upright, she’s sitting just like a lady ought to sit.
Clip-clap-clop goes the rhythmical music of the horse’s hoofs. She doesn't know why but all of a sudden, Miss Otis shivers in the hot muggy Caribbean morn. She has this sensation that the steady repetition of the clip-clap-clop underlines the inexorability of one moment chasing the previous; clip-clap… emphasizing the painful fact that the past is nothing but the past, which comes as a painful revelation; …clop, and what the uncertain future holds cannot be inflected.
****
And down, down, down they go. The splendour of High Street is left far behind. Unknown, almost hostile territories open up before the lady's eyes. She has seldom come down here before; she realizes that the small island world has more to offer than what she knows, that all she has ever seen of the Low Town is the unrealistic view from high above, the neat sight of lifeless roofs and trees. The deeper they go, the hotter the day; and the more she feels lost, uprooted, entering an absolutely unfamiliar universe. It’s both exciting and menacing. But she has made up her mind; no menace can make her stray; she shall not tarry. Her honour has to be restored.
How shabby the town looks down here, Miss Otis thinks at one moment. How on earth can anyone want to live here! Chickens wander around dirty courtyards; poorly dressed women with strange boubous on their heads hang up patched laundry; snotty little children play and run and shriek; old men are sitting on spindly, shoddy porches, smoking their pipes; younger men do whatever the poor have to do in order to earn a living. Naked backs are glistening with sweat. Muscles stretch under dark skin. People shout out. Smoke rises into the deep sky. The noise of all this commotion swallows the sound of the carriage. The stench of transpiration, unwashed bodies and food stings in Miss Otis’ nose. It’s almost too much for her. The constant downward spiral and the strange surroundings make her head dizzy.
****
As if in a nightmare, they finally reach the far end of Market Square. What an overwhelming industry in such a small space! A hustle and a flurry, a melting pot of movement and colours, noises, voices and shrieks, odours and stinks. Mr. Phelps seems to hesitate one moment before he opens the carriage door, one hand outstretched to help Miss Otis get down, the other one holding his hat behind his back.
‘Thank you, Phelps,’ Miss Otis says and nods. With a shudder, she notices that she has stepped into a foul-looking trickle where earth and animal blood and water mingle to soil the seams of her dress.
‘Do you want me to wait for you, Madam?’ Mr. Phelps asks. He sounds concerned.
‘It will not be necessary, Phelps,’ Miss Otis replies. ‘You can return to the Mansion.’
‘But…’
‘Thank you, Phelps.’ Miss Otis, for the first time in her life, barely manages to control her emotions. Much to Mr. Phelp’s surprise, she reaches out and presses his rugged hands. ‘Thank you,’ she repeats. Then she turns around and walks away, disappearing in the crowd.
****
Black and white are Miss Otis' favourite colours. No opposites can be more unlike, more distinguishable than black and white. Ultimate dichotomy, their clear difference makes things so easy to grab. Miss Otis needs clear and simple patterns because that's how the world has looked to her these last years: clear and simple. Everything is either black or white. With black and white, nobody can pretend not to understand, nobody can purportedly make a wrong choice.
But what if her simple vision of the world is completely mistaken?, Miss Otis thinks right now, feeling uneasy. It has indeed been a while since she has questioned her view on things. Black and white: tasteless, scentless, disinfected, clean and neat and perfect. She has tried to live up to the black-and-white expectations of her surroundings, her upbringing, her place in society. She dresses in black mostly, white the odd piece of white lace, for instance. She has banned showy colours from her existence. But hasn’t she lost the grip on reality with her perfect black and white life? she muses. Hasn’t it led her to underestimate the universe’s complexity she’s suddenly forced to confront? Isn’t this day the proof that she has been oh so wrong for so long?
These thoughts rush through her mind while she crosses Market Square. Here, life is anything but black and white. Colours scream and mingle on almost every stall: mangos and bananas and sweet potatoes and oranges and fish and nuts and a thousand other fruits and vegetables sparkle in a rainbow-like riot of hues. Shades of reds, greens, yellows, oranges, pinks, silvers almost make Miss Otis’ eyes water. A rich, intoxicating mixture of smells floats above the vast and busy place. People sell, people buy, people talk and laugh and run this way and that way. They all seem so alive. They all look as if they really had a purpose in life.
Colours and aromas and staggering activity – Miss Otis feels perfectly out of place, absolutely overwhelmed. And that pitiless heat! She is bathed in sweat when she reaches the other end of Market Square at last. She doesn’t dare check her black velvet dress, certain that it must be stained and covered with dust. But here’s the pier, here are the ships, here’s the rough and energy-filled domain of the dockers. Now, it won’t be long until the weary lady will meet her deliverance...
****
The warehouse of the Beaulieus lies at the end of the pier. Miss Otis looks up the severe stone building, disheartened and tired to the bones. She would leave at once if her agenda weren’t so mandatory. She must go through it all; she must pursue her plan until the bitter end.
A bell tolls somewhere in the building. It’s lunch-time. With a twinge, Miss Otis thinks of the meal she’s unable to attend, today, at Mrs. Brannigan’s. People will wonder, she thinks and her spirits sink further down to the bottom. People will try to explain her absence. People will talk about her. If only there was a way out!
But she’s a prisoner to destiny. Miss Otis straightens her spine and holds back a young boy who is running out of the building. ‘One moment, young man,’ she says with all the strength she can muster.
‘Yes, Madam,’ the young boys says and looks at her with big, bright eyes.
‘Mister Beaulieu is in his office?’ Miss Otis asks.
‘Yes, Madam,’ the boy answers. ‘Do you want me to show you the way?’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Miss Otis says. ‘I know where it is. Thank you, young man.’
‘It was a pleasure, Madam,’ the boy says and nods, his face very serious. Then, he turns around and walks off.
Miss Otis pats her purse, strokes her dress and enters the dark, menacing shadows of the warehouse. She has already come here, a long time ago. The place still reeks the way it did, back then, of sugar and wet wood and corn and sweat. And her heart seems to flutter and get out of control. Just the way it had, back then, too. But not for the same reason. That first time, it could have been love that had made her enter. Today, it’s justice and vengeance and honour she has come to seek.
****
Miss Otis crosses the vast, dim hall. She moves forward as if in a waking dream, as if she was wading through shallow waters. Why does all this feel so familiar? Why do the memories come back so easily? Hasn’t she seen these sacks before, filled with grain and wheat and flour and sugar? Hasn’t she already tried to go out of the way of these people before, these working men who are pressing towards the exit for their lunch break, almost bump into her and jump back, startled, in the last minute? Is it possible that she so clearly remembers how the bright daylight falls in through the windows high above her head, and how the sunrays seem exhausted, forceless and reduced, down here, where they make the dust dance and whirl upwards?
Miss Otis has to shake her head, vigorously, to ward off the trancelike state that befalls her. Her memories of a noon long ago mingle with the present time and threaten to overwhelm her. She must not give in, she must not surrender to that sweet longing that rises once again in her breast. One last time, she allows herself to think with fondness of the young and careless girl she has been, back then. To recall the pale, pink dress she has been wearing. The nervousness with which she has approached the office in the centre of the warehouse, that thick, wooden column jutting out into the hall and rising up to the roof, with those countless windows watching out like curious eyes.
Yes, she has come here once before. That was the time before she had accommodated to what her life would and should be. She has walked on lover’s feet, back then, her face radiant with the bloom of youth, her cheeks glowing with the excited blush of apprehension. She has obeyed the imperious call of her heart, the urgent order of that reckless young man she had been introduced to, some weeks before. Miss Otis remembers the spring smells of that ball in Brannigan Hall, the dancing, the fierce, black-haired gentleman with his strange, forbidden accent, the whispered promises behind the rhododendron…
Today, Miss Otis comes back to see the same man. Years have passed. She has changed. And the urgent matter at hand has changed. No longer is it blind and innocent love that hastens her steps. No longer is she the angel of a promise, come to reap redemption.
Today, she will be the bearer of a sombre destiny. The vengeful angel.
****
Mister Beaulieus office is still situated on the second floor, right under the roof. Miss Otis climbs the stairs, step by step, one hand on the railing, the other one lifting her dress so as not to walk on the seams. With each step, she feels the heavy purse bounce against her legs. Gradually, it seems to weigh more and more as she advances, the immeasurable weight of future sin and guilt.
Why has he shown up again?, the lady wonders. What good has it done to come back to her island? Why must he haunt her life again?
They could have avoided each other for the rest of their stay on earth. They could even have succeeded in avoiding each other on this small island. Miss Otis is persuaded that they could have. Some good will, some decency, some skilful organisation would have sufficed.
Her father has warned her, back then, oh yes, he has. ‘This is no gentleman,’ he has declared after Mister Beaulieu had proposed officially. ‘He’s French, after all. My daughter will not marry one of those revolutionaries! Not as long as I live and breathe!’
Of course, she has wept until her eyes seemed to burn. Of course, she has planned so many times to come back down here and fall on her knees and beg the young man to rescue her, to run off with her. But eventually, she has begun to see the truth in her father’s words. Mister Beaulieu has left one day, without a warning. He has left her, he has left the island, he has left her world, he has left her thoughts. She has been wounded, she has been devastated. And she has overcome her grief. Everything heals, doesn’t it?, given time and a sane mind.
So many years have passed, she thinks while anxiously fixing the door to his office which draws closer and closer with each step. And when at last she has become familiar with her perfect, neat prescription life, when she has started to embrace the map of her destiny with relief and calm acceptance, she has overheard Mrs. Brannigan talk about him. ‘He’s back in town!’ Mrs. Brannigan has said to Mrs. Stanton. ‘Who? Why, that Mister Beaulieu, of course! They say he’s running his father’s business now. And other, wild rumours are being whispered. Oh, I cannot repeat them, do not press me, Mrs. Stanton. It would not be appropriate to repeat them. But poor Miss Otis…’
Miss Otis had not been meant to hear those words. She had not been meant to catch the tell-tale glances Mrs. Brannigan and Mrs. Stanton had shot in her direction.
But from that day on, Miss Otis has been torn between her former emotions, buried deep in her soul, and a sense of duty and honour. And the cold anger she feels again right now. She needs this anger, needs it desperately, so as not to tarry, so as not to stray. She knows that she must be quick. She will not allow him to talk. One word of him, a single sound of his voice, and she could hesitate. And fail.
She climbs even faster now, the newly blazing anger fuelling her strength.
How could that man dare spread filthy rumours about her? Because there is no doubt about who is the author of such rumours. Miss Otis doesn’t have the details. She doesn’t need them. That there are rumours is enough. She will not be laughed at. She is an Otis, after all.
****
Black and white. White and black. All colours have faded. Here’s the door. Miss Otis doesn’t halt to catch her breath. Miss Otis doesn’t knock on the door. She pushes it open, almost violently. A man is sitting in his chair, behind his desk. He lifts his head, surprised by her sudden irruption. She recognizes the familiar face at once. He has put on some weight, he has grown older. But he has stayed the same, handsome man.
Quick, now, quick! Don’t let him speak to you! she orders herself. She barely thinks now; she acts. Quick, quick. The movements flow and become flurry yet deadly precise.
Miss Otis opens her purse. Her fingers clench around the cold metal. She draws out the pistol. Takes aim the way her father has taught her to aim. And shoots the man in his chest, three times. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Then, she sinks down on the floor, emptied. It is fulfilled. Now, the constables can come and get her. She is ready to pay.
And strange but true, the only thought that crosses her mind: she regrets she will be unable to lunch with Mrs. Brannigan. No lunches. Never more.
(Vaguely inspired by Cole Porter’s ‘Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today’)
Nelly answers, 'Yes, Madam, I will remember.' She frowns for a second, concentrating. Then, she recites ceremoniously and with some gravity, 'Good morning Mrs. Brannigan, I hope you are well. Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today, Madam. She sends you her warmest regards.'
Miss Otis nods at each word, well well, she thinks, no doubt, this is it. When Nelly has finished, Miss Otis smiles for the first time and says, 'Very well done, Nelly. That will be all, thank you. You can go now, Nelly.'
The maid walks out of the parlour in a rustle of black and white fabric. Miss Otis stays behind, her delicate pale fingers folded in front of her ample velvet dress as if she was saying a prayer. Very well then, she thinks.
Very well, indeed. Things are slowly falling into place. Calm and relieved, that's how Miss Otis feels at this precise moment. The first step is done, the first hurdle overcome. She breathes deeply. For many an hour, she has been hesitating. Whom should she send? Young Nelly? She often suspects her of being pert, if not outright brazen – it's something in the maid's gaze; Miss Otis is certain to have recognized it once or twice, a hint of hidden rebellion. Hasn't the girl looked her straight in the eye just now, while taking her instructions? Hasn't she held her head up just a bit too high? Hasn't the trace of a smirk played around her full lips?
Oh, maybe the maid has heard the rumours! Miss Otis gasps and clutches her throat. To think that her maid could be laughing at her… Then, the lady calms down again. It doesn't matter anymore. Soon, she will not have to worry about Nelly or any other of the servants.
But will the maid be able to live up to her mistress's expectations? Or wouldn't it have been safer to rather send Mr. Phelps? Again and again, Miss Otis has been playing with the thought. Loyal Mr. Phelps! Miss Otis trusts him unconditionally because he has already been serving her late father, and quite excellently so. But after an intense inner struggle, Miss Otis has dismissed the very idea of sending Mr. Phelps. One must not attract more attention to oneself than convenient, she has thought. Mr. Phelps would confer to the matter at hand a significance that some could be led to judge excessive. Moreover, she will need Mr. Phelps in a few moments. She can't decently walk all the way down to the Low Town, after all…
All said and done, Nelly is the best choice. The only choice. Miss Otis sighs. Her wandering gaze falls on her father's portrait. How noble he looks, how stern and solemn, how conscious of his importance in this world, on this island. He has bequeathed on her a family name that requires a certain attitude, a certain nobleness of the soul. 'You are an Otis,' he has always told her. 'Never forget your name and what you owe him. Never forget where you come from. Never forget an Otis has a glorious path to follow. An Otis never strays.'
Miss Otis straightens her spine, rubs her hands and walks toward the door. What has to be done has to be done. She is an Otis, alright. An Otis doesn't tarry, an Otis doesn't delay the unavoidable.
****
The day feels new and fresh even if one knows that soon, the temperatures will be hot, the air moist and sticky. Miss Otis is wearing her polite smile, like a mask, while staring down the driveway to High Street. How long does it take to prepare the carriage? she asks herself. Oh, she doesn't feel impatient, just immensely curious. Especially as the preparation of the carriage is a problem she has never considered before. Strange, strange indeed, the way her thoughts wander to and fro, this morning… Breadfruit trees cast a welcome shadow on the white and grey pebbles, the perfectly trimmed lawn. Jasmine and vanilla perfumes mingle with the smell of the Coconut-Pineapple-Pie the cook has prepared for breakfast. A salty whiff rises from the sea down below.
Miss Otis presses her purse tightly against her velvet-covered thigh. Her grandfather has planted most of these trees and bushes. If he – God bless his soul! – could see her now... Would he be proud? Would he approve? Of what she has become? Of what she is about to do?
Miss Otis turns and looks up the slender columns of the splendid, white, huge mansion she calls her own. It has been constructed on the highest point of High Street. High Street, the only place where decent people can live on this island… A cooling breeze often sweeps around Otis Mansion, the most respectable, most impressive house of the archipelago. Miss Otis' regal eagle nest. Now, she really feels like the young eagle that has to learn how to fly at last. She steps back and studies the facade as if she wasn't going to see it again.
Let's get it over with, she thinks. There's no way back.
Then, Mr. Phelps drives up the carriage. He jumps down from the driver's seat, takes off his hat and helps Miss Otis up. 'Good morning, Madam,' he says subserviently. 'Shall I drive you to Mrs. Brannigan's?'
'No,' Miss Otis replies with dignity, 'I shall not be able to lunch with Mrs. Brannigan today. Bring me down to Market Square, Phelps.'
'Very well, Madam.' If Mr. Phelps is surprised, he doesn't show it. He bows instead, then takes the reins.
****
The days and weeks on this island come and go, always dressed up in the same fashion. Nothing ever seems to happen. Nothing is allowed to change. The wheels of time and destiny turn and turn without messing up the natural way things are meant to be. That’s something almost heavenly, Miss Otis thinks. Something very reassuring, at least. While Mr. Phelps drives her carefully down High Street, she leans back, serene, composed, looking peaceful. That’s how her father has taught her to appear in public. She inhales the perfumed breeze and gazes at the luxuriant vegetation, the palm trees and mango trees and coconut trees and jacarandas, the impeccable lawns, the gardenia, the roses, the jasmine grapes falling gracefully over the walls. For no apparent reason, Miss Otis thinks that they look like funeral wreaths, today. The sky stretches out above her, blue and boundless, with inoffensive white clouds lending it the necessary depth and meaning.
From Clarenton Mansion, the notes of a piano come adrift. Someone is playing Mozart, and rather skilfully, too. ‘Listen, Phelps,’ Miss Otis says, talking over the clip-clap-clop of the horse’s hoofs. ‘It must be the young Elizabeth. How well she plays the piano! Isn’t it lovely, Phelps?’
‘Yes, Madam. Lovely indeed,’ Mr. Phelps answers without turning around.
Miss Otis nods. She simply had to say out loud how lovely the music is. This observation, she is certain, will help Mr. Phelps to make the difference between what is beautiful and what is not. Each time they pass before the Clarentons’ house and young Elizabeth is practising, she comments on the girl’s skills and the music they hear. It is a ritual, essential in its own way, like all rituals. Rituals, Miss Otis believes, lend harmony and coherence to one’s life. They prevent things from falling apart.
****
In the first curve where the road takes a turn to the left, Miss Otis catches a glimpse of the glistening black cliff and the sea down below. Turquoise, with white crowns dancing gaily on toy waves. ‘It’s always so pleasant to look down at Milton Bay,’ Miss Otis remarks.
‘Yes, Madam,’ Mr. Phelps replies, respecting his role as he always does. Of course, he never looks over the edge, he never notices the beauty of that eternal movement. Mr. Phelps takes care of the carriage and the horse; his task claims all his attention; he has no time to gaze leisurely at his surroundings. This is why Miss Otis deems it her duty to point out what he is missing. A seagull floating near the cliffs cries out. It sounds like a wounded man’s last cry.
When they have safely left the dangerous curve behind, Mr. Phelps says at last, ‘What a splendid day, Madam.’
Miss Otis appreciates. ‘Very much so, Phelps. Very much so.’ She pats her purse, cautiously avoiding the tell-tale bulge at its bottom.
****
Down, down they go, inescapably. There is the Brewsters’ property, already half overgrown with weed. What a pity, Miss Otis thinks: the Brewsters gone, and nobody disposed to purchase their former residence. This is such a smudge for High Street! How wonderful the Brewsters’ garden has been! A pity, really, it is! One should find a new proprietor to look after it, at any rate!
If only there was a possibility to save what the Brewsters have constructed over the years! Miss Otis could afford to buy their land. But oh, she wouldn’t dare. What would she do with a second property? And what would people think? One has to hold up one’s rank; one can’t go and give in to one’s whims or quirks of the moment.
Miss Otis turns aside; she cannot bear to see ruins where there has been so much splendour before. It’s so sad, so very sad, to be reminded of what has happened to Mrs. Brewster’s son! she muses. He has been an unbalanced young man, alright. Miss Otis has always thought so. But to leave the island at twenty in order to seek fortune in Belize! What a horrid, what a ludicrous idea! As if the young man couldn’t have made a career, and a solid one with that, on his father’s sugar plantations here on the island! But no, he wanted to go to that haven of pirates and outlaws. Then, he married that dreadful woman; an indigenous, they say. That has been his downfall, of course. He found a way to get killed in a brawl, up in Belmopan, some weeks after his disastrous wedding.
The Brewsters were devastated. Who wouldn’t have been? Shortly after that tragedy, Mr. Brewster started to drink. People talked behind his back. People snickered and pointed at him whenever he appeared in public. Until, finally, Mr. Brewster fell off the cliff above Milton Bay. They only found his body a week later, half eaten by sharks. Poor Mrs. Brewster! Of course, she was the one to suffer most. This is the eternal lot that befalls women. Mrs. Brewster was forced to leave the island, heart-broken but dignified. Miss Otis signs herself to ward off the bad fortune that sticks to the very memory of those sad, sad events. Her purse, unusually heavy, bumps against her bosom in the process and reminds her of her own destiny.
Oh yes, the Brewsters' tragedy can yet teach any decent person a lesson, Miss Otis pursues her line of thought. It shows the inherently evil and wrong nature of all that strives for change without real necessity.
One doesn’t choose. One has been set up in a particular place. One shall not try to upset the given course of things. One shall not even question the hidden purpose, the secret agenda. What good can it do to worry? Why struggle? Why go against the heavenly plans? Why try to seek the impossible way out? The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, Miss Otis thinks. She straightens her velvet dress, places the heavy purse in her lap and prepares herself for the change in her own life. Change that has been called for, change that is absolutely necessary to keep up a semblance of continuity.
****
The wheels turn, the carriage rolls and spirals downwards, every now and then jumping over the odd stone. The world pursues its slow progress toward a nameless tomorrow, blindly and unfeelingly carrying Miss Otis to where her destiny lies. These last hours, she has repeatedly asked herself whether it will hold glory or doom for her. In the end, she has decided, her future is in the hands of the Lord; she has a mission to carry out, whatever the cost.
Clip-clap-clop… Mr. Phelps in front is steering the carriage, safely and expertly. One can only be thankful to be reminded that things tend to be the way they must be. Miss Otis is sitting behind. Her hands press the purse and its precious content against her velvet-covered thighs; she’s sitting upright, she’s sitting just like a lady ought to sit.
Clip-clap-clop goes the rhythmical music of the horse’s hoofs. She doesn't know why but all of a sudden, Miss Otis shivers in the hot muggy Caribbean morn. She has this sensation that the steady repetition of the clip-clap-clop underlines the inexorability of one moment chasing the previous; clip-clap… emphasizing the painful fact that the past is nothing but the past, which comes as a painful revelation; …clop, and what the uncertain future holds cannot be inflected.
****
And down, down, down they go. The splendour of High Street is left far behind. Unknown, almost hostile territories open up before the lady's eyes. She has seldom come down here before; she realizes that the small island world has more to offer than what she knows, that all she has ever seen of the Low Town is the unrealistic view from high above, the neat sight of lifeless roofs and trees. The deeper they go, the hotter the day; and the more she feels lost, uprooted, entering an absolutely unfamiliar universe. It’s both exciting and menacing. But she has made up her mind; no menace can make her stray; she shall not tarry. Her honour has to be restored.
How shabby the town looks down here, Miss Otis thinks at one moment. How on earth can anyone want to live here! Chickens wander around dirty courtyards; poorly dressed women with strange boubous on their heads hang up patched laundry; snotty little children play and run and shriek; old men are sitting on spindly, shoddy porches, smoking their pipes; younger men do whatever the poor have to do in order to earn a living. Naked backs are glistening with sweat. Muscles stretch under dark skin. People shout out. Smoke rises into the deep sky. The noise of all this commotion swallows the sound of the carriage. The stench of transpiration, unwashed bodies and food stings in Miss Otis’ nose. It’s almost too much for her. The constant downward spiral and the strange surroundings make her head dizzy.
****
As if in a nightmare, they finally reach the far end of Market Square. What an overwhelming industry in such a small space! A hustle and a flurry, a melting pot of movement and colours, noises, voices and shrieks, odours and stinks. Mr. Phelps seems to hesitate one moment before he opens the carriage door, one hand outstretched to help Miss Otis get down, the other one holding his hat behind his back.
‘Thank you, Phelps,’ Miss Otis says and nods. With a shudder, she notices that she has stepped into a foul-looking trickle where earth and animal blood and water mingle to soil the seams of her dress.
‘Do you want me to wait for you, Madam?’ Mr. Phelps asks. He sounds concerned.
‘It will not be necessary, Phelps,’ Miss Otis replies. ‘You can return to the Mansion.’
‘But…’
‘Thank you, Phelps.’ Miss Otis, for the first time in her life, barely manages to control her emotions. Much to Mr. Phelp’s surprise, she reaches out and presses his rugged hands. ‘Thank you,’ she repeats. Then she turns around and walks away, disappearing in the crowd.
****
Black and white are Miss Otis' favourite colours. No opposites can be more unlike, more distinguishable than black and white. Ultimate dichotomy, their clear difference makes things so easy to grab. Miss Otis needs clear and simple patterns because that's how the world has looked to her these last years: clear and simple. Everything is either black or white. With black and white, nobody can pretend not to understand, nobody can purportedly make a wrong choice.
But what if her simple vision of the world is completely mistaken?, Miss Otis thinks right now, feeling uneasy. It has indeed been a while since she has questioned her view on things. Black and white: tasteless, scentless, disinfected, clean and neat and perfect. She has tried to live up to the black-and-white expectations of her surroundings, her upbringing, her place in society. She dresses in black mostly, white the odd piece of white lace, for instance. She has banned showy colours from her existence. But hasn’t she lost the grip on reality with her perfect black and white life? she muses. Hasn’t it led her to underestimate the universe’s complexity she’s suddenly forced to confront? Isn’t this day the proof that she has been oh so wrong for so long?
These thoughts rush through her mind while she crosses Market Square. Here, life is anything but black and white. Colours scream and mingle on almost every stall: mangos and bananas and sweet potatoes and oranges and fish and nuts and a thousand other fruits and vegetables sparkle in a rainbow-like riot of hues. Shades of reds, greens, yellows, oranges, pinks, silvers almost make Miss Otis’ eyes water. A rich, intoxicating mixture of smells floats above the vast and busy place. People sell, people buy, people talk and laugh and run this way and that way. They all seem so alive. They all look as if they really had a purpose in life.
Colours and aromas and staggering activity – Miss Otis feels perfectly out of place, absolutely overwhelmed. And that pitiless heat! She is bathed in sweat when she reaches the other end of Market Square at last. She doesn’t dare check her black velvet dress, certain that it must be stained and covered with dust. But here’s the pier, here are the ships, here’s the rough and energy-filled domain of the dockers. Now, it won’t be long until the weary lady will meet her deliverance...
****
The warehouse of the Beaulieus lies at the end of the pier. Miss Otis looks up the severe stone building, disheartened and tired to the bones. She would leave at once if her agenda weren’t so mandatory. She must go through it all; she must pursue her plan until the bitter end.
A bell tolls somewhere in the building. It’s lunch-time. With a twinge, Miss Otis thinks of the meal she’s unable to attend, today, at Mrs. Brannigan’s. People will wonder, she thinks and her spirits sink further down to the bottom. People will try to explain her absence. People will talk about her. If only there was a way out!
But she’s a prisoner to destiny. Miss Otis straightens her spine and holds back a young boy who is running out of the building. ‘One moment, young man,’ she says with all the strength she can muster.
‘Yes, Madam,’ the young boys says and looks at her with big, bright eyes.
‘Mister Beaulieu is in his office?’ Miss Otis asks.
‘Yes, Madam,’ the boy answers. ‘Do you want me to show you the way?’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Miss Otis says. ‘I know where it is. Thank you, young man.’
‘It was a pleasure, Madam,’ the boy says and nods, his face very serious. Then, he turns around and walks off.
Miss Otis pats her purse, strokes her dress and enters the dark, menacing shadows of the warehouse. She has already come here, a long time ago. The place still reeks the way it did, back then, of sugar and wet wood and corn and sweat. And her heart seems to flutter and get out of control. Just the way it had, back then, too. But not for the same reason. That first time, it could have been love that had made her enter. Today, it’s justice and vengeance and honour she has come to seek.
****
Miss Otis crosses the vast, dim hall. She moves forward as if in a waking dream, as if she was wading through shallow waters. Why does all this feel so familiar? Why do the memories come back so easily? Hasn’t she seen these sacks before, filled with grain and wheat and flour and sugar? Hasn’t she already tried to go out of the way of these people before, these working men who are pressing towards the exit for their lunch break, almost bump into her and jump back, startled, in the last minute? Is it possible that she so clearly remembers how the bright daylight falls in through the windows high above her head, and how the sunrays seem exhausted, forceless and reduced, down here, where they make the dust dance and whirl upwards?
Miss Otis has to shake her head, vigorously, to ward off the trancelike state that befalls her. Her memories of a noon long ago mingle with the present time and threaten to overwhelm her. She must not give in, she must not surrender to that sweet longing that rises once again in her breast. One last time, she allows herself to think with fondness of the young and careless girl she has been, back then. To recall the pale, pink dress she has been wearing. The nervousness with which she has approached the office in the centre of the warehouse, that thick, wooden column jutting out into the hall and rising up to the roof, with those countless windows watching out like curious eyes.
Yes, she has come here once before. That was the time before she had accommodated to what her life would and should be. She has walked on lover’s feet, back then, her face radiant with the bloom of youth, her cheeks glowing with the excited blush of apprehension. She has obeyed the imperious call of her heart, the urgent order of that reckless young man she had been introduced to, some weeks before. Miss Otis remembers the spring smells of that ball in Brannigan Hall, the dancing, the fierce, black-haired gentleman with his strange, forbidden accent, the whispered promises behind the rhododendron…
Today, Miss Otis comes back to see the same man. Years have passed. She has changed. And the urgent matter at hand has changed. No longer is it blind and innocent love that hastens her steps. No longer is she the angel of a promise, come to reap redemption.
Today, she will be the bearer of a sombre destiny. The vengeful angel.
****
Mister Beaulieus office is still situated on the second floor, right under the roof. Miss Otis climbs the stairs, step by step, one hand on the railing, the other one lifting her dress so as not to walk on the seams. With each step, she feels the heavy purse bounce against her legs. Gradually, it seems to weigh more and more as she advances, the immeasurable weight of future sin and guilt.
Why has he shown up again?, the lady wonders. What good has it done to come back to her island? Why must he haunt her life again?
They could have avoided each other for the rest of their stay on earth. They could even have succeeded in avoiding each other on this small island. Miss Otis is persuaded that they could have. Some good will, some decency, some skilful organisation would have sufficed.
Her father has warned her, back then, oh yes, he has. ‘This is no gentleman,’ he has declared after Mister Beaulieu had proposed officially. ‘He’s French, after all. My daughter will not marry one of those revolutionaries! Not as long as I live and breathe!’
Of course, she has wept until her eyes seemed to burn. Of course, she has planned so many times to come back down here and fall on her knees and beg the young man to rescue her, to run off with her. But eventually, she has begun to see the truth in her father’s words. Mister Beaulieu has left one day, without a warning. He has left her, he has left the island, he has left her world, he has left her thoughts. She has been wounded, she has been devastated. And she has overcome her grief. Everything heals, doesn’t it?, given time and a sane mind.
So many years have passed, she thinks while anxiously fixing the door to his office which draws closer and closer with each step. And when at last she has become familiar with her perfect, neat prescription life, when she has started to embrace the map of her destiny with relief and calm acceptance, she has overheard Mrs. Brannigan talk about him. ‘He’s back in town!’ Mrs. Brannigan has said to Mrs. Stanton. ‘Who? Why, that Mister Beaulieu, of course! They say he’s running his father’s business now. And other, wild rumours are being whispered. Oh, I cannot repeat them, do not press me, Mrs. Stanton. It would not be appropriate to repeat them. But poor Miss Otis…’
Miss Otis had not been meant to hear those words. She had not been meant to catch the tell-tale glances Mrs. Brannigan and Mrs. Stanton had shot in her direction.
But from that day on, Miss Otis has been torn between her former emotions, buried deep in her soul, and a sense of duty and honour. And the cold anger she feels again right now. She needs this anger, needs it desperately, so as not to tarry, so as not to stray. She knows that she must be quick. She will not allow him to talk. One word of him, a single sound of his voice, and she could hesitate. And fail.
She climbs even faster now, the newly blazing anger fuelling her strength.
How could that man dare spread filthy rumours about her? Because there is no doubt about who is the author of such rumours. Miss Otis doesn’t have the details. She doesn’t need them. That there are rumours is enough. She will not be laughed at. She is an Otis, after all.
****
Black and white. White and black. All colours have faded. Here’s the door. Miss Otis doesn’t halt to catch her breath. Miss Otis doesn’t knock on the door. She pushes it open, almost violently. A man is sitting in his chair, behind his desk. He lifts his head, surprised by her sudden irruption. She recognizes the familiar face at once. He has put on some weight, he has grown older. But he has stayed the same, handsome man.
Quick, now, quick! Don’t let him speak to you! she orders herself. She barely thinks now; she acts. Quick, quick. The movements flow and become flurry yet deadly precise.
Miss Otis opens her purse. Her fingers clench around the cold metal. She draws out the pistol. Takes aim the way her father has taught her to aim. And shoots the man in his chest, three times. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Then, she sinks down on the floor, emptied. It is fulfilled. Now, the constables can come and get her. She is ready to pay.
And strange but true, the only thought that crosses her mind: she regrets she will be unable to lunch with Mrs. Brannigan. No lunches. Never more.
(Vaguely inspired by Cole Porter’s ‘Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today’)