Music for Chameleons Read Free Page B

no. They’re better than anywhere else in the Caribbean, but too expensive.”
    “ Alors . As I remarked, everything is imported. We don’t even grow our own vegetables. The natives are too lackadaisical.” A hummingbird penetrates the terrace and casually balances on the air. “But our sea-fare is exceptional.”
    “Yes and no. I’ve never seen such enormous lobsters. Absolute whales; prehistoric creatures. I ordered one, but it was tasteless as chalk, and so tough to chew that I lost a filling. Like California fruit: splendid to look at, but without flavor.”
    She smiles, not happily: “Well, I apologize”—and I regret my criticism, and realize I’m not being very gracious.
    “I had lunch at your hotel last week. On the terrace overlooking the pool. I was shocked.”
    “How so?”
    “By the bathers. The foreign ladies gathered around the pool wearing nothing above and very little below. Do they permit that in your country? Virtually naked women parading themselves?”
    “Not in so public a place as a hotel pool.”
    “Exactly. And I don’t think it should be condoned here. But of course we can’t afford to annoy the tourists. Have you bothered with any of our tourist attractions?”
    “We went yesterday to see the house where Empress Josephine was born.”
    “I never advise anyone to visit there. That old man, the curator, what a chatterbox! And I can’t say which is worse—his French or his English or his German. Such a bore. As though the journey getting there weren’t tiring enough.”
    Our hummingbird departs. Far off we hear steel-drum bands, tambourines, drunken choirs ( “Ce soir, ce soir nous danserons sans chemise, sans pantalons” : Tonight, tonight we dance without shirts, without pants), sounds reminding us that it is Carnival week in Martinique.
    “Usually,” she announces, “I leave the island during Carnival. It’s impossible. The racket, the stench.”
    When planning for this Martinique experience, which included traveling with three companions, I had not known our visit would coincide with Carnival; as a New Orleans native, I’ve had my fill of such affairs. However, the Martinique variation proved surprisingly vital, spontaneous and vivid as a bomb explosion in a fireworks factory. “We’re enjoying it, my friends and I. Last night there was one marvelous marching group: fifty men carrying black umbrellas and wearing silk tophats and with their torsos painted with phosphorescent skeleton bones. I love the old ladies with gold-tinsel wigs and sequins pasted all over their faces. And all those men wearing their wives’ white wedding gowns! And the millions of children holding candles, glowing like fireflies. Actually, we did have one near-disaster. We borrowed a car from the hotel, and just as we arrived in Fort de France, and were creeping through the midst of the crowds, one of our tires blew out, and immediately we were surrounded by red devils with pitchforks—”
    Madame is amused: “ Oui. Oui . The little boys who dress as red devils. That goes back centuries.”
    “Yes, but they were dancing all over the car. Doing terrific damage. The roof was a positive samba floor. But we couldn’t abandon it, for fear they’d wreck it altogether. So the calmest of my friends, Bob MacBride, volunteered to change the tire then and there. The problem was that he had on a new white linen suit and didn’t want to ruin it.”
    “Therefore, he disrobed. Very sensible.”
    “At least it was funny. To watch MacBride, who’s quite a solemn sort of fellow, stripped to his briefs and trying to change a tire with Mardi Gras madness swirling around him and red devils jabbing at him with pitchforks. Paper pitchforks, luckily.”
    “But Mr. MacBride succeeded.”
    “If he hadn’t, I doubt that I’d be here abusing your hospitality.”
    “Nothing would have happened. We are not a violent people.”
    “Please. I’m not suggesting we were in any danger. It was just—well, part of