Strange Trades Read Free

of a mummy’s cerements, a raw, unbleached beige. Men’s suits that year had no lapels, and so my signature flower—a black carnation—was pinned above my heart.
    The interior of La Pomme was dark, save for the soft blue- green phosphorescence provided by the bi-O-lites on each table, and those in a line down the bar. I always thought the whole effect was one of an undersea grotto, lit by the slow fires of the drowned men and women who sat as if on coral thrones, more lively than corpses, yet no more feeling.
    Full fathom five thy father lies.…
    The veranda windows were two huge slabs of ebony. By the closed door stood one of Deatherage’s men, solicitous bouncer and ruffled-feather-smoother, looking uncomfortable in his suit.
    I circulated among my patrons, attending to their frivolous, often only subtly implied desires. As usual, I hated myself for fawning over them. But there was little in the world at that time which I felt capable of doing, and the unassuming niche I had carved for myself here offered a certain contemptible security.
    Charlie had yet to appear for his first set. Only the third night of his playing, and already attendance was up. As I had speculated, many of the islands’ sad and predatory older women, and not a few of the men, were drawn to him, as if he released some pheromone of youth and potency. At a single table, I spotted Laura Ellis, Simone Riedesel, and Marguerite Englander: the full set of immaculately coiffed, well-preserved Fates, each with enameled nails long and sharp enough to snip threads.
    Back at the bar, I savored my usual mineral water with a twist of lemon, and waited for Charlie to appear.
    Exactly at midnight the Kid materialized onstage, lit by a single spotlight. Seated on a tall stool, he had his bare feet twisted in the rungs. He wore a white shirt of mine that bloused loosely on him and his old blue shorts. The long flat case of his musikit—like his namesake’s broadsword—was balanced on his lap.
    The Kid began to play.
    Like some beautifully plumaged bird with a raucous yet arresting call, Charlie sang. He knew plenty of old songs that were guaranteed to touch places in us antiques that we had deemed dead—his father’s legacy, I suppose. He sang the newest tunes heard daily on the radio with a freshness akin to the then-popular singer, Stella Fusion. And every tenth number or so, there would come an original piece—haunting mixes of Caribbean, Mexican, and American rhythms, carrying elusively poetic images.
    When he finished, the applause was real and tremendous.
    Above the clapping, from the table nearest me, I heard a bitter voice say, “The bloody little kaffir sings like a black crow.” A sharp bark of laughter answered.
    I looked to see who had spoken and shattered the magic.
    Seated together were Koos van Staaden, his daughter, Christina, and Henrik Blauvelt.
    Van Staaden and his daughter were refugees, having fled South Africa—or rather, to use its official name, Azania—six years ago when that aching, tortured country finally erupted. Van Staaden had been Administrator of the Transvaal at the time. During his tenure, he had apparently accumulated quite a fortune, most of which he had managed to transfer abroad prior to the revolution. He and Christina, I knew, had caught one of the last flights out of Jo’burg. Maria, his wife, had been at their country home that week. No doubt her scattered bones were bleached the color of my suit by now.
    Spiteful gossip maintained that on the walls of van Staaden’s house hung relics of his homeland, among which was a sjambok , its business end tipped with flakes of brown. I couldn’t quite credit even van Staaden with such an offense.
    Blauvelt, a burly fellow countryman, had been an expatriate in England when the government fell. Nowadays, he acted as Christina’s companion.
    Like so many wealthy dissolutes without goals, they had ended up in the Hesperides.
    I watched van Staaden warily as the patter of