Prospero's Daughter. Elizabeth Nunez

his forehead. He had no talent for poetry. In England he had tried some verses and failed. It was the boy who was the poet.

       To walk silently

       in the forest,

       and not shake a leaf, to move

       and not disturb a branch.

       At twilight

       let me walk—

       to the drum of impending

       rest, caught between sleeping and waking—

       when rocks turn

       malleable in the growing night, softening

       to the touch of deepening

       shade.

      He did not want to think of him, to remember the boy’s poem he had memorized in two readings, patched together from scraps he had retrieved from the garbage after a fit of envy had caused him to tear it to pieces.

      “Soft.” He waved his hand across the still air. “Soft,” he murmured again, looking around him, listening. But there was no sound, soft or loud, in his backyard, only the birds, their calls fading with the dying light. No mumblings between Ariana and the boy, no hushed whispers. He was gone. Left with the inspector. To jail. Yes, that was where he belonged.

      He patted the pocket of his shirt as if to reassure himself that the packet of smoking papers was there where he had put it. He took it out now and picked up the flat thin box at the foot of the rocking chair. A bundle of letters bound in red ribbon lay close to the box. He would read them next. Carefully, laying out one sheet of the paper on his lap, he shook out the contents of the tin box until he made a thin line along the middle of the paper.

      Tobacco and marijuana. He did not smoke one without the other. He was suspicious of things unaltered. Nature to him was a traitor, bringing disease to roses in bloom, blight to crops before harvest. Cancer to humans.

      Rain made floods. Drought dried grass and sucked moisture from fruit. But on his land the grass was green; flowers blossomed in the dry season.

      If Mumsford had not run off with the boy, he would have shown him what he had done with orchids. He would have taken him to his nursery to see the anthuriums he had grafted to calla lilies.

      He rolled the paper into a cigarette, put it between his lips, lit it, and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. The tobacco was for the taste, the marijuana to increase its potency, to calm his nerves. And this evening he needed to calm his nerves: the boy had spat in his face. This evening he needed to remind himself why he was here, why he could not return to England.

      He reached for the letters. Some were in envelopes, some simply folded. He was a scientist. A meticulous man. The folded letters were his, copies of the ones he had written to his brother. Of the ones in envelopes, only two were from Paul, the others his, returned unopened to the sender. Slowly, gingerly, he unfolded the first one he had written to his brother.

      July 15, 1950

      Cocorite, Trinidad

      Dear Paul,

      How long must I wait for the boat to Chacachacare? Virginia and I have been here three weeks now, living in a shack in Cocorite. This can’t go on much longer. When will that man come to take us there?

      Don’t think I don’t appreciate all you are doing for us. I shall repay you well, I promise.

      Your brother,

      Peter

      He refolded the letter and opened one still in its envelope, the first Paul had sent.

      July 31, 1950

      Lancashire, England

      Dear Peter,

      By the time you receive this letter you would already have had the answers to your questions. The bearer is a friend of a friend. He will take you and Virginia to Chacachacare.

      All is well here. There was an inquest, and, as you anticipated, blame was placed squarely on your shoulders. Everything is out in the open. Her husband wants blood. Your blood absolutely, and so do the others. Even the ones you cured have become afraid. They have made you into a monster. They say your medicines were meant for animals. A woman claims that she has grown hair on her arms and chest, a man that he laughs like a hyena. Lies, of course. All lies.

      Not to worry. I won’t tell where you are hiding. Place your trust in me.

      Your brother,

      Paul

      Place your trust in me. Peter Gardner had laughed scornfully when he first read those words. Trust him? As a serpent’s egg. He needed him but he did not trust him. He had turned their mother against him. He had put her up to comparing him with Frankenstein. He was sure of that.

      Playing God? That’s what she had accused him of, and yet she had claimed she did not believe in Him. They were hypocrites all. But he had to be careful. He was in his brother’s power. In his next letter he was obsequious.

      November 12, 1950

      Chacachacare

      Dear Paul,

      We have arrived safely. The friend of your friend must have told you so. I apologize for having taken this long to write, but I was not sure it would be prudent. I wanted to wait a while. There may have been spies checking your post box. Four months, I think, is long enough. They would have given up by now, certain you have no knowledge of my whereabouts. In any case, they love you and would not want to harm you. You have been a kind and generous brother to me. You cannot know how much I am grateful to you.

      The weather here is rotten, unbelievably hot, but at least now it is dry. The incessant rains have come to an end, though, alas, not the mosquitoes. My poor Virginia suffers, but I have managed to make a salve for her and to procure some netting.

      We stayed for a while at the doctor’s house. As you said, he asked no questions, but he does not need me. The patients here can take care of themselves, and the doctor, though quite old, is more than enough for the few who may need his help.

      I have now found a better house for Virginia and me. It is not England, but it is not uncomfortable. I am, as it were, lord again of my own manor. I have a housekeeper, who does my cooking and cleaning. I don’t think she is long for this world, but she has a daughter who helps.

      Yes, and there is a boy, Carlos. He gabbles like a thing most brutish. Hardly language, as you and I would call it. A sort of English, I think he means it to be, with dats and dises and deres. No ths whatsoever, and not a verb to match its subject.

      Maybe I’m not altogether out of the business of improving the lot of humans, though at this moment I would hardly call the little savage human. Maybe I shall teach him to speak so at least he’ll know his own meaning. We shall see. But he makes an amusing playmate for Virginia. She is quite taken with him.

      Give me news about the situation at the hospital. Do you think the matter will blow away soon?

      Yours always in trust and gratitude,

      Your brother,

      Peter

      For eight months he did not hear from Paul. He wrote to him again and the letter came back, unopened, the envelope stamped with the words Return to Sender. Addressee Unknown. He wrote again, four more letters. All returned. Addressee unknown. Then this one, the last. When he saw the date, he knew he had been betrayed. March 15. The Ides of March. Et tu Brute?

      March 15, 1951

      Lancashire

      Dear Peter,

      This is the last letter I will write to you, and