Prospero's Daughter. Elizabeth Nunez

letters may be traced. I do not like being questioned, either. The postman mentioned to me the other day that he has noticed I get foreign letters without a return address. It will only be a matter of time before he tells that to the authorities.

      Yes, I have many friends. People like me, the postman likes me, but loyalty and friendship cost money. I can bribe the postman. I have bribed your colleagues already. They take the money as a cat laps milk and have sworn to secrecy about your experiments.

      Did you really think, Peter, you could grow limbs in a test tube? My God, what you did to those animals! One of your colleagues showed me a rat with six legs. Were you mad?

      But now they have the money, your colleagues will keep your secrets, though I may need to pay off those who may still want more. Promise a man enough money and he’ll tell the clock the time. He will swear eight o’clock if you tell him that that was the time when you were in such and such a place. Those grand doctors who used to drink with me and think me foolish and you the genius now do my bidding. Money, my dear Peter, talks and walks. You would not think how much they praise me now. There is no better doctor in London, they say. Fools!

      Here it is, Peter: I have taken the house in Lancashire, the money the parents left you, and your bank account, what was left of your bank account after I paid out the bribes. Remember, you transferred everything to me. Of course, I am aware of our agreement. But, my dear brother, I have no intentions of returning your money to you, or giving you back your house.

      You asked if I thought “the matter” would blow away soon. It will never blow away, dear brother. That woman’s husband and her family will hunt you down forever. So it is no use thinking you can come back. There is no coming back for you.

      But, perhaps, you think I should send you some money. Let me tell you this, brother. You have no estate. Your estate is mine. I feel sorry for your daughter. I feel sorry that because of you she is stuck in that savage place. But she will be able to leave one day, when she is old enough. A bit of advice, brother. Marry her to an Englishman. He will bring her back and restore to her what you have deprived her of. But you can never leave. Not ever. Don’t trouble your mind with that thought. I will be the first to turn you in.

      I do not feel sorry for you, Peter. I never liked you. You always thought you were better than me and so did Father. Now see who has the last laugh.

      Conscience? Surely a man who has no conscience cannot ask me such a question. But if you were to ask, Peter, here is my answer. If my conscience were a corn on my big toe, I would wear special shoes. But the truth is, I do not feel that deity that so many claim troubles their souls. I feel no guilt. Indeed, I think I deserve what I now possess, as you deserve your exile.

      Take heart, dear brother. What’s past is prologue. The future is yours to discharge, as it is mine. Now that I have the means, I will make the best of mine. Make the best of yours. You have your books.

      Paul.

      He could recite the letter by heart. He had read it at least a hundred times. You have your books. All he had were two volumes of The Complete Works of Shakespeare, a couple of science texts, and some novels. He wanted to take more but Paul said no. “Too much baggage. You’re a man on the run.”

      The ribbon lay on his lap. He picked it up and retied the letters. His head ached, his eyes stung. The sun had all but descended. There were embers still, but the day was over. Done.

      What’s past is prologue. He had his red leather-bound book; he had his notes; he had the formulas for his inventions.

      “Ariana!” He called for her. “Ariana! Don’t you hear me call?”

      She came softly, a leaf floating on a breeze.

      He was sleepy, so sleepy. The marijuana. His brother.

      She touched his arm to stir him.

      “Patricia?” He was thinking of his wife. “Patricia?” He reached up and stroked her cheek.

      “You love me, Master? No?” she asked.

       Not alabaster skin. Not Patricia. Brown. Too brown to be alabaster skin tanned brown.

      “Ariana?”

      “You love, no, Master?”

      He sighed. “Dearly. Dearly, my delicate Ariana.”

      FIVE

      THEY HAD ALSO seen the sunset. At first Mumsford thought Carlos had not noticed it. He had not moved nor uttered a single word since they had entered the car that was waiting for them at the dock in Trinidad. He sat with his back erect, his arms folded stiffly across his duffel bag and looked straight ahead of him, no expression on his face except a dour rigidity.

      Mumsford was certain it was all a pretense; he was convinced the boy was afraid. He had to be. He was in the custody of a police inspector—an Englishman—accused by another Englishman of improper advances to his daughter. The politics were changing in Trinidad, but the island was still a colony of England in spite of the saber rattling. Machete rattling. Mumsford grinned, for that was what he thought of the protest gatherings in the town square, mere machete rattling that England could suppress whenever she wanted to.

      It bothered him that England did not seem to want to, that she seemed ready to cave in, that she had lost her will to fight back. But he was not blind to the cost of the war with Germany. Resources, what remained of resources, had to be conserved, used for reconstruction. Still, there were colored people in Trinidad who would fight for England, who would give more credence to what an Englishman said than to anything one of their own would counter. That much Mumsford understood about the workings of colonialism, how a tiny island like his had managed to rule the world.

      It was simple actually: a matter of changing the native’s sense of the beautiful, a matter of controlling the mind. Even now the films the people rushed to see in the cinemas popping up all over the island reinforced the message: white skin was beautiful; blue, green, gray eyes were beautiful; blond hair was beautiful; straight black or brown hair was beautiful; curly hair without kinks was beautiful. Even now in the schools it was English history the teachers taught, the English way. Always the heroes were English, always the achievements and accomplishments were theirs.