Prospero's Daughter by Elizabeth Nunez

sensation he experienced almost unconsciously. His conscious self was preoccupied with sorting out the shock: the certainty that it was Ariana he had seen. He was not wrong about the hair, the lithe body, the liquid flow of brown skin. He was not wrong about the loose shirttails hanging out of Dr. Gardner’s pants, which were unbelted and, he could swear, unbuttoned at the waist.
    “So what do you think?” Dr. Gardner’s voice penetrated his brain and Mumsford pulled himself together.
    “I didn’t think the technology had been advanced for domestic use,” he said.
    Gardner grinned. “Not for everybody, my man.”
    She was still standing there, waiting, he supposed, for Dr. Gardner’s order. Dr. Gardner had not said what kind of drinks. Perhaps she was waiting to know exactly what he wanted her to bring.
    “But it has advanced, it has advanced,” Dr. Gardner was saying, taking no notice of Ariana.
    This was not his business, Mumsford reminded himself. He was not here to discuss her or her dealings with Gardner.
    “And my lawn? What do you think about my lawn and my flowers?” Dr. Gardner came closer to him. So Mumsford asked and Gardner replied, “The miracles of the latest research in botany. I’m a scientist, Inspector.”
    How logical was his answer, how simple. He was a scientist; he was experimenting with shapes and colors. Mumsford managed a smile. “And all this?” He cast his eyes around the room.
    “For my Virginia,” Dr. Gardner said. “A little of England for her.”
    Yes, that was what his subconscious mind had registered:
England.
He fixed his back resolutely toward her so he could not see her.
England.
There were no wicker and bamboo here, no couches covered in fabric with overlaying patterns of coconut fronds and bright red hibiscus. His eyes took in more: proper English armchairs, proper English love seats. Dr. Gardner had not been snared, as some of his compatriots on the island had, into succumbing to the foolish romantic notion of local color. In the drawing room where he stood, the chairs were upholstered in English fabrics, refined damasks in English floral patterns: sprays of pink, white, and red roses extending off long, leafy green stems against a pale yellow background. The drapes on the windows matched the yellow of the damask. On the mahogany cocktail table that separated the love seats were picture books of English gardens and a bronze sculpture of Don Quixote on his horse. He looked down to the rug on the floor.
    “Persian,” Dr. Gardner said before he could inquire. “An original. Handwoven, not one of those modern machine-made imitations.”
    No straw mats, either, on the wood floors.
    One wall was completely lined with books. Mumsford could not read all the titles, but he was sure they were by English writers. Shakespeare—the name stood out—and then there were others: Milton, Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, names he had learned in grammar school. England’s heroes, her geniuses. Racial pride flared through him like a brush fire. Whatever distaste he felt for Gardner when the image of his unbuttoned pants flashed across his brain was replaced now with genuine admiration. Here was an Englishman indeed.
    “Sit. Sit.” Dr. Gardner pointed to an armchair. “Give me your hat and baton.”
    Mumsford relinquished them with a slight bow, clicking his heels in military fashion. Gardner laughed and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, at ease, young man. Don’t be so stuffy. Make yourself comfortable.”
    Mumsford blushed. He had not intended the bow and the click, but he was overtaken by an enormous sense of relief. After the bugs, the scorching sun, the stifling scent of sweaty bodies, vegetation that was too green in the wet season, too brown in the dry, but always haphazard, always out of control, he was overjoyed to be in a room that reaffirmed a world he had been taught was his, a world of order and civility, though he did not know it personally,