Gardner conducting, his arm rising and falling rhythmically through the air. “Now that you are here,” he said, still conducting the concerto with an imaginary baton, “you will know why I insisted that the commissioner send an Englishman, not a native.”
“I do, sir,” Mumsford said.
Gardner dropped his arm. “I wanted you to see for yourself. To understand the circumstances. My outrage. The depth of this insult to my person,” he said. He lowered the volume on the record player.
Mumsford sat up. “To your person, sir?” he asked. The music was barely audible now and he was no longer in a cocoon.
“To the person of all honorable Englishmen, Inspector. To the person of my daughter.” He closed the console and recrossed the room. “When you meet her, Inspector, you will find she will outstrip all praise and make it halt behind her.” He hummed a few bars of the concerto and sat down on the armchair next to Mumsford’s. “A piece of England for my daughter,” he said.
He meant Mozart, and at the very least Mumsford knew that Mozart was not English, but it did not matter. He understood.
“Before you get the boy, I will show you my orchids and the rest of my garden.”
Yes, Mumsford thought, he could get the boy when he was done, after he had taken Gardner’s deposition. But Gardner did not wait for his response. “Ariana!” he shouted.
She was still there. She had not left the room. Gardner need not have raised his voice. She stood near the back door, twirling a strand of her long hair between her fingers.
“Ariana, the drinks!” She dropped her hand and swung it behind her back. It was the only acknowledgment she gave that she had heard him.
Mumsford had not been unaware of her presence. From time to time, in spite of his pleasure over the furniture, the crispness in the air, the reassuring music, his eyes had strayed in her direction. A will-o’-the-wisp, he had thought. They flitted over the marshes on hot summer nights. A speck of light too fleeting to be brilliant.
Ethereal.
That was the word he had been searching for, yet it was a word that was inconsonant with her deep brown skin, her black wavy hair. Consonant, though, with her slight frame, her small bones, her long arms that dangled from their sockets, her long legs, her bare feet, her long, long hair, her huge eyes, which one noticed next, or first, if one saw her from the front and not from the back. They were round and bright, and made the rest of her face—her satiny smooth cheeks, her flat nose, her tiny mouth—seem inconsequential. She was probably Indian, though something about the curls in her hair and the flattish nose bridge told him that perhaps there was an African parent or grandparent. Doogla. That was what she was. It was the name the native people gave to such mixtures. Yes, she was a doogla.
But a will-o’-the-wisp, too. She could be blown away with a puff of breath. The fabric of her yellow dress, which was tied to the back in a girlish bow, was thin, almost transparent. He glanced at her again. He could make out shadows behind the thin fabric. It struck him that there was no inconsonance between the word that had occurred to him and the person he was seeing, the brilliance of her yellow dress flashing now against her dark skin not unlike the ethereal light flitting across the dark night in the marshes in England.
“Gin and tonic for you, Inspector?”
Mumsford was so deep in his ruminations, unsettled somewhat by the likeness he had made between the slight woman before him and England (though the comparison he had made was not with her and England but with her and a fairy, not a person in England) that he literally jumped when Gardner’s voice cut across his thoughts.
“Something the matter, Inspector?” Gardner asked.
Mumsford patted his hands down his jacket and folded them over his belt buckle. “I was dreaming,” he said hastily. “Of England. All this reminded me.”
Gardner smiled. “It
“I do, sir,” Mumsford said.
Gardner dropped his arm. “I wanted you to see for yourself. To understand the circumstances. My outrage. The depth of this insult to my person,” he said. He lowered the volume on the record player.
Mumsford sat up. “To your person, sir?” he asked. The music was barely audible now and he was no longer in a cocoon.
“To the person of all honorable Englishmen, Inspector. To the person of my daughter.” He closed the console and recrossed the room. “When you meet her, Inspector, you will find she will outstrip all praise and make it halt behind her.” He hummed a few bars of the concerto and sat down on the armchair next to Mumsford’s. “A piece of England for my daughter,” he said.
He meant Mozart, and at the very least Mumsford knew that Mozart was not English, but it did not matter. He understood.
“Before you get the boy, I will show you my orchids and the rest of my garden.”
Yes, Mumsford thought, he could get the boy when he was done, after he had taken Gardner’s deposition. But Gardner did not wait for his response. “Ariana!” he shouted.
She was still there. She had not left the room. Gardner need not have raised his voice. She stood near the back door, twirling a strand of her long hair between her fingers.
“Ariana, the drinks!” She dropped her hand and swung it behind her back. It was the only acknowledgment she gave that she had heard him.
Mumsford had not been unaware of her presence. From time to time, in spite of his pleasure over the furniture, the crispness in the air, the reassuring music, his eyes had strayed in her direction. A will-o’-the-wisp, he had thought. They flitted over the marshes on hot summer nights. A speck of light too fleeting to be brilliant.
Ethereal.
That was the word he had been searching for, yet it was a word that was inconsonant with her deep brown skin, her black wavy hair. Consonant, though, with her slight frame, her small bones, her long arms that dangled from their sockets, her long legs, her bare feet, her long, long hair, her huge eyes, which one noticed next, or first, if one saw her from the front and not from the back. They were round and bright, and made the rest of her face—her satiny smooth cheeks, her flat nose, her tiny mouth—seem inconsequential. She was probably Indian, though something about the curls in her hair and the flattish nose bridge told him that perhaps there was an African parent or grandparent. Doogla. That was what she was. It was the name the native people gave to such mixtures. Yes, she was a doogla.
But a will-o’-the-wisp, too. She could be blown away with a puff of breath. The fabric of her yellow dress, which was tied to the back in a girlish bow, was thin, almost transparent. He glanced at her again. He could make out shadows behind the thin fabric. It struck him that there was no inconsonance between the word that had occurred to him and the person he was seeing, the brilliance of her yellow dress flashing now against her dark skin not unlike the ethereal light flitting across the dark night in the marshes in England.
“Gin and tonic for you, Inspector?”
Mumsford was so deep in his ruminations, unsettled somewhat by the likeness he had made between the slight woman before him and England (though the comparison he had made was not with her and England but with her and a fairy, not a person in England) that he literally jumped when Gardner’s voice cut across his thoughts.
“Something the matter, Inspector?” Gardner asked.
Mumsford patted his hands down his jacket and folded them over his belt buckle. “I was dreaming,” he said hastily. “Of England. All this reminded me.”
Gardner smiled. “It
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