Palaver of Glass

We did this as a writing exercise in Creative Writing last semester. I just found it and forgot how much I liked it.

To read The Short Happy Life go here: The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber

Ta,

Cal.

Palaver of Glass

(Fanfic of The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber by Ernest Hemingway)

Robert Wilson scowled as he entered the room. It was a gauche room and in the typical style of modern American architecture. He was supposed to meet his new client, an eccentric naturalist who had an interesting in African mammals, especially big game African mammals.

But, this Mr. Stride would meet with Wilson, but only under Mr. Stride’s own specifications, and only in America. He did not relish being at see again, he liked it when the ground did not move ostentatiously under his boots.

Wilson spied his mark near the buffet table in conversation with an officious looking fellow he did not know, and frowned. He had hoped to have more blood in his belly before speaking with this man. Blood in the belly was good when dealing with customers, better than blood on the brain.

He turned, and blinked. It couldn’t be! But it was. She was standing there by the fountain of champagne. She had not changed since the years he had seen her, and he supposed she needed some of that beauty cream now.

He made his way toward her, it did not take him very long to get to her side.

“Memsahib, it is a pleasure to see you in such fine spirits.”

She did not respond, and generally acted like she had not even heard him. Before Wilson could demand her attention, she was engaged in conversation with another woman.

Wilson was confused, and when he got over his confusion, he was fiercely perturbed. She had clearly seen him, heard him.

What game was she playing at now?

He tailed her, though, as she moved through the gathering, never able to get as close to her as he did before. But, he was sure she noted his presence. With slight amusement, he spied as she slanted away from him the closer he got.

It was like stalking a gazelle, and as it continued Wilson found he liked it more and more.

Mrs. Macomber was speaking heatedly with a man, and Wilson watched as forceful gestures were traded for scintillating words. Finally, at last the man, persevering, said something so low and cold, Wilson could not hear it. There were tears in her eyes.

The widowed Macomber straightened her posture, and with a stiffened dignity stalked out of the room.

Robert Wilson knew those tears, he had seem them twice before. So, he followed her out, disregarding Mr. Stride and business all together.

She had retreated into a side room, and Robert Wilson found her staring out of the window.

“Memsahib.”

She did not turn or twitch at his entrance.

“Memsahib, are you hiding from me? Surely, I am not as scary as you think.” He smirked, he quite enjoyed this.

She twisted towards him then, her eyes narrowed and then widened when he did not say anything else.

One word escaped her lips, then: “Please.”

He suddenly felt much more vindictive. “Now, where have I heard that word before? Hmm?”

Wilson leaned towards her, smirk still plastered to his face.

Her eyes widened again, and she pursed her lips.

She did not speak, so he did.

“Why did you shoot from the car, after I said not to, Memsahib?”

She looked affronted, “Why are you asking me these questions? Or is your memory so selective you do not remember the water buffalo?”

He felt the heat rise at the base of his neck. Why did this woman irk him so?

Wilson schooled his face to be as passive as possible. “Oh, no, I remember. I remember very well. And, I well remember I was beginning to like him. That is before you shot him.”

He could see the tears were started to come back.

“Please, I didn’t…” She whispered. Her face was drained of most of it’s color, but maybe it was just the paint.

He looked away. He remember the conversation with her, her husband bleeding out into the dirt, she had said please so many times. When he looked back her eyes were dry.

He gestured towards her head. “Your face is red.”

She huffed. “So is yours.”

Before, he disappeared back into the party to try and salvage a meeting with Mr. Stride, he spoke one last thing. “It must be racial.”