I wondered how I was going to locate Yeamon. We’d arranged to meet at the post office at noon, but I was already more than an hour late, and the post office was closed. I could see it from the balcony, so I decided to stay there until I caught sight of him, then try to get his attention. In the meantime, I would drink, rest, and ponder the meaning of this mob.
The Go-Kart races were over now, and the crowd turned to the band for amusement. Another band appeared, and then others at different corners of the square, each leading a train of dancers. Four steel bands, playing the same wild tune, came together in the middle of the square. The sound was incredible; people were singing and stomping and screaming. Here and there I saw tourists trying to get out of it, but most of them were carried along in the mob. The bands moved off together, heading down the main street. Behind them the crowd linked arms, thirty abreast, blocking the street and both sidewalks — chanting the music as they jerked and staggered along.
I had been there a while when a man came up and stood by the railing in front of me. I nodded hello, and he smiled. My name’s Ford, he said, extending his hand. I live here. You down for the carnival?
I guess so, I replied.
He looked over the railing again and shook his head. A violent thing, he said solemnly. Be careful, you never know what might happen.
I nodded. By the way, maybe you can tell me some other hotels in town. The bartender says this one’s full.
He laughed. Nope, not an empty room on the island.
Damn, I said.
Why worry? he replied. Sleep on the beach. Lots of people do — better than most hotels.
Where? I said. Are there any close to town?
Sure, he replied, but they’ll all be full. Your best bet is Lindbergh Beach, out by the airport. It’s the nicest.
I shrugged. Well, it may come to that.
He laughed. Good luck. Then he reached into his shirt pocket. Come out and have dinner if you have time. It’s not expensive — it only sounds that way. He laughed and waved goodbye. I looked at his card; it was an advertisement for a hotel called Pirate’s Castle — Owen Ford, prop.
Thanks, I muttered, tossing the card over the railing. I was tempted to go out there and eat a huge meal, then hand him a card saying, Worldwide Congress of Non-Paying Journalists — Paul Kemp, prop.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Yeamon, looking wild-eyed and carrying two bottles of rum. I thought you’d be up here, he said with a grin. We’ve been checking the post office all day — then I realized that any professional journalist would seek the highest and safest spot in town. He fell down in a wicker chair. What else but the balcony of the Grand Hotel?
I nodded. It’s nice, but don’t get comfortable. This place is sold out like all the others. Then I looked around. Where’s Chenault?
I left her downstairs in the gift shop, he said. She’ll be up — can we get ice here?
I guess so, I said. I’ve been getting drinks.
For God’s sake, he replied. Don’t buy rum here. I found a place where you can get it for seventy-five cents a gallon — all we really need is ice.
Fine, I said. Go ask.
As he started for the bar, Chenault appeared. Over here, he called, and she came over to the rail. Yeamon went to the bar and Chenault sat down.
She fell back in the chair and groaned. My lord! she said. We’ve been dancing all day. I’m nearly dead.
She looked happy. She also looked as pretty as I’d ever seen her. She was wearing sandals and a madras skirt and a white sleeveless blouse, but the difference was in her face. It was red and healthy and damp with sweat. Her hair hung loose and free on her shoulders and her eyes glittered with excitement. There was something especially sexual about her now. Her small body, still wrapped very tastefully in plaids and white silk, seemed ready to explode with energy.