Refiner's Fire by Mark Helprin

Author:Mark Helprin [Helprin, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

4

ON THE way back to the factory, heaters puffing over limp, exhausted men heading once more into endless night and work, Marshall had a luminous memory and, like an old man, was overcome with affection and love for a moment in his past. Remembering it, he understood that nothing vanishes, that between the mirrors of heart and mind is a meditation long standing, infinite, and full, that Jamaica still lay hot and lush, as green as a bird of green feathers, slow-moving like Jamaican speech. He had it precisely, a locking incision. Dash’s kiss tasted like apricots. Even Farrell’s death and the arrival of the constable had not altered the bloom of his rosy trust. From High View he could see that ships were shearing across a blur as green water hissed through the reefs.

When they arrived, the other workers left for their stations, but Al and Marshall were told to go inside and see Mornoe. They expected the worst, for it was said that after the first visit to the whores, a new man was sent to the killing chamber, there to bludgeon the steers. Inside the cathedral room they approached the old men, one of whom said, “I suppose you came to see Mornoe."

“That’s what we were told to do,” said Marshall.

“Okay, I’ll get him.” He hopped up and walked to the fire. “He’s in the fire again. Monroel Momoel Come outa there!” Monroe. appeared.

“Oh,” he said, “it’s you. You been gone for some time.”

“That’s right,” answered Al. “We’ve been gone for some time. Mornoe, some times its irritating to listen to you, since you have no idea of time.”

“Do you have an idea of time?” questioned Mornoe.

“More or less.”

“Then how long you been gone?”

“About ten or twelve hours,” answered Al.

“Ten or twelve hours!” Marshall said in astonishment. “It was no more than forty-five minutes.”

“I haven’t seen you boys for some time,” said Mornoe. “That’s all I can say.” He looked around, and then said, almost under his breath, “You boys interested in a short card game?”

“Short!” said Al. “You see!”

“What you mean?” asked Mornoe, genuinely puzzled, taking a stubby deck of cards out of his overalls. “We plays with short cards.” He held one up. “You can get a credit of two hundred and fifty dollars on your pay for the card game. You want to play?” The old men were poised on the edges of their boxes and rockers.

“Why not?”

“Yahoo!” they screamed, moving like greased lightning to set up a table, lower a gambling lamp, and put a big mesh grill on the fire. “That’s for shrimps and bacon,” one said. “When we play cards, we grill up shrimps and bacon, and drink beer.”

“Suits me,” said Marshall, for he loved shrimp cooked on an open fire. “Got any soy sauce?”

‘Any what sauce?” asked Mornoe.

“Soy sauce.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a sauce they have in Japan.”

“Is this Japan?” queried Mornoe.

“No.”

“Then we ain’t got no soy sauce.”

Quickly is not an adequate word for how fast they lost their $250, and they didn’t get one bit of shrimp or bacon, or one sip of beer.

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