Myrer, Anton - A Green Desire by Myrer Anton

Author:Myrer, Anton [Myrer, Anton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780061744778
Google: OrCMcJwbSOEC
Amazon: 0060934638
Publisher: Harper Collins
Published: 2001-12-03T16:00:00+00:00

“—You think he—that Manny would actually set fire to... no, never!” she cried.

He was shaking his head fearfully. “I didn’t say that, Annabella—”

“—he would die first, he would cut off his right hand with a knife!” she shouted; she advanced on Frank Cardosa steadily, while he backed away, his hands extended, pleading. “And you his old shipmate! Tu és doido—deixa esta casa, sai de minha vista, já, já! . . .” Weeping, wild with rage, she’d lost all her English and didn’t care; she could have struck him dead where he stood. “Filho de uma porca! Get out!—don’t you ever show your bastard’s face to me again!.. .”

Later, rocking by the low fire she turned the thought over, as one might pick up a sack of guano. Her Manny, old and broken, dreaming discordant dreams; seeking death at last . . . No. He had remained a Catholic, he would have rejected suicide with his last breath; and anyway, he loved life too fiercely, the mysterious voyage of it, even its changeable, fleeting riches of sun and wind. Manny was life—he would never, never forsake it, whether on some treach- erous reef of the mind or in momentary despair. It was not in him.

But what, then? Who would want to kill him, burn him to death like that? There were men he’d quarreled with over the years—but to coldbloodedly set him and his broken old ship afire, to carry a can of gasoline on board in the night—

It was then that she had thought of Joe Touro’s remark about Chapin Ames; and a kind of certainty settled over her like a foul, black cloak. A strange gasoline can; Chapin racing up to Boston in the small hours—his absence from the carnival that evening; Jose- fina’s tense preoccupation all that day. Bits and pieces. Yes, there was a connection, some kind of tortured, hideous connection . . .

But to want to kill a weary old man—why, in the name of God?

Why?

But it was Chapin, somehow; she’d felt it in the cold deeps of her heart. By then of course he’d been far away, in Texas, in the Army. She had absolutely no proof, anyhow—she, who had always believed in proof, who had the most scathing contempt for blind accusations. And then Jophy had lost the baby and nearly died her-

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