Peter Pygore owned what Miss Abercrombie, the attorney and estate agent, referred to (before she gave it up) as “a very desirable residence and property,” on the West Shore of the Belinda River; though he usually preferred to indulge his desires by residing elsewhere. His house, though, with its towering turrets of 19th century Tropical Gothic, its cupolas and balconies, its yards full of flowering trees, was among the first things to catch the eyes of newly-arrived and house-seeking foreigners.
“Hey!” the foreigners would exclaim. Or, “Oh, look!” And, “Who does that
“Belahng to Colonel Pygore,” a National of the country would reply. “But he not reside dere noew. Residing noew at Ho-tel Pel-i-
The foreigners’ eyes, dazzled by the sun on the waters of the First (or Belinda) River as it disembogued into the Bay of Hidalgo, and totally captivated by the cool look of the spacious house in its surrounding greenery, would immediately be less weary and more alert. “Do you think it’s for rent?”
And the National would ponder and consider, then allow a smile to lighten his face. “We go timely to see heem. I ox heem fah you.” In King Town, the capital, Nationals are aware that foreigners have their own odd ways with pronouns, and might not understand such perfectly ordinary usage as, “Us go,” or “Me ox.”
“We old
The sun was now less strong, the streets less dusty, the possibility of shelter less remote. The foreigners felt now that, after all, their decision to come to British Hidalgo — so remote, so all but unknown, so (accordingly) confused with the Spanish-speaking Republic of Hidalgo — had after all been a right and good one. With tourists so few, surely here,
And so they would pass through the streets without sidewalks, go by the main market, cross the Swing Bridge, observe the Post Office and the Fire House with its three vintage engines and its twro fairly modern ones (the ones which actually answered the alarms) and such indispensable places as the shop and warehouse of Georgoglu who sold rum and Gonsales who sold coconuts and Flemington the plantains prince. And in between each building a flash of the sparkle of the water of the First (or Belinda) River, the sails of the cayes boats as the sails moved up or down the masts but seldom staying in place and full of the wind, as Belinda Harbor (or King Town Port) was right on the Bay. And old men offered for sale parched peanuts and old women haw'ked fried fish or “conks flitters” and small pickneys begged for one dime: the National would politely decline the offers (“Going just noew to Pelican Bar, Grahndy —”) and speak sternly to the beggingboys — “Why you no shame?” — the last word, sounding like “sheahhm,” producing, oddly, echoes of the Carolinas, or Ireland. And at least every other person would greet the National and be greeted by him and more people would smile at the foreigners than wouldn’t and no one at all would scowl, thus showing the desired absence of any hatred towards foreigners or other pale people.
“You seem to have many friends.”
“Oh yes mahm ahn sah. I no vex me heart weet hate no wahn.”
“Very good philosophy.”