Martinique - The Traveller's Tree: A Journey Through the Caribbean Islands - page 30

CHAPTER THREE
Martinique
EVERYTHING below and around us was rapidly changing shape, and the only stable point was our shud-
dering condemned-cell. Here we hung, enclosed in strident aluminium plumbing. Guadeloupe was drawn
from underneath us and the coffin of the Désirade floated to the surface on the east. An infinitesimal chap-
let of islands slid northward, slowly writhing and changing position and form as it travelled: the Saints.
Marie-Galante, a basking and wallowing turtle already far below, swam slowly after them, ruffling with its
muzzle the still Caribbean. How could one connect this bald tropical convexity with Versailles? Yet Ma-
dame de Maintenon lived here for many years as a girl. She was then the poor and Protestant Mademoiselle
d'Aubigné, the daughter of a gloomy crown official in the colony. Soon after she left the Antilles, her grand
connections in Paris married her off to the invalid Scarron. This was the first step on her long journey from
this tiny island to the Royal bed, from which, as wife of the aging Louis XIV, she was able to abet, with a
proselyte's ardour, the hounding of her former co-religionists from France. It is difficult to think of a more
un-Caribbean character.
The windows were suddenly smothered with damp cotton-wool; we were in the middle of a cloud; and
when we dropped out of it, the smooth blue gulf of Fort-de-France—sprinkled with shipping and guarded
by lighthouses on promontories at the bottom of a glittering urban amphitheatre—was sliding up to receive
us. A rush of spray flattened against the window pane, and we were in Martinique.
How irrelevant and deceptive most first impressions are! When I think of Fort-de-France, all, for a few
seconds, that my inner-eye registers is a vast metal advertisement for Coca-cola; plucking, in flesh-col-
ours and pastel shades, at the four deep chords of hygiene, patriotism, snobbery and sex. For the mammoth
beauty reclining on the sand is nothing if not healthy. It is a vision of pneumatic bliss newly pumped up and
fitting as resiliently into the white swim suit as an inner tube into a tyre; Kolynosed, depilated, Mummed
and varnished. The parasol, the expensive accoutrements, and the sunny dunes of Palm Beach indicate her
income-group. There's money there, and lots of it. Her face is lighting up, dimples are burgeoning in her
cheeks, and her smile sparkles as though each tooth were encased in cellophane. Optrexed pupils melt into
surprise, delight and attendrissement ; for something wonderful is happening in the foreground.
A naval sleeve advances into the picture from the lower edge, the forearm of a brave boy in blue, and,
better still, an officer's forearm, for the star and circle of braid are the insignia of a sublieutenant in the
U.S. Navy. (This, with allowances, means quite a lot of dollars a year, and he's probably got private means.
There is money on both sides.) A brown wrist and then a brown hand—a strong hand, but capable of great
gentleness—emerges from the blue cylinder, and muscular fingers are closed round a fluted and waisted
bottle; but not so closed as to obscure the lettering on the offered gift. Coca-Cola , you read, and at the same
instant the ejaculation above the recumbent girl bursts on your awareness: “Mind Reader!” It's a walkover!
The air resounds with invisible wedding-bells.
Thanks to Coke….
The first time I contemplated these great eclogues in tin, the triumphant arm connected not only with a
secret socket in my own alter ego , but with those of half a dozen Negroes (for Art and Commerce know