Martinique
The Festival program was wonderful. Joe Jennings and Howard Nicolson and Life Force played and it was so hot, they would wander to the back of the stage while someone else had a solo and wipe their faces with towels. The performance tent was packed and the heat was pulsating everywhere. When we come in, they seat us up front so we can be honored guests. Atlanta dignitaries. I watch Joe and wonder if he would play while I did my poetry and I listen to the people speaking French and looking just like we do. And afterward, some people pass us, knowing we are from Atlanta and that we have been introduced as “dignitaries,” and they smile shyly and murmur, “Bon, Atlanta, bon.” We go see Joe backstage and he is dripping sweat and grinning and I say, “Aren’t you gonna be signing autographs?” And he laughs. “I should be getting them,” he says. Another member of our party materializes wearing a pin-striped suit and speaking in a newly acquired British accent. I want to tease him about it, but he’s too far away and the room is too crowded.
We’ve been invited to a reception at the home of the American consul general and even though I’m really sleepy, we’re driving through the streets of Fort de France and arriving at Howard Robinson’s house. I’m so tired. He is black and very happy to have us. We drink and drink and they talk and talk. “In order to make Johnson leave the Senate, Kennedy gave him the space program for Texas,” says the consul general. Heavy talk, but I am too sleepy. I look out through the porch doors at the pool, the lights of the city, the trees. Always the flowers. I drink more rum. Now they are talking about the CIA so I leave the room and lie down on a rattan couch and sleep. Wake to them still talking and sleep again until they rouse me an hour later at 4:00 a.m. and we find our way home; drunk, sleepy, lost, exhilarated.
The night was wonderful. The day was wonderful. We fall into bed, exhausted. Martinique.