The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert Page A

firewood.
    Stone, cement, and wood arrived by the truckload. Mahogany, oak, pine, cherry. I did not know where it came from, but I was certain there were not enough trees left on the entire island to supply it. The trucks never ceased. They brought food, too—sacks of rice and beans and fruit by the crate, and cages of chickens and dozens of small pigs. I spent days doing nothing but running back and forth to the gate to let the trucks in, and I could not remember when I had been more happy.
    Three old women did the cooking, peasants from Saint-Gabriel. They also brought the men water as they worked, going from one to the next with a bucket and gourd.
    At night, sleeping mats covered nearly every patch of lawn, giving the grounds the appearance of an army encampment. The three women slept inside the manor house, in the room next to mine. I slept lightly in those days, my ears attuned to any sign of trouble.
    During this time I saw little of Mme Freeman. She continued to stay at the Hotel Erdrich, only occasionally coming to the estate to check on our progress. Sometimes she brought with her the architects, but most of the time she came alone, and we strolled for hours along the paths and the forest preserve. This was to be Madame’s second residence, a retreat from her frantic work life back home. For me it was no less important an escape, albeit one of a different sort.
    But a month into the construction, it was finally time for Mme Freeman to leave. From the start I had understood she was a successful businesswoman in her own country and that business would often keep her away. The day before she departed, she came to the estate for a final inspection. With the two architects at her side, she walked inside and around the manor house and across every accessible meter of the grounds. Together they made note of the things still to be done.
    â€œWe have a long way to go,” she said when we met in her office that night. “But I have every confidence that you’ll be able to see it through.”
    â€œThank you, Madame,” I said. As sad as I was to see her go, I too felt not the faintest doubt. “I will not disappoint you.”
    â€œIs there anything you need?” she asked as she walked me to the door.
    â€œNot a thing.”
    A flicker of worry came into her eyes, but I could not understand what I might have said to put it there.
    She touched my arm. “Maybe you should take some time off. You haven’t had any time to yourself since you got here. Perhaps you’d like to go visit your family?”
    â€œI’m very happy here,” I said, relieved that it was nothing more substantial than that. “It’s peaceful and the work is rewarding.”
    I could tell by her look that she was not yet convinced.
    â€œI never hear you talk about your father or your friends,” she said. “Don’t you miss them?”
    â€œYes, of course,” I said quickly. But Madame was still looking at me strangely, and I could not explain why I suddenly felt so uncomfortable. Was it not enough that I wished to stay at the estate and complete the work she had hired me to do? “I love my father—”
    â€œIs there no one else you’re close to?” she added after a pause. “I’ve heard you mention someone named Paul. And what about M. Guinee?”
    â€œI like them very much.” But did I also need to explain that they were a part of my old life, two of the many things I had gladly left behind when I came here?
    â€œAnd is there no one else? A girlfriend maybe?”
    â€œI prefer to avoid distractions.”
    â€œI see.” Her face wore a worried look. “Not even just for fun?”
    â€œMaybe later,” I said. “When there’s more time.”
    â€œI don’t mean to press.” Her tone had turned apologetic. “It’s just that I don’t want you feeling stuck here.” Then she peeked at her watch.