NOVELIST FISHER’S
FACES in
A GREEN ISLAND IN A
BLACK SEA
PART ONE
James R. Fisher, Jr.,
Ph.D.
© August 21, 2014
George Orwell, author of Animal
Farm (1946) and Nineteen Eighty Four (1949)
once said, “At fifty, every man has the face he deserves.” Orwell never made it to fifty dying at the
age of forty-six. My da barely made it
to the age of fifty, dying three days after his fiftieth birthday.
It got me thinking.
I’ve claimed being able to read
people, as rarely have my first impressions proven erroneous. What is the basis of that claim?
I have not been hesitant to use my intuition or right (feminine)
brain as opposed to my left (masculine) brain or rational cognitive brain in
such assessments. Moreover, “I feel
people,” allowing my automatic intuitive system to calibrate exchanges in new
relationships.
It is a prominent
template in CONFIDENT SELLING, CONFIDENT THINKING and PURPOSEFUL SELLING, and
has saved me a lot of aggravation.
To be fair, besides studying people’s faces, I study their hands
and nonverbal communication tics. People’s
faces give them away and the rest corroborates that advantage to the observer.
It doesn’t stop there.
A smoker’s voice is a giveaway to that dependency, which again is
corroborated by the texture and color of the skin, which cannot be covered with
makeup or nail polish, or false nails because the yellowing index and middle
finger are a giveaway.
Smokers or the addicted to drugs or alcohol cannot hide the
indicators, as it shows in the eyes, eyelids, lips, leathery skin, yellowing of
teeth and the pulpiness of gums.
Ever notice how someone fighting against something attempts
to hide it with false bravado? You meet
them and sense they are forever frightened, as if a deer staring into the
headlights of an oncoming vehicle. It is
captured in a look or permanent mask of anger.
Hard lines become etched in people’s faces who seldom smile
as if chiseled into enduring scars. On
the other hand, people who are always smiling develop laugh lines not unlike the
idiotic mask of the Joker of the
graphic comic, Batman.
The content of character is realized
somewhere between these extremes.
For example, why is it that the late Joan Hickson, who
played “Miss Marple” in several Agatha Christie mysteries, has never had a suitable
successor?
It’s simple. She was Miss
Marple. She had a well lived in open face
full of cunning that translated well to the silver screen. People like Joan Hickson age well because age
defines them. Others think a good sun
tan represents the picture of health covering inevitable aging, only to give
the opposite impression
The countenance of youthfulness is engaging in youth,
character is engaging in maturity.
Somehow we have lost this connection.
Notice female commentators on cable television seem to all
be bleached blonds. Eighty years ago
Hitler was promoting this as the countenance of the “master race.” Now, it alludes to the eternal verities of
never having to grow old and therefore grow up.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, a face is its
canvas. God must be amused because he
has never given us the same face. We
have horse, dog or cat like faces, as many politicians remind us as they stare
out at us from the television screen.
Nor has God given us a sincere face because no face can say a word
without lying.
Ever meet or brush past someone reported to be great or
famous or brilliant or beautiful or handsome?
If you have, chances are you would be disappointed. No one ever measures up to the hype. Why do you imagine that is so?
Could it be that we associate character with the face and
are always let down? Just for fun, in
this and a subsequent segment, I’ll share some of the faces from my new novel.
PEOPLE IN “A GREEN
ISLAND IN A BLACK SEA”
Two young toughs on
the Chicago El (streetcar elevated above the street):
The two young men came
down the aisle rolling their shoulders menacingly. Devlin felt like laughing. “You got a problem pretty boy?” one of them
said. The accent was from the projects
on the South Side. They were dressed
like clones of some wannabe gang, baseball caps on backwards, Cubs’ jackets,
cigarettes bouncing between thin lips, baggy jeans, army surplus store boots,
acne complexions, bad teeth, soldiers without a cause. Devlin’s eyes bore into them like lasers making
no attempt to disguise his contempt. They
passed giving him a wide berth.
Johannesburg, South
Africa
Devlin and his family
are waiting at the window of their second floor suite in Rosebank, a suburb of
Johannesburg for Devlin’s boss, Herbert Benjamin Myers, known as “HB” to pick
them up of a Sunday to attend a “mine dance” of Bantu mine workers at a gold
mine.
HB let the attendant
park his car, said something, then walked slump shouldered into the hotel. Devlin watched him. He was a small man, small in stature with an
incongruously big head, but with small hands and feet, a receding hairline of
thin black hair already turning gray although not yet fifty, but a man with a
huge brain.
Devlin’s visit to the
Johannesburg Public Library.
A young lady looked up
as he approached the information desk, “Can I help you?” She had that delightful Afrikaner accent that
Devlin found enchanting and Nordic features that suggested they could be kin.
Devlin studies her
thinking, God, she’s pretty. Her silken
black hair curled around her ears in a pageboy cut, with a perky oval shaped
face, full lips, olive complexion with very little makeup, with to die for blue-green
eyes in letterbox framed glasses.
Beneath her pink open neck shirt she wore a filigree platinum
necklace. She looked businesslike, but
spoke in a soft tone. Although not tall,
she appeared to be so as her firm fitting navy blue jacket of straight lines,
and matching skirt enhanced her stature.
The Devlin's meet
another young American couple in the restaurant of the Rosebank Hotel.
Lucky and Marcia
Williams, he learned, were from Dayton, Ohio.
He wondered what kind of a name was “Lucky,” it had to be a sobriquet.
Williams?
He could be Irish. He was a man
with a large expressive face, and engaging smile. Devlin imagined he was about his age, but
somewhat dissipated with drooping eyelids, saggy bloodshot eyes, puffy cheeks,
large fleshy hands and the appearance of a body quickly going to fat. No doubt he loves the sauce.
Marcia was quite
pretty with smiling eyes and loving lips.
Now why would he think that? He’d
only seen them sitting there for an instant the night before but felt affection
for them. He suspected they were close
from the way they were sitting. He liked
that. Her age? Marcia looked to be about Sarah’s age, or
around twenty-eight.
Their girls looked
to be about five and six, older than Rickie, younger than Robbie and Ruthie, but
close to Rosie’s age. He wondered what
Lucky did.
Sarah Devlin
Sarah was already tall
at thirteen, blond, blue-eyed, “Hitler’s Dream” as some testosterone boys put
it. The Nazi leader carried some nuanced
excitement in this lily-white German American community.
She had a difficult birth stubbornly refusing
to leave her mother’s womb. Dr. Thomas
Pine, a country doctor, more comfortable as a large animal veterinarian, pulled
her out a breached baby with forceps leaving a birthmark on her left
cheek. The mark was relatively invisible
until she was excited, and then it was a coiled plum mark resembling a snake.
Father Timothy
O’Malley, pastor of St. Patrick’s church, where Dirk Devlin and Sarah Kummer
were to be married.
Father O’Malley was a
tall angular man with white hair as dry as straw, dandruff on the shoulders of
his full length black cassock, with pale eyes in a long horse like face, a nose
just a shade too long with crow’s feet round the eyes and the mouth.
On that face, he wore small pince-nez glasses
on the bridge of his bulbous nose, which made him look a bit ridiculous, and
threatened to fall off at any moment.
He
was bent almost as much as the housekeeper suggesting he was not only tired of
the burden he carried but bored to death by it as well. The priest looked past them as if he wanted
to be somewhere else. Devlin shared the
feeling.
Devlin’s best friend,
Wolfgang Erdmann, who had been a German soldier on the Russian front as a
thirteen-year-old, came to the United States, and was drafted into the US
Navy. He and Devlin were shipmates on
the USS Salem (CA-139) in the Mediterranean Sea.
Wolfgang had a broad
face, pockmarked complexion, straight nose, strong chin, coarse hair already
sprinkled with gray at age twenty-seven, and a short compact body standing only
about five-seven.
He chained smoked
cigarettes which stained his beady eyes too far apart for him to be handsome,
but to Devlin’s relief, he didn’t drink.
His accent was heavy but mellifluous, and his stories were always rich
and entertaining.
When first hosted at
the palatial estate of the managing director and his wife.
Heather Matthews made
a grand entrance coming down the winding stairs with a big smile.
She was dressed in a blue jumper with a red blouse
and sensible flat shoes no jewelry or make up, and looked delightfully attractive
with her blond hair pulled back off her oval face with sparkling Betty Davis
smoky blue eyes which seemed to be watering.
She was pretty without being beautiful, but reeked of sensuality, so
much so that Devlin was immediately uncomfortable. If he were asked to describe her, a dangerous sexual predator came to mind.
Martin Matthews from his solarium.
Devlin had been
watching his host, who had not made a formal entrance, being visible in his
solarium as they talked, which was off the expansive living room. The managing director appeared to be tending
to some small creature.
The rapt
attention with which he was so engaged was surprisingly moving to Devlin. It sent shivers up his spine as he felt his
guard dropping. He was vulnerable to
kindness. It was his weakness which he
labored hard to hide.
He would have to study
the man up close. He must not let his
guard down. Was he so vulnerable because
he wasn’t particularly kind himself? He
knew he was self-indulgent, always on his guard. Perhaps here in South Africa I’ll have to
scrap the “Devlin Rule” – everyone is guilty until proven innocent.
Heather Matthews’ two nieces make a surprise visit while the Devlins are there.
One niece was named
Ariel, a petite fair-skinned young lass with dark hair squared off just above
her eyes, and just below her chin. Her
shoulders were straight like an athletes, in her mid-twenties, Devlin imagined,
and full of piss and vinegar.
She walked
fast, talked even faster. He got the
impression she did whatever she pleased quickly and without ceremony or a second
thought.
She gave Devlin an apprising
level gaze. Her eyes were hazel, and on
fire. She waited several seconds until
he dropped his eyes, and smiled in triumph.
The other niece was
Laurel, her sister. She was also
twenty-something, but a blue-eyed blond with a most voluptuous figure, taller
than Ariel, with such long shapely legs and divine ankles that when she sat
crossed legged, Devlin could not take his eyes off them.
“Mr. Devlin, I swear,” said Ariel, “your eyes
are going to fall right out of your handsome head if you don’t stop devouring
my sister.”
Devlin blushed. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Ariel
conceded. “I know. I have to compete with her.” Then she rolled her eyes in mock
exasperation. Devlin had never seen such
a beautiful creature in all his life.
Devlin’s interview
with Nina, who would become his secretary.
He looked up from his
desk, his door ajar, and saw down the corridor a tall young lady approaching
his office. Her arms swung rhythmically
at her sides, her purse over her left shoulder swung easily in happy cadence to
her feet, her long graceful legs flexing prominent calves as her dancing feet
moved in a staccato clip on the polished hardwood floors to his open door.
She stood there the
spitting image of the wife of the Shah of Iran.
Her olive complexion was like a “Copper Tone” commercial for sun tan
lotion. Her almond shaped eyes blazed with
hazel coyness and smoked with ageless wonder.
Her sculptured head was an oval frame with close-knit ears, blue-black
hair that curled around her tapered neck with the sheen of starry night.
She had a patrician nose, slightly prominent
cheek bones, perfectly shaped full dew drop lips, a dimpled chin, strong but
feminine, and a long aquiline neck embroidered with a turquoise necklace.
She was dressed
modestly in a tan business suit trimmed in greenish-blue to match her necklace
with the skirt just touching her knees.
The ensemble hugged her frame like another skin. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen. She made Heather’s niece, Laurel,
look like a mannequin.
Josiah, the Bantu
gardener, and Devlin’s friend.
Josiah, nearly as tall
as Devlin, had the magnificent physique of his people, the Swahilis, who once
roamed South Africa with fierce authority and autonomy, but now were limited to
a homeland called “Swaziland.”
Devlin came to respect
his gardener’s dignity and sensitivity, and was rewarded for his patience.
How he yearned to tell Josiah that they were brothers,
both in cages, but Josiah’s was not of his making, while Devlin’s was.
Josiah worked out after their second
meeting that the American’s condescending way was not malicious but out of ignorance, finally consenting to allowing Devlin to visit his home on the estate.
The Frieda
harangue. Devlin and the managing
director’s secretary were natural combatants.
“Could I have a word
with you?” Frieda said with a forced smile, which was more a grimace or
frown.
The managing director’s secretary
was a thin, small-boned woman, and the senior ADM employee. Severe even failed to describe her hair style, which was painted on her small head of thinning hair at the crown, pale thin lips
with deep shadows under observant eyes.
Her smile, when it crossed her
face, never reached her eyes. When she
did smile, she displayed teeth, gums and a collection of wrinkles around her
incongruous pumpkin face and sagging chin.
She held her arms folded across her chest, as if at parade rest, her
fingers laced together.
Devlin pointed to the
chair, and said, “Yes, Frieda, by all means.
How can I help you?” He was sure
she would leave no doubt.
The Johannesburg
Train Station’s restaurant.
Devlin was the only
customer as scores of Bantus streamed past the window.
“Yes,” a young lady
said with false cheerfulness, her lips stretched in a smile reflecting bored
eyes, “how can I help you?”
The place had the feel
of an Amsterdam pub with tobacco-smoked stained walls, windows and ceiling with
a scarred counter top with dirt worked in to form permanent Rorschach
patterns. The eatery was like a dreary
dungeon, cold and clammy. Devlin loved
the place.
The waitress was small
and tightly wound with what he suspected was a hair trigger temper. She had short brown hair, a round face full
of freckles, the deep throaty voice and cough of a smoker, the exiled look of
the Irish, as he expected he did as well, but she must be Afrikaner.
He guessed that she
wasn't having a good day. Add to it, he was having trouble placing her accent that sounded
English one moment, Australian or Dutch the next. It was best that he be discrete.
The Managing Director
Since first meeting
Martin Matthews, when he saw the man attempting to mend a tiny bird’s broken
wing, Devlin found himself looking past the man’s self-indulgence to simply
enjoy him as entertainment.
Devlin was intoxicated
with Martin’s voice, which was clearly public school with his accent that of
the upper class, as words rolled off his tongue as English was meant to be
spoken.
Was he being sucked in?
“Come in,” Martin chirped with gusto, “ I
want your opinion on the BAF managing director.”
Wonderful, Devlin thought. I’m wary of first impressions and now he is
asking me for one.
“You’ve met him, tall
chap, not as tall as you, trim, good dresser like you, with black hair and a
beard going to gray, little older than we are, I suspect. Women probably see him as handsome, charmer
all the way, has penetrating eyes, come to think of it like yours, seems to see
through people, remember meeting him?”
Of course, Devlin remembered
meeting John Cavendish, how could he not?
He kept running into people talking about him including Frieda and
Nina. The man made him
uncomfortable. Was he jealous? He didn’t think so. Incongruities set off alarm bells. The man claimed to be diabetic while downing
one martini after another at the company bash.
What did that mean?
For openers, he was a
risk taker. Yes, he remembered the
penetrating eyes, eyes that took measure and weighed your reaction to his
words.
He was not public school, but
shrewd, no doubt. The man lusted for
power, but that was no surprise. The man
was intense but worked hard to give off the opposite impression.
“Goddammit, Devlin,
what do you think? Don’t just drift off
on me like that. I hate that!”
“I think he’s a better
dresser than you are," Devlin offered hoping he would smile. He didn't.
Matthews lit another cigarette, and poured two fingers of scotch into his coffee cup.
"Admit it, Martin,
you’re no clothes horse and you think I am.
It’s my armor, perhaps it’s his as well.” He looked at the managing director to see how
this was playing.
“You’d rather be in a safari suit working in your garden or solarium.”
“That’s true, but what
do you think of the man?”
“Give me a sense of
your impression and I’ll feed off it.”
“I don’t trust the bastard. He wants my goddamn job! How’s that for a first impression?”
Accurate, Devlin was
sure, but surprised by the director’s insight. Perhaps he had a brain or two.
* * *
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