Christophe was laconic. Leap, he commanded.
Six feet tall, of pure African blood, black as coal, Christophe's nature was violent and impatient of all restraint. Loving splendour and power, he created a court and a nobility. Bravery and humility failed to touch him. He had no mercy. He ruled for fifteen years. When at the end of that period, during a revolution, his body-guard deserted him, he rose, bade farewell to his wife and family, retired to his own chamber and blew out his brains. . . . The coffee's boiling. Get some cups out of the cupboard.
Mary arranged the tray, setting the ejaculating percolator on a blue tile, and preceded Byron into the sitting-room. Seating herself, she poured out the coffee while he made himself comfortable in a chair and lighted a cigarette.
I couldn't write about things like that, Byron said.
What sort of things did you write about in college?
Oh, you know, the kind everybody else does.
Did your professors like your work?
Well, they encouraged me. They said it was pretty good for a coloured man.
I remember you told me that before. You said it wasn't enough.
Of course, I want to do better than that! I want to write as well as anybody.
Of course, you do. Why don't you choose a subject that you know all about? Something about our people? she asked him again.
