May 27, 1915: Don’t Stop the Carnival

Pulitzer Prize winner Herman Wouk was born in 1915. His books include The Caine Mutiny, The Winds of War, War and Remembrance, Marjorie Morningstar, and his most recent, which he says will be his last, Sailor and Fiddler: Reflections of a 100-Year-Old Author, released in 2016.    Don’t Stop the Carnival, a must-read for anyone interested in the Caribbean, was written in 1965. In the following excerpt, Norman and Henny Paperman have embarked on a new Caribbean enterprise and, at a party, they tell their friends about it:

During this evening, nearly every person there told Norman or Henny, usually in a private moment, that they were doing a marvelous, enviable thing. The Russians at the time were firing off new awesome bombs in Siberia, and the mood in New York was jittery, but there was more than that behind the wistfulness of their friends. All these people were at an age when their lives were defined, their hopes circumscribed. Nothing was in prospect but plodding the old tracks until heart disease, cancer, or one of the less predictable trap-doors opened under their feet. To them, the Papermans had broken out of Death Row into green April fields, and in one way or another they all said so.

Wouk turns 102 today.

Having brought up the Caribbean, we would be remiss if we didn’t mention Calypso: Stories of the Caribbean, Terry and the Pirate and Voodoo Love Song, not in the same league as Don’t Stop the Carnival but just as as readily available.


Imagery: Picture Yourself in Key West


img·ery \ˈi-mij-rē, -mi-jə-\

A literary device in which the author uses words and phrases to create “mental images” that help the reader better imagine the world the author has created.


With Huey at the wheel, South Miami, Key Largo and Marathon had been blurs in a landscape littered with condominiums and palm trees and then longer and longer stretches looking out to sea. Squadrons of pelicans flying in Blue Angel formation patrolled the waters offshore. Occasionally one would break ranks and swoop down to make an arrest. The perp quickly disappeared into the pelican’s private holding tank, demanding perhaps a phone call to his lawyer. But he was quickly swallowed without benefit of counsel like so much seafood. A large billboard urged them to “go all the way” to Key West, and Huey announced that they would make it in time for the sunset.


Put yourself in the picture: Voodoo Love Song



Ode to Snow

Warning – the following is quite lyrical.

O glorious snow surrounding me with immense drifty mounds!  What do thy mounds conceal?  How many cocker spaniels, small children, miniCoopers have you swallowed, not to be seen again until May.  I am quite conscious of those mounds surrounding me, looming, as I go to fetch the mail, keeping close to the shoveled path lest I too be lost in the mounds ‘til May.  But the path is icy (for that’s what winter is about – snow and ice, ice and snow) and my feet, which have been more accustomed to soft earth, grassy carpeting, fly out from neath me. I fall to the cruel ice.  And here I am in a place from which I never thought I’d be needing to shout:  “Help me.  I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”  But I’m not going to shout, for it seems my mouth is frozen to the icy path.  O glorious ice!  Ice that holds me close to its vast but damn cold bosom.  I wait, hoping that someone will come along – a girl scout  peddling cookies, a hot dog vendor, or the UPS man delivering a package of lip warmers.  Or have they too been swallowed by the shifting, whispering mounds of snow?  I tell myself it could be worse; I could be in Chicago.  It doesn’t help.  Now my life flashes before me, especially the part where I’m on a beach in the Caribbean.   But what’s this?  My face is stuck in the sand.  Children frolic nearby, pointing and laughing.  “Hey, mon, why’s your face in the sand?”  Tanned beauties stroll by at a safe distance whispering about senility and too many pina coladas.    A sand crab sidles up and pinches my nose, and I’m suddenly back in frozen Vermont.  But help seems to be at hand.

Two Jehovah’s Witnesses approach.   They look down at me and ask,  “Are you ready to be saved?”  “Doesn’t it look like I’m ready to be saved?” I shout, but no words come out.   They chip me free from the ice with their Watchtowers.  I thank them, accept an armload of their publications, and they ask me if I’m ready for the end of the world.  You betcha.


A protagonist is the main character in any story, such as a literary work or drama:
Say let us put man and woman together,
Find out which one is smarter (and which is the protagonist)

Paul wasn’t sure, but the five-foot duck waddling through the throngs of laughing, crying, shouting, whining children appeared to be waddling toward him – a duck with a destination and, perhaps, a mission. Chances are it had spotted him scowling in a land where grinning is the norm, and it, by God, meant to do something about it.

“Enjoying the Magic Kingdom?” asked the duck upon reaching him. Despite its carefully sculpted plastic smile, this duck wasn’t going to cheer anyone up; its voice dripped sarcasm.

“Of course, I am,” Paul answered, adopting his very own duck attitude. “Isn’t that why you’re here? By the way, didn’t I somewhere get the idea that you’re all supposed to be pleasant and cheerful?”

“I’m not even supposed to talk. Just wave.” The duck waved and, in silence, could have passed for pleasant and cheerful, albeit of a fabricated sort.

“Then why did you talk to me?” Paul asked.

“Because you look bored – like you positively hate the place.”

“Ah, you’re not just an ordinary duck, you’re a member of the happiness squad, here to lift my spirits.”

“No,” answered the duck. “I thought you might have a cigarette.”

Who’s our protagonist?  Paul?  Huey (the duck)? Or two protagonists for the price of one?  Find out here.

Island in the Sun – Conclusion

Read Part One

Several days passed before the bulldozer arrived.  During that time, Santo kept a constant vigil at the olive tree.  During the day, tourists passing by would sometimes stop to talk to Santo.  Most had already heard of the crazy man and his olive tree, but Santo’s disarming smile and his bullfriendliness would make them wonder whether he were crazy or merely a man with a cause, which is hardly so crazy.  Knowing that he remained night and day at the tree, some would bring him food and would sit and talk with him while he ate.

The young couple from the south of England shivered as Santo told them about sleeping on the dock in Trinidad after loading a banana boat and awaking to find a fat tarantula sitting on his chest staring at him.  The three ladies from California gushed over his tales of Spain during the last days of Generalissimo Franco.  And the young Montrealer listened until well after midnight as Santo talked of his time in Algeria with the French Foreign Legion.

The bulldozer arrived early the next morning.  Santo had to shake himself awake, and for a moment, he thought he was awaking from a nightmare in which he was about to be eaten by a huge yellow monster.  But even with his eyes open, the yellow monster remained, growling at him.

“Go away, crazy one,” shouted Luis Jordan from atop the chugging beast. Luis was a young man who had come to the island to do construction work; he didn’t belong on the island.  He was an angry, combative young man, frequently picking fights, and Santo didn’t like him much.  “You don’t think I’ll plow you down, do you, crazy man?”

“I am not crazy,” answered Santo.  “Go away.”

“Don’t be smart with me, crazy man.  You won’t stop me.  I don’t care if you live or die.  You’re trespassing.  I can plow you under and nobody will say anything.  I’ll take down that damn tree, and I’ll take you down with it.  Believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“As you should,” boasted Luis.  “Now stand aside.”

“I can’t stand aside.  This is my place.  It was my mama’s and my papa’s, and it was their mama’s and papa’s.  Go away and leave me alone.”

“I warned you,” said Luis, grinning as though he were really happy that Santo would not move, that he would have the pleasure of plowing him under.  “Good riddance to your lunacy.”  The bulldozer’s engine whined, and the beast lurched forward.  Santo stood his ground as the yellow monster bore down on him, it’s driver laughing.  Santo closed his eyes.

The Crystal Coral Beach Club was a magnificent place.  It straddled a mile’s worth of white sand beach and bathed it in grandeur and opulence.  Open for the first time this season, it was an unqualified success, drawing tourists from throughout the world and remaining fully occupied.  Hopes were high that it would bring years of prosperity to the tiny island.

On this day, the first anniversary of groundbreaking for the beach club, a large throng of tourists had gathered together.  The story of the Beach Club’s shaky beginnings had traveled from the swimming pool to the tennis courts to the lounge and to the bright blue water and back.  This was to be a celebration of that day of confrontation.

The olive tree had grown to nearly ten feet and was beautiful to behold; looking at this tree, it was hardly surprising that so many people considered olive trees holy.  Santo emerged from the modest house just beyond the tree, a house flanked by hibiscus, bougainvillea, and the beach club’s 156 luxury rooms.  Santo the celebrity beamed as he joined the others at the tree and shared a toast with the couple from the south of England, the three ladies from California, the Montrealer, and the others who had been here last year, the ones who had ignored the metallic whine of impending doom to suddenly join Santo in front of his tiny tree, linking their arms with his in defiance of the bulldozer.

With a grin, Santo pointed to where, even though it defied all the rules of horticulture and all the laws of botany (but didn’t surprise Santo or his friends one little bit), a single olive clung tenaciously to a branch of his olive tree.

 Listen to Island in the Sun

“Island in the Sun” is one of 15 stories in Calypso, Stories of the Caribbean.

Island in the Sun

“Have sense, Santo,” said Max-Anthony, the engineer.  “You are only delaying the inevitable.”

“It is inevitable that my tree should grow,” answered Santo, refusing to budge from where he stood in front of his tree.  “Grow to maturity and bear fruit.”

Santo was quite proud of his tree.  It was the only such tree on the entire island.   People told him an olive tree would not grow here.  Actually, they told him that it might grow very well, but that without chilly nights, it would never produce olives, just leaves.  Santo didn’t believe them.  His tree had been growing for two years now, and it was a handsome tree.  Such a handsome tree was bound to grow olives.

The tree was as tall as his three-year-old son.  He wondered which of the two would grow faster, but now he would never know because Claudine had taken his son, had left him and returned to Provence.  Now he had only the olive tree.

“You’re a fool, Santo,” said Max-Anthony, a man with little patience.  “This hotel will be good for the island.  It will create many jobs.  Perhaps a job for you.”

“I do not need a job,” said Santo.  “I have retired.”

He had brought the olive tree here from Provence when it was just a tiny sapling.  He had kept it hidden because it was probably an illegal thing to do.   Did that make him a smuggler?  Provence was a very pretty place, a place he had liked very much.  And he had particularly loved the olive groves.  It was under the canopy of an olive tree, that he and Claudine had spent their first time together.  They delighted in the imperfection of its twisted trunk, the way the light played through it’s shivering gray-green leaves, creating impressionistic patterns of light on the ground beside them.  Their son had been conceived under that tree.

Pulled by the strings of young love — Claudine was young, Santo not so young — she had agreed that the three of them could return to the island, to the village of Santo’s parents and grandparents, to that stretch of beach that had for a hundred years been theirs.  But Claudine soon found that she could not tolerate island life; she needed more than it could give.  She yearned for Provence, needed cities like Arles and Avignon, needed to be just a high-speed train ride from Paris.  She begged him to return with her, but he couldn’t. He belonged here, just as Claudine belonged in Provence.

The officials from the hotel company had come from their air-conditioned offices to plead with him as well, but Santo refused to go.  “You are trespassing,” said a Mr. Alexander through pursed lips in a pallid face.  He wore a suit.  “This beach belongs to the Caribe Development Corporation.  We will have you removed.  Forcibly, if necessary.”

It had become important for Santo to be somewhere he belonged.  So much of his life had been spent in places he didn’t belong — first moving from one island to another, each one bigger and more indifferent  — Statia, St. Vincent, then Trinidad — cutting cane and loading banana boats until finding work as a bartender.  He was a good bartender; he knew how to charm the tourists, particularly the ladies, whom he flattered unabashedly.  He moved on to Caracas, then Madrid and Barcelona, Algeria, and finally to southern France —  to Provence, to the olive groves and to Claudine.

He had lost Claudine and his son, and now, in the name of progress, they wanted to take his tree.  But this beach was his; they would not move him or his tree.

“This beach belongs to me; it has always belonged to my family.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken,” shouted Santo.  “I have the papers.”  Santo waved the papers at Mr. Alexander.

“Those papers were issued by a government that no longer exists,” said Max-Anthony, joining Mr. Alexander.  “They are worthless, and you know it.”

“Can you have him removed?” asked Mr. Alexander.

“Don’t worry,” said Max-Anthony.  “He will move when the bulldozer comes. No more games, Santo.”

 Listen to Island in the Sun

“Island in the Sun” is one of 15 stories in Calypso, Stories of the Caribbean.

Read conclusion.

Stone Cold Dead in de Market – Part III

Read Part I

Read Part II

stoneAt one-thirty, a native woman and her young daughter joined Upton Swann on the love seat.  The woman looked straight ahead, minding her own business just as though he weren’t there, but the little girl looked inquisitively up at Upton’s face.  “Mama, he’s so white,” she said.

“Hush,” said her mama, quickly standing and pulling her wide-eyed daughter away with her.  Wilma Dexter squirmed in her chair.

At three, a young boy asked Upton Swann for a dollah and, when Swann didn’t answer, made an obscene gesture and scurried off.  Phil Pomeroy sighed, stood, went inside, and mixed a pitcher of martinis.

At 4:15, a shaggy, rather ragged, man carrying a bottle-shaped paper bag weaved unsteadily through the crowd and plopped down on the love seat.  By 4:30, he was engaged in a lively conversation with Upton, laughing, gesturing broadly, and occasionally slapping him on the knee.  The somewhat one-sided conversation lasted until 5 o’clock when the man stood, said “See you around, buddy,” and wandered off.

Adele groaned, Phil went for more martinis, and Wilma growled at her husband:  “This is all your fault, you know.”

“Me?” said Howard with a look of disbelief.  “I didn’t kill him.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Wilma.  “It would be just like you.”

“Stop, stop,” said Adele.  “I’ll go tell them I did it.  You all think I did it, anyway.  I’ll confess and go to the stinky jail.  At least it will all be over.”

“No you won’t,” said Myrna.  “We don’t all think you did it.  We’ll just wait.  It was a stupid plan, but we’ll just have to wait.  Everything will be all right.”

“It will,” seconded Howard.  “And now it really doesn’t matter who actually killed him.  We’re all equally guilty.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Phil.  He raised his glass toward the market.  “To the corpse.”  They all downed martinis.

At 6, they thought maybe their vigil would finally end.  Upton was leaning to the left, barely noticeable at first, but before long with a decided tilt.  They watched, five chins on the railing, as gravity took hold, and Upton rolled to his side, lying across the love seat.  And he had not been horizontal for three minutes when a policeman appeared.  The gang of five looked at one another excitedly, then sat back in their chairs so as not to draw the policeman’s attention to the terrace.

The policeman approached the slumped over Upton Swann and said in a firm voice:  “Hey mon, no sleeping here.  You take yourself home now.”  He gave Upton a couple of taps with his nightstick.  “Get along now.  If you’re not gone when I get back, you’ll do your sobering up in a jail cell.”  He sauntered away, and spirits flagged on the terrace.

The policeman didn’t return, and darkness enveloped the market square with Upton Swann still lying on the love seat.  Adele Swann went to bed and sobbed herself to sleep.  The others found sleep in various positions on the floor, except for Phil Pomeroy, who technically passed out while dressing down the sleeping Howard Dexter.

They were back on the terrace before dawn, straining eyes to determine whether Upton Swann still lay there in the darkness.  As the sky lightened, the darkness slowly dissipated and, to their great disappointment, they were able to discern a familiar shape on the love seat.  But with the steady brightening of the dawn, they became aware of a marked difference down there in the market — Upton Swann was still there all right, but he was stark-naked.

The man who had gone unnoticed in the market for a full 24 hours would not go unnoticed another day.  By 7, a crowd had formed around the naked body on the love seat, and by 7:30, the police had whisked Upton Swann away.

The relief on the terrace was short-lived, as apprehension quickly whisked it away.  A naked American tourist has a heart attack in the market – it didn’t have quite the air of authenticity they sought.  Finally, late that afternoon, Adele was summoned to the police station.  Her friends accompanied her to act as chorus.

“Do you have any idea why your husband would be naked and dead in the market?” the police chief asked tactfully.

Adele sobbed and grew flustered.  The others were certain she was going to say something stupid that would send them all to jail.  “Didn’t you tell us, Adele,” said Howard, stepping in to save the day, “that Upton had a sleepwalking prob — ?”

“I do have an idea,” said the police chief, ignoring Howard.  “Actually, it’s more than an idea; it’s an iron-tight conclusion.  Our coroner made a careful examination, did tests.”

The five culprits were sweating now, and it wasn’t from the tropical warmth.  “He had,” Howard recited, “a history of heart — .”

“Naturally, when we find a naked dead man, reeking of alcohol, we are suspicious.  We sometimes even suspect foul play.  That’s why we were so thorough.  But we found no evidence of foul play whatsoever.”

“No foul play,” Adele repeated mechanically.

“No foul play,” said the police chief in a tone that suggested he would prefer no further interruptions.  “As it turned out, he had a massive heart attack.  Sat down on the bench and died.  We caught the thief who stole his clothes.  You can pick them up at the desk.”

“A heart attack,” said Howard, dumfounded.  “Are you sure?”


As they filed out of the police station, Howard continued to mumble.  “A heart attack.  But I was so certain it was poison.”

“No, Howard, just a heart attack,” said Adele, with a little smile.  “The police chief said so — a heart attack.  Poor, poor Upton.”

But nothing gets by the children who sing calypso in the market square:

Stone cold dead in de market, stone cold dead in de market,

Stone cold dead in de market, I killed nobody but me husband…

Listen to Stone Cold Dead in de Market performed by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan.

This story originally appeared in American Way, the inflight magazine for American Airlines.  It is one of 15 stories featured in Calypso, Stories of the Caribbean.

Stone Cold Dead in de Market – Part II

Read Part I

One of us killed him,” said Howard.  “No other answer.  We had the stoneopportunity, and nobody else on this island even knew him.”

“But why?” asked Wilma Dexter, looking at her husband who knew a lot of things.

“Why not might be more the answer,” said Howard.  “Did any of us really like him?  Even Adele?”  No one answered.  “I, myself, as his partner, gain full control of the business.  Adele stands to inherit a tidy sum, I imagine.  And she’s earned it, the way he’s treated her.”

“He has my promissory note for $200,000,” offered Phil Pomeroy, looking surprised, even as he spoke, that he was throwing himself in.  “A so-called loan between friends, but at a very unfriendly rate of interest.  The man was a shark.”

The conversation quickly became a group confessional.  Wilma Dexter, giving her husband, then Adele, quick sheepish looks, said quietly:  “He put the moves on me more than once.  He was fairly disgusting.”

“Oh dear,” said Adele.

“Me too,” said Myrna.  “Just this afternoon.”

They all looked at the corpse, as though seeing the totality of his corruption and vileness for the first time — although he didn’t look all that corrupt and vile at the moment with his face twisted into a silly little grin and a tumbler of Scotch in his lap.  Then they began to look suspiciously at each other, sizing each other for murderer’s shoes. “Would anyone care to confess?” said Howard.  No one volunteered.  “I guess we’ll have to call the police.”

“Do we have to?” asked Adele.  “They’re… they’re foreigners.  They’d be happy to just throw one of us in a stinky jail and be done with it.”

“Or all of us,” added Wilma Dexter.

“Does it really matter who did it?” asked Phil Pomeroy.  “I mean, when you really get right down to it, there’s no great loss.”  Adele sobbed again, and they all weighed Phil’s words.

“I guess Phil’s right,” said Adele.  She shivered.  “He was brutish, and I’m well rid of him.  It’s just… just so ghoulish to be talking about him this way.  And he’s sitting right here.”  She looked at her dead husband and suddenly giggled.  “Wouldn’t we all be terribly embarrassed if he were just pretending to be dead?”  They all studied the body once more just to be certain, and it gradually dawned on each of them that just not telling the police didn’t solve their problem.  Their problem was sitting on the couch.

The eventual plan was, of course, Howard’s, and it centered on the theory that if the body were found in a crowded public place, like say the market, with hundreds of people around — but not a certain fivesome — the police, who were probably incompetent anyway, would assume he died of natural causes, especially when they brought the bad news to his wife and friends and learned of his history of a bad heart.

Howard’s idea came under fire, however, as the morning wore on and nobody paid any attention to the dead man on the love seat in the market.  What few words were spoken on the terrace during that tense morning were given toward characterization of, first, Howard’s idea, then his know-it-all attitude, and, lastly, his parentage.

Read Part III

Stone Cold Dead in de Market

It’s cold out there.  Perhaps this story from the collection Calypso, Stories of the Caribbean will warm this cold January up just a bit. 

Part One

Upton Swann sat all alone on the ornate cast iron love seat that had been stonepainted white sometime in the distant past, shaded by a spreading Poinciana, surrounded by chattering merchants with piles of bananas to the right, piles of coconuts to the left — fruits, vegetables, fish and tourists everywhere.  Activity swirled around him, but he didn’t seem to care.  It was noon.  He’d been sitting there since 7 a.m.

On a second floor terrace of the Hotel Vieux Habitant that overlooked the market square, five people sat in a row, leaning over the railing, staring down past the frenzied activity at Upton Swann.  They, too, had been sitting there since seven.

Upton Swann and his audience of five had all been together on the terrace the previous evening, enjoying the serenity of the market square, abandoned in the early evening hours by merchants and tourists alike.  And they enjoyed the soft warmth tempered by the steady breeze off the ocean – at least five of them did; Upton Swann did not.  He found the climate foul ­- too hot — and that was just the tip of his iceberg of complaints about this island in particular and the Caribbean in general.  Unlike the others he could not wait to get back to the sensible climate of New York in March, a desire he did not endeavor to keep to himself.  “What if I get sick here?” he lamented.  “My god, they’ve probably got chickens wandering through the hospital.”

By 8 p.m., he had enjoyed just about as much of the tropical night as he intended to enjoy.  With a harrumph, he marched inside, revved the air conditioner up to its maximum, and sat down on the couch with a tumbler of Scotch.  Within minutes, he would complain no more.

The beginning of Upton Swann’s journey to the great beyond went unnoticed.  In fact, he was about two hours along before the Dexters — Howard and Wilma — came in and thought it odd that the tumbler lay in his lap in the center of a large Scotch stain.  (Later, they would recall that his last words were:  “This is a wretched place; I need Scotch.” Not eloquent enough for his tombstone, but certainly better than Myrna Pomeroy’s first husband’s last words:  “Five minutes on the toilet and I’ll be just fine.”)

The Dexters sounded a general alarm, and Myrna, her current husband Phil Pomeroy, and Upton’s widow Adele all came running in — although Adele didn’t yet realize that she was a widow, not until Howard Dexter said:  “He’s deader than a doornail.”

Adele sobbed, and the others looked on with bewildered expressions.  Howard wasn’t a coroner or a doctor or anything, but he knew a lot of things, and the others accepted his diagnosis.

“Do you suppose he had a heart attack?” asked Myrna Pomeroy.

Howard Dexter picked up the bottle of scotch and ceremoniously sniffed at it.  He might have been selecting a wine for their dinner.  Then he poured a few drops into his palm, wetted a finger and touched it to his tongue.  The others watched in silence.

“Poison,” Howard proclaimed.  “Not a doubt of it.  This Scotch has really been laced with it.”   Howard wasn’t a pharmacologist or detective either, but he knew a lot of things.

Adele sobbed again, and Myrna Pomeroy said:  “How could it be?  We were all here.  How could someone have… no, you’re not suggesting…?”

Read Part II

Pirates in the Caribbean?

TERRYCOVERMay2That’s just the stuff of movies or amusement park rides.  At least that’s what Terry thought until he was thrown overboard while boating and washed up on a remote Caribbean island in front of the Booby Bay Cafe.  He soon finds himself caught up in a cockeyed 21st century pirate adventure. When the cafe is torched by the evil Murchison Keyes, a band of brave but maladroit buccaneers hoist the pirate flag and sail into misadventure amid romance, danger and plenty of gratuitous swashbuckling.

Get the Kindle version here

Get the Nook version here

Various electronic versions and online reader here