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    How did I see it? Let me tell you the story first, my dear. Now, where shall I begin? With another sip of tea, I should think. It is rather dry in here, isn’t it? Oh, that’s good. Now then …
    At the time of our marriage, you see, my husband had begun to acquire a small reputation as a leader in some quarters, as a troublemaker in others. He needed —
    No, let me put it less indelicately. Politics is drama, and drama needs event. My husband knew he would benefit greatly from an event that would earn him the right enemies, and it so happened that our wedding presented him with just such an opportunity.
    We had a club in the island, you see. Its name alone — “The Majesty” — bespoke glamour. It was a large lounge, really, in a hotel in the town — the island’s first hotel, if I’m not mistaken. There was a tennis court out back, I seem to remember, and aswimming pool — and members were allowed to run up tabs, which seemed a particularly stylish thing to do. When I imagined the goings-on at the Majesty, I always pictured the women in evening dresses, the men in dinner jackets — and the entire scene in black and white. It was the vision that had been given to me, you see, by the movies, and I could not — indeed, it never occurred to me to — make the leap to colour. And it was only much later that I realized this. To me at the time, it was quite normal. Elegance came in black and white — which is an irony much too simplistic for words …
    The one time the queen visited our island, she was conveyed from the royal yacht
Britannia
directly to the Majesty for a reception. You see the kind of cachet this place had.
    Now, the only problem with the Majesty was that it was exclusive to the whites of the island. Understand: this was not a rule, it was not written anywhere; it was more of an understanding, a social convention, and so all the more powerful. Once, on New Year’s Eve, which we called Old Year’s, my husband and some of his friends, having already imbibed a fair amount, were turned away, a sting that never stopped smarting — and which later led to accusations against him of a personal vendetta. Some pointed to the personal slight as proof that he was not principled.
    But things change. This was a time when a lot of our young fellows were going off to England to become doctors or lawyers, and quite a few of them returned to the island with white wives. It was said — and whether this was true or not I cannot say — but it was said that the club was considering allowing in the wives but not the husbands, so that — had they not still been in England at the time — Celia, for instance, could become a member but my brother-in-law Cyril could not. He would be allowed to drive her there and then pick her up, ofcourse. But if he wished to wait for her, he would have to sit in the car or while away the time in the botanical gardens across the street.
    And so my husband got it into his head that our wedding reception would be held there, at the Majesty. He submitted a request for rental of the premises — and received a reply stating that the premises were not available on the requested day. He changed the day, and still the premises were booked. This was the usual tactic.
    Now, by this time journalists had begun attaching themselves to my husband, so he had one of them call up an officer of the club. The newspaper, the hack claimed, was looking into reports that Mr. Vernon Ramessar, an up-and-coming political leader in the East Indian community, was being refused rental of the club’s premises for his wedding reception, a notable event in the community. Was there any truth to this?
    The club’s members were not unmindful of the growing resentment against them; they were not unaware that profound forces were at work outside the confines of the Majesty. The club officer pleaded simple scheduling conflicts —