The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur - Страница 149
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"Doctor Carpenter, may I apologize for being late." It was said in the perfectly modulated tones and classless accents of a BBC announcer or a graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Janine turned to face an elegant figure in the uniform of a wing commander of the Rhodesian Air Force.
"Douglas Hunt Jeffreys he said, and offered her a narrow, almost femininely smooth hand. "I was desolated by the prospect of not meeting the lovely lady of the gallant colonel." He had the cultured vacuous features of a dilettante, and the uniform, no matter that it was perfectly tailored, looked out of place on his narrow shoulders.
"The whole regiment has been in a complete tizzy since we heard the monumental tidings." She knew instinctively that despite his appearance and his choice of words, he was not a gay. It was the way he held her hand, and the subtle glance that dropped down her body like a silken robe, and then came back to her face. She found her interest titillated, he was like a razor-blade wrapped in velvet. If she needed confirmation of his heterosexuality, it was the way in which Roland reappeared almost immediately at her side when he realized to whom she was speaking.
"Dougie, my old fruit," Roland's smile had a white sharkish quality.
"Bonsoir, mon brave." The wing commander took the ivory cigarette-holder from between his teeth. "I must say I didn't expect you to show such exquisite taste. Doctor Carpenter is utterly ravishing. I do approve, dear boy. I truly do." "Dougie has to approve everything we do," Roland explained. "He's our liaison with Combined Ops." "Doctor Carpenter and I have just discovered that we were almost neighbours, we are members of the same hunt, and she was at school with my little sister. I cannot understand how we haven't met before." Janine realized then, almost with disbelief, that Roland Ballantyne was jealous of her and this man. He took her arm, just above the elbow and with a light pressure steered her away.
"You will excuse us, Douglas. I want Bugsy to meet some of the lads-" "Bugsy, forsooth!" Douglas Hunt-Jeffreys shook his head in pained disbelief. "These colonials are all of them barbarians. "And he wandered away to find another gin and tonic.
"You don't like him?" Janine could not resist stirring Roland's jealousy a little.
"He's good at his job, "Roland said shortly. "I thought he was rather cute." "Perfidious Albion,"he replied. What does that mean?"
"He is a porn." "So am I," she said with a slight edge -beneath her smile. "And if you go back just a little, you are a porn my also, Roland Ballantyne." "The difference is you and I are good poms. Douglas Hunt-Jeffreys is a prick." "One of those. Oh goody! "And he laughed with her.
"If there is one thing of which I approve wholeheartedly, it's a blatant self-confessed nymphomaniac," he said.
"Then we are going to get on very well together, you and I." She hugged his arm in a gesture of reconciliation, and he led her to a group of young men at the end of the bar. With their cropped heads and fresh faces they looked like under, graduates, only their eyes held that flat pebbly look, she remembered Hemingway had called them "machine-gunners" eyes."
"Nigel Taylor, Nandele Zama, Peter Sinclair," Roland introduced them. "These lads almost missed the party. They only got back from the bush two hours ago. This morning they had a good contact near the Gwaai, twenty-six kills." Janine hesitated over her choice of words, and then said faintly, "That's nice," rather than "Congratulations', both of which seemed grossly inappropriate for the passing of twenty-six human lives. It seemed to suffice, however.
"Will you be riding the colonel this evening, Donna?" the young Matabele sergeant asked eagerly, and Janine looked hurriedly to Roland for clarification. Even in such a close family environment it seemed a rather personal enquiry.
"Mess tradition," Roland grinned at her discomfort. "At midnight Sergeant-Major and I race down to the main gates and back. Princess Gondele will be his jockey, and I am afraid you will be rather expected to do the honours for me." "You are not as fat as Princess," the young Matabele ran An appraising eye over Janine, "I'm going to bet ten dollars on you, Donna." "Oh goodness. I do hope we don't let you down." By midnight the excitement was frenetic, of the peculiar quality that grips men who live their daily lives in mortal danger and who know that this stolen hour of joyous existence may be their last. They thrust bunches of banknotes into the hands of the adjutant who was official holder of bets, and crowded around their fancies to bolster them with raucous encouragement.
Princess and Janine were in stockinged feet with their skirts, tucked up and tucked into their panties like little girls at the seaside, standing on a chair on each side of the main doors to the mess. Outside, the tarmac road down to the main gates was lit by the headlights of army vehicles parked along the verge, and lined with the overflow from the mess bar, all of them full of gin and rowdy enthusiasm.
On the bar Sergeant-Major Gondele and Roland were stripped down to breeches and jungle boots. Esau Gondele was a black giant, his shaven head like a cannonball, and his shoulders lumpy with muscle. Beside him even Roland looked like a boy, his chest untouched by the sun was very smooth and white.
"You trip me this time, S'am-Major, and I'll tear your head off," he warned, and Esau patted his shoulder soothingly.
"Sorry, boss. You ain't ever going to get close enough to trip."
The adjutant took the last bets, and then mounted to the bar-top rather unsteadily with a service pistol in one hand and a glass in the other.
"Shut up, all of you. At the gun the two competitors will each consume a quart bottle of beer. When the bottle is empty they will be free to take up one of these beautiful young ladies." There was a storm of wolf-whistles and clapping.
"Do shut up, chaps!" The adjutant swaying precariously on the bar-top tried to look stern.
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