The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur - Страница 3

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massaging his wrist.

"See that she's clean and not too old. You hear me?"

"Yes, Wally.

I'll get one." Andre went to the door and Bruce noticed his expression.

It was stricken beyond the pain of a bruised wrist. What lovely

creatures they are, thought Bruce, and I am one of them and yet apart

from them. I am the watcher, stiffed by them as much as I would be by a

bad play. Andre went out.

"Another drink, Bucko?" said Wally expansively. "I'll even pour you

one." "Thanks," said Bruce, and started on the other boot.

Wally brought the glass to him and he tasted it. It was strong, and the

mustiness of the whisky was ill-matched with the sweetness of the beer,

but he drank it.

"You and I, said Wally, "we're the shrewd ones. We drink ,cause we want

to, not "cause we have to. We live like we want to live, not

like other people think we should. You and I got a lot in common, Bruce.

We should be friends, you and I. I mean us being so much alike." The

drink was working in him now, bluffing his speech a little.

"Of course we are friends - I count you as one of my very dearest,

Wally." Bruce spoke solemnly, no trace of sarcasm showing.

"No kidding?" Wally asked earnestly. "How's that, hey?

Christ, I always thought you didn't like me. Christ, you never can tell,

isn't that right? You just never can tell," shaking his head in wonder,

suddenly sentimental with the whisky. "That's really true?

You like me. Yeah, we could be buddies. How's that, Bruce? Every guy

needs a buddy. Every guy needs a back stop." "Sure," said Bruce.

"We're buddies. How's that, hey?"

"That's on, Bucko!" agreed Wally with deep feeling, and I feel nothing,

thought Bruce, no disgust, no

pity - nothing. That way you are secure; they cannot disappoint you,

they cannot disgust you, they cannot sicken you, they cannot smash you

up again.

They both looked up as Andre ushered the girl into the room. She had a

sexy little pug face, painted lips - ruby on amber.

"Well done, Andre," applauded Wally, looking at the girl's body.

She wore high heels and a short pink dress that flared into a skirt from

her waist but did not cover her knees.

"Come here, cookie." Wally held out his hand to her and she crossed the

room without hesitation, smiling a bright professional smile. Wally drew

her down beside him on to the bed.

Andre went on standing in the doorway. Bruce got up and shrugged into

his camouflage battle-jacket, buckled on his webbing belt and adjusted

the bolstered pistol until it hung comfortably on his outer thigh.

"Are you going?" Wally was feeding the girl from his glass.

"Yes." Bruce put his slouch hat on his head; the red, green and white

Katangese sideflash gave him an air of artificial gaiety.

"Stay a little, - come on, Bruce."

"Mike is waiting for me." Bruce

picked up his rifle.

"Muck him. Stay a little, we'll have some fun."

"No, thanks."

Bruce went to the door.

"Hey, Bruce. Take a look at this." Wally tipped the girl backwards over

the bed, he pinned her with one arm across her chest while she struggled

playfully and with the other hand he swept her

skirt up above her waist.

"Take a good look at this and tell me you still want to go! The girl was

naked under the skirt, her lower body shaven so that her plump little

sex pouted sulkily.

"Come on, Bruce," laughed Wally. "You first. Don't say I'm not your

buddy." Bruce glanced at the girl, her legs scissored and her body

wriggled as she fought with Wally. She was giggling.

"Mike and I will be back before curfew. I want this woman out of here by

then," said Bruce.

There is no desire, he thought as he looked at her, that is all

finished. He opened the door.

"Curry!" shouted Wally. "You're a bloody nut also. Christ, I

thought you were a man. Jesus Christ! You're as bad as the others.

Andre, the doll boy. Haig, the rummy. What's with you, Bucko? It's women

with you, isn't it? You're a bloody nut-case also!" Bruce closed the

door and stood alone in the passage.

The taunt had gone through a chink in his armour and he clamped his mind

down on the sting of it, smothering it.

It's all over. She can't hurt me any more. He thought with

determination, remembering her, the woman, not the one in the room he

had just left but the other one who had been his wife.

"The bitch," he whispered, and then quickly, almost guiltily, "I

do not hate her. There is no hatred and there is no desire."

The lobby of the Hotel Grand Leopold 11 was crowded. There Were

gendarmes carrying their weapons ostentatiously, talking loudly, lolling

against walls an dover the bar; women with them, varying in colour from

black through to pastel brown, some already drunk; a few

Belgians still with the stunned disbelieving eyes of the refugee, one of

the women crying as she rocked her child on her lap; other white men in

civilian clothes but with the alertness about them and the quick

restless eyes of the adventurer, talking quietly with Africans in

business suits; a group of journalists at one table in damp

shirtsleeves, waiting and watching with the patience of vultures. And

everybody sweated in the heat.

Two South African charter pilots hailed Bruce from across the room.

"Hi, Bruce. How about a snort?"

"Dave. Carl." Bruce waved. "Big

hurry now - tonight perhaps."

"We're flying out this afternoon." Carl

Engelbrecht shook his head. "Back next week."

"We'll make it then," Bruce agreed, and went out of the front door into

the Avenue du Kasai.

As he stopped on the sidewalk the white-washed buildings bounced the

glare into his face. The naked heat made him wince and he felt fresh

sweat start out of his- body beneath his battle-suit. He took the dark

glasses from his top pocket and put them on as he crossed the street to

the Chev three-tanner in which Mike Haig waited.

"I'll drive, Mike."

"Okay." Mike slid across the seat and Bruce stepped up into the cab. He

started the truck north down the Avenue du

Kasai.

"Sorry about that scene, Bruce."

"No harm done."

"I shouldn't have lost my temper like that." Bruce did not answer, he

was looking at the deserted buildings on either side. Most of them had

been looted and all of them were pock-marked with shrapnel from the

mortar bursts. At intervals along the sidewalk were parked the burnt out

bodies of automobiles looking like the carapaces of long-dead beetles.

"I shouldn't have let him get through to me, and yet the truth hurts

like hell." Bruce was silent but he trod down harder on the

accelerator and the truck picked up speed. I don't want to hear, he

thought, I am not your confessor - I just don't want to hear. He turned

into the Avenue I'Etoile, headed towards the zoo.

"He was right, he had me measured to the inch, persisted Mike.

"We've all got our troubles, otherwise we wouldn't be here." And then,

to change Mike's mood, "We few, we happy few. We band of brothers." Mike

grinned and his face was suddenly boyish. "At least we have the

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