I was amazed by his ability to speak everything that came into his head. I felt ill at ease. I was waiting for something like yesterday—that peculiar soul-baring to which I myself am not inclined. And so it happened.
“Say,” said the Russian without a smile, apparently quite inspired by the mood that had taken him, “perhaps it’ll be easier, better for us … Let’s pray—without any gestures, words, or bowing. When all else fails, autosuggestion—”
“Stop,” I interrupted him. “You aren’t a believer. Go ahead and pray—split your head open for all I care. But I, a believer, won’t stand for it. God must be respected. You can’t go crawling to him like a beaten dog only when you’re up against a wall. It smacks of the nephew who remembers his rich uncle only because the dear nephew has signed a false promissory note. I dare say He doesn’t enjoy seeing his creation numbed with fear either. My attitude toward these things differs from yours; and so, my dear chap, gather your arms and legs … we’re going to try and find ourselves a bite to eat.”
He thought about it and laughed. We set off side by side, and I noticed that he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, as if trying to fathom something—just as I in turn pondered the makeup of his awkward, effeminate soul.
V. THE THIRD TEMPTATION AND THE CHARITY OF A BULLET
I.
What with the way we were walking, we must have looked like drunken workmen. But we were in no mood to laugh. As we walked along the water’s edge, I pondered the need for food—the thought singularly possessed me. Baranov’s look of dejection was taking a toll on my nerves. I purposely marched on ahead of him so as not to see my disheveled, unkempt companion.
Having now passed the sandy depressions full of muddied water along the shoreline, we continued to make our way through the forest. It stretched all the way to the water’s edge and was relatively sparse. The electric shock of sudden hope struck me; I crouched down, peering up at a tree from which I was being showered with bits of branches. Drawing my revolver, I approached the trunk and made a sign to Baranov to halt and leave me to it.
In the tree, swinging its tail, pulling faces, showing off, and puffing out its cheeks, sat a sizable monkey, throwing all sorts of rubbish at us. I took aim. The monkey, thinking I was playing with it, gave out a piercing screech, wrapped its tail around the branch on which it was sitting, and dropped down, head first, swinging back and forth, like an acrobat about to let go of a trapeze. I fired and hit it square in the forehead; its tail unwound and the furry body with its red behind fell before my feet.
I went up to it, squatted down, opened the animal’s clenched teeth with my penknife and, running my hand in its cheek pouches, pulled out a handful of barely chewed walnut pulp. I swallowed this on the spot without thinking. Lifting my head, I saw Baranov leaning over; his face, now red with excitement and nervous laughter, beamed with joy and hungry longing. He giggled almost hysterically, seizing the monkey by the paw. Pulling out my handkerchief, I spread it on the ground, split open the animal’s skin and, having hastily and haphazardly chopped the still-warm red meat into little pieces, I piled it onto the cloth.
We ate, grunting with pleasure and morbid greed … I remember—I was in such a rush to chew that I bit my finger. Just then the sun rose, shedding its light on us, our repast, and the dead monkey; its fiery splendor dappled the forest with smoky bands of light, and the day began. The triumphant foray of the dew-bathed luminary captured the Earth and made Her its mistress, delighting her with caresses.
Feeling the weight of my brazen stomach, I lowered my hand clutching a half-eaten morsel and saw the Russian watching me with the heavy, dull gaze of a man who has gorged himself to the point of disgust. He must have thought the same of me. With a contented sigh, we lay down, stretched out, and diligently applied ourselves, as it were, to digestion.
Our strength slowly returned to us. I began to feel the density, weight, and musculature of my body. The movement of my hands and fingers acquired a lively elasticity, my legs felt as though they had recovered from a fainting fit, every organ, so to speak, heaved a sigh of relief. Only now, sated, did we start exchanging lazy, good-humored phrases about food and drink.
“Do you like steak tartare?” Baranov asked, picking at his teeth.
“What is that?”
“Ah … it’s what we just ate. Raw meat.”
“Yes, it’s delicious. I like,” I added thoughtfully, “cold strawberry jelly and pies served with sago.”
“I love chicken and rice. It’s a pity we have nothing to drink. Take our Russian vodka … it’s a marvel.”
I knew the miraculous qualities of this truly enchanting beverage and licked my lips.
“Come on,” I said. “We aren’t there yet.” The Russian got to his feet and so did I; the forest, enchanted by the sun, hummed with the life of myriad woodland critters, the deep blue sky exhaled the loveliness of a southern day, and life didn’t seem at all bad. Having bundled what was left of the monkey into the handkerchief and tied the bundle to a stick that I placed over my shoulder, I set off at a brisk pace, examining the shoreline.
Life is a true patchwork, Inger, like the shadows cast by leaves on a mountain spring with its golden shimmer and many-colored stones on the bottom; joy and woe, lucky and unlucky incidents rush by, smiling and frowning like a noisy crowd before avid eyes; true wisdom lies in not being surprised by it all. I wasn’t surprised when, after several hours of difficult woodland terrain, I saw, from a low ledge overhanging the river, two tree trunks bobbing there in the water. These were enormous trees that had been born away in a flood; their roots looked like a witch’s tangle of hair.
The work fell largely to me. Baranov assisted wearily and lackadaisically. Having flayed off about forty long strips of bark, we used them to tie the trees together; then, having covered them with a mass of branches, we carved two rather unwieldy poles, dulling the knife and finally breaking it in the process. Using the poles as levers, the Russian and I heaved the ends of the trees out of the sand and into the water, whereupon we went aboard and pushed off.
The raft sank deep into the water, but the incredible thickness of the trunks maintained a dry surface to sit on. And so, on this narrow structure that resembled a drowning hay bale, we sailed quietly downstream, sitting nearer to the roots, which spread out their enormous claws over and into the water. At first, as though debating whether or not to receive us into its flow, the river pulled the raft along the shore; then, turning at a rapid whirlpool, the raft moved smoothly toward the middle of the river and was carried with the flow, bobbing up and down like the back of a horse going at a walking pace.
II.
It was night: darkness and silence stood all around. Ahead of us, bringing joy to my heart, countless lights outlined the darkness; from behind a promontory, the amphitheater that was San Riol came into view—the city, the battle of people.
Setting down our poles, we stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the approaching fiery pattern of the dark. I felt calm and quietly cheerful; even my irritation with Baranov had subsided and was replaced by a warm amicability—one way or another, we had made this journey together.
I placed my hand on his shoulder and said:
“It would seem we’re almost there. Everything’s going well.”
“I feel wretched,” he retorted. “Ah, Bangok, somehow you’ve bound me to you. The city frightens me. It’s the same all over again: sleeping rough, looking for crumbs of bread and work, fatigue, a life half-starved … loneliness. It’s as though my thirty years count for nothing, as though I’m only just beginning to fight for my existence … It’s dull. Let’s turn back …” he added quietly. “Back, to the forest. People are terrible, man is inhumane. Countless cruel jokers await us in this wicked life. Let’s turn back. We’ll buy or steal rifles, and, at the first possibility, we’ll leave these people. The years will pass in quiet savagery, and those times we spent among people, fearing them, loving or hating them, will be erased from our m
emories; we’ll even forget their faces. We shall immerse ourselves in all that surrounds us—the grass, trees, flowers, and animals. Within the stern wisdom of nature, the soul, free of man, feels at ease, and heaven will bless us—the pure heaven of the wilderness.”
“You’ve reverted to childishness again,” I said, touched by his despair. “I am a warrior, a fighter, a stubborn man, cock of the walk. No. I’m raring to go. The poisonous air of the city excites me.”
Our talk was halted by a small island that appeared out of the darkness. I wanted to go around it and even picked up my pole in order to set the raft on the necessary course, but suddenly a useful thought struck me.
“We have nowhere to spend the night in the city,” I said. “Let’s go ashore and spend the night there.”
The Russian nodded. Soon we were sitting in front of a fire, roasting the monkey’s hindquarters on sticks, smoking and thinking.
III.
“Look,” said the Russian. “Look at the water.”
The fire, on which we had lavished wood, illuminated the river for some distance, blazing like a burning barn. Red-orange water surrounded the shore, and the light of the fire, tangled in the currents, painted changeable, iridescent patterns on them in carmine, blue, and gold.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I said.
“Doesn’t it seem to you,” the Russian began, gazing at the water, “that I’ll be gone before long?”
“Gone where?” I coolly asked, already inured to the eccentricities of my companion.
He gazed fixedly at me, before closing his eyes and continuing:
“I’m not sure that I exist. Perhaps I’m but a mere interweaving of light and shadow upon this phantom-red expanse of water before you.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Give me your revolver for a moment.”
With a shrug, I extracted the weapon from my pocket and handed it to him. There was only one bullet left—I remembered this by chance, far from suspecting anything.
Still sitting there, Baranov pressed the muzzle to his temple and turned away. I saw the back of his head, the sudden shudder of his shoulders and, frozen, realized what was happening. It had come about so unexpectedly that I opened my mouth several times before I cried out:
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m tired …” he said, bending down toward the earth. “It’s all stuff and nonsense.”
Covering my face with my hands, I awaited the shot.
“I cannot,” Baranov cried in anger, gripping my by the arms. “Better you do it … I beg you!”
For a long while, I looked at his deathly face, mulling over this much too solemn request and … Inger … I found that it would indeed be better for him.
We walked over to a precipice. I led him by the hand. And there, feeling for the soft skin of his forehead with the muzzle, I turned away and carried out what my companion had asked of me, having grown too weary to go on.
The shot was deafening. Doubling over, the Russian’s body fell into the water, its pale hands moving, illumined by the fire, and vanished in the streaming depths. But for a long time it seemed to me as I stood there, head bowed, that I could see his face serenely smiling back from the red, iridescent ripples as they flickered with the fire’s reflections.
Two days later, I enlisted on the Southern Cross and set sail for Shanghai.
Life is fascinating, Inger, so very fascinating. So much fear and beauty! One can sometimes die laughing! But it’s a sin to cry.
My pipe has gone out, my dear fellow …
THE POISONED ISLAND
I.
According to the tale told by Captain Tart, who arrived in Ahuan Skap from New Zealand, and his statement to the local authorities, which was corroborated by evidence provided by the ship’s crew, on the little island of Farfont in the South Pacific, there was an episode wherein by general consensus the entire population of islanders committed mass suicide—with the exception of two children, aged three and seven, who were left in the care of the ship Viola, in the command of Captain Tart.
The island of Farfont lies at 41º 17’ South, well clear of any shipping lanes. It was discovered in 1869 by Van Lott, the master of a whaler, and is often unmarked on maps, even on the official ones. It has no commercial or political significance, and John Webster, in his History of Merchant Shipping Navigation, disdainfully classifies such islands as “useless trifles,” noting of Farfont in particular that the island is exceptionally small and rocky.
The following was recorded in the logbook of the Viola:
June 14, 1920. Strong southwesterly wind. Thrown off course all day, stormy toward evening. Three sails lost.
June 15, 1920. Mainsail and foresail torn by wind. Mainsail replaced, heading south. Seaman Nock fell overboard and perished.
June 16, 1920. Moderate wind. Land sighted at noon. Farfont Island. Dropped anchor. Captain Tart, First Mate Insar, and five seamen gone ashore.
These five seamen were Haverney, Drokis, Bikan, Gabster, and Strock.
The captain revealed that before the boat was launched, he had observed someone through his telescope—a figure standing on the shore. That person had quickly vanished into the forest. Reckoning on the basis of this that the little island was populated, the captain—though he noted no traces of habitation when the boat arrived ashore—nevertheless found it necessary to replenish supplies and set out in search of the islanders. Indeed, they soon came upon five thatched log cabins set amid picturesque and lush vegetation in a small valley of astonishing beauty. There was no one to be seen. Nobody appeared even when the captain fired his revolver into the air to attract the natives’ attention. No smoke was coming from any of the chimneys, and, on the whole, the curious marked silence of the community struck Tart forcefully. He began to make a tour of the structures, whose doors he found unlocked, but inside the first three houses he inspected, he found nobody, either asleep or awake. In the fifth house he visited, there was also no one, but in the fourth, the seafarers found a man who was dying or in an unconscious state; he was lying on the floor with only the whites of his eyes showing, his face pale and damp with sweat. A feeble groan burst convulsively from his throat. A young boy and a girl of six or seven were standing beside him, very frightened and crying.
The captain began to question the boy but, getting nowhere with him, turned instead to the young girl. From her disjointed and obviously confused idea of what had gone on, he learned only that “everyone went away”—where exactly, she did not know; “Uncle Scorrey,” the man who was now lying senseless, had remained with her and little Philip. The girl, who was called Liv (short for Livia), also said that only half an hour previously, Scorrey had been joking with her and saying that there were people coming to take her and Philip away to the “mainland,” where life would be good for them. Scorrey himself had drunk something from a mug that was still standing on the table. After this, he had said that he was dying, lay down on the floor, and began to groan. He had then said to Liv: “Give the letter to the man with the gold buttons.” And that was all the children knew.
There was a strong fragrance emanating from the blossoming shrubbery by the window, which set the sailors’ heads spinning. Despite this, the captain, sniffing what remained of the murky liquid at the bottom of the mug, deemed it necessary to take immediate measures in order to save Scorrey. It was presumed that he had taken poison. The liquid had an unpleasant, pungent, bitter smell. Tart opened the unfortunate man’s clenched teeth with a pocket knife and, with nothing better to hand, began pouring vodka into Scorrey’s mouth, little by little, lest the unconscious man choke. Half an hour later he had emptied his own flask, as well as Haverney’s and Drokis’s. Meanwhile, the mariners boiled water in a clay pot and placed bunches of grass that had been soaked in the boiling water around the naked Scorrey—thus creating a semblance of a bathhouse. Tart acted more out of inspiration than out of adherence to any medical guidelines, but at any rate, the patient stopped wheezing
. Next, they applied poultices, massaged him, and, finally, the patient opened his eyes. He had the look of a madman. He said nothing and understood nothing; he began to speak only as they were arriving at Ahuan Skap, but the intelligibility of his speech was scarcely that of a rational being.
The children, completely pacified by Drokis’s pocket watch, which had been entrusted to their care, were sent aboard the Viola on stretchers along with the revived Scorrey, while the captain set about investigating the sorry incident. Scorrey’s letter, since submitted to the judicial authorities, was written on the title page of a Bible that had yellowed with age. Instead of ink, the quick-darkening juice of a plant seemed to have been used. Tart read the semiliterate but enigmatic and terrible lines. The following is what was written (it was undated):
We, the inhabitants of Farfont, declare and bear witness before others that we, finding it no longer possible to go on living, since we are all insane, or else have been possessed by demons, voluntarily and by mutual agreement, commit suicide. The present letter has been entrusted to Joseph Scorrey until such a time that he is able to deliver it to a boat or ship. By common consent and with his good agreement, Scorrey does not have the right to commit suicide until it is possible to send away the children, Philip and Livia, who have been left alive in view of their tender age.
Thereafter followed twenty-four signatures along with the respective ages of each suicide. The eldest was 111 and the youngest 14. Not far from the village, Tart discovered a tall, freshly raised mound—a mass grave. The withered flowers on the wooden cross were removed by the crew of the Viola and replaced with fresh wreaths.
“The general impression of all this,” concluded Captain Tart, “was such, as if a bound man had been slaughtered before our very eyes. We hurried, as fast as we could, to fix the rigging, and on the following morning we left the terrible island of Farfont.”
Fandango and Other Stories Page 17