Catacombs

by John Farris

  "Of course we have notified his son, who is on his way to Chanvai. Now, I think we should talk. I want us to be in full accord as to what will be said, and not said, at the press conference tomorrow."

  "Or there will be no press conference."

  "To some extent I'm at your mercy," Jumbe said, with a smile that begged her indulgence. "You realize that. I have no wish to make life more difficult for you than it is already. But I can, if I must. You realize that too. In my opinion it will serve no useful purpose to dwell on the tragedy, and the treachery, we have suffered. You have lost someone you loved dearly; I have lost a man I thought of as my son. My reputation has diminished during the past year, but I haven't been hopelessly compromised through my folly. I believe I can continue to serve my country usefully. For your part, I would think you most profitably might apply yourself to the years of research that remain, the volumes you will write about the Catacombs and the people of Zan. In your work you will of course have the full backing of the government of Tanzania."

  "The exclusive backing."

  "Yes."

  "And the funds to establish a museum, in Chips' name."

  "That too."

  "I find it distasteful–degrading–even talking to you like this."

  He shrugged. "And how much satisfaction will you ultimately find in your bitterness, the slight revenge you may exact from telling the truth as you know it?"

  "None, I suppose."

  "I'm having a statement drafted," Jumbe said, "that I'm sure we can both agree on before the conference."

  "Some things simply can't be explained away," Erika said tautly.

  "Oh?" Jumbe smiled again. "You would indeed be surprised." He turned to go.

  "There's one more thing," Erika said. "I'd like to talk to you about Oliver."

  After her meeting with Jumbe, Erika spent a half hour roaming the grounds of Chanvai, trying to locate Oliver. She was afraid he had succumbed to his deep-rooted distrust of governments and authority figures and hit the road again, without a penny.

  It was nearly dusk when she found him, in scrounged clothing that included a crinkly pair of plaid pants that ended above his ankles, and soiled white golfing visor. He was attempting to repair a bicycle he had pulled out of a shed. He'd adopted a new pet, another mongoose, one of scores that lived on the estate. It clung to Oliver's right shoulder and talked urgently in his ear at Erika's approach. Oliver didn't look around. There was a hot post-daylight glaze of silk and pearl and purple shadow across the land. He spun a tireless wheel of the upended bicycle; the spokes flashed in a mime of flight.

  "Oliver."

  He hunched his shoulders and covered his face with his long hands, shuddering a little in an agony of the soul. Erika stopped a few feet from him and studied him compassionately.

  "It's all right, Oliver. You have nothing to blame yourself for."

  "Your friend, dying. My fault."

  "No, Oliver. Chips was very sick, even before I left Ivututu. His fate was never in your hands. You did everything humanly possible to help me. Performed miracles, really. I don't feel merely indebted to you. I feel about you as I would a brother, my own flesh and blood."

  For a while he didn't move. It got swiftly darker. Then he spread his fingers, peering at her incredulously.

  "I mean it, Oliver. You have saved my life, and since I'm not what you'd call long in the tooth, I'm afraid you're stuck with me for quite a few years yet. I intend to devote as much time as necessary to seeing that you have what you need most in this life: your freedom. The freedom to do your prospecting utterly without interference from this government or special interest groups. I'm arranging for the necessary documents now. You will be provided with all the tools you require. To strike gold, or mine gemstones, or whatever. There will be a sizable subsidy, every year; and half of everything you discover is yours to keep. You could very well wind up a rich man, Oliver."

  He lowered his hands. He trembled. His feet tried to caper, but for once in his life he was clumsy. He fell down in a heap.

  "Well, I hope I'm not spoiling you," Erika said, with a smile and with tears in her eyes. She turned and walked back toward the main house.

  "Erika! Going now?"

  "Yes, Oliver. To Switzerland, for a few months. To see my family, and to rest. But I'll be back. I suppose I may be spending the rest of my life here. There's that much to do, you see. So very much to do."

  When Lem Meztizo's nurse turned up to give him morphine so he could make it through the night without screaming, Jade returned, bottle in hand, to check up on Raun.

  "Matt?"

  "The one and only."

  "Are you drunk?"

  "Gosh no."

  From outside came the sound of wind in the trees, the bark and yowl of animals in the wild. He sat down clumsily on the bed beside her and put the bottle to his lips.

  "Have you had enough yet?" She sighed.

  "Of whiskey?"

  "No. I mean–enough of flying up His nose."

  "Whose nose?"

  "His. You know. Him with the scythe."

  "Oh." He realized how hard he'd been thinking about that himself. "Yeah. Good odds, anyway."

  "I'm glad," Raun said. "Matt?"

  "Yes?"

  "Take me home with you."

  "Why?"

  "It's time we got acquainted."

  He thought about that too, and stretched out beside her, trying not to jostle his bad leg. He was too tired to tell himself anymore that it didn't hurt.

  "This must be my lucky day," he said.

  She smiled and moved her head against his shoulder and drifted to sleep again.

  AFTERWORD

  In the preparation and writing of Catacombs I'm indebted to more literary and personal sources than I can (or should) name here. At the risk of offending some of those I must leave out I want to thank Dick Winston, of the firm of Harry Winston in New York, who has studied countless diamonds from all over the world. It was Dick who, in casual conversation, mentioned the single red diamond he has seen in the course of his career, a diamond with strange and indecipherable markings, and thus unwittingly initiated the processes that became Catacombs.

  For the reader who has more than a casual interest in Africa, and the dilemma its diverse peoples' face in coping with each other as well as the demands of the present and future, two books are highly recommended. One is the E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., combined edition of Peter Matthiessen's The Tree Where Man Was Born and Eliot Porter's The African Experience. The text, by Matthiessen, is the result of a remarkable fusion of the naturalist's eye and the mind of a poet: Here is a formidable creative power at work, informed by rare intelligence. The photographs, by Porter, particularly of elephants in their habitat, have the unobtrusive impact of enduring art.

  Among the Elephants, published in the U.S. by The Viking Press, Inc., is by Iain and Oria Douglas Hamilton. Their book, unfortunately, is not widely known. It vividly shares a life in the wild unavailable to the majority of us, and introduces two people with nerve, wit, and a passion for the huge beleaguered animal that is, like Kilimanjaro, a symbol of the magnitude and latent power of an entire continent.

  JOHN FARRIS

  NOVEMBER 1980