Vinegar Soup

by Miles Gibson

  ‘I’m easy,’ yawned Alley. ‘Take it or leave it. No problem.’ He stretched out his legs and studied the stitching on his cowboy boots. ‘I’ve got customers screaming for the stuff.’

  There was an uneasy silence.

  ‘Look. Maybe tonight I break the rules,’ suggested Boris uncomfortably. ‘We have sardines. Some nice tinned peas. What you want?’

  ‘Happy made a stew,’ said Frank. ‘We’ve already prepared supper.’ He didn’t want charity. Stuff the sardines. He stood up and walked out to the kitchen.

  ‘Are you staying?’ asked Boris.

  ‘OK,’ said Alley.

  ‘We don’t have a clean room,’ said Gilbert, wiping his head.

  ‘No problem. I sleep in the truck. What a baby! She’s got everything. Night cabin. Foam mattress. Stereo. Air conditioning. You’d better believe it!’

  ‘Stay and eat,’ said Boris anxiously. ‘We have a few drinks. We have a few laughs.’

  So Alley made himself comfortable with a bottle of Scotch and when it grew dark Frank came out to serve the stew. Gilbert sat down with them but Veronica went to eat in her room.

  ‘What is this muck?’ demanded Boris. He poked the stew with his spoon, frowning and sniffing as if he expected to find a turd.

  ‘Fish,’ said Frank.

  Boris choked with disgust and threw his spoon away. ‘You call this food? It makes me sick in the stomach!’ He bent his head and spat, fiercely, into his bowl.

  ‘Eat,’ said Gilbert. ‘Eat and be glad of it.’

  ‘Hah! You talk!’ shouted Boris. ‘Not so long ago. You want to open the store and steal every damn thing. Invite every damn bastard to one big supper. Now it’s a different tune. Eat snot. Starve.’

  ‘That was before we knew it was stolen,’ said Gilbert quietly. He sat back in his chair and picked at his teeth with a fish bone.

  ‘Stolen?’ roared Boris. ‘I pay good cash money for everything! This bastard rob me blind.’ He turned to Alley and speared his ribs with a finger. ‘Tell him. Tell him the price.’

  Alley grinned. ‘Quality don’t come cheap, patron. You have to pay the market price.’

  ‘And if you can’t pay?’ asked Frank.

  ‘You don’t eat,’ said Gilbert. He shrugged. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘You don’t know nothing!’ bellowed Boris, as Gilbert trudged off down the veranda. ‘You don’t know!’

  ‘Leave him alone. He’ll learn,’ said Alley, reaching for the bottle of Scotch.

  Frank remained on the veranda, watching them get drunk. It was a hot clear night. He sat, a little distance from them and listened to their conversation. They tried to refill his glass whenever he raised it to his mouth but, otherwise, ignored him.

  They were talking about the border towns, the roads that were open, the roads that were closed, the trade in the north and the war in Chad. Boris was always eager for news. Alley had heard that the Libyans had bombed Ndjamena airport and the French were moving more troops to the city. Boris cursed and said they were always looking for trouble. The French everywhere. A soldier stuck in every pineapple.

  Alley laughed. He plucked a Marlboro from his waistcoat pocket and offered the pack to Boris who began to smoke them, one after another, sucking greedily, flicking them away when they burned too small for his fingers.

  Frank watched the butts gather in the darkness beneath the veranda like tiny, smouldering eyes.

  At night the jungle gave out the damp, sweet smell of decay. Somewhere in the undergrowth an invisible beast began to bark at the moon.

  Alley said that he wanted to get away from the forest before the rains washed out the road. He thought he might spend some time along the coast of Cameroon. Boris told him about a place in Douala called Club Saint Hilaire. There was a girl at the club called Temptation. He described her reproductive organs at length and with remarkable relish. His mouth hung loose. His chin was wet. Alley promised to give her a message.

  ‘You say old Boris will be back. Collect her one day,’ belched Boris. He staggered from his chair, wrenched open his pants and urinated over the edge of the veranda. The cigarette fell from his mouth and he bent to retrieve it. He was so drunk that he wet his shoes.

  ‘We finished the whisky,’ sighed Alley. ‘And the whisky finished me.’ He held up the empty bottle and gave it a little shake.

  ‘I’ll help Boris back to his room,’ said Frank.

  ‘I don’t need no damn bastard to hold my hand,’ wheezed Boris as he lurched down the veranda.

  Frank reached out to him but Boris struck out with his fists, punching at the air like a decrepit boxer fighting shadows, turned, toppled and fell down the steps.

  ‘Don’t bother with him,’ said Alley as they watched him crawling about in the dust. He took Frank’s arm and drew him back against the wall. ‘You wanna come to my truck?’ He looked at Frank with a soft, flirtatious smile. His brown eyes shone in the moonlight.

  Frank frowned. He shook his head, ashamed and confused. He twisted free and hurried away.

  As he groped along the corridor towards the safety of his room he heard Boris singing on the edge of the forest. It was a foolish, sentimental song scored with a chorus of curses. He lay in bed and listened to the noise echo around the hotel, first loud, then soft, as Boris staggered in circles. Sometimes he heard him shout with rage and throw stones at the undergrowth. Sometimes he heard him stop to chuckle like a lunatic at some secret joke. And then there was silence.

  Frank closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But sprawled in a sweat beneath the sheet he found himself counting the days. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Closed on Sunday. Egg, bacon, sausage. Two egg, bacon, sausage. Cold in the morning. Rain spreading in the afternoon. Gilbert in his counting house, counting out the money. Olive in the parlour, eating bread and honey.

  There was a scream, a frantic scramble, a series of screeches and Boris was shouting again. But this time the noises were more animal than human. Frank had dressed and was charging down the corridor before he had time to think about it. He reached Veronica’s room, kicked open the door and flung himself to the floor.

  Everything he most feared confronted him in that room. There were clothes and feathers everywhere. Boris, wearing nothing but shoes, was pinned against the wall while Chester flew and pecked at his face. Veronica crouched on the bed with her arms full of mosquito net. Her legs were trembling. She looked dumb with fright.

  ‘I kill you bastard!’ growled Boris. He thrashed out with his hands, trying to knock down the crazy chicken. But Chester, fierce as a basilisk, continued to screech and attack his face.

  Boris shouted and cringed with pain. He was bleeding suddenly from the nose.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ demanded Frank.

  ‘What you think?’ roared Boris. ‘She call me. Boris. Boris. I show you something. I think she want me. Maybe. I come here. She sit there. Smiling. No shame. Next thing. Click-clack. This bastard fly at my face.’

  ‘Liar!’ screamed Veronica. ‘He’s drunk! He came creeping into the room and tried to get into bed while I was asleep. He didn’t know I had Chester with me.’

  ‘I kill you bastard!’ thundered Boris, wiping the blood from his nose. ‘Bastard! Bastard!’ He gave the chicken a terrible punch to the head that stunned the bird and knocked it to the ground where it spun in circles on the tips of its wings.

  Veronica burst into tears. ‘Leave him alone,’ she sobbed. ‘Please don’t hurt him.’ She capsized and buried her face in the pillow.

  ‘Now I kill you,’ said Boris, glaring at Frank. He reached along the wall, unhooked The Last Supper and bent the frame in his hands. ‘You watch. I break you.’ He twisted the frame until the dry wood snapped and the glass cracked into daggers.

  ‘Go to bed,’ said Frank. ‘You can kill me in the morning.’

  ‘I snap your neck. Tell Happy. Bring a knife. Cut you into meat for stew,’ growled Boris. He threw down The Last Supper and trampled
the broken glass. He looked like a huge and dangerous ape dancing in a dead man’s shoes. His arms were too long. His legs were bent beneath the weight of his body. The thick stub of his penis poked angrily through a mane of wild hair. He grunted and sprang forward. Frank attempted to jump away but Boris was quick and his fists were large. He caught Frank by the throat and started to strangle him. Frank tried to speak, to talk himself free of the monster’s hands, but all his words had been squeezed to a rattle. His face turned purple. His tongue fell out. He clawed at his assailant’s face, catching his nose, feeling a fresh flow of blood on his fingers. Boris tightened his grip and Frank, fainting, fell to his knees. The floor sank beneath him. The room was growing dark.

  While Frank struggled Veronica jumped through the mosquito net and seized her chance to rescue Chester who had collapsed in a heap beside the bed. She picked him up like an odd cushion and carried him back to safety.

  Boris watched her from the corner of his eye. He blinked. He belched. He unhooked Frank and staggered along the length of the wall until he came gently to rest against the side of the wardrobe. ‘That woman. Ask me. I think she gone wrong in the head. Sleep with a damn chicken!’ He gave a short, snuffling laugh and scratched his stomach.

  ‘Get out!’ hissed Veronica.

  ‘She want a good shag,’ he told Frank confidentially as he pushed his way to the door. He grinned peacefully and ruffled Frank’s hair with his hand.

  Frank managed to crawl to the door and press it shut. Then he sat on the floor and stared at the ceiling. A necklace of fingerprints burned on his throat.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ whispered Veronica.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank, without turning his eyes from the ceiling. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No,’ said Veronica. ‘But he nearly murdered poor old Chester.’ She made a little clucking noise, picked up the chicken and squeezed it tight against her breasts. Chester scratched half-heartedly and paddled the air with his feet.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ Frank said quietly. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘We can’t go home. We haven’t started to do anything.’ She let Chester wriggle from her arms. ‘You’ll feel different when we get the place working again,’ she said hopefully, frowning at Frank.

  Frank smiled and shook his head. He was very tired. ‘It’s not going to work, Veronica. We’ll go mad. We’ll die here and Boris will bury us in the garden with Sam.’ He looked down at the floor. Jesus still sat at the overturned supper, arms outstretched, sunbeams crowning his long, pink face. The disciples smiled at their plates. Their nightgowns were sprinkled with flakes of glass.

  ‘You’re just feeling sorry for yourself because Boris took a swipe at you. He didn’t mean any harm. He’s drunk.’

  ‘He’s insane.’

  ‘Go home if you don’t like it!’ snapped Veronica impatiently. ‘I don’t care. There’s nothing to stop you.’

  Frank stared at Jesus for a very long time. They were so far away. Outside the window a thousand miles of jungle. The beginning of the world. The end of the world. At night, in bed, the silence sometimes hurt his head. He felt crushed, deafened by the empty air. He caught himself listening for voices, footsteps, wheels, engines, the faraway drone of an aeroplane. There was nothing in the world but darkness and the sound of blood in his ears. The beginning of the world. The end of the world. ‘We can’t go home,’ he said at last. ‘We bought one-way tickets. This it it.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ he shouted. ‘Gilbert spent every last penny getting us here. The money from the cafe hasn’t arrived. If anything goes wrong we’re going to have to walk home!’

  ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘This afternoon…’ He stopped and gasped for breath. He was surprised to find himself crying. He wiped his face and turned again to Jesus.

  Veronica crawled across the bed and pulled open the mosquito net. ‘Nothing will go wrong,’ she said softly. ‘Gilbert will think of something. You know how much he wanted to come here.’

  ‘He used to dream of Africa,’ whispered Frank. He looked towards the bed. She was crouched naked on her elbows and knees, watching him with her strange, green eyes. Her little breasts hung loose. The curtain was caught in the crease of her buttocks.

  ‘Come and climb into bed with me and Chester,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  15

  Frank woke up to find Veronica asleep between his legs. She was sprawled on her back, snoring softly, her arms thrown over her face, hair sweated into yellow spikes. He opened his eyes and gazed at her for a long time. She was nothing but skin and bone. A beautiful scarecrow. Elbows sharp as flints. Hoop of ribs. Scoop of belly. A pin cushion between her thighs. Watching her sleep he felt huge, powerful, an ugly machine of muscle and blood. Her thin shoulders were speckled with freckles. Her breasts were no more than luminous buds, soft white ghosts where the brassiere had saved her from the burning sun. He stared, feasting on these simple morsels, remembering how she had flirted with him behind the counter of the Hercules Cafe. The tortures inflicted by this nimble frotteuse! The squeezing, teasing, pinching and scratching he had endured in those days of burgeoning lust. Yet, despite all the pleading and promises, the sighs and whispers and fleeting kisses, he could count the number of times she had taken him to bed on the fingers of one hand. He reached down with the hand and used the fingers to trace a circle around a nipple. His penis ballooned against her throat. She stirred and grumbled and rolled away.

  He turned his head and looked around the room. Africa glowed through the shutters, filling the room with narrow stripes of brilliant light. Chester was roosting on top of the wardrobe, one eye open, one eye closed, his feathers crawling with flies.

  He pulled himself from the bed and searched for his clothes. Veronica continued to snore. He dressed quickly and slipped from the room. He half expected to find Boris waiting for him in the dark corridor. But there was only the silence and warm dust. He groped his way to the sunlight.

  ‘A don mek wata fo kofi,’ grinned Happy, when Frank appeared at the door to the kitchen. There was a smell of ripe bananas, onions and coffee. Happy was standing at his bench, wrapped in a fog of wood smoke from the pot-bellied stove. He was wearing his cardigan and a pair of khaki canvas shorts. His winklepickers were sitting on a shelf beside a bag of beans.

  ‘Boris he don mek big troble las net,’ said Happy. ‘A don no silip.’

  Frank sat down on a stool, rubbed his face and yawned. ‘You an me togeda,’ he sighed.

  ‘Plenti palaba!’ said Happy, shaking his head.

  ‘You louk dis ting bifo?’ Frank asked him, as Happy poured him a mug of coffee.

  ‘Plenti tarn bifo,’ said Happy, wiping his hands on his cardigan. ‘Won tarn he don won kil Happy. Anoda tarn he don won kil hiselef. He kos an holla. Holi Gost! A no lek dis ting.’

  ‘It’s the whisky,’ said Frank. ‘It turns him nasty.’

  ‘Daso,’ said Happy. ‘You lek to ex? A kouk am meselef.’

  ‘No,’ said Frank, peering at the basket of eggs. He didn’t have the stomach for breakfast. ‘A nopa chop notin.’

  ‘Dey smel sweet,’ frowned Happy, picking one up between his fingers and giving it a sniff.

  Frank didn’t have enough Pidgin to explain that Boris and Veronica had, between them, spent most of the night trying to throttle and suffocate him. So he just sat on the stool, nursed his bruised throat and smiled.

  A little later Gilbert rolled up for breakfast. While he waited for Happy to boil the eggs he cut himself a huge plate of banana sandwiches and brewed another pot of coffee which he drank, very hot, with sweet tinned milk.

  ‘Where’s Boris this morning?’ he asked, spitting banana at Frank.

  Frank shrugged. He had been waiting to explain how he’d heard screaming and found Boris invading Veronica’s bed. Last night? Yes. Drunk? Yes. And then what happened? Boris had tried to tear out his throat. Notice the bruise beneath
the chin. Observe the thumb prints under the ears. And then what happened? Boris had retreated and left them alone. Why? No answer. And then what happened? Veronica stopped screaming. And then what happened? Nothing. Was she hurt? No. Did you look? Yes. What was she wearing? Nothing. What did she say? Nothing. And then what happened? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing happened. ‘I suppose he’s gone to town,’ he said, avoiding Gilbert’s eye.

  Gilbert nodded and chewed thoughtfully for several minutes. A fly settled on his big, smooth skull. He brushed it away with his hand. ‘How long have we been here?’ he asked suddenly, as if he were late for an appointment.

  ‘I don’t know,’ sighed Frank. ‘A week? A month? It feels like a year.’

  ‘Homesick?’ asked Gilbert, cocking his head.

  Frank nodded.

  ‘It’s natural,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’m sorry. IFs my fault. We should have done this a long time ago.’ He hooked a crust from his coffee mug and sucked it into his mouth. ‘This is the life,’ he grinned. ‘Free food and plenty of sunshine. No television. No newspapers. No poison in the air. No crime in the street. The world could come to an end tomorrow and we’d be the last people to hear about it.’

  ‘No customers,’ added Frank. ‘It’s a long climb up here from town.’

  ‘It’s time we had that supper-dance. A real, old-fashioned supper-dance will bring in the crowds. We can hang strings of lightbulbs over the compound and set out the tables and chairs in a big circle to mark out a dance floor and we could build a pit for a fire and get Happy to roast a pig.’

  ‘We don’t have any music for dancing,’ objected Frank.

  ‘There’s a gramophone in Sam’s room,’ said Gilbert. ‘And a pile of old Frank Sinatra records I found in a box. We can sort them out. There must be something suitable. Sam used to love dancing.’