Vinegar Soup

by Miles Gibson

  ‘There are lights in the kitchen,’ called Veronica, who still stood guarding the harvest.

  ‘It must be Boris,’ shouted Gilbert.

  ‘He’ll be drunk again,’ said Frank. He gently rocked the ape in his arms. She had grown very cold.

  ‘I hope he hasn’t hidden the cakes,’ muttered Gilbert.

  They hurried towards the flickering light, Gilbert leading them with the rifle, Frank following, Happy and Veronica trotting behind with the bucket swinging on the bamboo pole.

  Boris greeted them with a roar of approval. He ushered the party into the kitchen and lurched among them, squeezing Veronica, hugging Happy and, to Frank’s disgust, picking up the dead ape’s hand and planting a kiss on the knuckles.

  ‘You good people,’ he burbled. ‘We don’t starve while Gilbert here.’ He shook Gilbert by the hand until his teeth rattled. ‘Sit down. We drink a few beers. You bring home the rations. I cook the stew.’

  They made themselves comfortable by the blazing stove while Happy took care of the snails and laid out the ape on the butcher’s block.

  ‘What did you put in this stew?’ asked Frank. The delicious vapours of peppered meat and vegetables poured from a pot on the top of the stove.

  Boris sucked at a bottle of beer and grinned. ‘I find a few things,’ he belched. He wiped the neck and offered Frank the bottle.

  ‘Where?’ said Frank. He took the beer but he would not drink.

  ‘Who cares?’ said Veronica. ‘It can’t be any worse than snails – or that horrible creature.’ She glanced towards the butcher’s block. It was the first time she had mentioned the ape or even acknowledged its presence. She shivered and turned her face away.

  ‘It’s not a pretty sight,’ admitted Gilbert. ‘But wait until you taste the cutlets. I’ll cook ’em so they melt in your mouth.’

  They pulled off their shoes and sat to toast their feet by the warmth of the oven while Boris fetched bowls to serve the stew.

  ‘Glori!’ beamed Happy, when the stew reached his mouth. ‘Dis fein chop, patron.’ He looked flustered. It was a long time since anyone had cooked him a meal and he couldn’t remember the etiquette. He adopted an attitude of fawning gratitude, half afraid that Boris might change his mind and snatch the bowl away.

  ‘It’s hot,’ hissed Gilbert, urgently sucking air through his teeth.

  ‘It’s chicken!’ blurted Frank.

  Veronica dropped her spoon. Her face changed colour, grew red, turned green and went a nasty shade of blue. Her nostrils trembled. Her mouth fell open and the stew fell out. She clutched at her throat and her eyes began to bulge, as if she were choking on bones. She stared at Boris. Her eyes speared him through the heart and lungs and held him pinned against his chair.

  ‘You killed him,’ she said in a tiny voice. ‘You killed Chester!’

  ‘That chicken no good,’ said Boris. ‘What a bastard. We got to eat something.’ He filled his mouth with stew and chewed contentedly.

  ‘He wasn’t a chicken!’ screamed Veronica. ‘He was my friend!’ She erupted in a fury of fangs and claws, spat poison, pounced at Boris and knocked him to the floor.

  Boris laughed and grasped the top of her thistle head in one almighty hand. She scratched and spat but he was too strong for her and it only served to make him excited. They rolled across the kitchen and she found herself caught with her legs astride him, while he laughed and bucked and made little grunting sounds of pleasure.

  ‘She try to kill me. Crazy woman. She want a good shag. You help me here,’ he sang, wrapping an arm around her waist and driving her down against his groin.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ bawled Frank. He threw down his bowl and sprang forward, grabbing Veronica under her arms and trying to drag her free.

  ‘She too good to waste on you!’ complained Boris and slapped him hard against the side of the head.

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Gilbert. He was standing in front of the oven, the rifle in his hands, his face puffed into a gargoyle of thunder.

  ‘Look at the big man!’ howled Boris. ‘He got the gun!’ He let out a great honk of laughter that tossed Veronica on to the floor. ‘You think old Boris afraid of him?’ He staggered to his feet and wiped his mouth. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for something to call a weapon.

  ‘Don’t move,’ warned Gilbert.

  ‘You watch,’ grinned Boris, catching sight of a suitable knife. ‘I poke out his eyes.’

  He rushed at Gilbert. Veronica screamed. There was an earsplitting bang and a spray of sparks as the kitchen vanished in smoke. Boris was blown through the kitchen door. He wasn’t hurt. Gilbert had missed him and shot a hole through the roof.

  But when the smoke had cleared and they looked for him, Boris was already running for his life through the mud and the rain, over the slippery compound wall and into the sheltering forest.

  17

  Gilbert lay in bed and tried to count the days. One two snail stew. Three four monkey’s paw. Five six chop up sticks. Seven eight lick your plate. Nine ten a big fat hen. Roast potatoes. Buttered carrots. Plenty of gravy. Veronica stood in the rain and was sick. We ate Chester behind her back. She sulked. Angry. It can’t last for ever. She’ll learn. It’s not all gammon and spinach. You forget. All over the world. The rain. Hoods. The hotel floating over the treetops, down the coast and out to sea. Boris gone and good riddance. When the rains stop we’ll have a celebration supper. That’s the spirit. Roast a porker. All hands on deck. We need Sam to sort out the kitchen. Teach Frank the tricks of the trade. Learnt to survive at the old Coronation. Sam was breakfast and I was dinner. Brown soup and mutton stew. It was mostly bones and potatoes in those days. Bones and potatoes? Thought yourself lucky. No food after the war. Fancy. Some nights it was so cold we slept in the kitchen under the ovens. Is that right? Nothing changes. Olive talking. Nothing changes. You’ll learn.

  Out in the forest Happy was shooting at shadows. Each morning he took the rifle and stalked away through the undergrowth. His hunting trips produced squirrels, rats and something he said were crocodile eggs. They were an odd shape but tasted good broken and boiled in the stew. Sometimes he returned with a bag of pink mushrooms, snails, bullfrogs or tree maggots. He dropped the maggots in boiling water, pulled off their heads and ate them like shrimps. He seemed to love them. No one else tried it.

  Frank stayed at home with Veronica. They built umbrellas from bamboo canes and banana leaves and patrolled the mud kingdom, waiting for Boris to return from the rain. They thought he would creep back to murder them but neither liked to admit it.

  ‘How long do you think he can stay out there?’ asked Veronica, looking towards the shrieking trees.

  ‘A couple of days,’ said Frank. ‘If he doesn’t poison himself or break his neck something else will put an end to him.’

  ‘It’s been more than a week.’

  ‘He must be dead,’ said Frank hopefully. ‘Nothing could survive in these conditions.’

  ‘Perhaps he found his way into town. Perhaps he’ll come back with a gang of his cronies.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s mad. Perhaps he’ll come back for me. Maybe he’ll come back to murder Gilbert. He could do anything,’ she said nervously. The wind tore through their umbrella and whistled as it looked up her skirt.

  ‘The road has gone,’ said Frank, trying to comfort her. ‘He might be mad enough to come crawling back here on his hands and knees but he’s not going to persuade anyone else that it’s worth the trouble.’ He looked across at the remains of the car, still standing where Boris had abandoned it. The tyres were flat and the windscreen shattered. A green vegetable tripe was creeping over the blistered paintwork, feeding itself on the rust.

  ‘I think he’s still out there. I can feel him watching me,’ she said, poking her skirt between her thighs. A rifle shot rang from the forest.

  ‘Happy’s not afraid,’ said Frank, turning his face into the rain.

  ‘He’s
got the gun,’ said Veronica.

  At night they slept together in a canvas tent hooked from the ceiling above Frank’s bed. It was warm and dry and gave some protection from the mosquito storms. They lay in the dark and listened to the noise of Gilbert snoring through the wall behind their heads. More than once they heard him wake up with a shout and call for Olive. Then he would laugh and moan and mumble to himself until the sounds faded and he sank again into sleep.

  ‘Do you think?’ whispered Veronica one night, raising her face from the pillow.

  ‘What?’ grunted Frank.

  ‘Gilbert,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank.

  ‘Do you think he looks different?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ frowned Frank.

  ‘Bigger,’ she said, sitting up in the dark and pulling the sheet from his head. ‘I think he’s getting bigger.’

  ‘He was never a small man,’ said Frank.

  ‘But he’s growing enormous,’ insisted Veronica. ‘It’s like the rain has started to germinate him.’

  It was true. When Frank looked at Gilbert again he saw that the old man had split his shirt. His boots had burst. His trousers clung by a thread. His belly stuck out through the rags like some monstrous tuber. Everything was swollen. His flesh was fermenting. The chins quivered and multiplied, folded one against the other, until it looked as if his face might be swallowed by the bulging fat. His nose and mouth were small as buttons. His dark eyes strained against the weight of his forehead. The red rubber bowl appeared screwed to his head.

  Frank tried to find him some clothes but nothing could support his weight. When his trousers finally fell apart Gilbert stamped about in his vest and underpants until Veronica took pity on him and cut a blanket into a cape. He wore the cape proudly around his shoulders, tied at the neck by a piece of string. He used his shirts to bandage his feet.

  A month of rain fell on the forest. They learned to forget to guard against Boris and devoted their energy to the drudgery of finding food and trying to keep warm. For a time they seemed to prosper in this flooded, twilight world. But gradually, without them even knowing it, their strength was seeping away. Veronica, weakened by mysterious bouts of bleeding and diarrhoea, shrank to a skeleton. Happy was punished by rotting teeth. Frank cut his thumb and poisoned his arm.

  Gilbert, exhausted by the work and too tired to drag himself around, took to sitting in corners and talking to himself. He joined them at night to share out the stew but liked to spend the daylight hours beyond sight of them, sheltering alone, absorbed in his own private miseries. He became fascinated with the spread of decay, a morbid chronicler of the creeping mud, the drowning rooms, the secret sorrows of the hotel. Sometimes, seized by diabolical energy, he would jump up and take a party of ghosts on a tour of inspection, pointing out the damage as if it were a feature of some grand and mysterious architecture. When Frank or Veronica caught him, standing in the rain, absorbed in one of these flights of fancy, he would stop and look startled, pretend to sing or clear his throat. Then he would become furtive, speak to his ghosts in a murmur, answer their questions with the slightest nod or shake of his head. Finally he would grow lethargic, retreat to a corner and fall silent again.

  One evening Happy found him collapsed in the compound. He was shivering with fever and his ears were full of mud. They managed to get him back to his room and laid him out on the bed. His burning body made the blanket steam. Frank cut the bandages from his feet and tried to wrap him in towels while Veronica ran for the medicine box.

  They searched the bottles and cartons but nothing looked familiar, the drugs were stale, the descriptions printed in French or German, and they were afraid of making a mistake and poisoning him.

  ‘It’s hopeless!’ said Frank impatiently, throwing the box to the floor.

  ‘We could make him sweat it out,’ suggested Veronica. She wiped Gilbert’s face with her hands. ‘That’s what they used to do in the old days. They used to cover ’em with blankets and make ’em swim in their own sweat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it acts like a disinfectant or something.’ They sent Happy to look for blankets and wrapped Gilbert into a hairy, woollen parcel. He was too weak to protest. They kept him a prisoner for two days and two nights, watching him stew in his own juices. He grew so hot that he bubbled and boiled. He puddled the floor and steamed the window. His sweat dripped down from the ceiling. They took it in turns to sit by his bed but they didn’t know how to nurse him. At first he found comfort in their simple vigil but soon grew confused, failed to recognise them, rolled his eyes and shouted at them to leave him alone. On the second night he shouted so hard that he fainted and when he woke up the fever was gone. He lay beneath the blankets, boiled white, drained and cold.

  It took him a long time to recover. He was too feeble to hunt for food so he sat in the kitchen and stirred the stew. The rain continued. They struggled through the days, silent and starving, the last people on a God-forsaken earth.

  And then, one morning, Frank found a little parcel of leaves hanging from the rafters of the veranda. He gazed at the object, transfixed, unable to believe his eyes. When he raised the alarm Happy appeared with his rifle and ran up and down the veranda, shouting abuse at the forest. Gilbert and Veronica stared up at the packet in silence. They were dumbfounded. It was a wad of fresh leaves, hanging by twine like a grub on a long silk thread. As they watched, it began swinging, gently, in the draught of the rain.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Veronica. She felt frightened and sick at the thought of unknown eyes watching them from the forest.

  ‘Open it,’ ordered Gilbert. ‘It’s not going to bite you.’

  ‘It’s too high,’ said Veronica quickly. ‘I can’t reach it.’ She wrapped herself in her arms and stepped back against the hotel wall. No one else volunteered.

  ‘Do you think it was Boris?’ said Frank.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, you daft bugger!’ growled Gilbert. ‘Why should he come creeping around the place and hang big green turds from the woodwork? It’s not Christmas!’ He glared at Frank and whistled angrily through his teeth.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Frank, turning to Happy.

  ‘Haiden medesin,’ said Happy. He looked surprised that they needed to be told these things.

  ‘What?’ shouted Gilbert impatiently. ‘What?’

  Happy glared at him in disgust, snorted, honked and spat at the rain.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frank, rubbing his ear. ‘I think he said it’s heathen medicine.’

  ‘Daso,’ said Happy, amazed at their stupidity. ‘You wait pipli no savi dis ting?’

  ‘You mean it’s some sort of witchcraft?’ wheezed Gilbert. He reached up and plucked the little parcel from its string.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ pleaded Veronica, retreating to the end of the veranda.

  ‘Gently does it,’ breathed Gilbert. He held the object to his nose, gave it a sniff and then carefully laid it down on the floor.

  ‘Is it alive?’ said Frank when Gilbert failed to drop dead or be seized by demons.

  ‘What is it?’ said Veronica.

  It was a blue toothbrush. When the leaves were pulled apart they found themselves squatting on the floor, heads tucked between their knees staring down at a blue, plastic toothbrush.

  Frank was the first to see the pygmies. When he stood up and turned again towards the forest he saw a tiny figure standing in the rain about twenty yards from the hotel. It was the figure of an old man the size of a child. He was naked but for a large fur hat and in one hand he held a spear. He stood and stared at Frank without moving, silent, expressionless, while the rain danced on the top of his hat. And then other figures emerged from the forest. They gathered silently before the veranda and laid a mildewed suitcase down in the mud.

  ‘Who are they?’ whispered Veronica, clutching Frank’s hand.

  ‘Forest people,’ said Frank.

  ‘What do they want here?�
� she demanded. She surveyed the little group of wet naked pygmies with morbid curiosity. She tried to measure the distance between herself and the nearest open window.

  ‘Speak to them,’ said Frank, turning to Happy, who had dropped his rifle and was staring out at the forest with his mouth hanging open. ‘Ask them what they want.’

  Happy tried a few words of Bamileke and pronounced a greeting in Fang but the pygmies ignored him. They were staring at Gilbert.

  ‘They’re looking at you,’ said Frank.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gilbert. It must be a dream. Six little men with a suitcase. How did they get here? They must have come out of the trees. Want a room. Large double. Sleep three in a bed. It must be a dream. Hold your breath. Close your eyes and open them again. They’re still down there. You can see through ghosts. Cannibals have pointed teeth. Why did they leave a toothbrush?

  ‘That one is holding a spear,’ hissed Veronica. She was edging slowly towards her chosen window. ‘And the one next to him has got a bow and arrow.’

  ‘Don’t do anything to scare them away,’ said Gilbert gently. ‘I’ll go down and talk to them.’

  He wrapped the cape around his shoulders and clambered cautiously down the veranda steps escorted by Frank who struggled bravely to hold a banana leaf umbrella over his head. He walked slowly and with great dignity towards the silent pygmies and stopped before the group elder who, he decided, must be the one in the fancy fur hat.

  The pygmies stared at him without a flicker of life in their faces. They looked as if they had been carved from wood. Gilbert held out his hand. The old man blinked at Gilbert. He looked at the fat, white hand. Then he reached up, shook it and grinned. His face crinkled with pleasure and he began to laugh.

  At once all the pygmies pressed about Gilbert, pulling open the sodden cape to touch and stroke the great, pale bulk of him. One of the younger men, a dubious youth with a torn ear, began to act out an intricate pantomime, pretending to eat the tips of his fingers, squeezing his stomach and gesturing towards the hotel. Gilbert was enchanted. While the performance was repeated for the benefit of Frank, the other pygmies opened the big, mildewed suitcase and squatted beside it, directing Gilbert to look inside.