Vinegar Soup

by Miles Gibson

  ‘What can you see in this suitcase?’ said Gilbert, bending forward and staring with bright, astonished eyes.

  Frank took a long time to reply. ‘Toothbrushes,’ he whispered at last. ‘Toothbrushes and soap and razor blades and toothpaste and tins of shoe polish and bottles of hair tonic.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Gilbert. ‘Do we have any meat?’

  ‘A couple of rats and the rest of last night’s squirrel,’ said Frank.

  ‘Go and tell Happy to bring them out,’ said Gilbert, stroking his chins.

  They exchanged the rats for new toothbrushes and a large tube of toothpaste and, because they were large rats with plenty of meat on them, Veronica was allowed to choose a small bar of soap and Frank bargained for a razor blade.

  When the business was complete the pygmies shut up their shop, took it in turns to shake Gilbert ceremoniously by the hand and slipped back into the forest.

  As soon as they were out of sight Veronica ran back to her room as if the Devil were chasing her. She locked the door and hid the precious bar of soap beneath a loose floorboard at the foot of her bed. She stayed in the room for the rest of the day for fear that the others might come and discover the hiding place. She sat behind the door, exhilarated and vigilant, giggling with delight, waiting for footsteps in the corridor outside. But no one came. Frank had found his razor and spent a long time shaving himself before a piece of mirror, watching his face emerge from his beard. Gilbert spent hours just standing in the rain to scrub his mouth with pink worms of toothpaste. It stung his tongue and foamed on his wrists. He scrubbed until the mud around his bandaged feet was floating pink with toothpaste bubbles.

  Only Happy was less than pleased with the bargain. He had lost the meat he’d been saving for supper and his rotting gums were too tender to bear the touch of his toothbrush. Frank offered him the razor but he preferred to sit in the kitchen and sulk.

  Towards dusk the rain lifted and the clouds rolled apart for the moon. As it grew dark there was laughter and shouting on the edge of the forest. When Gilbert went to investigate he found the pygmies had returned with their friends and relations, women and children. He sat on the veranda with a jug of palm wine and watched them build a camp fire of brushwood pulled from the undergrowth.

  The fire smoked and exploded into a ball of flames. While the women cooked rats and spinach, the men sat with their feet buried in the warm ashes and sang sad, sentimental songs. After the food had been eaten the warrior in the fur hat stepped forward and beckoned Gilbert to join their circle. Gilbert threw off his cape and went down to them with the palm wine.

  At midnight Frank stepped out to find Gilbert hunched before the fire like an old, melancholy bear, surrounded by naked, dancing goblins. When he went to the rescue a woman approached him with a selection of postcards. Pygmy Beauties Bathing. Brave Pygmy Hunters. A Secret Pygmy Ceremony. Frank gently pushed her away, took Gilbert’s hand and led him back to his room. The pygmies continued to sit by their fire but in the morning they were gone.

  18

  The rains retreated. Each day the sun burned brighter through the collapsing columns of cloud. In the hotel compound the mud lost its shine, shrivelled, cracked and flaked into dust. The jungle steamed and stank.

  Frank and Veronica spent their time scrubbing the kitchen and trapping cockroaches. Happy managed to mend the roof with metal salvaged from the old store room and embrocated the walls with fresh blue paint. Gilbert surveyed the property, counting beds and spoons and doorframes, as if he feared the bad weather might have robbed him of something. He scribbled his conclusions in a curly notebook which he kept beneath his pillow.

  When they weren’t working they sweated and squabbled and rooted for food. The stew, which had boiled thick and strong throughout the long rain, began to taste thin and lacked fresh meat. They tried to revive it with spinach, pepper and wild garlic, but nothing could disguise its poverty. The stew was exhausted.

  As the heat returned Frank found himself watching the forest road. At every opportunity he slipped away and sat among the trees, listening for the distant sounds of moving trucks, men shouting, machines growling, anything that might tell him the road was open and he could make the journey into town. They had nothing left he could carry for trade. But if they could catch enough bush meat he could sell what they didn’t eat; take it to market and bring home coffee, sugar, rice and eggs. Gut and smoke it. Rats the best. String them on a long pole. Ask Happy to build snares and set them around the hotel perimeter. Bait them with fruit. Soak the fruit in palm wine. Despite Frank’s careful watch of the road it was Veronica who first heard the engine. It was early one morning and she had gone out to search for lizards drowsing in the undergrowth. She had taught herself to catch them in a net fashioned from a stocking on a wire coat hanger. Whenever she caught one she took it back to Happy and the butcher’s block. He had the knack of skinning them and breaking off the tails for the stew.

  When she heard the sound of the engine she dropped the net and went flying into the compound, shouting and waving her arms in a frenzy of excitement.

  ‘The road is open!’ she shrieked. ‘There’s a truck on the road!’ They ran out and stood in the sun, watching the road as a funnel of dust approached through the trees. It was a big green motor wagon. The wagon was covered in canvas stretched on iron hoops in the manner of a gypsy caravan. It wasn’t until it had rattled to a halt beneath the veranda that they recognised the driver. He’d had his hair cut and he was sporting a smart black nylon suit but it was the familiar boiled face of Boris who grinned up at them.

  ‘You good people I come home!’ he bellowed. ‘You think I forget? Look here!’ He waved at the wagon. ‘We got supplies. We got fuel. We got a pork and bean supper. Special occasion.’

  They looked at him in bewildered silence. They thought he was dead. They thought he was buried. He certainly looked dressed for a funeral. When Gilbert recovered from the shock of this unexpected resurrection he stepped down and peered suspiciously at the wagon. Frank limped after him and stood scowling at his old adversary. Veronica stayed behind, sheltering in the shadows.

  ‘The rain! What a bastard. Knock down everything,’ laughed Boris, throwing open his arms to embrace them. ‘You look bad. Happy don’t feed you. Bring him out and I kick him around.’

  Frank looked at Gilbert. His blanket was dappled with dust and gravy. His toothbrush dangled on a cord at his throat.

  Gilbert looked at Frank. One hand was still wrapped in a bandage. His knees had worn through his trousers and all the buttons were gone from his shirt.

  They turned and looked at Boris.

  ‘You take a look here. Make your heart glad. We got everything,’ he grinned, walking them to the back of the wagon. He tore open the curtain and urged them to dip their faces into the spicy darkness.

  There were bales of bananas, pouches of peas, satchels of soap, scented and household, kettles of klipbok, shovels of sugar, strings of onions, bowls of beef belly, buckets of beans, pails of peanuts, hampers of herons, barrels of buffalo cured in salt, pottles of plums, firkins of figs, whiskets of widgeon, basins of bacon, baskets of biltong, yards of yam, carboys of cucumber pickled in vinegar and bottles and bottles of bright, sparkling beer.

  But it wasn’t the sight of this staggering cargo of food that caught their eye in the canvas cave. It was the sight of the woman. On a mattress of millet, wedged between drums of sweet milk, tar and kerosene, sat a woman as round as an elephant god. Her face was yellow and pink enamel. Her hair was a pile of sticky, black curls. She stared out at them and raised an eyebrow. She had hard, shiny cockroaches for eyes with lashes that drooped like so many dangling legs.

  ‘Look at this lady!’ crooned Boris. ‘Her name is Charlotte. A very good friend to me. You wait. Charlotte make it work!’

  Charlotte raised a pale, imperial hand and two smaller women, no more than girls, seemed to hatch from the folds of her skirt.

  ‘This here my girls,’ s
he said in a rumbling voice. ‘This one Comfort. This one Easy. They good girls the both of them.’

  The two girls blinked sleepily into the sunlight. Their clothes were crushed and stained with sweat. Their faces were dark as molasses.

  ‘Here, Frank, help the girls down,’ said Gilbert. ‘You’ve arrived at a bad time – the rain washed us out – but we’ll soon make you comfortable.’

  He held out his hand to pilot Charlotte gently from the back of the wagon. It took time and patience to guide her out through the bottles and barrels. When she was free she stood in the dust and stared thoughtfully at the derelict hotel. She was dressed in a long black frock festooned with lace hanging from ivory buttons. It was an old, sad frock, gone grey fighting with her belly and breasts, rubbed to a shadow on the battleground of her buttocks, worn out, defeated, surrendering at every seam.

  ‘A very superior residence,’ she declared, turning her smooth, enamel face on Gilbert. ‘A very lovely property.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gilbert. His mouth fell open and he wagged his poor head with pleasure.

  ‘You got nice rooms for me?’ she rumbled. ‘My girls need nice rooms.’

  ‘You’ve got the best rooms in the house,’ said Gilbert. He rubbed his hands anxiously on his blanket. ‘Don’t worry about anything. We’ll make you feel at home.’

  It took them all day to unload the wagon. When they had safely landed the food they uncovered trunks of clothes and clean bed linen. Charlotte counted the trunks and went to inspect the bedrooms. She installed Comfort in the room opposite Frank, Easy in the room next to Boris and chose to settle herself in the room opposite Gilbert. Boris insisted on taking his old room next door to Veronica. She didn’t argue since she was still sleeping with Frank but she was frightened someone would enter her room and find the hidden treasure of soap.

  ‘Who are they?’ she whispered when she caught Frank alone.

  ‘Friends of Boris,’ he said simply.

  ‘But what do they want?’ she demanded. ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘It’s a hotel,’ said Frank.

  Veronica wasn’t convinced. When the wagon was empty she followed Gilbert back to the kitchen where she stayed and watched Happy cook supper. The girls sat in the sun and sipped beer with Boris. Charlotte kept Frank to unpack her clothes.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said when she had settled herself on the bed. The mattress groaned beneath her weight. She plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to fan herself with a little pecking motion, stirring the lace around her breasts.

  ‘Frank,’ said Frank as he knelt down to explore the trunk. He turned the key in the lock. When the lid sprang open he found frocks the size of silk pavilions, sprays of petticoats bright as fireworks, satin stockings, rubber girdles, slips, stays and bloomers dripping with wreaths of crepe flowers. Enough clothes here to fill ten wardrobes. What did she want him to do with them? Grown too fat to reach her own buttons. Cut her out of that long black frock. Sponge her down with a bucket of water. Feed her stew from a long wooden spoon. He arranged the clothes neatly in piles on the floor.

  ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ she demanded as she watched him unfold her bloomers.

  ‘It’s gone bad,’ he said, pausing to look at his tattered mitten. The bandage was filthy. ‘It won’t heal properly.’

  Charlotte grunted and held the handkerchief up to her nose.

  At the bottom of the trunk there were boxes of paint and bottles of perfume that leaked heliotrope, frankincense, musk and rose. These she made him arrange on the table beside the bed.

  ‘You got religion?’ she said when he had finished. She unscrewed a bottle and sprinkled scent on the pillows.

  ‘No,’ said Frank. He looked surprised. ‘Do you want a Bible?’ Charlotte said nothing. She sat motionless with her dark cockroach eyes concentrated on the wall behind his head.

  ‘You sure you got no religion?’ she said after a while.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a lot of religiosity here for people who don’t have God,’ she said suspiciously.

  Frank turned and looked at the wall. She had been staring at a picture of Jesus walking on water with a dinner plate behind his head. ‘It used to be a German mission,’ he explained.

  ‘People don’t like it,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Religion?’

  ‘Picture of Jesus lookin’ down on them,’ she growled, shaking her handkerchief at Him. ‘It makes them feel bad.’

  ‘Do you want me to take it away?’

  Charlotte smiled and thrust out her stomach. ‘It don’t bother me,’ she said and dapped again at her breasts.

  That night they gathered in the dusty moonlight to dine on a cauldron of pork and beans. Charlotte sat on a throne of beer crates with Comfort and Easy curled at her feet. Gilbert sat on a drum of treacle with Frank and Veronica close beside him. Boris sprawled on the ground behind Charlotte, pulling bottles of beer from her skirts. Happy ran in circles, farting and dropping plates.

  ‘It tastes good, eh?’ said Boris, waving his spoon at Gilbert. ‘Not so long ago we starve. You lucky people to have a friend like Boris. Believe me. I was afraid to find your bones.’

  ‘We didn’t starve,’ said Gilbert proudly. He dropped beans down the front of his blanket and picked at them with his fingers.

  ‘We managed to look after ourselves,’ said Frank. ‘Happy went hunting.’

  ‘Catch anything?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘And we picked fruit and mushrooms and snails and stuff,’ scowled Veronica. ‘Happy didn’t let us go without.’

  ‘Happy!’ barked Boris. ‘What a bastard!’ He tossed an empty bottle at Happy who yelped and scampered to safety.

  ‘We couldn’t have done without him,’ said Gilbert indignantly.

  ‘What you done?’ sneered Boris. ‘You done pull down the place. Looks to me.’ He belched and wiped his chin on his sleeve.

  ‘Now that you’re here what are you going to do about it?’ snapped Veronica. She wanted to throw her bowl at him but she was too hungry to waste good food.

  ‘You wait,’ grinned Boris. ‘Charlotte fix everything.’

  ‘Do you think you can help?’ asked Gilbert.

  Charlotte raised her hand to her head and let her fingers flutter through the tower of black curls. ‘Did you ever happen to visit Ndjamena?’ she inquired. She fluttered her lashes and pouted at Gilbert, her mouth as fat as an apricot.

  ‘Chad,’ said Gilbert the man of the world.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Gilbert sadly.

  ‘The next time you visit Ndjamena you must visit the Chari Palace Hotel,’ said Charlotte. ‘A very exclusive residence. Chicken counter. Dance hall. Hygienic bedrooms. I bought it from a man called Mangarios. He was Lebanese. He said I would suffer. He feared to sell me the property but I knew he needed the money and I had some very big ideas. I made changes. I worked hard. When I left it was a palace. The Chari Palace Hotel. The most famous residence standing in town.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’ demanded Veronica.

  ‘Did you ever visit Ndjamena?’ asked Charlotte, without turning her eyes from Gilbert.

  ‘No,’ said Veronica.

  ‘The war spoils everything. Curfews. Killings. Shortages. The French soldiers have no respect.’

  ‘Soldiers in the hotel?’ said Gilbert.

  Charlotte nodded. ‘A very bad sort.’

  Comfort, who had been watching with hypnotised eyes while Frank licked his plate and spoon, began to snigger at the thought of soldiers. Charlotte gave her a poke with her foot.

  ‘One morning I woke up and knew it was time for Charlotte to leave,’ she continued. ‘I always wanted to travel. So I sold the Palace and took my girls into Cameroon. We worked in Douala for a little time and then we moved to Batuta. Did you ever visit Le Paradis Bar on Avenue du General-de-Gaulle?’

  ‘It’s been so long,’ said Gilbert. He closed his eyes and frow
ned, as if trying to sort through a thousand dance halls and beer parlours. ‘Le Paradis Bar. Avenue du General-de-Gaulle? No, I don’t remember it.’

  ‘There was a big electric sign on the wall,’ she said helpfuly. ‘A blue palm tree of my own design.’

  ‘No,’ confessed Gilbert. ‘No, I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘A very lovely location. But so expensive. And the paperwork! These days they want a permit for this and a licence for that. They want money for sunlight. Every week the chief of police came to inspect me. You wouldn’t believe it.’

  Comfort sniggered again and prodded Easy. Charlotte bent forward and cuffed the girl across the head.

  ‘I had already sold the premises when Boris told me about you in the forest. It’s true to say I thought he was mad. But then he explained how you had come here and how the town needs a proper hotel and I knew that Charlotte could help,’ she said.

  ‘You’re a long way from the bright city lights,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘Tomorrow you show me the works,’ smiled Charlotte. ‘You tell me everything.’ And she licked her lips as if she could taste him.

  That night Gilbert lay in bed and thought of the woman in the opposite room. She looks Chinese. Tiny feet. Buffalo buttocks. The girls are African. Did you ever visit the Chari Palace? I never had that pleasure. The place needs the touch of a good woman. They have an instinct for the little comforts. Clean carpets. Velvet cushions. Fresh flowers on all the tables. Tell me everything. Show me the works. Allow me to lick you into shape. Sam would be pleased. Sam loved the touch of a fat woman. He liked to feed them on milk and sugar. He loved the forest and he loved fat women. There was nothing wrong with his head. Nothing. He had plans. The most famous residence standing in town. An electric sign of my own design. That’s the idea. High on the roof. The Hotel Plenti. Blinking. Winking. An electric star. Down in the town they see the star shining over the top of the great night jungle. Navigation light. A star to guide them. How do they work? Ask Charlotte. She’ll know. Stout woman. Mother of invention. Feed something off the generator. Gallons of fuel thanks to Boris. Daft bugger. Don’t understand him. Thought he was dead. Show him a rifle and he comes back with food to feed an army. Gun law. Taught him a lesson. No more trouble. Sleep safe in our beds tonight. It’s hot. Belly aches. Pork and beans are a shock to the system. Tell me. Show me everything. See how it works tomorrow.