by Wilbur Smith
‘Bruce, Bruce, where are you?’ She came out through the door; he did not answer her for she had seen the glow of his cigarette and she came to him. Standing close in the darkness.
‘Shermaine—’ Bruce said, then he stopped himself. He wanted to hold her, just hold her tightly.
‘Yes, Bruce.’ Her face was a pale round in the darkness, very close to him.
‘Shermaine, I want—’ said Bruce and stopped again.
‘Yes, me too,’ she whispered and then, drawing away, ‘come, let’s go and see what your doctor is doing now.’ She took his hand and led him back into the building. Her hand was cool and dry with long tapered fingers in his.
Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were leaning over the cradle that now stood next to the table on which lay the blanket-covered body of the Baluba woman. The woman was breathing softly, and the expression on her face was of deep peace.
‘Bruce, come and have a look. It’s a beauty,’ called Haig.
Still holding hands Bruce and Shermaine crossed to the cradle.
‘He’ll go all of eight pounds,’ announced Haig proudly. Bruce looked at the infant; newborn black babies are more handsome than ours – they have not got that half-boiled look.
‘Pity he’s not a trout,’ murmured Bruce. ‘That would be a national record.’ Haig stared blankly at him for a second, then he threw back his head and laughed; it was a good sound. There was a different quality in Haig now, a new confidence in the way he held his head, a feeling of completeness about him.
‘How about that drink I promised you, Mike?’ Bruce tested him.
‘You have it for me, Bruce, I’ll duck this one.’ He isn’t just saying it either, thought Bruce, as he looked at his face; he really doesn’t need it now.
‘I’ll make it a double as soon as we get back to town.’ Bruce glanced at his watch. ‘It’s past ten, we’d better get going.’
‘I’ll have to stay until she comes out from the anaesthetic,’ demurred Haig. ‘You can come back for me in the morning.’
Bruce hesitated. ‘All right then. Come on, Shermaine.’
They drove back to Port Reprieve, sitting close together in the intimate darkness of the car. They did not speak until after they had reached the causeway, then Shermaine said:
‘He is a good man, your doctor. He is like Paul.’
‘Who is Paul?’
‘Paul was my husband.’
‘Oh.’ Bruce was embarrassed. The mention of that name snapped the silken thread of his mood. Shermaine went on, speaking softly and staring down the path of the headlights.
‘Paul was of the same age. Old enough to have learned understanding – young men are so cruel.’
‘You loved him.’ Bruce spoke flatly, trying to keep any trace of jealousy from his voice.
‘Love has many shapes,’ she answered. Then, ‘Yes, I had begun to love him. Very soon I would have loved him enough to—’ She stopped.
‘To what?’ Bruce’s voice had gone rough as a wood rasp. Now it starts, he thought, once again I am vulnerable.
‘We were only married four months before he – before the fever.’
‘So?’ Still harsh, his eyes on the road ahead.
‘I want you to know something. I must explain it all to you. It is very important. Will you be patient with me while I tell you?’ There was a pleading in her voice that he could not resist and his expression softened.
‘Shermaine, you don’t have to tell me.’
‘I must. I want you to know.’ She hesitated a moment, and when she spoke again her voice had steadied. ‘I am an orphan, Bruce. Both my Mama and Papa were killed by the Germans, in the bombing. I was only a few months old when it happened, and I do not remember them. I do not remember anything, not one little thing about them; there is not even a photograph.’ For a second her voice had gone shaky but again it firmed. ‘The nuns took me, and they were my family. But somehow that is different, not really your own. I have never had anything that has truly belonged to me, something of my very own.’
Bruce reached out and took her hand; it lay very still in his grasp. You have now, he thought, you have me for your very own.
‘Then when the time came the nuns made the arrangements with Paul Cartier. He was an engineer with Union Minière du Haut here in the Congo, a man of position, a suitable man for one of their girls.
‘He flew to Brussels and we were married. I was not unhappy, for although he was old – as old as Doctor Mike – yet he was very gentle and kind, of great understanding. He did not—’ She stopped and turned suddenly to Bruce, gripping his hand with both of hers, leaning towards him with her face serious and pale in the half-darkness, the plume of dark hair falling forward over her shoulder and her voice full of appeal. ‘Bruce, do you understand what I am trying to tell you?’
Bruce stopped the car in front of the hotel, deliberately he switched off the ignition and deliberately he spoke.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Thank you,’ and she flung the door open and went out of it and up the steps of the hotel with her long jeaned legs flying and her hair bouncing on her back.
Bruce watched her go through the double doors. Then he pressed the lighter on the dashboard and fished a cigarette from his pack. He lit it, exhaled a jet of smoke against the windscreen, and suddenly he was happy. He wanted to laugh again.
He threw the cigarette away only a quarter finished and climbed out of the Ford. He looked at his wristwatch; it was after midnight. My God, I’m tired. Too much has happened today; rebirth is a severe emotional strain. And he laughed out loud, savouring the sensation, letting it come slowly shaking up his throat from his chest.
Boussier was waiting for him in the lounge. He wore a towelling dressing-gown, and the creases of sleep were on his face.
‘Are all your preparations complete, monsieur?’
‘Yes,’ the old man answered. ‘The women and the two children are asleep upstairs. Madame Cartier has just gone up.’
‘I know,’ said Bruce, and Boussier went on, ‘As you see, I have all the men here.’ He gestured at the sleeping bodies that covered the floor of the lounge and bar-room.
‘Good,’ said Bruce. ‘We’ll leave as soon as it’s light tomorrow.’ He yawned, then rubbed his eyes, massaging them with his finger tips.
‘Where is my officer, the one with the red hair?’
‘He has gone back to the train, very drunk. We had more trouble with him after you had left.’ Boussier hesitated delicately. ‘He wanted to go upstairs, to the women.’
‘Damn him.’ Bruce felt his anger coming again. ‘What happened?’
‘Your sergeant major, the big one, dissuaded him and took him away.’
‘Thank God for Ruffy.’
‘I have reserved a place for you to sleep.’ Boussier pointed to a comfortable leather armchair. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘That is kind of you,’ Bruce thanked him. ‘But first I must inspect our defences.’
– 13 –
Bruce woke with Shermaine leaning over the chair and tickling his nose. He was fully dressed with his helmet and rifle on the floor beside him and only his boots unlaced.
‘You do not snore, Bruce,’ she congratulated him, laughing her small husky laugh. ‘That is a good thing.’
He struggled up, dopey with sleep.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly five o’clock. I have breakfast for you in the kitchen.’
‘Where is Boussier?’
‘He is dressing; then he will start moving them down to the train.’
‘My mouth tastes as though a goat slept in it.’ Bruce moved his tongue across his teeth, feeling the fur on them.
‘Then I shall not kiss you good morning, mon capitaine.’ She straightened up with the laughter still in her eyes. ‘But your toilet requisites are in the kitchen. I sent one of your gendarmes to fetch them from the train. You can wash in the sink.’
Bruce laced up his boots and followed her thro
ugh into the kitchen, stepping over sleeping bodies on the way.
‘There is no hot water,’ Shermaine apologized.
‘That is the least of my worries.’ Bruce crossed to the table and opened his small personal pack, taking out his razor and soap and comb.
‘I raided the chicken coop for you,’ Shermaine confessed. ‘There were only two eggs. How shall I cook them?’
‘Soft boiled, one minute.’ Bruce stripped off his jacket and shirt, went to the sink and filled it. He sluiced his face and lifted handfuls of water over his head, snorting with pleasure.
Then he propped his shaving mirror above the taps and spread soap on his face. Shermaine came to sit on the draining board beside him and watched with frank interest.
‘I will be sorry to see the beard go,’ she said. ‘It looked like the pelt of an otter, I liked it.’
‘Perhaps I will grow it for you one day.’ Bruce smiled at her. ‘Your eyes are blue, Shermaine.’
‘It has taken you a long time to find that out,’ she said and pouted dramatically. Her skin was silky and cool-looking, lips pale pink without make-up. Her dark hair, drawn back, emphasized the high cheek bones and the size of her eyes.
‘In India “sher” means “tiger”,’ Bruce told her, watching her from the corner of his eye. Immediately she abandoned the pout and drew her lips up into a snarl. Her teeth were small and very white and only slightly uneven. Her eyes rolled wide and then crossed at an alarming angle. She growled. Taken by surprise, Bruce laughed and nearly cut himself.
‘I cannot abide a woman who clowns before breakfast. It ruins my digestion,’ he laughed at her.
‘Breakfast!’ said Shermaine and uncrossed her eyes, jumped off the draining board and ran to the stove.
‘Only just in time.’ She checked her watch. ‘One minute and twenty seconds, will you forgive me?’
‘This once only, never again.’ Bruce washed the soap off his face, dried and combed his hair and came to the table. She had a chair ready for him.
‘How much sugar in your coffee?’
‘Three, please.’ Bruce chopped the top off his egg, and she brought the mug and placed it in front of him.
‘I like making breakfast for you.’ Bruce didn’t answer her. This was dangerous talk. She sat down opposite him, leaned forward on her elbows with her chin in her hands.
‘You eat too fast,’ she announced and Bruce raised an eyebrow. ‘But at least you keep your mouth closed.’
Bruce started on his second egg.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty,’ said Bruce.
‘I’m twenty – nearly twenty-one.’
‘A ripe old age.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a soldier,’ he answered.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘All right, I’m a lawyer.’
‘You must be clever,’ she said solemnly.
‘A genius, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No – I was. What is this, a formal interrogation?’
‘Is she dead?’
‘No.’ He prevented the hurt from showing in his face, it was easier to do now.
‘Oh!’ said Shermaine. She picked up the teaspoon and concentrated on stirring his coffee.
‘Is she pretty?’
‘No – yes, I suppose so.’
‘Where is she?’ Then quickly, ‘I’m sorry it’s none of my business.’
Bruce took the coffee from her and drank it. Then he looked at his watch.
‘It’s nearly five fifteen. I must go out and get Mike Haig.’
Shermaine stood up quickly.
‘I’m ready.’
‘I know the way – you had better get down to the station.’
‘I want to come with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because, that’s why.’ Searching for a reason. ‘I want to see the baby again.’
‘You win.’ Bruce picked up his pack and they went through into the lounge. Boussier was there, dressed and efficient. His men were nearly ready to move.
‘Madame Cartier and I are going out to the mission to fetch the doctor. We will be back in half an hour or so. I want all your people aboard by then.’
‘Very well, Captain.’
Bruce called to Ruffy who was standing on the verandah. ‘Did you load those supplies for the mission?’
‘They’re in the back of the Ford, boss.’
‘Good. Bring all your sentries in and take them down to the station. Tell the engine driver to get steam up and keep his hand on the throttle. We’ll shove off as soon as I get back with Lieutenant Haig.’
‘Okay, boss.’
Bruce handed him his pack. ‘Take this down for me, Ruffy.’ Then his eyes fell on the large heap of cardboard cartons at Ruffy’s feet. ‘What’s that?’
Ruffy looked a little embarrassed. ‘Coupla bottles of beer, boss. Thought we might get thirsty going home.’
‘Good for you!’ grinned Bruce. ‘Put them in a safe place and don’t drink them all before I get back.’
‘I’ll save you one or two,’ promised Ruffy.
‘Come along, tiger girl,’ and Bruce led Shermaine out to the Ford. She sat closer to him than the previous day, but with her legs curled up under her, as before. As they crossed the causeway she lit two cigarettes and passed one to him.
‘I’ll be glad to leave this place,’ she said, looking out across the swamp with the mist lifting sluggishly off it in the dawn, hanging in grey shreds from the fluffy tops of the papyrus grass.
‘I’ve hated it here since Paul died. I hate the swamp and the mosquitoes and the jungle all around. I’m glad we’re going.’
‘Where will you go?’ Bruce asked.
‘I haven’t thought about it. Back to Belgium, I suppose. Anywhere away from the Congo. Away from this heat to a country where you can breathe. Away from the disease and the fear. Somewhere so that I know tomorrow I will not have to run. Where human life has meaning, away from the killing and the burning and the rape.’ She drew on her cigarette almost fiercely, staring ahead at the green wall of the forest.
‘I was born in Africa,’ said Bruce. ‘In the time when the judge’s gavel was not the butt of an FN rifle, before you registered your vote with a burst of gunfire.’ He spoke softly with regret. ‘In the time before the hatred. But now I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about the future either.’
He was silent for a while. They reached the turn-off to the mission and he swung the Ford into it.
‘It has all changed so quickly; I hadn’t realized how quickly until I came here to the Congo.’
‘Are you going to stay here, Bruce? I mean, stay here in the Congo?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for.’
He threw the butt of his cigarette out of the window.
Ahead of them were the mission buildings.
Bruce parked the car outside the hospital buildings and they sat together quietly.
‘There must be some other land,’ he whispered, ‘and if there is I’ll find it.’
He opened the door and stepped out. Shermaine slid across the seat under the wheel and joined him. They walked side by side to the hospital; her hand brushed his and he caught it, held it and felt the pressure of his fingers returned by hers. She was taller than his shoulder, but not much.
Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were together in the women’s ward, too engrossed to hear the Ford arrive.
‘Good morning, Michael,’ called Bruce. ‘What’s the fancy dress for?’
Mike Haig looked up and grinned. ‘Morning, Bruce. Hello, Shermaine.’ Then he looked down at the faded brown cassock he wore.
‘Borrowed it from Ignatius. A bit long in the leg and tight round the waist, but less out of place in a sick ward than the accoutrements of war.’
‘It suits you, Doctor Mike,’ said Shermaine.
‘Nice to hear someone call
me that again.’ The smile spread all over Haig’s face. ‘I suppose you want to see your baby, Shermaine?’
‘Is he well?’
‘Mother and child both doing fine,’ he assured her and led Shermaine down between the row of beds, each with a black woolly head on the pillow and big curious eyes following their progress.
‘May I pick him up?’
‘He’s asleep, Shermaine.’
‘Oh, please!’
‘I doubt it will kill him. Very well, then.’
‘Bruce, come and look. Isn’t he a darling?’ She held the tiny black body to her chest and the child snuffled, its mouth automatically starting to search. Bruce leaned forward to peer at it.
‘Very nice,’ he said and turned to Ignatius. ‘I have those supplies I promised you. Will you send an orderly to get them out of the car?’ Then to Mike Haig, ‘You’d better get changed, Mike. We’re all ready to leave.’
Not looking at Bruce, fiddling with the stethoscope round his neck, Mike shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ll be going with you, Bruce.’
Surprised, Bruce faced him.
‘What?’
‘I think I’ll stay on here with Ignatius. He has offered me a job.’
‘You must be mad, Mike.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Haig and took the infant from Shermaine, placed it back in the cradle beside its mother and tucked the sheet in round its tiny body, ‘and then again, perhaps not.’ He straightened up and waved a hand down the rows of occupied beds. ‘There’s plenty to do here, that you must admit.’
Bruce stared helplessly at him and then appealed to Shermaine.
‘Talk him out of it. Perhaps you can make him see the futility of it.’
Shermaine shook her head. ‘No, Bruce, I will not.’
‘Mike, listen to reason, for God’s sake. You can’t stay here in this disease-ridden backwater, you can’t—’
‘I’ll walk out to the car with you, Bruce. I know you’re in a hurry—’
He led them out through the side door and stood by the driver’s window of the Ford while they climbed in. Bruce extended his hand and Mike took it, gripping hard.
‘Cheerio, Bruce. Thanks for everything.’
‘Cheerio, Mike. I suppose you’ll be taking orders and having yourself made into a fully licensed dispenser of salvation?’