Men of Men - Smith Wilbur - Страница 43

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"Make a book," Kamusa said, and Ralph scribbled a receipt for sixteen sovereigns on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Kamuza, who examined it minutely. He trusted Ralph without question. He could not read, but the rituals of European commerce fascinated Kamuza and he had seen white men passing slips of paper whenever they exchanged coin.

"Good." He tucked the receipt into the springbuckskin wallet.

"I have four gold queens of my own." Ralph displayed his life savings. "I will pay my share of the entrance fee and bet the rest of it."

"May the gods go with us all, Henshaw," said Bazo, and handed Ralph the precious little basket.

Ralph adjusted his cap to an angle that would hide as much of his face as possible. It was unlikely that his father would be amongst the crowd, and if he was, the cap would hardly disguise his firstborn sufficiently for him not to be recognized, so the gesture was instinctive, as was his fear of his father's wrath.

"I will wait here for the money," Kamuza told him.

"If she wins," Ralph agreed.

"She will win," said Bazo darkly. "Would that I could serve her with my own hands."

There was no law to prevent a black man entering a fancy in the lists, but none of them had ever done so.

The niceties of this complex society were unwritten but understood by all.

Ralph slipped out of the alley and mingled with the crowd, working his way through the press until he was on the outskirts of the group of handlers, each of them with his woven basket, as they waited to enter their fancy.

"Ah, young Ballantyne." Chaim Cohen looked up from his register, the wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose, sweating jovially in the dust and blazing sun.

"Haven't seen you in some time."

"Didn't have a fancy, mister Cohen. Caught a new one now," Ralph lied glibly.

"What happened to, what did you call her, some kaffir name?"

"She died. Lost a leg and died after her last fight."

"What is your new lady's name?"

"Salome, sir."

"Salome it is, then. That will be two pounds, young Ballantyne."

The coins disappeared with uncanny speed into the enlarged pocket that Cohen had sewn into the inside of his long frock coat, and with relief Ralph sidled into the crowd, trying to lose himself until the draw was announced.

He found a place near the tailboard of one of the wagons, where he was partly concealed and from where he could watch the ladies in the crowd. Some of them were young and pretty, and they knew it. Every few minutes one would pass close enough to Ralph for him to hear the frou-frou of her petticoats and to smell her, for the heat brought out the subtle musk of womankind that was emphasized and not concealed by the sweet reek of French perfume. It seemed to catch in Ralph's throat, too poignant to breathe, and there was a hollow aching place at the base of his belly and weird thoughts in his head.

The fruity smell of cognac suddenly blotted out that French perfume and a hoarse voice close to his ear put the imaginings to flight.

"You are fighting a new fancy, I see, young Ballantyne."

"Yes, sir. That's right, sir, mister Lennox."

mister Barry Lennox was a big man, a brawler with a reputation for quick fists that was respected as far as the river workings. He was a plunger, who had bet a thousand guineas on a single cock fight, and won. That was in the days before civilization had reached the diggings, but now he chanced as much on the spider fights. He was a rich man by the standards of New Rush, for he owned eighteen claims in the number 4 Roadway block. He had the red-veined cheeks and husky voice of the heavy drinker, but what intrigued Ralph most about this man was that he employed three young women, not one but three women to keep house for him. One was a pretty pug-faced daffodil-yellow Griqua girl, another a boldeyed Portuguese mulatto from Mozambique, and the third a mulberry black Basuto with haunches on her like a brood mare. Whenever Ralph thought about this dusky trio, which was often, his imagination conjured up a garden of forbidden delights.

Of course, neither Ralph's father nor any other member of the Committee would acknowledge Lennox's existence and cut him elaborately on the street. Lennox's application to join the Kimberley Club had been met with a record-breaking fifty-six black balls. But Ralph removed his cap respectfully now, as Lennox asked throatily: "What happened to Inkosikazi? I made a bundle on her."

"She died, mister Lennox. Old age, I suppose."

"Baboon spiders live nearly twenty years and more," Lennox grunted. "Let's have a look at your new lady."

"I don't like to unsettle her, not just before a bout, sir."

"Does your daddy know where you spend your Sunday afternoons, young Ballantyne?"

"All right, sir." Ralph capitulated swiftly and lifted the lid of the basket a crack. Lennox cocked a bloodshot but knowledgeable eye at it.

"That looks like a strong left front, new grown."

"No, sir. Well, it might be. Caught her just the other day. Don't know her history, mister Lennox."

"Boy, you wouldn't be running a ringer, would you!

"Fess up now." Lennox looked sternly into Ralph's eyes, and Ralph dropped them.

"You don't want to go up before the Diggers" Committee, do you?

The shame you would bring on your daddy.

It might break his heart."

it might not break Zouga Ballantyne's heart, but it would certainly break Ralph's head.

Miserably Ralph shook his head. "Very well then, mister Lennox. It's Inkosikazi, she grew a new leg. I thought I'd get better odds, but, I'll withdraw her now. I'll go tell mister Cohen I lied."

Barry Lennox leaned so close that his lips touched Ralph's ear and the smell of fine old cognac on his breath almost overpowered him.

"You don't do anything so stupid, Ralph, my lad. You fight your fancy, and if she wins there will be a special treat for you. That's a promise. Barry Lennox will, see you right, and then some. Now, if you will excuse me, I've got some business to attend to." Lennox twirled his cane and drove a wedge into the crowd with his bowfronted belly.

Chaim Cohen climbed up onto the disselboom of the nearest wagon to the arena and began chalking up the draw on a greenruled board, and the bookmakers craned for the matchings and then began calling their odds for each bout.

"Threes on mister Gladstone in the first."

"Dreadnought even money. Buttercup fives in the second."

Ralph waited as bout after bout was drawn, and each time that Inkosikazi's name was omitted his nerves stretched tighter. There were only ten bouts, and mister Cohen had finished chalking the ninth already.

"Bout number 10," he called as he wrote. "This is a biblical match, gentlemen and ladies, a diamondiferous bout straight out of the Old Testament." Chaim Cohen used the adjective "diamondiferous" to describe anything from a thoroughbred horse to a fifteen-year-old whisky. "A pure diamondiferous match, the one and only, the great and deadly, Goliath!" There was a burst of applause and whistles of approval. Goliath was the champion spider of the diamond fields, with twelve straight kills to her credit. "Matched against your favourite is a pretty little newcomer, Salome!"

The name was greeted with indifference as the punters scrambled to get money onto the champion.

"I'm giving tens on Salome," called one desperate bookie as he tried to stem the flow of wagers. They were taking Goliath at odds on, and Ralph shared his distress.

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