The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 29

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might have felt at the remark.

As they went on, the road, bad as it had been originally, became even

worse. From here onwards the soft the fire. The two women sat a little

to one side, talking quietly, and Boris had his feet propped on the low

table as he leaned back in his chair with a glass in one hand.

He indicated the vodka bottle on the table, as Nicholas stepped into the

circle of firelight, "Get yourself a drink Ice in the bucket."

"I prefer a beer," Nicholas told him. "Thirsty drive." Boris shrugged

and bellowed for his camp butler to bring a brown bottle from the

portable gas refrigerator.

"Let me tell you something, a little secret." He grinned at Nicholas as

he poured himself another vodka. "There is no such animal as a striped

dik-dik these days, even if there ever was one. You are wasting your

time and your money."

"Fine," Nicholas agreed mildly. "It's my time and my money."

"Just because some old fart shot one back in the Dark Ages, doesn't mean

you are going to find another now. We could go up into the tea

plantations for elephant. I saw three bulls there only ten days ago. All

with tusks over a hundred pounds a side."

As they argued, the level in Boris's vodka bottle fell like the Nile at

the end of the inundation. When Tessay told them that the meal was

ready, Boris carried the bottle with him; he stumbled on his way to the

table. During the meal his only contribution to the conversation was to

snarl at Tessay.

"The lamb is raw. Why don't you see to it that the cook does it

properly? Damn monkeys, you have to watch everything they do."

"Is your lamb under-cooked, Alto Nicholas?" Tessay asked without looking

at her husband. "I can have them cook it longer."

"It's perfect he assured her. "I like mine pink."

Si By the end of dinner the vodka bottle at Boris elbow was empty, and

his face was flushed and swollen. He got up from the table without a

word and disappeared into the darkness in the direction of his tent,

swaying on his feet and occasionally catching his balance with a

two-step jig.

"I apologize," essay told them quietly. "It is only in the evenings. In

the day he is fine. It is a Russian tradition, the vodka." She smiled

brightly; only her eyes stayed sad.

"It is a lovely night, and too early yet for bed. Would you like to walk

up to the church? It is very old and famous.

I will have one of the servants bring a lantern, so that you may admire

the murals."

The servant walked ahead of them, lighting their way, and an ancient

priest waited to welcome them on the portico of the circular building.

He was thin and so very black that only his teeth flashed in the gloom.

He carried a magnificent Coptic cross in massive native silver, set with

carnelians and other semi-precious stones.

Both Royan and Tessay dropped on their knees in front of him to ask for

his blessing. He slapped their cheeks lightly with the cross and

genuflected over them, mumbling his benediction in Amharic. Then he

ushered them into the interior.

The walls were covered with a magnificent display of paintings in

brilliant primary colours. In the lantern light they blazed like

gemstones. There was a strong Byzantine flavour to the style: the

saints' eyes were huge and slanted, with great golden halos over their

heads. Above the altar, with its tinsel and brass furnishing, the Virgin

cradled her infant while the three wise men and a host of angels knelt

in adoration. Nicholas slipped his Polaroid camera from the pocket of

his jacket and adjusted the flash. He wandered around the church

photographing these murals, while Tessay and Royan knelt before the

altar side by side.

Once he had finished his photography Nicholas found a seat on the

hand-hewn wooden pews and sat quietly watching their intent faces which

the candlelight touched with golden highlights, and he was moved by the

beauty of the moment.

"I wish I had that kind of faith," he thought, as he had so often

before. "It must be a comfort in the hard times. I wish I were able to

pray like that for Rosalind and the girls." He could not stay longer,

and he went out and sat on the church portico where he watched the night

sky.

In these high altitudes, in the thin unpolluted air, the stars were such

a dazzling blaze that it was difficult to pick out the individual

constellations. After a while his sadness abated. It was good to be back

in Africa.

When the two women emerged at last from the dark interior, Nicholas gave

the old priest a one hundred birr note and a Polaroid photograph of

himself which the old man clearly valued above the money. Then the three

of them walked back down the hill together in companionable silence.

icky!" Royan shook him awake. When he sat up and switched on his torch,

he saw that she had thrown the woollen shawl over a pair of men's

striped pyjamas before she had come into his tent.

"What is it?" he asked, but before she could answer he heard the sound

of a hoarse and angry voice shouting invective in the night, and then

the unmistakable thud of a clenched fist striking flesh and bone.

"He's beating her." Royan's voice was tight with out-' rage. "You have

to make him stop."

There was a cry of pain after the blow, and then sobs.

Nicholas hesitated. Only a fool interferes between a man and his wife,

and his reward usually is to have them unite and turn savagely upon him.

"You must do something, Nicky, please., Reluctantly he swung his legs

out of the cot and stood up. He slept in'boxer shorts, and he did not

bother to find his shoes. She followed him, also on bare feet, to the

end of the grove where Boris's tent stood beyond the dining tent.

There was a lantern still burning within, and it threw magnified shadows

on the canvas walls. He saw that Boris had his wife "by the hair and was

dragging her across the floor, roaring at her in Russian.

"Boris!" Nicholas had to shout his name three times to get his

attention, and then they saw the shadow play on the canvas as he dropped

Tessay and flung open the tent flap.

He was dressed only in a pair of underpants. His torso was lean and

muscular, the chest flat and hard-looking, covered with coppery curls.

On the floor behind him Tessay lay face down, sobbing into her cupped

hands. She was naked, and the planes of her body were sleek as those of

a panther.

"What the hell is going on here?" Nicholas demanded, his anger only just

beginning to stir as he witnessed the gracious, gentle woman's distress

and humiliation.

"I am giving this black whore a lesson in good manners," Boris gloated,

his face still swollen and flushed with drink and passion. "It's none of

your business, English, unless you want to pay some money and have a bit

of pork for yourself." He laughed, an ugly sound.

"Are you all right, Woizero Tessay?" Nicholas looked directly into

Boris's face, sparing the woman the further humiliation of another man's

eyes on her nudity.

Tessay sat up, lifted her knees against her chest, and hugged them with

both arms to cover her body.

"It's all right, Alto Nicholas. Please go away before there is real

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