Lovers and Gamblers

by Jackie Collins

  Finally the taller man they had indicated appeared. He emerged from a hut, and everyone stood back to let him pass. He was indeed tall, and obviously someone important – for his hair was greased and coaxed into a fine tower – and some kind of stylish comb emerged from the top. Also his chest was covered by an intricately carved shield, and he wore more necklaces, bracelets and adornments than anyone else.

  He approached the stretcher, regarded Al solemnly, and addressed him in a deep monotonous voice.

  The only trouble was that English did not appear to be the language of the day.

  ‘Hey…’ said Al – his initial relief at being found turning into slight anxiety – ‘how about speaking a little English around here.’

  The Chief – as Al had decided to christen him – replied in his own language, and stared – awaiting a reply to what was obviously a whole load of questions.

  Al attempted to stand – realizing he must look as funny a sight to these Indians as they did to him.

  He pointed to himself. ‘English,’ he said clearly, ‘Al King.’

  He was hoping that his name would cause at least a spark of recognition. After all, he was known throughout the world – his disappearance must have caused a lot of waves – maybe word had filtered through.

  Suddenly he wanted to laugh. Who was he kidding? He was stuck in the middle of some dumb jungle and he actually expected a bunch of naked Indians to know who he was! It just showed how conditioned he was to his own fame. He could remember dreaming of going somewhere where no one would recognize him. Now here he was. Big fuckin’ deal. Wrong place. Wrong time.

  Christ! His head was throbbing, his stomach was one aching mass, and he was worried about getting back to the others. He proceeded to pantomime a series of events. A plane flying, falling from the sky, more people, a journey. He indicated strongly that they had to return down the river.

  The Chief seemed to understand him – indeed he even started to mime a reply.

  Al took it to mean that soon it would be dark, and they could not travel at nightfall. Early in the morning, the Chief seemed to be indicating. Then he was addressing members of his tribe, and two women came and shyly started to pull Al towards a hut.

  He went with them, although there were still many questions he had to try and ask. The Chief had expressed to him that his head wound would be treated, and that then they would eat.

  Al wondered how far they were from civilization. Radio contact? An air strip? When the others were rescued how long before they could all be out of here?

  The women were peeling the clothes from his body, talking and giggling amongst themselves. They laid him on a rush mat, and other women appeared with an earthen pot filled with some sort of milky liquid. They proceeded to dab his cuts and scratches. It was cool, and had an almost numbing effect. His head wound they treated particularly carefully.

  He tried to lie back and relax, but he was so worried about the others, and wished that they could be on their way back for them.

  The Indian girls were similar in appearance. Stocky, smooth bodies, with firm jutting breasts. Greased hair. Much ornamentation. They wore beads around their necks and arms, and their lower lips were pierced and had little strings of white beads inserted, The delicacy with which they attended him reminded him of a trip he and Paul had once made to a Japanese whorehouse.

  They took his filthy torn clothes away to wash, and offered him a loincloth to put on. He felt stupid in it – but what the heck – it seemed to be the thing to wear.

  Dinner with the Chief was the next event. They sat on the ground in a semicircle with other men of the tribe, and the women served them a series of tasty dishes in earthenware pots.

  Al did not know what he was eating, and he didn’t much care. He wolfed everything down ravenously – from a mushy stuff which tasted like bananas – to a sort of sour dough bread. Not steak and champagne – but it beat the shit out of nothing!

  The Chief launched into a friendly discourse about what he seemed to regard as flying birds and the stupidity of men who went up in them. He shook his head in amazement a lot – and Al noticed that the other members of the tribe copied everything he did.

  ‘Telephone,’ Al kept on repeating in pidgin English, illustrating the act of making a phone call.

  The Chief nodded and smiled, but did not appear to understand.

  Then it was dark, and Al was guided to a hut – where for the first time in thirteen days he had a proper place to sleep – a most comfortable hammock. As he rocked back and forth he thought of Dallas, and the others, and could not wait until morning when he would be on his way to fetch them.

  * * *

  Evan thought he should eat, even if the others didn’t want to. He uncovered the remains of the monkey which he had carefully wrapped in a towel – and was horrified to find it crawling with maggots. He threw it out of the hut in disgust. Now there was no food at all, but he did have the gun. He fingered the weapon lovingly. He too would be able to go out in the forest and hunt like his father. He would have to.

  The thought excited him. It spurred him to get up and stretch his cramped limbs. The stench in the hut was awful, even though there were no walls. He tried not to look at the others. He was frightened that one of them might be dead.

  He had no idea what time it was, but maybe if he was able to kill some fresh meat he could persuade them all to eat. If they ate they would get better.

  Thinking that way at least gave him something to aim for. At least he would be doing something constructive instead of just sitting there.

  He set off into the jungle, filled with a sudden sense of adventure. He was like his father – strong. A survivor.

  He saw some monkeys, but he decided that something different might whet the appetites of the others, he didn’t know what – but it would be silly to just shoot the first animal he came across. That would be the easy way – why take the easy way?

  He continued on into the interior of the forest – not at all frightened – and not taking much note of the direction he was travelling in.

  The foliage was becoming sparse – the ground clearer. The area appeared to be changing in character. He noticed a huge black and green snake coiled around a tree trunk. It was a real monster, and he stepped well away from it.

  Suddenly, with no warning, a large black jaguar appeared no more than fifteen yards ahead of him.

  Evan froze to the spot, as did the animal. For moments they stood and stared at each other. Then simultaneously they moved – Evan reaching for his gun, and the jaguar tensing itself ready to spring.

  * * *

  The Indians woke Al before it was light. They were anxious to be on their way.

  He wondered how they were planning to bring back the four others he had told them about. He had made them understand they would be too sick to walk. They did not seem bothered. They kitted him out in a pair of thonged sandals such as they wore, and still clad in his loin cloth he was beginning to feel almost like one of them.

  They set off, trotting through the jungle, expecting Al to keep up with them. It was impossible for him, and they made faces and laughed as they had to slow down for him. Eight young men had been sent on the mission, and they talked excitedly together in their native tongue – enjoying the break in their usual routine.

  Al had explained, as best he could, about the hut he had left the others at. The Indians seemed to understand him, and the Chief had indicated that it was no more than one day’s journey away. It had taken him two days to reach them, but he didn’t argue. They obviously knew best.

  They journeyed to the river, where Al was shown the reason he had been found by them. The tree trunk blocking the river was a trap – set by the Indians. Nobody passed their section of the river without them knowing about it.

  They set off in three canoes kept concealed in the undergrowth, going against the current, but making good time anyway. The Indians were very proficient in their use of the small wooden paddles used to pro
pel the boats along. They ignored the alligators – navigating around the islands and rocks with great skill.

  The sun burned down, but Al noticed how the flies and mosquitoes seemed to have left him alone ever since his body had been bathed in the white lotion. They certainly didn’t bother the Indians.

  Half-way through the day they stopped and rested for no more than half an hour, chewing on raw fruits they had brought with them.

  Then they were off again, the flimsy canoes moving exceedingly fast.

  The knew exactly where to stop – pulling the boats up on the bank – and skipping curiously over to the hut.

  Al followed. He had been gone three days and two nights – a lifetime in the jungle. But he had left them with food, water, and Evan to protect them. They shouldn’t be too bad.

  The Indians stood in a silent circle around the hut. Al pushed his way through them. He was horrified at what he saw. Three silent heaps – insects crawling all over them.

  He went to Dallas first, feeling urgently for her pulse. She was alive, and so amazingly were Cristina and Paul. But all three of them were very sick.

  There was no water left in the two leather flasks they had used to carry their supplies, and they were parched with thirst and dehydrated.

  Al shoved the Indians into action – and instead of standing and staring they began to help. Running to fill the flasks with water, beating the insects off the three inert bodies.

  ‘Evan,’ Al shouted, ‘where is Evan?’

  He looked through the hut, there was no gun, and it occurred to him that perhaps his son had gone off hunting. But would he have left them with no water? It didn’t seem likely.

  Al bent to Dallas. Her face was covered in bites. So much so that her eyes and lips were swollen to a horrible degree. ‘Can you hear me?’ Al whispered. ‘Hey – beautiful – can you hear me?’

  She mumbled something incoherent. She was in the grip of a raging fever.

  Al turned to one of the Indians and by a series of actions tried to explain that someone was missing.

  The boy nodded. He appeared to understand. He turned to one of his friends and jabbered away in the native tongue. Then the two of them rushed off into the forest.

  There was nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do but feed water to Dallas, Paul and Cristina – and hope that they could stay alive another day.

  One of the Indians sat quietly beside Cristina digging the maggots from her raw infected arms. She was too weak to even cry out in pain.

  Another one produced the magic white lotion and dabbed it on Dallas’s face.

  They talked amongst themselves all the time, obviously discussing the accident, and how these people had come plummeting down into the jungle.

  They went to the river and caught fish with their bare hands for dinner, which they skinned and prepared over an open fire. It was quite delicious. Al only wished that the others could taste it. He saved a piece in the hope that Evan would shortly emerge from the forest. He didn’t.

  It was after dark when the two Indians returned. They shook their heads and lowered their eyes. In their hands they carried the gun Al had left with Evan, and the boy’s shirt – torn to shreds and covered with blood.

  ‘Where is he?’ Al screamed, frustrated in his efforts of not being able to understand their language.

  The Indians tried to explain. With gestures they drew a picture of a large fierce animal. ‘Onca,’ they kept on saying, ‘onca nigra.’

  It meant nothing to Al. Then as they continued to try and explain to him he realized what they were telling him. Evan was dead. Evan had been killed by an ‘onca nigra’ whatever that was.

  He could not believe it. To have gone through so much… it couldn’t be true…

  ‘The body,’ he said, ‘where is the body?’

  They understood him. They glanced at each other and opened their arms to the sky. It was a very final gesture.

  Al knew what they meant. Cathy. Bernie. The law of the jungle devoured bodies that were not immediately buried.

  For the first time in his life Al cried. He could not claim to have ever been particularly close to his son – but in the past days they seemed to have developed a deep bond of mutual trust and love that had never been apparent before. The future had promised a fine relationship between them. He held his head in his hands and sobbed like a baby.

  The Indians looked away in confusion.

  And so the night passed.

  In the morning they carried Dallas, Cristina, and Paul to the canoes and set off as fast as possible.

  The journey took much less time as the river current was with them, and the boats fairly whipped along at an alarming speed.

  Al travelled in the canoe with Dallas, cradling her head on his lap. He couldn’t help blaming himself for Evan’s death – if he hadn’t left them… He knew the answer to that. If he hadn’t left them to fetch help they would all have died.

  But it seemed so cruel and unnecessary. If only Evan had stayed where he was he would have been all right. Obviously he had gone to hunt for food… He had died trying to keep them all alive.

  Returning to the Indian village was almost like returning home. The Chief himself came to the river to greet them and peer at the other white people. He clucked his tongue at their condition, and issued orders. Three of the boys were dispatched off into the jungle, three more sent off on up the river in their canoe.

  Then Dallas, Cristina, and Paul were carried to the village and whisked off by the womenfolk.

  There was nothing Al could do except sip strange herb tea with the Chief and attempt to carry on a conversation by mime.

  He was weary. The strain of the past fourteen days was finally taking its toll. How long before they could get out of here? How many more had to die before they saw the light of civilization?

  He tried to ask the Chief – who merely nodded and smiled.

  It was unreal – the whole thing was some sort of nightmare.

  He finished his tea and went to see Dallas. The women had her stripped off and were bathing her bruised, cut, scratched, and bitten body with the white liquid.

  People wandered in and out of the hut to stare at her, and Al was suddenly filled with an uncontrollable jealous fury. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ he screamed at two Indian males, who merely smiled politely in return, had a good look, and wandered in to stare at Cristina next door.

  Goddamn savages! How many days before they could get out of this pisshole? How many fucking days?

  * * *

  It took three. Long enough for Dallas, Cristina, and Paul to be well enough to travel.

  The medicines the Indians employed were amazing. They calmed the fever in both Dallas and Paul, and treated Cristina’s arms with some sort of raw plant wrapped around them.

  The three of them were exhausted and weak, but no longer next to death.

  Cristina was able to understand a very little of the Indians’ language – it seemed several of the words were close to Brazilian or Portuguese. They were able to ascertain the fact that the only way out of this village was by river, and when they were well enough to travel, a three-day journey would take them to a larger jungle settlement – and from there a day’s journey would take them to a trading village which had a small airstrip. From there it was only a few short hours to the outside world.

  ‘I guess we’ll be a big surprise to everyone,’ Dallas managed weakly. She was growing stronger every day. But the stronger she grew physically, the more she clung to Al. He never left her side, and they talked about Evan and Bernie and why it had all happened and why they had been saved.

  Paul was in a very weak state and seemed to have lost any kind of lust for life. He lay in his hammock – eating, listlessly, accepting the medicines the Indians persuaded him to take.

  Cristina could talk of nothing but her parents. How wonderful they were – and how she would make everything up to them. She had cried for Evan. But now her tears were dry and she was anxious to get home
.

  They were all anxious to get home. But where was home for Al? He kept on shutting Edna out of his head – but she was still his wife. What a shock it would be for her – she had probably resigned herself to the fact that Evan and he were dead. Now he would come strolling out of the jungle alive. What would she expect from him?

  He would have to go to her, explain about Evan. Tell her what a hero her son had been. Dallas would go with him. One thing he was sure of – and that was that he and Dallas were not going to be parted – no long absences – in fact no absences at all. They had talked it over and decided that that was what they both wanted.

  Thank God she seemed to be recovering. But he was still worried about Paul, and couldn’t wait to get him into a proper hospital.

  The Indians had been wonderful – kind and helpful – they couldn’t do enough. But as soon as Al felt everyone could travel, they set off.

  The Chief came to the river to bid them farewell. He seemed genuinely sorry to see them go, and in a strange way Al had grown fond of him and his tribe of gentle people. Untouched by civilization they seemed to have got human relationships together very nicely indeed. Al would have liked to have done something for them. But what did they need? They were self-sufficient – they needed none of the artifices of modern society.

  The Chief and Al solemnly exchanged hand clasps – and on impulse Al took the heavy gold chain from around his neck and gave it to the Chief, who appeared delighted. He examined the various medallions and charms excitedly. A St. Christopher. A small gold spoon. Brazilian hand. Solid gold tag inscribed ‘Al is King’, and a gold and onyx dice.

  The Chief then removed his own necklace – a fearsome combination of quartz stone and animal teeth, and placed it ceremonially around Al’s neck.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Al smiled. ‘When I want to get away from it all I’ll know where to come.’

  Then they were off, in a convoy of three canoes – and their journey back to the outside world had really begun.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Twenty-two days after vanishing on the trip between Rio and São Paulo, Al King reappeared in the outside world.