Vinegar Soup

by Miles Gibson

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded as Frank bent down to take the stick from his hand.

  ‘Frank,’ said Frank.

  Gilbert looked relieved. ‘Frank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen Olive?’ he whispered. He struggled to rise but fell exhausted against the wall.

  Frank tried to steer him towards the house. But the old man was heavy and Frank couldn’t find the strength. He shouted for Happy. He shouted for Veronica. Charlotte came running and together they managed to manoeuvre Gilbert back to his room.

  ‘What’s wrong with his skin?’ he complained as they rolled him into bed.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Charlotte, smoothing the sheet over Gilbert’s stomach. ‘I’ll make him some ointment.’

  Frank pulled a kitchen rag from his belt and used it to wipe the old man’s face. Gilbert grunted and closed his eyes.

  ‘He needs to rest,’ said Charlotte.

  Frank nodded and turned away. ‘He didn’t recognise me,’ he said softly.

  ‘Sometimes he forgets his surroundings,’ said Charlotte. She sat down in the chair and helped herself to a glass of boiled water.

  ‘But I thought. You told me.’

  ‘He don’t sound so good no more,’ confessed Charlotte. ‘He don’t seem to know himself.’

  ‘He belongs in hospital,’ protested Frank. ‘We can’t keep him here.’

  ‘I nurse him with every attention,’ growled Charlotte. She waved her hand impatiently. ‘He wants for nothing.’

  ‘He wants proper medical treatment,’ said Frank fiercely.

  Charlotte puffed out her chest and glowered at Frank. ‘We’re not in Lagos,’ she barked. Her throat trembled like a turkey wattle. ‘Don’t you understand? It could take days to get him to hospital. We don’t even know where to find a hospital. The journey alone is enough to kill him.’ She poured a little water into her hand and pressed the hand against her neck. She had been asleep when Frank had raised the alarm. She was wearing a dirty dressing gown and her hair was wrapped in cheesecloth.

  ‘We’ve got to do something,’ said Frank, sitting on the floor beside her chair.

  ‘Yes. We’ve got to wait and be patient. And we have to watch him. If he gets out again he could hurt himself.’

  Frank stared at the bed. Gilbert snored. The sun had broken through the shutters and filled the room with narrow blades of dusty, afternoon light.

  ‘I could help you to nurse him. And we could ask Veronica to sit with him sometimes,’ he suggested.

  ‘Good,’ said Charlotte. She smiled. ‘I want you to work with me, Frank. We’re depending on you.’ She bent forward, making the chair creak, and squeezed Frank’s shoulder. ‘I need your help with the business,’ she added confidentially.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frank. He felt uneasy. She had stooped so low the dressing gown showed the tops of her breasts.

  ‘Do you want us to fall into ruin? Do you think Gilbert would want us to close the hotel just because he don’t have his strength?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. He’d want you to take charge of everything.’ She ruffled his hair with her hand. ‘He’d expect you to take command.’

  ‘I can’t do anything. No one listens to me,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘I listen to you and that enough,’ she said and pressed his head against her knees.

  In the days that followed Charlotte deliberately asked for his opinion on everything from the price of a room to the quality of Bilharzian beer. She had favoured Gala beer in Chad but thought the local Tusker was sour. Frank suggested they switch to Beaufort and she took his advice. He began to feel encouraged. They shared the work of the sick room and forced Veronica to reluctantly pay her respects.

  ‘Jesus, he gives me the willies,’ she said, when Frank took her into the room. ‘What’s gone wrong with his skin?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Frank confidently.

  Veronica wrinkled her nose. The room smelt of home-made ointments, Jeyes fluid and the stale smoke of cheap cigars.

  ‘How d’you know it’s nothing?’ she demanded. ‘It could be serious. It could be anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She frowned and turned away from the bed.

  ‘Charlotte’s treating him. She says he just needs to rest and build up his strength,’ said Frank.

  Veronica sneered. ‘I don’t trust her medicine,’ she said, slouching against the wall. Her face was sticky with paint and she was wearing one of Comfort’s frocks.

  ‘She fixed my hand,’ said Frank, to reassure himself. ‘And she pulled Happy’s teeth.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let her touch me,’ declared Veronica.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

  ‘She uses herbs and stuff,’ said Veronica. ‘What kind of medicine is that?’

  ‘We don’t have any other kind,’ said Frank.

  ‘He ought to have a proper doctor,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘We can’t move him.’ He glanced across at Gilbert, heaped upon the mattress. His eyes were closed but his jaw was working, grinding his teeth in his sleep.

  ‘Frank, if we don’t do something it could be too late.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to make him comfortable.’

  ‘It’s not enough. He looks terrible. He’s big enough to burst,’ she said angrily. She pulled herself from the wall and moved nervously about the room. Her spine had pressed a seam of sweat through the back of her dress.

  ‘We’ll watch him for another few days,’ said Frank, feeling exasperated. ‘If he doesn’t improve we’ll send Happy into town to fetch help.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  Frank turned to the door. He didn’t have the energy to reply to her questions. There wasn’t a doctor for a hundred miles.

  They had to trust Charlotte. ‘It’s important to keep him in bed. It’s important to make him rest,’ he said and hurried back to the kitchen.

  But despite all their efforts, Gilbert continued to escape. One afternoon he slipped past Charlotte, asleep in the chair, wandered through the deserted compound and reached the rubbish tip at the back of the kitchen block. They found him covered in meat scraps and flies, hiding a chicken’s claw in his fist. When Frank asked him what he wanted he said he was looking for Chester. Veronica broke down and sobbed. They scrubbed him clean and carried him back to his bed.

  Two days later he escaped again by climbing through the window and disappearing into the forest. Boris found him sitting at the side of the road and brought him home in the wagon.

  ‘What a bastard!’ he bellowed as he dragged him through the hotel corridors. ‘I don’t fetch and carry him no more. First time. Last time. He want to die in the jungle. Boris say good luck. He nothing but trouble.’

  Gilbert stumbled and fell to his knees.

  ‘Be careful with him, damn you,’ shouted Frank, running to the old man’s rescue. At the sound of Frank’s voice Gilbert raised his face and smiled.

  ‘He don’t feel nothing. Look. He grinning,’ said Boris. He grabbed Gilbert by the collar of his pyjamas and tried to haul him to his feet.

  ‘Treat him with some respect or leave him alone,’ ordered Frank, trying to push between them.

  ‘I leave him alone,’ said Boris. He stepped back and let Gilbert fall to the floor.

  ‘Thanks a lot. Now go and fetch Charlotte.’

  Boris bristled. ‘I tell you bastard! I don’t fetch and carry no more!’ he roared, stabbing at Frank with his fingers. ‘Anyway. I see you hiding up Charlotte’s skirt. You think I don’t know? You want something? Maybe.’

  ‘I want to get Gilbert to bed. He’s sick. He needs help,’ said Frank.

  ‘You talk to Charlotte. Poison her head against Boris. You think you call for Charlotte. Help. Save me. Everything work like a dream,’ He paused. His voice softened to a hiss of steam. ‘You wait. Boris catch you. Nowhere to hide from Boris.’

  At dawn the next da
y Frank went down to the kitchen to help cook breakfast and found that Boris had been there before him. He sensed the danger as he crossed the yard. An unfamiliar silence hung in the air and no lights burned at the windows. He missed the smell of smoke from the hungry stove and the clatter of Happy, still half-asleep, colliding with his pots and kettles. He ran to the door and waded into the shadows.

  The kitchen had been ransacked. Shelves had been torn from the walls. Happy’s barrel had been kicked from its corner. There were great bags of rice and precious white flour dropped like bombs on the dirt floor. Frank found Happy sitting under the bench with his winklepickers in his hands. He held the shoes pressed tight against his chest and would not surrender them. His eyes stared at nothing. His face was covered in blood.

  ‘What happened?’ whispered Frank, squatting beside him.

  Happy blinked. ‘Boris,’ he croaked. ‘He bin mek big troble fo Happy. He don wan kil me. Holi Gost. You louk may het. Hia. He don brok he.’ He raised his hand and waved a shoe across his face.

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Diesno.’

  ‘Where is he hiding?’

  Happy shrugged.

  ‘Don’t move. I’ll try and clean you up,’ said Frank, searching for towels through the rubbish. A pan of water survived, untouched, on the stove. He washed the blood from Happy’s face and gently searched for the damage.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ said Frank. ‘I think it’s just a crack on the nose.’ The nose was swollen, the nostrils plugged with congealing blood.

  ‘A fia dat man,’ gasped Happy miserably.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said Frank. He stood up slowly and stared around him in disgust. He felt frightened and cold. He trampled to the barrel and fished for a blanket.

  ‘Plenti blod hia,’ said Happy, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘How did Sam control him?’ said Frank, crawling from the barrel.

  ‘Sam?’ said Happy, looking anxious. ‘He don go day. Benegron.’ He began to pull on his shoes as if he were planning to make a run for it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘But when he was alive he must have given Boris orders and made him behave himself.’ The blanket smelt of onions. He draped it over Happy’s shoulders.

  ‘Sam he don notin,’ shivered Happy. He shook his head. ‘Boris nomba won man hia.’

  ‘You mean Boris ran the hotel?’

  ‘Daso. He don tel pipli dis ples belong he.’

  Frank was baffled. ‘But why did he do this to you?’

  ‘Fo wat?’ said Happy, staring at Frank in surprise. ‘Bikos you don wan gifloa hia lek Gill Bear. Boris no lek dis ting. He don tel me. He go kil you.’

  22

  Frank made a bed for himself among the sacks of grain in the kitchen, and stored his few remaining possessions in a box which he hid in the wall behind the stove. Happy, who had never been permitted to sleep in the house, was glad of the company and made Frank welcome. He didn’t ask questions. While Frank was there he felt protected from Boris.

  Each morning, before the sun had reached the compound wall, they worked together at the stove, boiling water and feeding meat to the stew. While Frank washed and shaved, Happy went out with the breakfast trays.

  Later Charlotte arrived to collect the day’s rations for Gilbert. She insisted on preparing his meals, although she did little more than choose fruit and cake. It was several days before she noticed that Frank was living in the kitchen.

  ‘You don’t like your lovely room?’ she said, puzzled by his new sleeping arrangements. ‘It’s a crime to waste a good bed.’

  Frank tried to explain but she didn’t look convinced. An empty bed cost money. That was the problem.

  ‘You’re not afraid of Boris,’ she chuckled, when he had finished his story. She cut a slice of cake and wedged it into a chipped enamel bowl.

  ‘He’s dangerous,’ insisted Frank.

  ‘He doesn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘He nearly killed Happy,’ Frank shouted indignantly.

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Charlotte, turning to Happy.

  Happy nodded.

  Charlotte frowned and sniffed at a pineapple. ‘He drinks,’ she concluded. ‘Ration his beer.’

  ‘I can’t control him,’ said Frank. ‘He only takes orders from you.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘That man got the brain of a yam. You think I listen to his nonsense? I keep him to frighten the customers – keep law and order about the place. You and me got the brains here, Frank.’

  Frank bit his tongue. He saw with a rush of despair that Charlotte depended on Boris. She owed him everything. He had brought her to the forest, given her the hotel and provided her girls with customers. What was a mere kitchen quarrel compared to this fortune? He was a fool to trust her any more than he trusted Boris.

  Charlotte smiled and squeezed his arm. He walked as far as the kitchen door and watched her waddle across the compound.

  At noon the heat tormented him. He spent the afternoons sheltering with Happy in the darkest corners, exhausted, suffocated, lost in a kind of drugged sleep. Perhaps Veronica was right about Gilbert. They should get him away from Charlotte’s quack medicines and find him a bed in a hospital. If they could smuggle him to safety the old man might recover his wits and take control of their lives again. Boris would be banished. Veronica would come to her senses. All their problems would vanish like smoke. He could lead Gilbert from his room and into the shelter of the trees at night. But he couldn’t hope to get him as far as town. The old man was too feeble, he was confused and his legs wouldn’t work. They needed the motor wagon. If he recruited Happy as driver they could load Gilbert aboard and drive him to safety. But they couldn’t expect to steal the wagon without someone raising the alarm. Boris would catch them. And Boris had the rifle.

  He squatted against the kitchen wall, head hanging, drenched in sweat, and tried to revive his sinking spirits. He had to find a way through the nightmare. There must be an answer.

  As the darkness spread from the heart of the forest he stirred himself and ventured into the compound to watch the hotel come to life with light. The sound of reggae drifted towards the kitchen. He heard Boris shouting and the explosive noise of men laughing.

  He waited outside until he saw Veronica leave the hotel and walk through the dusk towards him. He barely recognised her beneath the powder and paint. She was wearing a dirty yellow frock, very short and far too tight, with a bunch of paper flowers at the waist. It looked as if it might have been stolen from a child’s birthday party. She was walking barefoot but her ankles were weighted with metal hoops and strings of plastic beads.

  He stood at the kitchen door, watching her, hoping for some acknowledgment, but she ignored him, swept past and spoke to Happy. She loaded a tray with a big bowl of stew, fried plantain, dried fish and peanuts and started back again towards the house with Happy scampering in her wake. Frank waited for her to return but Happy came back to the kitchen alone.

  ‘How many tonight?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Fo,’ grunted Happy.

  Frank shuffled miserably away and looked towards the trees. The moon had risen and the forest seemed to swell like a dark and fathomless ocean. It whispered to him on every side, pressed forward and surrounded him. A man could drown out there and his body never be recovered. Fifty paces from the hotel a man might lose his sense of direction. The forest would drag him down, hold him fast and choke him to death.

  As he turned back to the kitchen Boris sprang out of the darkness and waved the rifle at his chest. When he recognised Frank he laughed, cocked his head and spat in the dust.

  ‘You got to be careful. Boris mistake you for a stranger. Maybe. Blow your brains out through your ears.’

  Frank shrugged and walked towards the light of the kitchen.

  ‘We got to keep watch for trouble now we got Charlotte to make the place nice,’ continued Boris, walking beside him. ‘We got to keep law and order.’

  Frank quickened his p
ace and said nothing.

  ‘Why you hiding out in the kitchen?’ demanded Boris when they reached the door.

  Frank ignored him, turned his back and entered the shed.

  ‘Maybe you hiding from that Veronica,’ taunted Boris. ‘She gone shag-happy. I heard she can’t get enough of it.’ He grinned at Frank and sucked a tooth. But he didn’t follow him into the kitchen. He stood impatiently at the door until Happy ran forward with a slab of bread and a large bottle of palm wine. Boris tucked these provisions into his vest and returned to sentry duties.

  That night Frank told Happy of his plan to save Gilbert and escape the Hotel Plenti. Happy thought there was a modern hospital at Bolozo Rouge. He knew there was a medical station at Nkongfanto, a few miles from Malabo. It was only two days’ drive when the road was open.

  ‘We’ll have to make the escape at night when everyone’s asleep,’ Frank whispered. ‘You’ll be driving. We’ll be gone by the time they raise the alarm. Do you think you can do it?’

  Happy’s face was squeezed with excitement. He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. ‘Daso,’ he said at last. ‘Happy tek do mota.’ He nodded. ‘No troble.’

  ‘We’ll wrap Gilbert in a blanket and carry him out,’ continued Frank.

  ‘We nopa mek dat Miss Veronica go back no place,’ said Happy slowly. ‘He lek dis ting hia.’

  ‘I’ll try and talk to her tomorrow,’ said Frank. ‘But if she won’t see sense we’re going to have to leave her behind. We can’t take any risks.’ He paused, shocked by this decision, and tried to imagine leaving Veronica to the mercies of Charlotte and Boris. He didn’t believe she would want to stay. It was impossible. When the time arrived, when the moment came for her to choose, despite everything, she would be there in the wagon.

  ‘Boris he go be vex,’ said Happy, breaking into a sweat. ‘Holi Gost. He go holla an cus. He go com fo Happy with he gon.’

  ‘He won’t get far without the wagon,’ Frank reminded him.

  Happy nodded and wiped his hands on his cardigan. He retreated into his barrel to ruminate upon the risks of their enterprise. He had a wife in a village west of Nkongfanto. There were children too, but he couldn’t remember how many of them belonged to him. He hadn’t seen his wife for years. He tried to imagine sitting behind the wheel of the big motor wagon, the engine vibrating, kicking out smoke, the sun in his eyes, the hotel shrinking away behind him, the road that stretched beyond the forest; he tried to imagine but failed.