by Wilbur Smith
‘You’re being stupid, Bucko. I might have to break your arm.’ Wally twisted the wrist slowly. ‘You know as well as I do that the bar downstairs is full of them. You know that, don’t you?’
‘But what do I say to them?’ André’s face was contorted with the pain of his twisted wrist.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you stupid bloody frog-eater – just go down and flash a banknote. You don’t have to say a dicky bird.’
‘You’re hurting me, Wally.’
‘No? You’re kidding!’ Wally smiled at him, twisting harder, his slitty eyes smoky from the liquor, and Bruce could see he was enjoying it. ‘Are you going, Bucko? Make up your mind – get me a pretty or get yourself a broken arm.’
‘All right, if that’s what you want. I’ll go. Please leave me, I’ll go,’ mumbled André.
‘That’s what I want.’ Wally released him, and he straightened up massaging his wrist.
‘See that she’s clean and not too old. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Wally. I’ll get one.’ André went to the door and Bruce noticed his expression. It was stricken beyond the pain of a bruised wrist. What lovely creatures they are, thought Bruce, and I am one of them and yet apart from them. I am the watcher, stirred by them as much as I would be by a bad play. André went out.
‘Another drink, Bucko?’ said Wally expansively. ‘I’ll even pour you one.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bruce, and started on the other boot. Wally brought the glass to him and he tasted it. It was strong, and the mustiness of the whisky was ill-matched with the sweetness of the beer, but he drank it.
‘You and I,’ said Wally, ‘we’re the shrewd ones. We drink ’cause we want to, not ’cause we have to. We live like we want to live, not like other people think we should. You and I got a lot in common, Bruce. We should be friends, you and I. I mean us being so much alike.’ The drink was working in him now, blurring his speech a little.
‘Of course we are friends – I count you as one of my very dearest, Wally.’ Bruce spoke solemnly, no trace of sarcasm showing.
‘No kidding?’ Wally asked earnestly. ‘How’s that, hey? Christ, I always thought you didn’t like me. Christ, you never can tell, isn’t that right? You just never can tell,’ shaking his head in wonder, suddenly sentimental with the whisky. ‘That’s really true? You like me. Yeah, we could be buddies. How’s that, Bruce? Every guy needs a buddy. Every guy needs a back stop.’
‘Sure,’ said Bruce. ‘We’re buddies. How’s that, hey?’
‘That’s on, Bucko!’ agreed Wally with deep feeling, and I feel nothing, thought Bruce, no disgust, no pity – nothing. That way you are secure; they cannot disappoint you, they cannot disgust you, they cannot sicken you, they cannot smash you up again.
They both looked up as André ushered the girl into the room. She had a sexy little pug face, painted lips – ruby on amber.
‘Well done, André,’ applauded Wally, looking at the girl’s body. She wore high heels and a short pink dress that flared into a skirt from her waist but did not cover her knees.
‘Come here, cookie.’ Wally held out his hand to her and she crossed the room without hesitation, smiling a bright professional smile. Wally drew her down beside him on to the bed.
André went on standing in the doorway. Bruce got up and shrugged into his camouflage battle-jacket, buckled on his webbing belt and adjusted the holstered pistol until it hung comfortably on his outer thigh.
‘Are you going?’ Wally was feeding the girl from his glass.
‘Yes.’ Bruce put his slouch hat on his head; the red, green and white Katangese sideflash gave him an air of artificial gaiety.
‘Stay a little – come on, Bruce.’
‘Mike is waiting for me.’ Bruce picked up his rifle.
‘Muck him. Stay a little, we’ll have some fun.’
‘No, thanks.’ Bruce went to the door.
‘Hey, Bruce. Take a look at this.’ Wally tipped the girl backwards over the bed, he pinned her with one arm across her chest while she struggled playfully and with the other hand he swept her skirt up above her waist.
‘Take a good look at this and tell me you still want to go!’
The girl was naked under the skirt, her lower body shaven so that her plump little sex pouted sulkily.
‘Come on, Bruce,’ laughed Wally. ‘You first. Don’t say I’m not your buddy.’
Bruce glanced at the girl, her legs scissored and her body wriggled as she fought with Wally. She was giggling.
‘Mike and I will be back before curfew. I want this woman out of here by then,’ said Bruce.
There is no desire, he thought as he looked at her, that is all finished. He opened the door.
‘Curry!’ shouted Wally. ‘You’re a bloody nut also. Christ, I thought you were a man. Jesus Christ! You’re as bad as the others. André, the doll boy. Haig, the rummy. What’s with you, Bucko? It’s women with you, isn’t it? You’re a bloody nut-case also!’
Bruce closed the door and stood alone in the passage. The taunt had gone through a chink in his armour and he clamped his mind down on the sting of it, smothering it.
It’s all over. She can’t hurt me any more. He thought with determination, remembering her, the woman, not the one in the room he had just left but the other one who had been his wife.
‘The bitch,’ he whispered, and then quickly, almost guiltily, ‘I do not hate her. There is no hatred and there is no desire.’
– 2 –
The lobby of the Hotel Grand Leopold II was crowded. There were gendarmes carrying their weapons ostentatiously, talking loudly, lolling against walls and over the bar; women with them, varying in colour from black through to pastel brown, some already drunk; a few Belgians still with the stunned disbelieving eyes of the refugee, one of the women crying as she rocked her child on her lap; other white men in civilian clothes but with the alertness about them and the quick restless eyes of the adventurer, talking quietly with Africans in business suits; a group of journalists at one table in damp shirtsleeves, waiting and watching with the patience of vultures. And everybody sweated in the heat.
Two South African charter pilots hailed Bruce from across the room.
‘Hi, Bruce. How about a snort?’
‘Dave. Carl.’ Bruce waved. ‘Big hurry now – tonight perhaps.’
‘We’re flying out this afternoon.’ Carl Engelbrecht shook his head. ‘Back next week.’
‘We’ll make it then,’ Bruce agreed, and went out of the front door into the Avenue du Kasai. As he stopped on the sidewalk the white-washed buildings bounced the glare into his face. The naked heat made him wince and he felt fresh sweat start out of his body beneath his battle-suit. He took the dark glasses from his top pocket and put them on as he crossed the street to the Chev three-tonner in which Mike Haig waited.
‘I’ll drive, Mike.’
‘Okay.’ Mike slid across the seat and Bruce stepped up into the cab. He started the truck north down the Avenue du Kasai.
‘Sorry about that scene, Bruce.’
‘No harm done.’
‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.’
Bruce did not answer, he was looking at the deserted buildings on either side. Most of them had been looted and all of them were pock-marked with shrapnel from the mortar bursts. At intervals along the sidewalk were parked the burnt out bodies of automobiles looking like the carapaces of long-dead beetles.
‘I shouldn’t have let him get through to me, and yet the truth hurts like hell.’
Bruce was silent but he trod down harder on the accelerator and the truck picked up speed. I don’t want to hear, he thought, I am not your confessor – I just don’t want to hear. He turned into the Avenue l’Etoile, headed towards the zoo.
‘He was right, he had me measured to the inch,’ persisted Mike.
‘We’ve all got our troubles, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’ And then, to change Mike’s mood, ‘We few, we happy few. We band of brothers.’
Mike grinned and his face was suddenly boyish. ‘At least we have the distinction of following the second oldest profession – we, the mercenaries.’
‘The oldest profession is better paid and much more fun,’ said Bruce and swung the truck into the driveway of a double-storeyed residence, parked outside the front door and switched off the engine.
Not long ago the house had been the home of the chief accountant of Union Minière du Haut, now it was the billet of ‘D’ section, Special Striker Force, commanded by Captain Bruce Curry.
Half a dozen of his black gendarmes were sitting on the low wall of the verandah, and as Bruce came up the front steps they shouted the greeting that had become traditional since the United Nations intervention.
‘U.N. – Merde!’
‘Ah!’ Bruce grinned at them in the sense of companionship that had grown up between them in the past months. ‘The cream of the Army of Katanga!’
He offered his cigarettes around and stood chatting idly for a few minutes before asking, ‘Where’s Sergeant Major?’ One of the gendarmes jerked a thumb at the glass doors that led into the lounge and Bruce went through with Mike behind him.
Equipment was piled haphazardly on the expensive furniture, the stone fireplace was half filled with empty bottles, a gendarme lay snoring on the Persian carpet, one of the oil paintings on the wall had been ripped by a bayonet and the frame hung askew, the imbuia-wood coffee table tilted drunkenly towards its broken leg, and the whole lounge smelled of men and cheap tobacco.
‘Hello, Ruffy,’ said Bruce.
‘Just in time, boss.’ Sergeant Major Ruffararo grinned delightedly from the armchair which he was overflowing. ‘These goddam Arabs have run fresh out of folding stuff.’ He gestured at the gendarmes that crowded about the table in front of him. ‘Arab’ was Ruffy’s word of censure or contempt, and bore no relation to a man’s nationality.
Ruffy’s accent was always a shock to Bruce. You never expected to hear pure Americanese come rumbling out of that huge black frame. But three years previously Ruffy had returned from a scholarship tour of the United States with a command of the idiom, a diploma in land husbandry, a prodigious thirst for bottled beer (preferably Schlitz, but any other was acceptable) and a raving dose of the Old Joe.
The memory of this last, which had been a farewell gift from a high yellow sophomore of U.C.L.A., returned most painfully to Ruffararo when he was in his cups; so painfully that it could be assuaged only by throwing the nearest citizen of the United States.
Fortunately, it was only on rare occasions that an American and the necessary five or six gallons of beer were assembled in the same vicinity so that Ruffy’s latent race antipathy could find expression. A throwing by Ruffy was an unforgettable experience, both for the victim and the spectators. Bruce vividly recalled that night at the Hotel Lido when he had been a witness at one of Ruffy’s most spectacular throwings.
The victims, three of them, were journalists representing publications of repute. As the evening wore on they talked louder; an American accent has a carry like a well-hit golf ball and Ruffy recognized it from across the terrace. He became silent, and in his silence drank the last gallon which was necessary to tip the balance. He wiped the froth from his upper lip and stood up with his eyes fastened on the party of Americans.
‘Ruffy, hold it. Hey!’ – Bruce might not have spoken. Ruffy started across the terrace. They saw him coming and fell into an uneasy silence.
The first was in the nature of a practice throw; besides, the man was not aerodynamically constructed and his stomach had too much wind resistance. A middling distance of twenty feet.
‘Ruffy, leave them!’ shouted Bruce.
On the next throw Ruffy was getting warmed up, but he put excessive loft into it. Thirty feet; the journalist cleared the terrace and landed on the lawn below with his empty glass still clutched in his hand.
‘Run, you fool!’ Bruce warned the third victim, but he was paralysed.
And this was Ruffy’s best ever, he took a good grip – neck and seat of the pants – and put his whole weight into it. Ruffy must have known that he had executed the perfect throw, for his shout of ‘Gonorrhoea!’ as he launched his man had a ring of triumph to it.
Afterwards, when Bruce had soothed the three Americans, and they had recovered sufficiently to appreciate the fact that they were privileged by being party to a record throwing session, they all paced out the distances. The three journalists developed an almost proprietary affection for Ruffy and spent the rest of the evening buying him beers and boasting to every newcomer in the bar. One of them, he who had been thrown last and farthest, wanted to do an article on Ruffy – with pictures. Towards the end of the evening he was talking wildly of whipping up sufficient enthusiasm to have a man-throwing event included in the Olympic Games.
Ruffy accepted both their praise and their beer with modest gratitude; and when the third American offered to let Ruffy throw him again, he declined the offer on the grounds that he never threw the same man twice. All in all, it had been a memorable evening.
Apart from these occasional lapses, Ruffy had a more powerful body and happier mind than any man Bruce had ever known, and Bruce could not help liking him. He could not prevent himself smiling as he tried to reject Ruffy’s invitation to play cards.
‘We’ve got work to do now, Ruffy. Some other time.’
‘Sit down, boss,’ Ruffy repeated, and Bruce grimaced resignedly and took the chair opposite him.
‘How much you going to bet?’ Ruffy leaned forward.
‘Un mille.’ Bruce laid a thousand-franc note on the table; ‘when that’s gone, then we go.’
‘No hurry,’ Ruffy soothed him. ‘We got all day.’ He dealt the three cards face down. ‘The old Christian monarch is in there somewhere; all you got to do is find him and it’s the easiest mille you ever made.’
‘In the middle,’ whispered the gendarme standing beside Bruce’s chair. ‘That’s him in the middle.’
‘Take no notice of that mad Arab – he’s lost five mille already this morning,’ Ruffy advised.
Bruce turned over the right-hand card.
‘Mis-luck,’ crowed Ruffy. ‘You got yourself the queen of hearts.’ He picked up the banknote and stuffed it into his breast pocket. ‘She’ll see you wrong every time, that sweet-faced little bitch.’ Grinning, he turned over the middle card to expose the jack of spades with his sly eyes and curly little moustache. ‘She’s been shacked up there with the jack right under the old king’s nose.’ He turned the king face up. ‘Look you at that dozy old guy – he’s not even facing in the right direction.’
Bruce stared at the three cards and he felt that sickness in his stomach again. The whole story was there; even the man’s name was right, but the jack should have worn a beard and driven a red Jaguar and his queen of hearts never had such innocent eyes. Bruce spoke abruptly. ‘That’s it, Ruffy. I want you and ten men to come with me.’
‘Where we going?’
‘Down to Ordinance – we’re drawing special supplies.’
Ruffy nodded and buttoned the playing cards into his top pocket while he selected the gendarmes to accompany them; then he asked Bruce, ‘We might need some oil; what you think, boss?’
Bruce hesitated; they had only two cases of whisky left of the dozen they had looted in August. The purchasing power of a bottle of genuine Scotch was enormous and Bruce was loath to use them except in extraordinary circumstances. But now he realized that his chances of getting the supplies he needed were remote, unless he took along a substantial bribe for the quartermaster.
‘Okay, Ruffy. Bring a case.’
Ruffy came up out of the chair and clapped his steel helmet on his head. The chin straps hung down on each side of his round black face.
‘A full case?’ He grinned at Bruce. ‘You want to buy a battleship?’
‘Almost,’ agreed Bruce; ‘go and get it.’
Ruffy disappeared into the back area of the house and returned al
most immediately with a case of Grant’s Standfast under one arm and half a dozen bottles of Simba beer held by their necks between the fingers of his other hand.
‘We might get thirsty,’ he explained.
The gendarmes climbed back into the back of the truck with a clatter of weapons and shouted cheerful abuse at their fellows on the verandah. Bruce, Mike and Ruffy crowded into the cab and Ruffy set the whisky on the floor and placed two large booted feet upon it.
‘What’s this all about, boss?’ he asked as Bruce trundled the truck down the drive and turned into the Avenue l’Etoile. Bruce told him and when he had finished Ruffy grunted noncommittally and opened a bottle of beer with his big white chisel-blade teeth; the gas hissed softly and a little froth ran down the bottle and dripped onto his lap.
‘My boys aren’t going to like it,’ he commented as he offered the open bottle to Mike Haig. Mike shook his head and Ruffy passed the bottle to Bruce.
Ruffy opened a bottle for himself and spoke again. ‘They going to hate it like hell.’ He shook his head. ‘And there’ll be even bigger trouble when we get to Port Reprieve and pick up the diamonds.’
Bruce glanced sideways at him, startled. ‘What diamonds?’
‘From the dredgers,’ said Ruffy. ‘You don’t think they’re sending us all that way just to bring in these other guys. They’re worried about the diamonds, that’s for sure!’
Suddenly, for Bruce, much which had puzzled him was explained. A half-forgotten conversation that he had held earlier in the year with an engineer from Union Minière jumped back into his memory. They had discussed the three diamond dredgers that worked the gravel from the bed of the Lufira swamps. The boats were based on Port Reprieve and clearly they would have returned there at the beginning of the emergency; they must still be there with three or four months’ recovery of diamonds on board. Something like half a million sterling in uncut stones. That was the reason why the Katangese Government placed such priority on this expedition, the reason why such a powerful force was being used, the reason why no approaches had been made to the U.N. authorities to conduct the rescue.
