A Handful of Dust

by Evelyn Waugh

  Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses.

  *

  Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt hungry—she had had no proper meal that day—but she had not the strength to go alone into any of the supper restaurants. She bought a meat pie at a coffee stall and took it home. It looked delicious but, when she came to eat she found that she had lost her appetite. The remains of that pie lay on the dressing table when she awoke.

  It was August and she was entirely alone. Beaver was that day landing in New York. (He had cabled her from mid-ocean that the crossing was excellent.) It was for her the last of Beaver. Parliament was over and Jock Grant-Menzies was paying his annual visit to his elder brother in Scotland; Marjorie and Allan at the last moment had made Lord Monomark’s yacht and were drifting luxuriously down the coast of Spain attending bullfights (they had even asked her to look after Djinn). Her mother was at the chalet Lady Anchorage always lent her on the Lake of Geneva. Polly was everywhere. Even Jenny Abdul Akbar was cruising in the Baltic.

  Brenda opened her newspaper and read an article by a young man who said that the London Season was a thing of the past; that everyone was too busy in those days to keep up the pre-war routine; that there were no more formal dances but a constant round of more modest entertaining; that August in London was the gayest time of all (he rewrote this annually in slightly different words). It did not console Brenda to read that article.

  For weeks past she had attempted to keep a fair mind towards Tony and his treatment of her; now at last she broke down and turning over buried her face in the pillow, in an agony of resentment and self-pity.

  *

  In Brazil she wore a ragged cotton gown of the same pattern as Rosa’s. It was not unbecoming. Tony watched her for some time before he spoke. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Don’t you like it? I got it from Polly.”

  “It looks so dirty.”

  “Well, Polly travels about a lot. You must get up now to go to the County Council meeting.”

  “But it isn’t Wednesday?”

  “No, but time is different in Brazil; surely you remember?”

  “I can’t get as far as Pigstanton. I’ve got to stay here until Messinger comes back. I’m ill. He told me to be quiet. He’s coming this evening.”

  “But all the County Council are here. The Shameless Blonde brought them in her aeroplane.”

  Sure enough they were all there. Reggie St. Cloud was chairman. He said, “I strongly object to Milly being on the committee. She is a woman of low repute.”

  Tony protested. “She has a daughter. She has as much right here as Lady Cockpurse.”

  “Order,” said the Mayor. “I must ask you gentlemen to confine your remarks to the subject under discussion. We have to decide about the widening of the Bayton–Pigstanton road. There have been several complaints that it’s impossible for the Green Line buses to turn the corner safely at Hetton Cross.”

  “Green Line rats.”

  “I said Green Line rats. Mechanical green line rats. Many of the villagers have been scared by them and have evacuated their cottages.”

  “I evacuated,” said Reggie St. Cloud. “I was driven out of my house by mechanical green rats.”

  “Order,” said Polly Cockpurse. “I move that Mr. Last address the meeting.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Tony. “I beg you to understand that I am ill and must not move from the hammock. Dr. Messinger has given the clearest instructions.”

  “Winnie wants to bathe.”

  “No bathing in Brazil. No bathing in Brazil.” The meeting took up the cry. “No bathing in Brazil.”

  “But you had two breakfasts.”

  “Order,” said the Mayor. “Lord St. Cloud, I suggest you put the question to the vote.”

  “The question is whether the contract for the widening of the corner at Hetton Cross shall be given to Mrs. Beaver. Of the tenders submitted hers was by far the most expensive but I understand that her plans include a chromium plated wall on the south side of the village…”

  “… and two breakfasts,” prompted Winnie.

  “… and two breakfasts for the men engaged on the work. Those in favor of the motion will make a clucking sound in imitation of hens, those against will say bow-wow.”

  “A most improper proceeding,” said Reggie. “What will the servants think?”

  “We have got to do something until Brenda has been told.”

  “… Me? I’m all right.”

  “Then I take it the motion is carried.”

  “Oh, I am glad Mrs. Beaver got the job,” said Brenda. “You see I’m in love with John Beaver, I’m in love with John Beaver, I’m in love with John Beaver.”

  “Is that the decision of the committee?”

  “Yes, she is in love with John Beaver.”

  “Then that is carried unanimously.”

  “No,” said Winnie. “He ate two breakfasts.”

  “… by an overwhelming majority.”

  “Why are you all changing your clothes?” asked Tony, for they were putting on hunting coats.

  “For the lawn meet. Hounds are meeting here today.”

  “But you can’t hunt in summer.”

  “Time is different in Brazil and there is no bathing.”

  “I saw a fox yesterday in Bruton Wood. A mechanical green fox with a bell inside him that jingled as he ran. It frightened them so much that they ran away and the whole beach was deserted and there was no bathing except for Beaver. He can bathe every day, for the time is different in Brazil.”

  “I’m in love with John Beaver,” said Ambrose.

  “Why, I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I came to remind you that you were ill, Sir. You must on no account leave your hammock.”

  “But how can I reach the City if I stay here.”

  “I will serve it directly, Sir, in the library.”

  “Yes, in the library. There is no point in using the dining hall now that her Ladyship has gone to live in Brazil.”

  “I will send the order to the stables, Sir.”

  “But I don’t want the pony. I told Ben to sell her.”

  “You will have to ride to the smoking room, Sir. Dr. Messinger has taken the canoe.”

  “Very well, Ambrose.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  The committee had moved off down the avenue; all except Colonel Inch who had taken the other drive and was trotting towards Compton Last. Tony and Mrs. Rattery were all alone.

  “Bow-wow,” she said, scooping in the cards. “That carries the motion.”

  Looking up from the card table, Tony saw beyond the trees the ramparts and battlements of the City; it was quite near him. From the turret of the gatehouse a heraldic banner floated in the tropic breeze. He struggled into an upright position and threw aside his blankets. He was stronger and steadier when the fever was on him. He picked his way through the surrounding thorn-scrub; the sound of music rose from the glittering walls; some procession or pageant was passing along them. He lurched into tree trunks and became caught up in roots and hanging tendrils of bush-vine; but he pressed forward unconscious of pain and fatigue.

  At last he came into the open. The gates were before him and trumpets were sounding along the walls, saluting his arrival; from bastion to bastion the message ran to the four points of the compass; petals of almond and apple blossom were in the air; they carpeted the way, as, after a summer storm, they lay in the orchards at Hetton. Gilded cupolas and spires of alabaster shone in the sunlight.

  Ambrose announced, “The City is served.”

  Six

  Du Côté de Chez Todd

  Although Mr. Todd had lived in Amazonas for nearly sixty years, no one except a few families of Pie-wie Indians was aware of his existence. His house stood in a small savannah, one of those little patc
hes of sand and grass that crop up occasionally in that neighborhood, three miles or so across, bounded on all sides by forest.

  The stream which watered it was not marked on any map; it ran through rapids, always dangerous and at most seasons of the year impassable, to join the upper waters of the river where Dr. Messinger had come to grief. None of the inhabitants of the district, except Mr. Todd, had ever heard of the governments of Brazil or Dutch Guiana, both of which from time to time claimed its possession.

  Mr. Todd’s house was larger than those of his neighbors, but similar in character—a palm thatch roof, breast-high walls of mud and wattle, and a mud floor. He owned the dozen or so head of puny cattle which grazed in the savannah, a plantation of cassava, some banana and mango trees, a dog and, unique in the neighborhood, a single-barreled, breech-loading shotgun. The few commodities which he employed from the outside world, came to him through a long succession of traders, passed from hand to hand, bartered for in a dozen languages at the extreme end of one of the longest threads in the web of commerce that spreads from Manáos into the remote fastness of the forest.

  One day while Mr. Todd was engaged in filling some cartridges, a Pie-wie came to him with the news that a white man was approaching through the forest, alone and very sick. He closed the cartridge and loaded his gun with it, put those that were finished into his pocket and set out in the direction indicated.

  The man was already clear of the bush when Mr. Todd reached him, sitting on the ground, clearly in a very bad way. He was without hat or boots, and his clothes were so torn that it was only by the dampness of his body that they adhered to it; his feet were cut and grossly swollen; every exposed surface of skin was scarred by insect and bat bites; his eyes were wild with fever. He was talking to himself in delirium but stopped when Todd approached and addressed him in English.

  “You’re the first person who’s spoken to me for days,” said Tony. “The others won’t stop. They keep bicycling by… I’m tired… Brenda was with me at first but she was frightened by a mechanical mouse, so she took the canoe and went off. She said she would come back that evening but she didn’t. I expect she’s staying with one of her new friends in Brazil… You haven’t seen her, have you?”

  “You are the first stranger I have seen for a very long time.”

  “She was wearing a top hat when she left. You can’t miss her.” Then he began talking to someone at Mr. Todd’s side, who was not there.

  “Do you see that house over there? Do you think you can manage to walk to it? If not I can send some Indians to carry you.”

  Tony squinted across the savannah at Mr. Todd’s hut.

  “Architecture harmonizing with local character,” he said, “indigenous material employed throughout. Don’t let Mrs. Beaver see it or she will cover it with chromium plating.”

  “Try and walk.” Mr. Todd hoisted Tony to his feet and supported him with a stout arm.

  “I’ll ride your bicycle. It was you I passed just now on a bicycle, wasn’t it?… except that your beard is a different color. His was green… green as mice.”

  Mr. Todd led Tony across the hummocks of grass towards the house.

  “It is a very short way. When we get there I will give you something to make you better.”

  “Very kind of you… rotten thing for a man to have his wife go away in a canoe. That was a long time ago. Nothing to eat since.” Presently he said, “I say, you’re English. I’m English too. My name is Last.”

  “Well, Mr. Last, you aren’t to bother about anything more. You’re ill and you’ve had a rough journey. I’ll take care of you.”

  Tony looked round him. “Are you all English?”

  “Yes, all of us.”

  “That dark girl married a Moor… It’s very lucky I met you all. I suppose you’re some kind of cycling club?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I feel too tired for bicycling… never liked it much… you fellows ought to get motor bicycles, you know, much faster and noisier… Let’s stop here.”

  “No, you must come as far as the house. It’s not very much further.”

  “All right… I suppose you would have some difficulty getting petrol here.”

  They went very slowly, but at length reached the house.

  “Lie there in the hammock.”

  “That’s what Messinger said. He’s in love with John Beaver.”

  “I will get something for you.”

  “Very good of you. Just my usual morning tray—coffee, toast, fruit. And the morning papers. If her Ladyship has been called I will have it with her…”

  Mr. Todd went into the back room of the house and dragged a tin canister from under a heap of skins. It was full of a mixture of dried leaf and bark. He took a handful and went outside to the fire. When he returned his guest was bolt upright astride the hammock, talking angrily.

  “… You would hear better and it would be more polite if you stood still when I addressed you instead of walking round in a circle. It is for your own good that I am telling you… I know you are friends of my wife and that is why you will not listen to me. But be careful. She will say nothing cruel, she will not raise her voice, there will be no hard words. She hopes you will be great friends afterwards as before. But she will leave you. She will go away quietly during the night. She will take her hammock and her rations of farina… Listen to me. I know I am not clever but that is no reason why we should forget all courtesy. Let us kill in the gentlest manner. I will tell you what I have learned in the forest, where time is different. There is no City. Mrs. Beaver has covered it with chromium plating and converted it into flats. Three guineas a week, each with a separate bathroom. Very suitable for base love. And Polly will be there. She and Mrs. Beaver under the fallen battlements…”

  Mr. Todd put a hand behind Tony’s head and held up the concoction of herbs in the calabash. Tony sipped and turned away his head.

  “Nasty medicine,” he said, and began to cry.

  Mr. Todd stood by him holding the calabash. Presently Tony drank some more, screwing up his face and shuddering slightly at the bitterness. Mr. Todd stood beside him until the draft was finished; then he threw out the dregs on to the mud floor. Tony lay back in the hammock sobbing quietly. Soon he fell into a deep sleep.

  *

  Tony’s recovery was slow. At first, days of lucidity alternated with delirium; then his temperature dropped and he was conscious even when most ill. The days of fever grew less frequent, finally occurring in the normal system of the tropics, between long periods of comparative health. Mr. Todd dosed him regularly with herbal remedies.

  “It’s very nasty,” said Tony, “but it does do good.”

  “There is medicine for everything in the forest,” said Mr. Todd; “to make you well and to make you ill. My mother was an Indian and she taught me many of them. I have learned others from time to time from my wives. There are plants to cure you and give you fever, to kill you and send you mad, to keep away snakes, to intoxicate fish so that you can pick them out of the water with your hands like fruit from a tree. There are medicines even I do not know. They say that it is possible to bring dead people to life after they have begun to stink, but I have not seen it done.”

  “But surely you are English?”

  “My father was—at least a Barbadian. He came to Guiana as a missionary. He was married to a white woman but he left her in Guiana to look for gold. Then he took my mother. The Pie-wie women are ugly but very devoted. I have had many. Most of the men and women living in this savannah are my children. That is why they obey—for that reason and because I have the gun. My father lived to a great age. It is not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot.”

  Tony laughed apologetically. “But I suppose you haven’t much opportunity here.”

  “Oh yes, that is just it. I have a great many books. I will show you when you are
better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman—at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better.”

  “I shall be delighted to.”

  “Yes, you shall read to me,” Mr. Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash.

  *

  During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host; he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr. Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning—a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat—to keep away vampire bats.

  The first time that Tony left the house Mr. Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm.

  “I will show you the black man’s grave,” he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. “He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross—to commemorate his death and your arrival—a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?”

  “I suppose so. I’ve never really thought about it much.”

  “I have thought about it a great deal and I still do not know… Dickens did.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see.”

  That afternoon Mr. Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the negro’s grave. He worked with a large spokeshave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal.

  At last when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr. Todd said, “Now I think you are well enough to see the books.”

  At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr. Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr. Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of small bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide.