The Outcasts (9 page)

A hairy spider trundled into their courtyard and stood, indecisive, four inches long, thick of body. Philips stalked it cautiously and hammered it flat with a sandal. “Excuse me,” he said politely to Ramesh. “I hope it was not a loved one.”

Ramesh was peeved.

Morrison and Philips stood beneath a white sky with their backs to the gorge. The men sat or sprawled but were attentive. Philips told them why they were there, speaking in that bubbly bastard language, and then subsided and gestured at Morrison. “Soon we start on the bridge,” Morrison said, and Philips translated.

Morrison told them how the bridge would be built. They were a good audience, motionless, his and Philips's absolutely. He spoke for no more than five minutes because he knew that what he said was not important. It was important only that they hear something directly from the boss.

“Then there will be six or eight wire men. Before we pour the concrete we will set hundreds of steel rods in place. These add great strength to the concrete. Then there will be the concrete men and finishers. The concrete must be carefully mixed and after it is poured it must be kept moist until it sets. How many here have worked with concrete before?”

Hands rose: a dozen.

“Then you know what I am talking about. Please explain all that you know to the others. And I want you all to see these drawings. Let every man see them to be sure he understands the work. Talk about them. Each crew will have its own foreman, who will do more explaining as we move into the work.

“One thing.” He spoke sharply and they watched him closely. “The various pieces of the bridge will fit together perfectly. In some places there will be slots and tongues to fit into the slots. In other places there will be holes drilled for bolts. Or flat depressions for steel plates. The fitting must be exact. Everything must be exact. If anything is set carelessly the whole bridge will be spoiled. Any man who works carelessly will be sent away. Philips will tell you more. So will Ramesh. Orders must be obeyed exactly. And every man must be careful not to fall, not to bump others, not to hit men or materials with moving objects. Keep your eyes open and your hands sure. We will work carefully even if it means working slowly.”

Dog spoke: how would they reach the far side for blasting, and to start that end of the arch?

“There is a bridge of vines,” Morrison said.

Philips was startled. The men muttered.

Morrison laughed and shook his head. “Take it easy. The crane will swing us across. On a platform.”

The muttering ceased but there were no smiles. Philips spoke again. “I told them you were making a joke,” he said. “They do not care for joking about the bridge.”

“They're right,” Morrison said. “Go over it again. Stress caution. Tell them I'm through making jokes.”

While Philips lectured, Morrison inspected the far side. The dazzle brought tears to his eyes; he squinted. Hillside, brush, trees. No motion; only the sunlight and the drowsy slope. And the gorge between, and bird-call far below. The gorge looked very cool. And to the west that long lovely roll of green. Philips bubbled on, then called: “They want to know who will do the blasting.”

“You and I,” he called back. “Tell them about the drills and how they work. Tell them the diamonds are of no value so not to steal them.”

Many times now he had stood here alone and looked for a sign. His wasted weekends. Eminent explorer seeks Saturday spoor. But he wondered who these people were and what they would think of his bridge. Also it would not do to suffer showers of arrows at critical moments. Somewhere in there was the border; a few miles from him was the Portagee side. Probably no man had ever crossed over from here. He thought of the Portagee side as an abrupt alteration in terrain; perhaps a river, or a sudden strip of yellow grass. Maybe a double white line; he grinned. A shame to come so far and not see it. And those people. Perhaps there were no people. Perhaps he had seen a roving hunter.

Philips had fallen silent. He gestured languidly and the men drifted back to the fringe of trees.

A roving hunter. The thought saddened Morrison.

Where the hell am I going? What am I? A speech-maker. He was very angry for no reason. Imparting wisdom to ditch-diggers in a far place. Looking for primitives like a tourist. Nothing left of me. Good only for this, exile and playing with blocks. South Pole next. Take Ramesh, who has never been there.

Then he was ashamed. What the hell. You must be lonesome.

It occurred to him that it would be cheering to have a friend. Or to enjoy a woman.

Or at least to get a cold drink inside him.

“I do not understand you,” Philips said amiably. “You must have a girl that you see on Monday nights.”

“No. I just haven't felt like weekends. Next week, maybe.” It was Saturday at noon and the men were gone, the trucks had coughed and roared off, and Philips and Ramesh were making ready.

“But five weeks,” Philips said. “That is a long time with no play. Positively abnormal.”

Ramesh was packing a small bag. Pursed lips, fussy darting hands. Socks. What for?

“I'll go in with you next week.”

“Good. You are spoiling us.”

One of the three remained always at the camp. Morrison had stood guard with pleasure.

“Ah. Toussex,” Ramesh said.

“You don't really take all those.”

“I like to have them with me,” Ramesh said. “One never knows. Germs. A cough.”

Morrison examined the kit. “Toussex. That's for coughs. Ephedros. That must be a cold in the nose. Veganine. Headache. Hepanil. What's that?”

“For disturbances of the liver,” Ramesh said. “Would you like to read the accompanying literature?”

“No thank you.”

“You must always read the accompanying literature. There are reactions to beware of.”

“I thought Indians weren't suppose to kill things. Even germs.”

“But I intend to live to be one hundred,” Ramesh said. He snapped shut the kit.

“Ah. You don't want to escape the cycle. I thought nothingness was the great goal.”

“There is plenty of time for nothingness,” Ramesh said. “There is all eternity. We live for only a tick of the watch.”

“A hundred years.”

“A tick of the watch.”

“Come on,” Philips said, in the Land-Rover.

Ramesh sat primly beside him, hands folded.

“Next week,” Philips said. “I want to see you in action.”

“Next week,” Morrison said, and blessed them as they sped away.

5

Mother Martha's place stood on a hillside and faced west, so the sun was behind them and low when Philips bucked the Land-Rover up a rutted track, raced it through a stand of palms with the horn wailing, and jammed it to a halt under the eaves. Approximately eaves. Mother Martha's was mainly an open shed, a roof some seventy-five feet long on posts. The roof, or what Morrison could see of it, was tin here and thatch there, and they were parked under a tangled overhang of thatch. There were wooden tables and stools and benches scattered outside. Men were drinking with girls in bright blouses, and they shouted at Tall Boy and Philips, who shouted too and waved.

Inside, in the dim light, the chatter was low; on the tables were oil lamps, unlit. Cases of bottled beer stood in stacks. Masks hung from the dark beams; also animal skulls with antlers or tusks. The bartender was ebony-bald with jolly wide eyes and a grinning wide mouth. Philips said, “Emanuel. Morrison,” and they shook hands. “Three beers,” Philips said. He slapped his wallet to the bar. “Give me your money.”

Morrison obeyed. Philips counted the bills and joined them to his own. When the bottles were uncapped, he thrust the wallet at Emanuel. “Give it to Martha. Right now.”

“Okay.” Emanuel beamed.

“Cheers,” Philips said, and drank off half a bottle. “The money is not needed and would only make trouble. Emanuel keeps track. If you have a girl, she tells Martha.”

“Credit. Even that. Is there a discount for volume?”

“No need to be coarse,” Philips said, and wiped his mouth. “There is more to it than just ‘that.' Believe me. I wish we could take a couple back.”

“You never talk about women at the camp.”

“What would I say? They are there, or they are not there.”

Behind the bar stood battalions of bottles: only rum and whisky, and something called Martini. No soda, no ginger ale, no quinine water. No glasses either. Morrison sighed.

“What?”

“The drinking will be serious. Is there food at least?”

“Oh yes. Back there is Martha's little flat and a kitchen. Meat, tomatoes, and fruit. Beef, goat, pork. But the stress is on drinking.” He grinned, and finished his beer. “Also cigarettes and straw fans. Aspirin and bandages. And that sums it up. Also several shacks out back.” He grinned again. “And several thousand square miles of soft earth and waving grasses.”

“Restful.”

“Wrong.”

Night fell and the lamps were lit. Moths emerged, suicides; flames plucked at them; they shriveled in silence. The shed filled, and noise rose, laughter, arguments, the static of a careless crowd. The three men had progressed to rum. Morrison was hungry, but what was the etiquette? Tall Boy was already dreamy and had begun to hum and mutter. Philips was running on about the government, apparently the most agreeable and flexible faction of bandits available and therefore to be supported. Morrison was jittery. Many glanced at him and quickly away, and once a newcomer blinked and looked again, as if Morrison were a polar bear. The girls too glanced, more openly, and it was Morrison who looked away. With a ripple of bitterness. He might try. But failure here would not be private; there was a whole country to laugh. So he looked away.

The shed roared and clattered. Morrison was gloomy and hungry. Women squeezed by, and a light hand brushed his neck; a giggle. He realized that he was exotic, and cheered up, but only a bit. Somewhere someone sang. The rum was doing nothing for him. He missed the road.

“Smile,” Philips said. “Saturday night. Big time. A moment snatched from death and eternity.”

“You missed your calling,” Morrison said.

Mirth: white teeth. “Philips in Paris,” Philips said. “Beret. Cigarette-holder. Petals on a wet black bough.”

“Petals?”

“Poetry, man.”

“Oh. I know some poetry,” Morrison said. “Birth death and fornication. Not with a bang but a whimper. A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malemute Saloon.”

“Malemute?”

“Poetry, man.”

“Oh. You know William Faulkner?”

“I know who he was.”

Philips despaired. “Do you read nothing at all?”

“Magazines. Newspapers.”

“Junk and lies,” Philips said.

“Garbage,” Morrison agreed. “Shakespeare, when I was a boy.”

“But after all he is not for grown men.”

“Oh, shut up. I'm an engineer.”

“What need the bridge much broader than the flood?”

“What?”

“The first rule, you see. Economy. That is Shakepeare.”

“No kidding.” He was cheered again. “That's pretty good.”

A man leaned between them to stare at him. He had a hand on Philips's shoulder. A light shade he was, coffee with milk, and a breath on him like blue meat. “Philips,” he chimed. “How you going?”

“All right. You?”

“Good enough.”

“This is Snyder,” Philips said. “This is Morrison my boss. Synder is with the immigration. Wears a white uniform.”

“Pleased to know you,” Snyder said. “No uniform Saturday night.” He skirted the table and took Tall Boy's stool. Tall Boy was gone, somewhere. “How you like this country?” Morrison could barely hear him; the shed was alive with sound, smoke, motion.

“I like it fine.”

“Good. Very good. Have a pleasant stay.” To Philips he said, “That Craddock here.”

“I saw him come in. You mean he wants more?”

“No, nobody ever know what he wants. Just came to tell you.”

“No trouble,” Philips said. “But thank you.”

“Good. I leave you now. Pleased to know you,” and he shook hands with Morrison, leaning across the table, nodding, earnest. Then he was gone.

“What was that?”

“Oh, I had some trouble,” Philips said. “Some time ago. The usual beery discussion, followed by athletics.”

“How did you do?” Morrison could not remember when he had last struck a blow.

“Won handily. I would say about two minutes of the third round.”

“Congratulations. I don't much care for it myself.”

“I know. No one will bother you here.”

Morrison looked the question.

“No. Just elementary courtesy to a guest of the republic.”

“Good.”

“No one cares that much, you know. You are a curiosity and nothing more. I wonder at it sometimes. How quickly we forget grudges. We here, I mean.”

“We do too,” Morrison said. “Everybody loves Germany now.”

“And Japan?”

“I don't remember ever hating them.”

“Good.” Philips drank deeply from the bottle, and then from a bottle of water, and pushed them at Morrison. “Live, man.”

“You bet, man.”

“Oh come on,” Philips said. “Enjoy yourself a bit. Maybe you want a girl.”

“Not now. Where's Tall Boy?”

“Out in the bushes, I expect.”

Morrison grunted. “What do I do for a bathroom?”

“A bathroom?”

“A privy.”

“Outside, but downhill. Uphill is love, downhill is reality.”

“Reality is always downhill.”

“A philosopher,” Philips groaned. “Just watch where you put your feet.”

“We must do something about this man,” Philips said to Tall Boy. A peal, a squeal of laughter, commotion in a corner; nothing.