The Outcasts (18 page)

“No. That is fascinating.”

“It is. To propitiate the spirits of the waters, who had been defeated and insulted.”

“You are a fount of learning.” Philips smiled. “Do you know that Tall Boy has asked me for a primer?”

Morrison laughed.

“Is that your doing?”

“Yes.”

“Meddler. Missionary.”

“Sometimes I think Tall Boy will inherit the earth,” Morrison said.

“Do you mind that?”

“I'm all for it.”

“You want Baptists in charge?” They laughed together.

“Why did you fall away?” Morrison asked him.

A crown of red sun fired the western jungle; the grasses smoldered. A six-o'clock bee shrilled close. Air lay cooler on Morrison's arms. He yawned peacefully.

“Little things,” Philips said. “God was infinitely merciful and infinitely good, but just the same some of us would roast in Hell forever. That was like a broken promise. I do not break promises myself. But it was not any one thing. It was just the way I am. Barren ground for the seeds of the Lord. And you? Do you still believe?”

“I suppose not,” Morrison said. “I don't think it matters. At the crucial moment God was never there. Or it never seemed to make any difference whether he was or not. The innocent were tortured anyway. Girls were horsewhipped.”

“Nobody really believes,” Philips said. “If I really believed, I would sit in one place and pray, and neither eat nor drink until he took me. If I really believed, nothing else in the world would be of the slightest importance.”

“If I really believed, I wouldn't be afraid of dying,” Morrison said. “That would be nice.”

“You fear death?”

“Don't you?”

Philips was silent, and then said, “I cannot tell. I do know that to be without God and still not fear death is the hardest thing. It is easy to be brave when a happy ending is assured.”

Morrison looked again at the black face, and thought he saw wisdom. Then he thought it might be only bitterness, and mocked his own fancy; but Philips stood in placid repose, and resented nothing. Tired, perhaps dreamy. Morrison turned away, retreating from a rush of affection.

“The sun is gone,” Philips said. “Come along.”

Goray in a yellow shirt stumped the site like a gander, rocking from foot to foot as he marched briskly here and there. Serpa trailed behind him in a planter's hat, and bobbed at Goray's compliments. Morrison and Philips stood by in the grave solidarity of artists who must not laugh when dealers visit. Tall Boy, unemployed for the moment, inspected the official vehicle, a small air-conditioned sedan flying the national flag and emblazoned with seals, stickers, and departmental insignia. Its bored driver was masked by a newspaper.

“The disorder is astounding,” Goray said, slapping white dust from his trousers, “but I must assume that you know your business. You are ahead of schedule.”

“We are,” Morrison said. “We have good men and the best of materials.”

Serpa melted.

“How is the color?” Goray asked.

“So far so good. White as white.”

Serpa swooned.

“And when can you unwrap it?”

“Another couple of days. Give us three weeks and you can drive across it.”

“I should like that,” Goray said. “I shall be the first.”

Morrison and Philips did not correct him. On the arch stood Villem with a hose; the compressor thrummed, and rain hissed on burlap. The sun stood high, and Morrison was hungry.

“Let us walk across,” Goray said. “I shall lead you into the promised land. Come, Serpa.”

Serpa came; Morrison and Philips followed, and Tall Boy straggled after. Villem let them pass unsprinkled. Goray clambered out of the south abutment and trod Dulani's earth. He waddled downstream and looked across at the bridge of vines. “Ah yes. Ingenious. You might as well chop this away.”

“No,” Morrison said, louder than he had intended.

“Oh? And why not?” They all wanted to know. Philips bore a look of gentle, ironic wonder.

“As a favor to me,” Morrison said weakly. “Suppose my bridge falls down?”

Serpa groaned. Goray cackled, and Tall Boy guffawed. Only Philips was silent.

“Leave it for a while,” Morrison said. “It keeps me humble. Reminds me how much can be done with how little.”

“Fair enough!” Goray patted his shoulder. “A good thought. A thought for the day. Pride before a fall, and all that.”

“Native handicraft,” Philips said.

Goray looked up sharply. “There are people back here?”

“Not that I know of,” Philips said. “I was only spoofing.”

“Oh. Good. Look at that.” Goray flapped a hand to the west, to the long green slope, to the miles of forest and the distant hills. “I tell you. Some day we will be a rich country.”

You are already a rich country, Morrison wanted to say, but he knew it was not true. He felt rich himself. Richer than Goray and almost as rich as Philips. “I'm hungry,” he said. “Shall we go back?”

“Of course, of course,” Goray bustled. “You have been working all these hours.”

Philips caught his eye, and Morrison pinched away a possible smile. “It is very hot,” Philips said to Goray. “You want to be careful after the air-conditioning.”

“Yes. That is true. Well, well, follow me.”

And he led them back out of the promised land. Morrison seemed to remember, but was not sure, that Moses had died within sight of the promised land but had never set foot upon it. The memory depressed him.

Food, however, heartened him, and the sight of Goray gobbling it down beside the stream was a small cabaret in itself. Ramesh served them, and Jacob scurried in awe. This wet-eyed Hindu and his fawn of a bus boy, Morrison thought: feeding forty men three times a day from the world's oldest steam calliope. The new bus boy was called Percival, and was banished to the service of lower orders; not for him, upstart, was this august assemblage. Morrison could not remember which of King Arthur's men had begun as a scullion, but did not think it was Percival. And in what chapel of silver and napery, he wondered, from what ambassadorial plate, is Devoe lunching on this sunny day? I must write him. Dear Sir: and what have I to say? I broke bread today with a politician and a Portagee. Something has been happening to me but I am not sure what. Everyone speaks kindly of you. I would like to be appointed emperor of our office here and you can have the refund on my ticket.

He set down his mess kit with one wild throb of his—well, of his soul—that brought tears to his eyes.

Why not?
That
has been happening to me. He listened to his own heartbeat.

“Excuse me,” he said. He stepped to the river, almost breathless, and stripped, and plunged. He lay on his back in the water, squinting against a sky that was all sun. Well. Dear God. What a silly idea.

They stood at the car, and Morrison was accepting more effusions when Ramesh called, and trotted to them. “Forgive me,” Ramesh panted, and Morrison remembered that the man was over sixty. “Forgive me, but my radio has just told me that General Ros is once more in the Cabinet. I thought perhaps Mister Goray should know that before returning.”

“He should indeed,” Goray said pensively. “Oh ho. Oh ho. I thank you.”

“What does it mean?” Morrison asked.

“Mean? Mean? Who but Ros can tell? The question is, how it can be used. Whither now. However”—a fat black forefinger waggled—“it means the government is safe. If the government were in real danger he would sit by, outside, and hope to pick up the pieces. If he is of it, he stands or falls with it. So.” He rubbed his hands happily. “Good. Perhaps we can get some work done now. No more shooting in the streets.”

“Has there been much?”

“Once a week an incident. The trouble is that we cannot predict them. It is disconcerting. On a Monday morning it is very discouraging. And diplomats hector us at cocktail time. Well, well, well.”

“Then it was good news,” Ramesh said. “How fine.”

“A tick of the watch,” Philips said. To Morrison his eyes said, What are all these Caesars beside a good bridge? Morrison smiled sadly.

“Then I must get back,” Goray said. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“And I.” Serpa bowed.

“Bring a brass band next time,” Morrison said. “And a red ribbon to cut.”

“By all means,” Goray caroled. “And a photographer, and several pretty girls. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

And good-bye it was, after the inevitable round-robin of handclasps. But Goray had another last word; he poked his head out the rear window, and sunlight flashed from his glasses, and he said, “Do you know, Philips, some days I have the distinct impression that we are becoming a country. Any day now we will be expropriating American firms,” and he fizzed mischief at Morrison, and rolled up his window.

When the sedan was screened by its own dust, Morrison said, “Why go half way? Why not declare war on us?”

“That too,” Philips said cheerfully. “But one thing at a time. Come on. A dip. I am tired of dignitaries.”

“Dignitaries. Serpa?”

Philips laughed aloud, showing all his teeth, and Ramesh giggled. Morrison was immediately ashamed of himself.

Twice in September he went to the village, crossing his arch on a Sunday morning and proceeding alone over the hill, down that stunning yellow slope to the wall of trees, meeting Galani there. They have pulled back their sentries, he thought sadly; but he was sure that they had spied from the crest, and that stories were told before Dulani's hut. And that Bawi was aching from the effort to understand, to foresee. Bawi remained ebullient, always affable, clutching at new words, naming birds, shrubs, insects; presenting his Tami formally to more of his men and women. The women's names seemed to begin with vowels, and Morrison saw himself reading a monograph at a convention of pale anthropologists. That they eat slugs, gentlemen, must not be taken amiss. I notice escargots on today's menu. (Laughter.) Their rudimentary notions of marriage are evidence of sophistication; we are only now approaching their dispassionate flexibility, and I must tell you that my own marriages were rather rudimentary. (Laughter.) They share what they have. (Laughter.) They do not strike children. (Uproarious laughter.) They do not kill each other. (Unrestrained hilarity.) They have never fought a war, and have no word for nation. (Peal upon peal of convulsive merriment; the meeting stands adjourned.)

The girl who had served him was called Alalani, and served him again, and he understood—able to think now, and not merely to stare—why she had been absent that once. Plump and naked, she had blinded him, a primeval succubus; but when he greeted her, and she spoke, she became a woman, and he noticed a stray leaf clinging to her frizzy hair, a grain of sleep in her lashes, the goose-flesh of her nipples, a broken fingernail. He spoke to her with grave courtesy, and then Bawi led him away, to teach him how to fish. They tramped far upstream, and Bawi wove a basketlike net of green withes, and impaled a rubbery slug on one withe, and slung the net from the bank on two frail vines. Then they lay waiting. They lay waiting for an hour, and Morrison expressed impatience. Bawi grinned his jack-o'-lantern grin and said, “We go,” and hauled in the net. Morrison learned that it might take an hour to catch a fish, or a day. They were big fish, flat, three to five pounds he reckoned from Bawi's description. They were called perai, and they had teeth. They would not bother bathers in the absence of blood. At certain times women were not permitted to bathe. Morrison never saw a perai that day, but the fishing was restful. Later Bawi remembered that one of the men had lost two toes to a perai.

After his second visit that month he took Bawi to see the bridge. “No more men dere?”

“No more. Only Bawi and Tommy.” But Bawi approached the crest of the hogback with caution, and reconnoitered before descending. The supports were up, and part of the road in place; Morrison explained that they would now place the rest of the road, and erect railings, and then they would be finished and would go away.

“Dis side go what place?”

“No road this side,” Morrison said, uneasy at the unreasonable truth. “Maybe later.”

“Road come by Lani?”

“Maybe. You want to go on the bridge? To the other side?”

“No.”

“No other man there.”

“No.” Bawi chopped aimlessly with his machete. Morrison saw that he was sulking.

“Listen, Bawi. On the other side, no more bad man. No more Tami, like me. All men there like Bawi. They won't hurt you.”

“'Urt?”

“Make bad. No more make bad. No more boss Tami.” Morrison sweated; it had been a long, hot walk, and the sun was directly overhead. “Maybe later man like Bawi come to Lani. He bring good things. Knife. Medicine.”

“Messin?”

“Man sick, medicine make him good.”

Bawi shrugged.

Oh hell, Morrison thought. Maybe he's right. What do they need? Nothing. What will they get? Television.

The bridge was white and solid, comforting. “Bawi,” he said, “it's all right. I tell you. It's all right.”

Bawi frowned, and tried to grin, and said, “No. Vairy fuckin bad.”

Morrison laughed, and said again. “No. Listen: I come again. Seven days. Talk more.”

“Good. Tami come.” He glanced up suddenly, and pointed, and said excitedly, “Look look!”

Morrison saw nothing: the hills to the east, the forest, the sky. “Look at what?”

“Rain come.”

Morrison looked again, and saw a wisp of gray cloud miles off, fragile and solitary. “Rain?” He laughed. “Not much rain.”

“Rain come.” Thirty fingers.

No bigger than a man's hand, Morrison thought.

Ramesh heard him with some wonder and more delight.

“Take this,” Morrison said, “and buy five cases of rum, which will be a bottle for each man with some left over. When you pay them off, give them each a bottle with my thanks.”