It was getting cold and the night was clear and there was the smell of the roasting meat, the smell of the smoke of the fire, the smell of my boots steaming, and, where he squatted close, the smell of the good old Wanderobo-Masai. But I could remember the odour of the kudu as he lay in the woods.
Each man had his own meat or collection of pieces of meat on sticks stuck around the fire, they turned them and tended them, and there was much talking. Two others that I had not seen had come over from the huts and the boy we had seen in the afternoon was with them. I was eating a piece of hot broiled liver I had lifted from one of the sticks of the Wanderobo-Masai and wondering where the kidneys were. The liver was delicious. I was wondering whether it was worth while getting up to get the dictionary to ask about the kidneys when M’Cola said, ‘Beer?’
‘All right.’
He brought the bottle, opened it, and I lifted it and drank half of it off to chase down that liver. ‘It’s a hell of a life,’ I told him in English. He grinned and said, ‘More beer?’ in Swahili. My talking English to him was an acceptable joke. ‘Watch,’ I said, and tipped the bottle up and let it all go down. It was an old trick we learned in Spain drinking out of wine skins without swallowing. This impressed the Roman greatly. He came over, squatted down by the raincoat and started to talk. He talked for a long time.
‘Absolutely,’ I told him in English. ‘And furthermore he can take the sleigh.’
‘More beer?’ M’Cola asked.
‘You want to see the old man tight, I suppose?’
‘N’Dio,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ pretending to understand the English.
‘Watch it, Roman.’ I started to let the beer go down, saw the Roman following the motion with his own throat, started to choke, barely recovered, and lowered the bottle.
‘That’s all. Can’t do it more than twice in an evening. Makes you liverish.’
The Roman went on talking in his language. I heard him say Simba twice.
‘Simba here?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Over there,’ waving at the dark, and I could not make out the story. But it sounded very good.
‘Me plenty Simba,’ I said. ‘Hell of a man with Simba. Ask M’Cola.’ I could feel that I was getting the evening braggies but Pop and P.O.M, weren’t here to listen. It was not nearly so satisfactory to brag when you could not be understood, still it was better than nothing. I definitely had the braggies, on beer, too.
‘Amazing,’ I told the Roman. He went on with his own story. There was a little beer in the bottom of the bottle.
‘Old Man,’ I said. ‘Mzee.’
‘Yes, B’wana,’ said the old man.
‘Here’s some beer for you. You’re old enough, so it can’t hurt you.’
I had seen the old man’s eyes while he watched me drink and I knew he was another of the same. He took the bottle, drained it to the last bit of froth and crouched by his meat sticks holding the bottle lovingly.
‘More beer?’ asked M’Cola.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And my cartridges.’
The Roman had gone on steadily talking. He could tell a longer story even than Carlos in Cuba.
‘That’s mighty interesting,’ I told him. ‘You’re a hell of a fellow, too. We’re both good. Listen.’ M’Cola had brought the beer and my khaki coat with the cartridges in the pocket. I drank a little beer, noted the old man watching and spread out six cartridges. ‘I’ve got the braggies,’ I said.
‘You have to stand for this, look!’ I touched each of the cartridges in turn, ‘Simba, Simba, Faro, Nyati, Tendalla, Tendalla. What do you think of that? You don’t have to believe it. Look, M’Cola!’ and I named the six cartridges again. ‘Lion, lion, rhino, buffalo, kudu, kudu.’
‘Ayee!’ said the Roman excitedly.
‘N’Dio,’ said M’Cola solemnly. ‘Yes, it is true.’
‘Ayee!’ said the Roman and grabbed me by the thumb.
‘God’s truth,’ I said. ‘Highly improbable, isn’t it?’
‘N’Dio,’ said M’Cola, counting them over himself. ‘Simba, Simba, Faro, Nyati, Tendalla, Tendalla!’
‘You can tell the others,’ I said in English. ‘That’s a hell of a big piece of bragging. That’ll hold me for to-night.’
The Roman went on talking to me again and I listened carefully and ate another piece of the broiled liver. M’Cola was working on the heads now, skinning out one skull and showing Kamau how to skin out the easy part of the other. It was a big job to do for the two of them, working carefully around the eyes and the muzzle and the cartilage of the ears, and afterwards flesh all of the head skins so they would not spoil, and they were working at it very delicately and carefully in the firelight. I do not remember going to bed, nor if we went to bed.
I remember getting the dictionary and asking M’Cola to ask the boy if he had a sister and M’Cola saying, ‘No, No’, to me very firmly and solemnly.
‘Nothing tendacious, you understand. Curiosity.’
M’Cola was firm. ‘No,’ he said and shook his head. ‘Hapana,’ in the same tone he used when we followed the lion into the sanseviera that time.
That disposed of the opportunities for social life and I looked up kidneys and the Roman’s brother produced some from his lot and I put a piece between two pieces of liver on a stick and started it broiling.
‘Make an admirable breakfast,’ I said out loud. ‘Much better than mincemeat.’
Then we had a long talk about sable. The Roman did not call them Tarahalla and that name meant nothing to him. There was some confusion about buffalo because the Roman kept saying ‘nyati’, but he meant they were black like the buff. Then we drew pictures in the dust of ashes from the fire and what he meant were sable all right. The horns curved back like scimitars, way back over their withers.
‘Bulls?’ I said.
‘Bulls and cows.’
With the old man and Garrick interpreting, I believed I made out that there were two herds.
‘To-morrow.’
‘Yes,’ the Roman said. ‘To-morrow.’
‘M’Cola,’ I said. ‘To-day, kudu. To-morrow, sable, buffalo, Simba.’
‘Hapana, buffalo!’ he said and shook his head. ‘Hapana, Simba!’
‘Me and the Wanderobo-Masai buffalo,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ said the Wanderobo-Masai excitedly. ‘Yes.’
‘There are very big elephants near here,’ Garrick said. ‘To-morrow, elephants,’ I said, teasing M’Cola. ‘Hapana elephants!’ He knew it was teasing but he did not even want to hear it said.
‘Elephants,’ I said. ‘Buffalo, Simba, leopard.’
The Wanderobo-Masai was nodding excitedly. ‘Rhino,’ he put in.
‘Hapana!’ M’Cola said shaking his head. He was beginning to suffer.
‘In those hills many buffalo,’ the old man interpreted for the now very excited Roman who was standing and pointing beyond where the huts were.
‘Hapana! Hapana! Hapana!’ M’Cola said definitely and finally. ‘More beer?’ putting down his knife.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m just kidding you.’ M’Cola was crouched, close talking, making an explanation. I heard Pop’s title and I thought it was that Pop would not like it. That Pop would not want it.
‘I was just kidding you,’ I said in English. Then in Swahili,
‘To-morrow, sable?’
‘Yes,’ he said feelingly. ‘Yes.’
After that the Roman and I had a long talk in which I spoke Spanish and he spoke whatever it was he spoke and I believe we planned the entire campaign for the next day.
CHAPTER TWO
I do not remember going to bed nor getting up, only being by the fire in the grey before daylight, with a tin cup of hot tea in my hand and my breakfast, on the stick, not looking nearly so admirable and very over-blown with ashes. The Roman was standing making an oration with gestures in the direction where the light was beginning to show and I remember wondering if the bastard had talked all night.
The head skins were all spread and neatly salted and the skulls with the horns were leaning against the log and stick house. M’Cola was folding the head skins. Kamau brought me the tins and I told him to open one of fruit. It was cold from the night and the mixed fruit and the cold syrupy juice sucked down smoothly. I drank another cup of tea, went in the tent, dressed, put on my dry boots and we were ready to start. The Roman had said we would be back before lunch.
We had the Roman’s brother as guide. The Roman was going, as near as I could make out, to spy on one of the herds of sable and we were going to locate the other. We started out with the brother ahead, wearing a toga and carrying a spear, then me with the Springfield slung and my small Zeiss glasses in my pocket, then M’Cola with Pop’s glasses, slung on one side, water canteen on the other, skinning knife, whetstone, extra box of cartridges, and cakes of chocolates in his pockets, and the big gun over his shoulder, then the old man with the Graflex, Garrick with the movie camera, and the Wanderobo-Masai with a spear and bow and arrows.
We said good-bye to the Roman and started out of the thorn-bush fence just as the sun
