Then the last pair of throws, and the catch was completed. Each tucked the skull under his arm, like a fencer’s mask; each bowed. A tremendous noise followed, and again the crimson flags and rags erupted.
The king was breathing hard as he returned, with that Francis I hat, as Titian might have painted it. He sat down. When he did so, the wives surrounded him with a sheet so that he might not be seen drinking in public. This was taboo. Then they dried his sweat and massaged the muscles of his great legs and his panting belly, loosening the golden drawstring of his purple trousers. I wished to tell him how great he had been. I was dying to say what I felt. Like, “Oh, King, that was royally done. Like a true artist. God-dammit, an artist! King, I love nobility and beautiful behavior.” But I couldn’t say a thing. I have this brutal reticence of character. Such is the slavery of the times. We are supposed to be cool-mouthed. As I told my son Edward—slavery! And he thought I was a square when I said I loved the truth. Oh, that hurt! Anyway, I often want to say things and they stay in my mind. Therefore they don’t actually exist; you can’t take credit for them if they never emerge. By mentioning the firmament, the king himself had shown me the way, and I might have told him a lot, right then and there. What? Well, for instance, that chaos doesn’t run the whole show. That this is not a sick and hasty ride, helpless, through a dream into oblivion. No, sir! It can be arrested by a thing or two. By art, for instance. The speed is checked, the time is redivided. Measure! That great thought. Mystery! The voices of angels! Why the hell else did I play the fiddle? And why were my bones molten in those great cathedrals of France so that I couldn’t stand it and had to booze up and swear at Lily? And I was thinking that if I spoke of this to the king and told him what was in my heart he might become my friend. But the wives were between us with their naked thighs, and their behinds turned toward me, which would have been the height of discourtesy except that they were wild savages. So I had no chance to speak to the king under those inspired conditions. A few minutes later, when I was able again to talk to him, I said, “King, I had a feeling that if either of you missed, the consequences would not be pretty.”
Before he answered he moistened his lips, and his chest still moved quickly. “I can explain to you, Mr. Henderson, why the factor of missing is negligible.” His teeth shone toward me and the panting made him seem to smile, though there was nothing to smile about. “Some day the ribbons will be tied through here.” With two fingers he pointed to his eyes. “My own skull will get the air.” He made a gesture of soaring, and said, “Flying.”
I said, “Were those the skulls of kings? Relatives of yours?” I didn’t have the nerve to ask a direct question about his kinship with those heads. At the thought of making a similar catch, the flesh of my hands pricked and tingled.
But there was no time to go into this. Too much was happening. Now the cattle sacrifices were made, and they were done pretty much without ceremony. A priest with ostrich feathers that sprayed out in every direction threw his arm about the neck of a cow, caught the muzzle, raised her head, and slit her throat as if striking a match on the seat of his pants. She fell to the ground and died. Nobody took much notice.
XIII
After this came tribal dances and routines that were strictly like vaudeville. An old woman wrestled with a dwarf, only the dwarf lost his temper and tried to hurt her, and she stopped and scolded. One of the amazons entered the field and picked up the tiny man; with a swinging stride she carried him away under her arm. Cheers and handclapping came from the grandstands. Next there was another performance of an unserious nature. Two guys swung at each other’s legs with whips, skipping into the air. Such Roman holiday high jinks were not reassuring to me. I was very nervous. I billowed with nervous feeling and a foreboding of coming abominations. Naturally I couldn’t ask Dahfu for a preview. He was breathing deeply and watched with impervious calm.
Finally I said, “In spite of all these operations, the sun is still shining, and there aren’t any clouds. I even doubt whether the humidity has increased, though it feels very close.”
The king answered me, “Your observation is true, to all appearance. I do not contest you, Mr. Henderson. Nevertheless, I have seen all expectation defied and rain come on days like this. Yes, precisely.”
I gave him a squinting, intense look. There was much meaning condensed into this, and I will not try to dilute it for you now. Maybe a certain amount of overweening crept in. But what it mostly expressed was, “Let us not kid each other, Your Royal H. Do you think it’s so easy to get what you want from Nature? Ha, ha! I never have got what I asked for.” Actually what I said was, “I would almost be willing to make you a bet, King.”
I didn’t expect the king to take me up so quickly on this. “Oh? Nice. Do you want to propose me a wager, Mr. Henderson?”
I found that my heart was hungry after provocation on this issue. I got involved. Something fierce. And naturally against reason. And I said, “Oh, sure, if you want to bet, I’ll bet.”
“I agree,” said the king, with a smiling look, but stubbornly, too.
“Why, King Dahfu, Prince Itelo said you were interested in science.”
“Did he tell you,” said the guy with evident pleasure, “did he say that I was in attendance at medical school?”
“No!”
“A true fact. I did two years of the course.”
“You didn’t! You don’t know how relevant that is, as a piece of information. But in that case, what sort of a bet are we making? You are just humoring me. You know, Your Highness, my wife Lily subscribes to the Scientific American, and so I am in on the rain problem. The technique of seeding the clouds with dry ice hasn’t worked out well. Some recent ideas are that, first of all, the rain comes from showers of dust which arrive from outer space. When that dust hits the atmosphere it does something. The other theory which appeals more to me is that the salt spray of the ocean, the sea foam in other words, is one of the main ingredients of rain. Moisture takes and condenses on these crystals carried in the air, as it has to have something to condense on. So, it’s a real wowzer, Your Highness. If there were no sea foam, there would be no rain, and if there were no rain there would be no life. How would all the wise guys like that? If the ocean didn’t have this peculiar form of beauty the land would be bare.” With increasing intimacy, as if confidentially, I laughed and said, “Your Majesty, you have no idea how the whole thing tickles me. Life comes from the cream of the seas. We used to sing a song in school, ‘O Marianina. Come O come and turn us into foam.’ “I sang for him a little, sotto voce, almost. He liked it; I could tell.
“You do not have a common run of a voice,” he said, smiling and gay. I was beginning to feel that the fellow liked me. “And the information is fascinating indeed.”
“Ha, I’m glad you see it that way. Boy! That’s something, isn’t it? But I guess this puts an end to our bet.”
“Not of the very least. Just the same, we shall bet.”
“Well, King Dahfu, I have opened my big mouth. Allow me to take back what I said about the rain. I am prepared to eat crow. Naturally, as the king you have to back the rain ceremony. So I apologize. So why don’t you just say, ‘Nuts to you, Henderson,’ and forget it?”
“Oh, by no means. No basis for that. We shall bet, and why not?” He spoke with such finality that I had no out to take.
“Okay, Your Highness, have it your way.”
“Word of honor. What shall we bet?” he said.
“Anything you want.”
“Very good. Whatever I want.”
“This is unfair of me. I have to give you good odds,” I said. He waved his hand, on which there was a large red jewel. His body had sunk back into the hammock, for he sat and lay by turns. I could see that it pleased him to gamble; he had the character of a betting man. Anyway, my eyes were on this ring of his, a huge garnet set in thick gold and encircled by smaller stones, and he said, “Does the ring appeal?”
“It’s pretty nice,” I said,
meaning that I was reluctant to specify any object.
“What are you betting?”
“I’ve got cash money on me, but I don’t suppose that would interest you. I have a pretty good Rolleiflex in my kit. Not that I’ve taken any pictures except by accident. I’ve been too busy out here in Africa. Then there is my gun, an H and H Magnum .375 with telescopic sights.”
“I do not foresee how it would be usable if won.”
“At home I’ve got some objects I would be glad to put up,” I said. “I’ve got some beautiful Tamworth pigs left.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“I can see you’re not interested.”
“It would be fitting to bet something personal,” he said.
“Oh, yes. The ring is personal. I get it. If I could detach my troubles I’d put them up. They’re personal. Ho, ho. Only I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. Well, let’s see, what do I have that you might use; what have I got that would go with being a king? Carpets? I’ve got a nice one in my studio. Then there’s a velvet dressing gown that might look good on you. There’s even a Guarnerius violin. But hey! I’ve got it—paintings. There’s one of me and one of my wife. They’re oils.”
At this moment I wasn’t sure that he heard me, but he said, “You should not assume at all that you have a sure thing.”
Then I said, “So? What if I lose?”
“It will be interesting.”
This made me begin to worry.
“Well, it is settled. We may match ring against oil portraits. Or let us say that if I win you will remain a guest of mine, a length of time.”
“Okay. But how long?”
“Oh, it is too theoretical,” he said, looking away. “Let us leave it an open consideration for the moment.”
This arrangement made, we both looked upward. The sky was a bald, pale blue and rested on the mountains, windless. I figured that this king must have a lot of delicacy. He wanted to make it up to me for the corpse last night and also to indicate that he would appreciate it if I would visit with him for a while. The discussion ended with the king making a florid African gesture, as if peeling off his gloves or rehearsing the surrender of the ring. I sweated hugely, but my body was not cooled. To try to assuage the heat, I held my mouth open.
Then I said, “Haw, haw! Your Majesty, this is a screwy bet.”
At this moment came furious or quarrelsome shouts, and I thought, “Ha, the light part of the ceremony is over.” Several men in black plumes, like beggarly bird men—the rusty feathers hung to their shoulders—began to lift the covers from the gods. Disrespectfully, they pulled them away. This irreverence was no accident, if you get what I mean. It was done to raise a laugh, and it did exactly that. These bird or plume characters, encouraged by the laughter, started to perform burlesque antics; they stepped on the feet of the statues, and bowled some of the smaller ones over and made passes at them, mockeries, and so on. The dwarf was set on the knees of one goddess and he rocked the crowd with laughter by pulling his lower lids down and sticking out his tongue, making like a wrinkled lunatic. The family of gods, all quite short in the legs and long in the trunk, was very tolerant about these abuses. Most of them had disproportionate, small faces set on tall necks. All in all, they didn’t look like a stern bunch. Just the same they had dignity—mystery; they were after all the gods, and they made the awards of fate. They ruled the air, the mountains, fire, plants, cattle, luck, sickness, clouds, birth, death. Damn it, even the squattest, kicked over onto his belly, ruled over something. The attitude of the tribe seemed to be that it was necessary to come to the gods with their vices on display, as nothing could be concealed from them anyway by ephemeral men. I grasped the idea, but basically I thought it was a big mistake. I wanted to say to the king, “You mean to tell me all this bad blood is necessary?” Also I marveled that such a man should be king over a gang like this. He took it all pretty calmly, however.
By and by they began to move the whole pantheon. Bodily. They started with the smaller gods, whom they handled very roughly and with a lot of wickedness. They let them fall or rolled them around, scolding them as if they were clumsy. Hell! I thought. To me it seemed like a pretty cheap way to behave, although I could see, to be objective about it, plenty of grounds for resentment against the gods. But anyway I didn’t care one bit for this. Grumbling, I sat under the shell of my helmet and tried to appear as if it was none of my business.
When this crew of ravens came to the larger statues, they tugged and pulled but couldn’t manage and had to call for help from the crowd. One strong man after another jumped into the arena to pick up an idol, toting it from the original position to, let’s say, short center field, while cheers and rooting came from the stands. From the stature and muscular development of the champions who moved the larger idols I gathered that this display of strength was a traditional part of the ceremony. Some approached the bigger gods from behind and clasped arms about their middles, some backed up to them like men unloading flour from the tailgate of a truck and hauled them on their shoulders. One gave a twist to the arms of a figure as I had done to the corpse last night. Seeing my own technique applied, I gave a gasp.
“What is it, Mr. Henderson?” said the king.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” I said.
The group of gods remaining grew small. The strong men had carted them away, almost all of them. The last of these fellows were superb specimens, and I have a good eye for the points of strong men. During a certain period of my life I took quite an interest in weight-lifting and used to train on the barbells. As everyone knows, the development of the thighs counts heavily. I tried to get my son Edward interested; there might have been no Maria Felucca if I had been able to influence him to build his muscles. Although, when all that is said and done, I have grown this portly front and the other strange distortions that attend all the larger individuals of a species. (Like those mammoth Alaska strawberries.) Oh, my body, my body! Why have we never really got together as friends? I have loaded it with my vices, like a raft, like a barge. Oh, who shall deliver me from the body of this death? Anyway, from these distortions owing to my scale and the work performed by my psyche. And sometimes a voice has counseled me, crazily, “Scorch the earth. Why should a good man die? Let it be some blasted fool who is dumped in the grave.” What wickedness! What perversity! Alas, what things go on within a person!
However—I was more and more intensely a spectator—when there were only two gods left, the two biggest (Hummat the mountain god and Mummah the goddess of clouds) there were several strong men who came out and failed. Yes, they flunked. They couldn’t stir this Hummat, who had whiskers like a catfish and spines all over his forehead, plus a pair of boulder-like shoulders. After several of them had quit on the job and been hooted and jeered, a fellow came forward wearing a red fez and a kind of jaunty jockstrap of oilcloth. He walked quickly, swinging his open hands, this man who was going to pick up Hummat, and prostrated himself before the god—the first devotional attitude yet shown. Then he went round to the back of the statue and inserted his head under one of its arms. A small taut beard glittered about his round face. He spread his legs, feeling for position with sensitive feet, patting the dust. After this he wiped his hands on his own knees and took hold of Hummat, grasping him by the arm and from beneath in the fork. With huge, set eyes, which became humid from the static effort, he began to lift the great Hummat. From his mouth, distended until the jaws blended with the collar bones, the sinews set in like the thin spokes of a bicycle, and his hip muscles formed large knots at the groin, swelling beside the soiled pants of oilcloth. This was a good man, and I appreciated him. He was my own type. You put a burden in front of him and he clasped it, he threw his chest into it, he lifted, he went to the limit of his strength. “That’s the ticket,” I said. “Get your back muscles going.” As everyone else was cheering, except Dahfu, I got up also and began to yell, “Yay, yaay for you! You got him. You’ll do it. You’re husky enough. Push—that’s it! Now
up! Yay, he’s doing it. He’s going to crack it. Oh, God bless the guy. What a sweetheart! That’s a real man—that’s the type I love. Go on. Heave-ho. Wow! There he goes. He did it. Ah, thank God!” Then I realized how I had been shouting and I sat down again beside the king, wondering at my own fervor.