Dark Memory Read online

  “Old Cable,” Bill said.

  “Simba Cable,” Jay said. “Our boss and our pal.”

  The woman had been using a flashlight in the station wagon. She turned it off. They could not see the station wagon at all. Jay wondered what she wanted with Professor Huntley. Both lions roared again. They were moving closer to camp. Now the fire was nearly out. There were only a few coals left and, under a log, a small flame.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Jay said.

  “Yes. It’s eight o’clock.”

  Jay put wood on the fire and followed Bill to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He did not think Bill was sleeping, either. The lions made a lot of noise. He tried hard not to think, but it was no use. The woman’s husky voice, so much like Linda’s, brought back all the old memories. He thought of the first time he had seen Linda, at the Prince’s on Long Island that summer, and of how she had looked with her lovely skin tan from swimming. He thought of dancing with her that night, and of all the nights later in New York and in Quebec and of the wonderful nights in the house on the ocean near Miami. He lay on the cot, and presently he began to cry. It was a damn fool thing to do, but he couldn’t help it. He did not know how long it was before he got to sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  WHEN JAY WENT OUT in the morning the mist was already lifting. It had been on the clearing all night, and everything was still wet from it. Jay could smell coffee. There was a dry rectangle on the road where the Ford station wagon had stood. The woman had gone. Lew Cable and Mr. Palmer were busy loading the first Citroën with the Somali boys. Jay walked over to them, feeling the light mist on his face.

  “You’re late,” Cable said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Where’s the other Scout?”

  “He’s getting up.”

  Cable looked very healthy. His face had a fine color and his blue eyes were clear. He had shaved, probably because of the woman. He looked very big and hearty and vital. “Can you make the base camp this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Breakfast’s by the fire,” Mr. Palmer said.

  The cook had left oatmeal, fish cakes and toast. The toast was cold, but it tasted fine dipped in coffee. In a while the first Citroën left, with Cable driving. Jay could hear the motor for a long time after the truck was out of sight. He was glad to see it go. Or, more exactly, he was glad to see Cable go. Bill joined him by the fire.

  “How’d you sleep?” Jay asked.

  “Lousy. I’ve a hell of a headache.”

  “Better take some quinine.”

  “It isn’t fever.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Those damn lions.”

  “They did make a hell of a noise,” Jay said.

  After breakfast they put their cots and blankets in the back of the truck. Next they took down the tent, their hands leaving dark prints on the wet canvas. They put out the fire with earth and got in the Citroën. Jay had trouble starting it. The motor would catch with a roar, then choke, cough, gasp and die. Finally it started.

  “A touch of asthma,” Bill said.

  At first Jay had to drive slowly, but by midmorning the mist had gone. Then it was beautiful on the good Belgian road. The country was vivid; there was no fog anywhere, and the mountains looked as though they had been painted on the sky. Close they were brown and green, further much paler, the greens and the browns blending, and in the distance they became so pale they merged with the sky. The road wound as it crossed the brown hills, at times zigzagging into ravines crowded with undergrowth. Above the mountains the sky was French blue, and when the Citroën was high they could see in some of the hollows the silver of sunlight on water. The air was so cold it hurt to take a deep breath.

  They drove all morning, making good time, but at noon the truck broke down. The engine refused to take gas near the rounded crest of a hill. Jay pulled to the side of the road and set the hand brake.

  “Carburetor,” he announced.

  “Fix it,” Bill said. “I’ll get lunch.”

  The carburetor was choked with red mud. Jay cleaned it, then sat beside Bill on the running board. They had beer, sausage and bread for lunch. It was warm in the sun.

  “This is fine, comrade,” Bill said.

  “I should have filtered the gasoline.”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” Bill said, tearing off a piece of sausage. “After today we walk.”

  “Walk where?” Jay asked.

  Bill pointed with a piece of sausage to the pale blue-green mountains that rose above the hills ahead. “Right into the heart of those babies.”

  The mountains shimmered in the thin sun-warmed air. They went back as far as Jay could see, back to cotton-white piles of clouds on the horizon. He supposed that was where the gorillas were. It was fine country. It was all forests and hills and ravines and mountains, and it was difficult to remember there were plains anywhere. The only clear places were on the sides of the round foothills. Brown grass, like coarse pasture, grew from the road to the top of the closest hill where, silhouetted against the sky, was a twisted tree. Jay saw two vultures above the tree, floating on the uprush of wind from the hill. They were watching the tree.

  “They’ve got something,” Bill said.

  “They don’t want to land, though.”

  “It’s probably still alive,” Bill said.

  The vultures wheeled over the tree, rocking in the uneven air. Jay wondered if some animal was dying on the hill.

  “Let’s go up and look,” he said.

  “Too much work,” Bill said. “You go. I’ll finish the beer.”

  Jay walked directly up towards the tree, going through the brown grass. The breeze on the hill was cool. Now three vultures were soaring above the tree. There were others coming. He altered his direction so as not to come too suddenly upon whatever it was the birds were watching. When he came to the brow of the hill he could see all of the tree. Under it, not more than fifty yards away, watching him with golden eyes, was a lion. He was lying with his paws thrust out in front of him. The trunk of the tree, split two feet above the ground into two lesser trunks, cast a shadow across his back. He was a big lion, with a fine brown mane and a yellow head. Back of him, in the sunlight, was the partially eaten body of an antelope.

  Jay went back to the truck. He was very excited. He got the Springfield out of the truck and found a box of solids. He started to load the rifle.

  “What is it?” Bill asked.

  “A lion.”

  “A lion? Up there?”

  “Yes. Get the other gun and come on.”

  “You’re crazy,” Bill said. “You don’t want to shoot a lion. What if he charges?”

  “We’ll plug him. Come on.”

  “You’re absolutely crazy.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I don’t want any part of a lion.”

  “You don’t have to shoot. Just back me up in case I don’t get him.”

  “Why do you want to get him?”

  “Are you afraid?”

  Bill’s lips were white. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do know,” Jay said. “And I know.”

  He left Bill standing by the truck and climbed the hill, quite angry at Bill, but now thinking mostly of the lion. He climbed slowly so he would not be out of breath when he got to the top. This time he went a little further from the tree, climbing until he could see where the trunk was split. The lion had gone. He had gone off across the field to a swale of tall grass by the second-growth timber. He was hiding in the tall grass.

  The vultures were on the body of the antelope. As he came up they rose in heavy flight. There was a rank odor under the tree, and he could see flattened grass where the lion had slept. He looked at the scrub timber and the orchard brush beyond the field, but he could not see the lion. He felt at once relieved and disappointed. He was not at all sure how it would have turned out. He might have lost his head, fired
wildly at the charging lion and failed to stop him. And still, if the lion had been there, he thought, he would have found out about himself, definitely and for all time. That was why he had come back up the hill.

  The vultures returned to the antelope. They ate jerkily, ripping ribbons of flesh from the body and bolting the meat. They made a noise when they ate, almost like the sound of smacking lips. Two of the birds began a tug of war with a chunk of meat torn from the flank. More vultures were settling on the carcass. Jay turned and saw Bill behind him on the hill. He had Mr. Palmer’s big gun.

  “Where is he?” Bill asked.

  “Gone.”

  They walked back to the truck. Jay put the guns away. Bill packed the sausage and bread left from lunch. They got in the truck and Jay started the motor. It ran beautifully. The carburetor was what had been wrong with it. They went up the hill in low gear.

  “I’m sorry I was such a bastard,” Jay said.

  “You weren’t.”

  “I got excited.”

  “Sure,” Bill said. “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t all right, Jay knew. You couldn’t call somebody yellow and then say you were sorry and have everything all right again. He felt very bad.

  They made eighteen kilometers in the next hour. Then they came to a series of higher hills, some so steep Jay had to put the Citroën in third gear. On these hills there was much bamboo, the stalks rising from a tangle of undergrowth. The clouds had gone up from the horizon and when one went before the sun it was cold. The air had a new smell, sharp and clean, like the smell of an ultraviolet lamp. The warmth of the engine was good. Jay thought he had better try to explain why he had been so excited.

  “A lion gives you a damn funny feeling,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “I had to take a shot at it. I couldn’t think of anything else. I had to see if I had the guts.”

  “You’ve got ’em,” Bill said.

  “I don’t know,” Jay said. “I don’t know yet.”

  The next hill was a high one. They were a long time climbing it, but when they reached the top they could see Lake Kivu back of the foothills. Everywhere else they could see mountains. The closer mountains were cutout-looking, a greenish brown in color, but the further mountains were diffused by mist. The water of Lake Kivu looked black. They could see smoke over the crater of Chaninagonga, and snow on another peak in the group.

  “If you’d seen the lion,” Jay said, “you’d have wondered if you had the guts, too.”

  “I wondered, all right.”

  “No. Not without seeing it.”

  Bill asked, “Why do you think I didn’t sleep last night?”

  In the late afternoon all the mountains became purple in the mist. Their outlines blurred and Jay was able to tell where they were only by the darker color they gave the mist. The road descended to a region of rolling hills and there was open land with tufts of green grass growing on it. There were still many clumps of the second-growth timber. The road was fairly level here, and it was easier driving.

  “Don’t be sore, Bill.”

  “I’m not sore at all.”

  “Good.”

  “Why should I be sore?” Bill asked. “You knew why I didn’t come. You were right. I was yellow.”

  “You did come.”

  “Yes, but too late.”

  “Next time you’ll be there.”

  “Maybe,” Bill said. “But I was yellow this time.”

  It became dark and cold. Jay stopped the truck and they put on sweaters. Then they went on. It was cold even with sweaters. Jay thought about Bill. He had lived with him for seven years, in college and out. Bill was his best friend. Bill had got the job on the expedition for him. So he had to call him yellow. Maybe not in words, but certainly by inference. That was a really swell thing to do. He had been excited. He didn’t really think Bill was yellow. He had asked Bill to come out and possibly be killed by a lion. And Bill had refused. Why shouldn’t he refuse? Anybody had a right to refuse to be killed by a lion. And he had called him yellow. That was the kind of bastard he was.

  The road forked and their headlights picked up a stick with a handkerchief tied to it. Their lights caught the white linen of the handkerchief. They stopped and found a note from Cable. It read:

  Take the left fork. Six miles. Why the hell can’t you keep up?

  LEWIS CABLE.

  Jay tore up the note and they got back in the car. “I’m glad he signed his full name,” Bill said. “We can be sure it’s genuine.”

  “He forgot the great seal of the museum.”

  “Yes,” Bill said. “We must remind him. The great seal on further communications.”

  The road to the left dropped steadily, running through a forest that crowded the Citroën. Trees and tangled underbrush made walls on both sides of the road. It was the wildest country they had seen. The road looked like a wagon track through the forest.

  “This is more like Africa,” Bill said.

  He seemed friendly enough, Jay thought. Maybe he understood what had happened. He hoped so. He concentrated on driving. The road was very narrow. He could smell the forest. The headlights caught the eyes of birds, and Jay heard quite often the soft sound of wings. Once a small animal ran across the road in front of the truck, its eyes red. It looked like a cat. Then Jay saw the campfires, and next the other truck and the touring car the professor had, then the clearing with the two tents and the black boys and the cook’s stove with the cook bending over it. It was like coming home.

  Mr. Palmer was sitting by one fire, drinking whisky and water. “Beginning to wonder about you,” he said.

  “The truck broke down,” Jay explained.

  “Imagined so. Have a spot?”

  “Yes. Where’s the professor?”

  Mr. Palmer poured them drinks. “Gone ahead with Cable. We’re to join them tomorrow.”

  “What time did they leave?” Bill asked.

  “About two.”

  “God!” Jay said. “You got here then? Cable must have driven like hell.”

  “He’s a wonderful driver,” Mr. Palmer said. “I was frightened every minute.”

  They had chicken and peas and canned plum pudding for dinner. Mulu, Mr. Palmer’s gunbearer, had bought the chicken at a village six kilometers further along the road. Jay wondered if chicken was going to be a part of every dinner in Africa. He hoped not. To hell with an expedition that gave you chicken with every dinner. Especially chicken that was like gutta-percha. Bill was talking to Mr. Palmer about the woman in the station wagon.

  “She saw the professor,” said Mr. Palmer. “Then went to Bukavu.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Didn’t hear.” Mr. Palmer took a helping of the plum pudding. “Imagine, though, she’d like to join us in the Ituri.”

  “What for?”

  “Heard somewhere her husband was lost there.”

  “That’s pretty romantic,” Bill said. “How long has he been lost?”

  “Don’t know. All pretty vague. Not even sure if it was her husband.”

  “I hope she’s young,” Bill said.

  “Oh, quite. And very beautiful.”

  After dinner the Totos cleared the table. Mr. Palmer grunted, leaned back in his camp chair and lit his pipe. It was quiet in the clearing. Above the irregular black line of the trees they could see stars and the long path of light that was the Milky Way. One of the two Somali boys, Toto Major, Mr. Palmer called him, put wood on the fire. The heat felt good. The tobacco burning in Mr. Palmer’s pipe was sweet.

  “We nearly got a lion today,” Bill said.

  “Really?”

  Bill told him about it.

  “Wouldn’t do that again,” Mr. Palmer told Jay. “They can be very nasty. Do you shoot?”

  “I’ve shot sheep in Lower California.”

  “Lions are considerably more dangerous, you know.”

  “I got so excited I forgot.”

  “And I got scared,
” Bill said.

  Mr. Palmer looked at him. “Everyone does.”

  “I suppose,” Bill said. “At least until you’ve shot one.”

  “Even then. Only a bloody fool will tell you he isn’t scared. Or a liar.”

  “But it’s better after you’ve shot one, isn’t it?” Bill asked.

  “You feel better about yourself.”

  “I got so damned scared,” Bill said.

  The boys had gone to bed under the first truck. The quiet air had a feeling of frost in it, like the air in a meat storage vault. The fire did not give off much heat. Bill said good night and went to bed. Mr. Palmer stayed to finish his pipe.

  “Must be careful with lions,” he told Jay.

  “I will.”

  “If you miss a sheep, you know, you simply miss him. But if a lion elects you, and you miss him, he kills you.”

  “There is a difference,” Jay admitted.

  “Shouldn’t like to lose you,” Mr. Palmer said, smiling. “Very bad for my reputation.”

  “Bad for my reputation, too.”

  Mr. Palmer grinned. “If you must pot one, though, laddybucks,” he said, “remember to aim at his chin whiskers.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Mr. Palmer tapped out his pipe on his heel. He got to his feet. The fire was low and it had become very cold. The stars looked big and cold in the sky. They looked like pieces of ice.

  “Bill will make out,” Mr. Palmer said. “One soon gets used to lions.”

  “It isn’t so much lions,” Jay said.

  “No?”

  “It’s whether he’s a coward or not.”

  “No need of his ever finding out.” Mr. Palmer yawned. “Not if he doesn’t want to.”

  Jay thought about that when he got in bed. It was easy to say you didn’t have to find out, especially if you had found out. Mr. Palmer knew about himself. So it was no longer important to him. He probably had forgotten that it had ever been important. But Jay could see Bill’s viewpoint. What if it meant a great deal not to be a coward? Then, he thought, you should find a lion. If you shot it, aiming carefully at the chin whiskers as it came big, angry and cat-fast towards you, you were brave. If you lost your nerve and missed, you would know you were a coward. However, you wouldn’t know it long. Not for more than the two or three seconds the lion took to reach you.