Читать книгу Valiant Dust - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 11

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Otho yawned cavernously, stretched himself mightily, and sat up on his cot.

Siesta-time was all very well, and the rigidly enforced siesta very sound in theory, if not in practice. Doubtless it kept fools out of the sun at the very hottest time of the day, and so prevented a certain number of cases of sun-stroke and heat-apoplexy.

Also, the two hours’ relaxation undoubtedly did something for frayed nerves and fatigue-poisoned muscles—if one could relax.

But the fact remained that siesta-time was a rotten time when the siesta was taken in a stuffy airless oven, and that, a very crowded oven. A great many attacks of cafard seemed to occur during siesta-time. But, on the other hand, it was quite probable that there would be more cafard if there were less siesta.

Otho closed his eyes, the better to pursue thoughts and memories of Margaret.

“Lend us that rag, mate ... Yes, yes, all right, I’ll give it to you back. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Bombelli.”

Joe Mummery and that queer chap the “creeper,” Major Riccoli’s ordonnance, who had lately been cultivating the four Englishmen and their friends.

“What did you say?”

“Bombelli.”

“Love us! Bit explosive, ain’t it? You should take something for that.”

“Comment?”

“Bombelli! ... I think I’ll call you Shell-back instead, mate.”

“My name is not Shelbach, no. It is Bombelli, yes.”

Otho laughed.

Good for Joe. “Shell-back” certainly was a rather subtle alternative. Also what one might term a delicate paraphrase.

Why was Bombelli now cultivating him, Otho, so assiduously and unmistakably? Also Joe, William Bossum, and Sailor Harris, as well as Tant de Soif, Père Poussin and Petrovitch, their friends?

What could he hope to get out of them? What was his game?

Otho considered him and his recent gradual emergence from the ruck of their comrades into the position of, not exactly membership of their set, but that of a candidate for membership.

An extremely amusing as well as interesting person, with an inexhaustible fund of humour. One gathered that he had had an amazing career, had used all the world as his stage, and in his time played many parts.

He still had a wonderful voice and had sung in all the chief Opera Houses of Europe. He was immensely agile, quick and supple, and had earnt his living as an acrobat and conjurer. Although not very big he was very strong, with muscles like wire hawsers. Also he was extremely handsome in the classic Roman style.

A real human puzzle.

Whenever life was extra hard, food extra short, and wine unprocurable, Bombelli loudly lamented the cowardice that brought him to the Legion.

“So you’re a faint-hearted, lily-livered, cold-footed coward, eh?” Joe Mummery had smiled one day, the first time Bombelli bewailed the lack of courage that had made him a soldier in the Regiment that is always fighting.

“Sure, Bo,” replied Bombelli in Italianate English-American.

“Goddam god-awful coward ... I maka the runaway ... I vamoosa. From a girl! She beata me ... I skedadalla ... I sure get-to-hell-outa-this, pronto ...”

“Blimey,” objected Sailor Harris, “I run away from lots o’ girls in my time—but I don’t say I’m a coward. If every bloke that got-up-and-got because of a girl, was a coward—well—where’s the brave man?”

“Ah—but she beata me with a whip ... She knock me about ... I say ‘If you hit me, I hit you back’ ... Then she hit me again and I do not hit her back nor her front, because she knock me down and put her foot on my neck and beata me with my own whip ... And when I rigolo away out, she chase me and beat me up some more ...”

“Where was all this, Bombo?”

“U.S.A. I am acrobat with de Barnum and de Bailey ... In other circuses I am acrobat, contortionist, juggler, tumbler, trapeza; do an act on de horse; lion-tamer; refined musical act ... All things I do.”

“And who was the girl, Shell-back?” asked Joe. “Couldn’t you acrobite and contort and juggle her, or get up the trapeze or on the horse, or tame her, or charm her with refined music or ...”

“Nope,” replied Bombelli. “Nor couldn’t nobodies. Not on your lifa.”

“Couldn’t you just plain smack ’er?” inquired Sailor Harris. “Knock ’er about a bit—for ’er own good?”

“Nope.” Bombelli laughed. “I couldn’t hurta her,” he said simply.

“Was she your wife?” Joe jeered. “And did you let her make a doormat of you? Because you loved her so much.”

“She was my vife ... I did let her make a doormatta of me ... Because I lof her so moch ... And because she was da Strong Woman of Slocum’s Sensational Circus. She was as strong as four men and as wicked as four women; and I would not like to be one of four men dat attacka her. She throw them at each other. Then she picka one up and beata the others with him ...

“In Slocum’s Circus I am lion-tamer, and Herculea is da Strong Woman ... Oh, da wonderful fine woman to look at ... Oh, da wonderful fine woman to—do a de bunk from ... Such a vife to come home to—and, per Bacco, such a vife to not go home to no more, yes.

“In Slocum’s Circus I am lion-tamer and I have a uniform better as General Lyautey and more medals. One day dis Herculea say,

“‘I like you, little Wop. Or else I like your glad little breeches and boots. You gotta marry me and come live in my caravan. See?’

“‘I can’t,’ I says, ‘I gotta ...’

“When I recover from de blow I find my jaw is broken and I cannot eata ... So I drinka ... And while I am drunka ... Herculea marries me ...

“Mother of Pity and All the Saints at Rest—I don’t get no Pity and no Rest ... One day she throwa da plata da soupa all over my uniform, because I deny I blowa kiss to bare-backa rider girl ... I rise in my wrath, and I sits down in my grief, in a puddle outside da caravan, because she knocks me t’rough da door which it was shut yes ... Before I can get up she takes my lion-whip and belta da life outa me ... I yell for mercy and then I run like hell—and jumpa into da lions’ cage along wit’ da big lion Cæsar an’ his vife Mrs. Chant—nasty vicious brutes dat killa da tamer before me.

“‘Sure! Dat’s where you belong,’ bawls my vife, ‘along wit’ da other dirty beasts’—and Cæsar’s vife gets up and shows da teeth like what she t’inks I don’t belong there at all. Not outa working-hours.

“What wit’ my vife an’ Cæsar’s vife, I don’t allow I has any use for vives. No, Sir, yes.

“When I slams da cage door an’ feels pretty safe, I pokes outa my tongue at my vife.

“‘Yah!’ I says, feeling sore—especialla in da seat of da pants and all up da back and front and da head an’ face—‘Yah! I sooner be in here wit’ dese pore dumb animals in a cage than in your caravan ... You ain’t a woman, you’re a she-gorillaro.’ And then one of da dumb animals lets a roar to shake da Big Top down. Mrs. Chant it was, and she growls like I was meat.

“‘That’s only a catta,’ I says, ‘but you’re a bitcha,’ and pokes out my tongue again at my vife.

“That was da bad tacticka. I do not know dat woman yet.

“Before I can get my tongue back into my mouth, she is insida da cage!

“I give one jump behind Cæsar and yells:

“‘Bite her, Cæsar! ... Seize her, Cæsar! ... Chew her up!’

“Does he? ... Not on your lifa, da big coward; and in two ticks she’s hunting the three of us round an’ round da cage—me leading, and Cæsar and Mrs. Chant getting mosta da licks.

“‘Lion-tamer!’ bawls Herculea, ‘I’ll tame your goddam lions and their tamer too ... I’ll make you three animals so dam’ tame you’ll sit up an’ darn holes in my tights for a livin’ ...’

“And all of a sudden I gets back my wits and dives outa the trick door and shuts her in wit’ Cæsar an’ Mrs. Chant.

“‘Eat her, Pups,’ I begs. ‘Quit runnin’, and eat her quick! She’s yours ...’ but those two Magnificent Forest-Bred Untameable Savage Lions and Lionesses keeps on runnin’.

“So I goes back to the caravan and finishes my dinner in peace. By an’ by the Boss comes along.

“‘Say, Bomb,’ he begins, ‘you’re fired—as lion-tamer to this show ... Your wife’s in with Cæsar and Mrs. Chant an’ they’re sittin’ upright on their bohinds—beggin’!’

“‘Beggin’ for life, I guess,’ I says.

“‘Sure. Beggin’ for mercy,’ answers the Boss. ‘She’s right now and henceforth The World’s Most Renownded and Only Lady Lion-Tamer of Slocum’s Magnificent Forest-Bred Untameable Savage Lions and Lionesses. Yep. You’re fired, right now.’

“Well—I have my pride, me, Bombelli. They may know in da Circus that my vife beata me up, and that I am afraid of her; and they may say,

“‘He tama da lions but he don’t tama da vife’—but I have my pride, and I cannot stay in da Circus after my vife get my job from me and do it more better than what I done. Especialla when her job is lion-taming ...

“So I make up da minda dat I go. I vamoosa. I cannot stay an’ clean cages for my vife where I been Signor Bombelli, da World’s Greatest an’ all dat ... No, I go ... But I have terrible revengeance ... Si, si! My mother is Corsican, yes, and her father takes to da mountains and becomes da bandit because of vendetta yes ... Revenge is in da blood, yes ... I am insulted; I am in da soup—or da soup is all over me; I am beated; I am t’rown outa da caravan inta da puddle; I am chased roun’ an’ roun’ da lions’ cage; and dere I am lose da job on me ... Revenge! I say. I have blood-stain’ revenge. I have bloody revenge. I have blood-awful revenge, yes. Likewise I done it.”

“You didn’t kill your wife?” asked Joe.

“Nosir, yes I didn’t. But I have fearful vengeance.”

“You didn’t disfigure the features of ’er face?” inquired Sailor Harris.

“Nosir! I didn’t that either, yes. But she remember all her lifa what I do.”

“Did you torture her somehow—or maim her?” asked Joe.

“Torture her! Sure I did ... They hear da screama t’ree mila distant, an’ all da Circus performers and tent-men come runnin’ ... She scream and yell da blue murder.”

“What did you do?” Otho was constrained to ask, though scarcely wishing to hear. “You didn’t really injure the woman?”

“I tell you I have da vengeance which is fair and justa yes—justa leetle cruel too also. Did she not shame me an’ ruin me and break my pride? Did she not injure da mind and da soul of Bombelli? And that is more worse than injure da body too.

“I look about for da t’ing I want, da weapon I need.”

Bombelli’s smiling face grew cruel, cunning and evil, for he talked with his features and his hands, almost as much as with his voice. Otho thought of glass daggers of which the point breaks off deep down in the incurable wound; of corrosive acids; of ground-up bamboo and powdered glass that, put in the victim’s food, cause lingering, sure, and miserable death; of subtle poison, and other dreadful weapons of offence.

“And very soon I find da weapon of my vengeance—da t’ing wit’ which I punish da woman and save my pride, my respecka, save my face, my good name—and clean da stain from da soul of Bombelli. I find it, I say ... I get it ... I conceal it in da pocket ... And late dat night I creep to the caravan of my vife, where rightly I should be sleeping in peace and in da bed.

“All is still. There is no sound in all da circus lot, except da rumblings of da elephant and da snoring of Herculea ... two damn great she-elephants, yes.

“Softly I open da door—so softly, so slowly, wit’ my left handa. So slowly, so gently, I turn up da wick of da lamp, fixed just inside da door, wit’ my left handa.

“Da light wakes Herculea, and she blinka da eyes at me—and then she sit up in da bed.

“An’ she don’t like da look on my face, no ... She see her time had come.

“Before she can move again, I pulls my right hand outa da pocket, holds it up to show her what I got and then—I throw.”

“Knife?” growled Joe.

“Not vitriol!” ejaculated Otho aghast.

“Tar—and then feathers?” cried Sailor Harris.

“A snake?” Joe asked—remembering something of the sort that he had heard or read.

Bombelli grinned evilly, and made no answer to the questions.

“I throw!” he repeated, and licked his lips as they stared in silence.

“I throw a leetle frog at her. And then she throw a fit. And I run for da lifa—and hear her screama while I am still running t’ree miles away.”

When they had finished laughing, Joe remarked,

“But you didn’t run straight from Ohio to Sidi-bel-Abbès, Bombo?”

“Nope. I runs to the Yards and beata da Overland to N’Yorka. Soon I feels U.S.A. is too small leetle country for me while Herculea movin’ roun’ in it, so I beata da Overwater too—what-you-call a stow-it-away on ship—and comes to Yurrup ... Then I come to Napoli and sing Funiculi funicula bunk to da tourista eatin’ spaghetti and drinkin’ lachryma Christi at da hotel by Pompeii ... And there I sits in da sun an’ grow fat on good eats, wit’ da good oil an’ da good garlic, an’ praise da good God.

“And then lika dam-fool I must shake da loose foot again, and I go all over Yurrup some more, and sometime I sing Pagliacci in big Kursaal Concert and in Opera House; and sometime I juggle brass ball in Big Top tent ... But I don’t tama da lion, any more ... I don’t feel I can trust them after the way Cæsar let me down and hadn’t da courage to bite Herculea, no sir ...

“An’ one day I am in Marseilles, to do turn at da Music Hall, an’ am walking up Cannabière feeling good—and run straight into Herculea ...!

“Den I run straight into Mediterranean Ocean if I can get there before Herculea gets me.

“I’ll tell the worlda I can run some, yessir—when Herculea chase me. I’ll say I can. Sure. I can run faster than Herculea—when it’s Herculea what’s pacing me from behind. But I can’t find no ocean yet, so I bolts into da Fort.

“‘Fort’s strong enough,’ t’inks I. ‘Surely I’ll be safe in there.’

“Sentry bawls me out.

“‘Hi! Where in Hell you t’ink you goin’?’ he shouts.

“‘Anywhere there ain’t no women at all,’ I says—and the Sergeant comes out an’ says,

“‘That’s all right, Wop. Join right now ... There ain’t no women here.

“‘Worse luck,’ he adds.

“‘Don’t you blaspheme, Bo,’ I begs, an’ joins da Foreign Legion pronto ...

“For safety ... Yep ... Sure ... No women here ...”

Yes, an extremely amusing and extraordinarily interesting man.

But did he quite realize how interesting he was becoming—to Otho, at least?

Did he realize that once or twice when talking to Otho he had talked admirable English; talked English without a trace of Italian accent or the use of any expressions, figures of speech, idioms or words used more particularly by Americans?

Did he realize that occasionally he had spoken to Otho in absolutely perfect fluent French, and that it was quite evident that there was no Parisian or other argot that he did not understand?

Not entirely trusting his own judgment (and knowledge of French) in the matter, Otho had questioned Tant de Soif on the subject and, with some surprise, Tant de Soif had admitted that Otho was right. Bombelli’s knowledge and use of French were astounding, exact, perfect.

But then one had met Russians like that. Men who surprised Frenchmen when they informed them that they were not French.