The Outcasts (20 page)

When he left they came to see him off. All but Alalani. A taboo? They laughed and whooped, shouted and murmured, and in the presence of so many he was at first embarrassed. But even Dulani came to the edge of the village, and even Dulani was laughing, and it was a fatherly Dulani who placed the bottle in his hands and cackled contentedly, eh-eh-eh. At that, Morrison simply let go, and bellowed laughter; so they all let go, and peals of jubilation sent him on his way.

11

It was October then, and the light lay heavier upon the land; shadows crawled softer, and insects chirruped softer, and at dawn there was a trace of dew. With the railings in place, with every plate and bolt true and tight, some of the men, those who had been hired to do just one kind of work, were sent away. Those who stayed were those who had built the road. Now instead of unloading they loaded, and trucks went in full and came out empty. Morrison did not favor the dumping of waste into the gorge; he warned the men, who grumbled but agreed. Small bits and pieces went over the edge all the same. Morrison only smiled.

With no more than a week's work left, Morrison gave the men an added day off, a Friday, and the four who had become friends were left at the bridge, among the dwindling piles of sand and stone, the few coils of wire, the two crates of dynamite, the few bags of cement, the small stacks of plates, the lonely barrels of nails and nuts and bolts. The lumber was long gone. The roadbed was bordered by broken rock and small craters of dusty, trodden grass, and late in the morning Morrison thought that he might be strolling on the moon, or through a bombed and deserted town. He and Philips had come up in the Land-Rover, leaving Ramesh and Tall Boy to laze and bathe and prepare a good meal. Philips drove, and Morrison sat slumped again with his knee banging on the useless protuberance. He would some day write to the manufacturers, but at the moment he enjoyed the rhythm of it. He was solid this morning, well rested, with life in his blood and bones and muscle. Ah, he felt fine! He smiled up at the carrion crows, who smiled down at him. His large hand was moist on the leather case of his small camera. He was sorry that his work was done, and this tag-end, the taking of photographs, was a sad task. He had taken photographs of the bridge in all its stages, like a botanist with a slow-blooming plant, and he had begun already to feel empty and lost.

But there would be another, he knew. And for a few moments he dreamed of the roads and bridges and buildings that he would give to this hot country where he had found another youth.

“That is handsome,” Philips said. They had come out of the shade at the head of the straightaway, and the bridge from there was straight and pure, white and truthful.

“Yes. I wish we could do without railings. They spoil it.”

“They do. But it is a bridge and not a painting.”

Philips steered them off the road, and they bumped and lurched into a patch of shade. Morrison slipped the leather strap around his neck, and they walked to the bridge; the camera bumped warm against his hairy belly. He snapped shots from the level, on both sides, and from beneath, which he liked better: he scrambled down into the abutments, sat on the shadowed rock floor, and shot upward into the simple looming arch that was, for him, the bridge, and would never be seen by travelers. He took a few of Philips on the bridge, and Philips returned the favor. They walked downstream for half a mile, to where the lip of the gorge curved away and down and became a hillside. Walking back, Morrison paused to photograph the bridge of vines, hanging dead from the lip. He was not stirred by its death. It had served.

They crossed to the side of Bawi's people then, and climbed the dusty slopes of tall grass to the east. They climbed far, sweating and fighting off lion flies, threading a crooked path through the grass, and when they had come a mile they stepped onto a slope of speckled gray rock that leveled at its crest. There they sat, panting and running with sweat. Morrison dried his palms on his shorts.

They were high up. Looking to the north, they could see the glittering blue loops of their river, and the copse where Ramesh and Tall Boy were. To the west was their bridge, in profile far below them; and beyond the bridge, beyond the gorge, endless miles of green rolled relentlessly to the heart of the continent.

Morrison was silent and thoughtful. He was thinking, my heart is full; I know now what they mean when they say that.

His bridge gave form to the whole visible world. He thought of a silver bow in a woman's dark hair. The bridge was an arched band of white, and it pulled tight the chaos of jungle, the swaths of savanna, the blotches of bare gray rock. The landscape melted, and poured itself into his bridge, and was no longer rude, no longer free; it was man's now.

“You might look twice at it,” Philips said quietly. Morrison wanted to touch his shoulder and say, “I am staying,” but did not. Instead he said, “Yes,” and raised the camera.

Then they sat for a while high above the world, minding the sodden air but unable to go. What would he remember when he had forgotten all the rest? Alalani? Or this moment, he and Philips alone with his bridge that would be Bernard Morrison for as long as—no, he thought. Someone will bomb it some day, and he was moved to a painful sadness because he knew there was every chance of that.

“Yes,” Philips murmured. “I think later on it will be a great pleasure to say, ‘Oh yes. That is my bridge.'”

“Your bridge.”

“Yes. Of course it is more yours than anyone's. But you know how men are. When you are gone it will become mine.”

And he almost told Philips then, but did not. He said, “Maybe once in a while you could say ‘It was designed by a fellow named Morrison.'”

“It was designed by a fellow named Morrison. Yes. I could say that.”

“Practice,” Morrison said. “It will come easier after a while.”

In one hand Ramesh held the lid of the great iron pot, and in the other a wooden spoon that he seemed to be kissing. The fire leapt, and steam drifted. “Ah,” he said, and closed his eyes to smile. He heard Morrison and Philips then, and clapped the lid quickly onto the pot.

“What are you so proud of?” Philips asked.

“You are just in time,” Ramesh said. “Go and wash and wait to be served. Tall Boy!”

From the river Tall Boy answered, a loud grunt.

“Put on your pants and come here and serve.”

“Why I need pants?”

“This is a formal luncheon,” Ramesh said sternly. “What is that you have, Mister Morrison?”

“Something for a formal luncheon,” Morrison said. “Don't open it.”

Ramesh saw the label. “Rum.”

“Not any more,” Morrison said. “Patience. A tick of the watch.” He set the bottle in the dust, in the shade where they would eat, and he and Philips stepped into the river. “That's good,” he said. “Oh that's good.”

Tall Boy emerged streaming.

“The Loch Ness monster,” Morrison said.

“Unwreathèd Triton,” Philips said.

“Absolutely.”

“What is in the bottle?”

“Mead,” he said.

“Have you ever drunk mead?”

“No. You?”

“No. I wonder if it is still made.”

“Not that I know. I don't even know what it is.”

“Honey,” Philips said. “They make it from honey.”

“Well then this isn't mead,” Morrison said.

In his shorts and red fez Tall Boy brought the mess kits. He stood grinning at their blank surprise. “And there is enough for twelve men,” he said.

Morrison was awed. “This is poule-au-pot,” he piped finally.

Ramesh had joined them. “If you wish. More humbly, I call it boiled chicken. With spices.”

“Bravo,” Philips said. “My compliments. My respects.”

“And mine,” Morrison said. “I don't know how this stuff will go with it, but give me the cups.”

He poured, and handed out the cups. “To the bridge,” he said. “To many more.”

“Hear, hear,” Ramesh said. Philips and Tall Boy made agreeable comment, and they drank.

“Lord Jesus,” Tall Boy said, when he could, and sucked in air like a man drowning.

“A little something some friends gave me,” Morrison said.

“Fine friends,” Ramesh gasped, and shut his eyes tight. “Damn and blahst. My goodness.”

“You do get about,” Philips said. He was wiping his eyes with the back of his thick hand. “Do you know what this is?”

“Of course,” Morrison said.

“Where did you get it?”

Morrison jerked his head toward the bridge.

“You had better eat,” Ramesh said. “Fill your belly first with something solid. In any case someone else may have to do the dishes. I am not a very talented drinker.”

“Throw them out,” Morrison said. “This is the captain's dinner.”

Philips did not meet his eye. In one hand Philips held the torso of a small chicken, and with his teeth he was stripping the flaky white meat from it. He spat a small bone. “The end,” he said. “There is always a moment of sadness when a job is done.”

“This booze make you happy again,” Tall Boy said.

“There is only the one bottle,” Morrison told them.

“Thank God,” Ramesh said.

Morrison noticed for the first time—so late in the day!—that all the fragile, spindly treetops spiked straight up. He remembered parts of Colorado where they were all brushed eastward by the steady wind that blew down toward Kansas. Here they were bright black and green against the pale blue sky. He would keep an eye on them as he drank. When they blurred he would lie down. The climbing and the sun had made him sleepy.

“I'm going to stay on,” he said suddenly, surprising even himself. “I'm going to ask them if I can stay on here and run the office.”

Tall Boy cheered, and Ramesh bobbed his head in delight. But Morrison was watching Philips, who stared owlishly for a moment, and took another sip from his cup, and then said, unsmiling, “I am glad. I really am. But are you ready?”

“Ready? I—oh, hell. It isn't easy to tell a man that you love his country. Or maybe not the country, just
being
here.” Morrison too went to his cup. This was, as he had said, not easy.

“Well, then, that is fine. The best of news.”

“I thought you might—I mean, the table of organization.”

“Oh no,” Philips said, waving his cup in good cheer. “You are a good boss and I like working with you. You keep out of the way.”

They all laughed. Morrison was still watching Philips, who winked now, and Morrison sat back, loose and happy. “There must be a lot to do.”

“Oh, there is,” Philips said, and shifted, lunging up off his elbow and sitting upright. “You amaze me. I hope you know us as well as you think you do. This is very good news.” Morrison saw that he meant what he said.

“Well, thanks. I wasn't sure. But I want it,” he said.

“More chicken,” Ramesh said.

“Yes. And more booze. Cups, cups.”. A surge of elation made his head swim, and he checked the treetops because this was a hot day, and close, but they were sharp and clear against the radiance of noon.

Very good, he thought. Just drink now and keep your mouth shut.

Half an hour later Ramesh had performed a ceremonial dance, insisting that it was genuinely Indian, and Tall Boy had sung, reverberatingly, an obscene song, and Morrison, who had miscounted the now furry treetops, was lying flat on his back and rejoicing in his crew. He was feeling quite boyish, and had thought, at one point, that they were like a scrubby band of burlesque knights. There was Tall Boy of the Red Hat, and Ramesh of the Wet Eyes. And Philips of the Hard Nose. And Morrison of the Purple Helm. But he could feel pleasure on him like a new skin, and he was sure that his life had led to this. The flesh and blood of the war, and the flesh and blood of his marriage, and all the gray days before and between and after, stale days in one or another cheerless apartment; the mindless life that left him still hungry and thirsty and with no taste for tomorrow; the parties, smoke and gin and a sad, lonely, trapped woman backed into a corner with the hurt so plain behind her eyes that he would not add to it; and the better days too, hard, cold days edged with frost and the sunlight blue on the snow that his machines sullied; or warm days when the work went fast and well and his only sorrow was for the copper beeches he had annihilated; all those days had led to this, and it was not easy to quarrel with the past when you loved the present. And if he could call this place home!

“I hear something,” Tall Boy said lazily.

“The voice of God,” Philips said. “Or Lollie.”

“The spirits of the river,” Morrison said. “Looking for a virgin.”

“You laugh,” Tall Boy said. “But I hear something.”

“So do I,” Ramesh said sleepily.

They listened. Morrison heard the forest hum and snap, and the buzz of a locust.

Then he heard the clank of metal, to the north, and he sat up and groped for his cap. Philips too sat up, and then the others. Morrison blinked, and the day spun slowly; the sky was beaten gold, and floated. He tilted the bottle and let the last drops of liquor run into his throat, and he listened.

“By God,” Philips said, and came to his feet like a cat, “it is our first customer. It is some sort of vehicle.”

They knew he was right. All four of them scrambled up in excitement and ran, lurching only a bit, back through the grove and to the trailers at the roadside. The road was deserted, but beyond the curve they could hear the metallic rumble. They stepped onto the road and stood abreast, and now the heat came down like rain, and even Philips, who never seemed to mind heat, exhaled a sharp whuff of annoyance.

When they saw the first tank, Ramesh said, “Hey Rama,” very softly, and no one else spoke until all eight had come around the bend and were bearing down on them in single file.

The officer was rangy and graceful, in his thirties, with tight-curled hair and an open, solid athlete's face. He stood taller than Morrison. In a small oblong above his breast pocket his name and quality were spelled out:
MAJOR MACKENZIE.
The high sun winked off his pips or crowns. He was for the moment hatless, and carried a swagger stick, and his short-sleeved shirt was perfectly unwrinkled. Above the other breast pocket were three campaign ribbons, and Morrison, giddy with booze and noonday sun, could not imagine what triumphs they represented. Good conduct, doubtless, and perhaps riot control and strike-breaking. Or rapine, buggery and genocide. But when the man spoke, Morrison was ashamed of his resentment.