The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗

infant cried.

It cried with minute fury, indignant and alive. From the head of the

table Shermaine laughed with spontaneous delight, and clapped her hands

like a child at a Punch and Judy show. Suddenly Bruce was laughing also,

It was a laugh from long -ago, coming out from deep inside him take it,"

said Haig and Shermaine cradled it. wet and feebl wriggling in her arms.

She stood with it while Haig sewed up.

Watching her face and the way she stood, Bruce suddenly and

unaccountably felt the laughter snag his throat, and he wanted to cry.

Haig closed the womb, stitching the complicated pattern of knots like a

skilled seamstress, then the external sutures laid neatly across

the fat lips of the wound, and at last the immunity white tape hiding it

all. He covered the woman, jerked the mask from his face and looked up

at Shermaine.

"you can help me clean it up," he said, and his voice was strong again

and proud. The two of them crossed to the basin.

Bruce threw off his gown and left the room, went down the passage and

out into the night. He leaned against the bonnet of the Ford and

[lit a cigarette.

Tonight I laughed again, he told himself with wonder, and then I

nearly cried. And all because of a woman and a child. It is finished

now, the pretence. The withdrawal. The big act. There was more than one

birth in there tonight. I laughed again, I had the need to laugh again,

and the desire to cry. A woman and a child, the whole meaning of life.

The abscess had burst, the poison drained, and he was ready to heal.

"Bruce, Bruce, where are you?" She came out through the door; he did not

answer her for she had seen the glow of his cigarette and she came to

him. Standing close in the darkness.

"Shermaine-" Bruce said, then he stopped himself. He wanted to

hold her, just hold her tightly.

"Yes, Bruce." Her face was a pale round in the darkness, very close to

him.

"Shermaine, I want-" said Bruce and stopped again.

"Yes, me too," she whispered and then, drawing away, "come, let's go and

see what your doctor is doing now." She took his hand and lea him back

into the building. Her hand was cool and dry with long tapered fingers

in his.

Mike Haig and Father Ignatius were leaning over the cradle that now

stood next to the table on which lay the blanket-covered body of the

Baluba woman. The woman was breathing softly, and the expression on her

face was of deep peace.

"Bruce, come and have a look. It's a beauty," called Haig.

Still holding hands Bruce and Shermaine crossed to the cradle.

"He'll go all of eight pounds," announced Haig proudly.

Bruce looked at the infant; newborn black babies are more handsome than

ours - they have not got that half-boiled look.

"Pity he's not a trout," murmured Bruce. "That would be a

national record." Haig stared blankly at him for a second, then he threw

back his head and laughed; it was a good sound. There was a different

quality in Haig now, a new confidence in the way he held his head, a

feeling of completeness about him.

"How about that drink I promised you, Mike?" Bruce tested him.

"You have it for me, Bruce, I'll duck this one." He isn't just saying it

either, thought Bruce, as he looked at his face; he really doesn't need

it now.

"I'll make it a double as soon as we get back to town." Bruce glanced at

his watch. "It's past ten, we'd better get going."

"I'll have to stay until she comes out from the anaesthetic," demurred

Haig.

"You can come back for me in the morning." Bruce hesitated. "All right

then. Come on, Shermaine." They drove back to Port Reprieve, sitting

close together in the intimate darkness of the car. They did not speak

until after they had reached the causeway, then Shermaine said:

"He is a good man, your doctor. He is like Paul."

"Who is Paul?"

"Paul was my husband."

"Oh." Bruce was embarrassed. The mention of that name snapped the silken

thread of his mood. Shermaine went on, speaking softly and staring down

the path of the headlights.

"Paul was of the same age. Old enough to have learned understanding -

young men are so cruel."

"You loved him." Bruce spoke flatly, trying to keep any trace of

jealousy from his voice.

"Love has many shapes," she answered. Then, "Yes, I had begun to love

him. Very soon I would have loved him enough to-" She stopped.

"To what?" Bruce's voice had gone rough as a wood rasp.

Now it starts, he thought, once again I am vulnerable.

"We were only married four months before he - before the fever."

"So?" Still harsh, his eyes on the road ahead.

want you to know something. I must explain it all to you. It is very

important. Will you be patient with me while I tell you?" There was a

pleading in her voice that he could not resist and his expression

softened.

"Shermaine, you don't have to tell me."

"I must. I want you to know." She hesitated a moment, and when she spoke

again her voice had steadied. "I am an orphan, Bruce. Both my Mama and

Papa were killed by the Germans, in the boi-nbing. I was only a few

months old when it happened, and I do not remember them. I do not

remember anything, not one little thing about them; there is not even a

photograph." For a

second her voice had gone shaky but again it firmed. "The nuns took me,

and they were my family. But somehow that is different, not really your

own. I have never had anything that has truly belonged to me, something

of my very own." Bruce reached out and took her hand; it lay very still

in his grasp. You have now, he thought, you have me for your very own.

"Then when the time came the nuns made the arrangements with Paul

Cartier. He was an engineer with Union Mime du Haut here in the

Congo, a man of position, a suitable man for one of their girls.

"He flew to Brussels and we were married. I was not unhappy, for

although he was old - as old as Doctor Mike yet he was very gentle and

kind, of great understanding. He did not-" She stopped and turned

suddenly to Bruce, gripping his hand with both of hers, leaning towards

him with her face serious and pale in the halfdarkness, the plume of

dark hair falling forward over her shoulder and her voice full of

appeal. "Bruce, do you understand what I am trying to tell you?" Bruce

stopped the car in front of the hotel, deliberately he switched off the

ignition and deliberately he spoke.

"Yes, I think so."

"Thank you," and she flung the door open and went out of it and up the

steps of the hotel with her long jeaned legs flying and her hair

bouncing on her back.

Bruce watched her go through the double doors. Then he pressed the

lighter on the dashboard and fished a cigarette from his pack. He lit

it, exhaled a jet of smoke against the windscreen, and suddenly he was

happy. He wanted to laugh again.

He threw the cigarette away only a quarter finished and climbed out of

the Ford. He looked at his wristwatch; it was after midnight.

My God, I'm tired. Too much has happened today; rebirth is a severe

emotional strain. And he laughed out loud, savouring the sensation,