Уильям Моэм - The Narrow Corner

“Oh, should I? I suppose you know more about me digestive apparatus than what I do. I suppose you know when a bit of dry toast sits on me stomach like a ton of lead. I suppose you’ll say it’s all fancy next.”

“Well, if you ask me, I think fancy’s got a damned sight more to do with it than you think.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Who are you calling a son of a bitch?”

“I’m calling you a son of a bitch.”

“Oh, shut up,” said the doctor.

Captain Nichols gave a loud belch.

“Now the bastard’s brought it on again. It’s three months if it’s a day that I was able to sit down after supper and feel comfortable, and now he’s brought it on again. An upset like this is the death of me. Flies to me stomach at once. I’m a bundle of nerves. Always ’ave been. I thought I was goin’ to ’ave a pleasant evenin’ for once, and now he’s gone and ruined it. I’ve got dyspepsia somethin’ cruel.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the doctor.

“They all say the same thing; they all say: Captain, you’re a bundle of nerves. Delicate? You’re more delicate than a child.”

Dr. Saunders was gravely sympathetic.

“It’s as I suspected, you want watching; your stomach wants educating. If I’d been coming with you on the lugger I should have made it my business to teach your digestive juices to function in a proper manner. I don’t say I could have effected a cure in six or seven days, but I could have put you on the way.”

“But who says you’re not comin’ on the lugger?”

“Blake does, and from what I gather he’s the boss.”

“Oh, do you? Well, you’re mistaken. I’m skipper, and what I say goes. Get your kit packed and come on board to–morrow mornin’. I’ll sign you on as a member of the crew.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Blake, jumping to his feet. “I’ve got as much say as you have, and I say he’s not coming. I won’t have anyone on the lugger, and that’s that.”

“Oh, won’t you? And what’ll you say if I run her straight up to B.N.B.? British territory, young feller–me–lad.”

“You take care an accident doesn’t happen to you.”

“D’you think I’m scared of you? D’you think I’ve knocked about all over the world since before you was born without knowin’ ’ow to take care of meself? Stick a knife in me back, would you? And who’s goin’ to sail the boat? You and them four black niggers? You make me laugh. Why, you don’t know one end of the boat from the other.”

Blake clenched his hands again. The two men glared at one another, but in the captain’s eyes was a mocking sneer. He knew that when it came to a show–down he held the cards. A little sigh escaped the other.

“Where d’you want to go?” he asked the doctor.

“Any Dutch island where I can get a ship that’ll take me on my way.”

“All right, come on, then. Anyway, it’ll be better than being cooped up alone with that all the time.”

He gave the skipper a glance of impotent hatred. Captain Nichols laughed good–naturedly.

“That’s true, it’ll be company for you, me boy. We’re getting off about ten to–morrow. That suit you?”

“Suit me A1,” said the doctor.

HIS guests left early and Dr. Saunders, taking his book, lay down in a long, rattan chair. He glanced at his watch. It was a little after nine. It was his habit to smoke half a dozen pipes of an evening. He liked to begin at ten. He waited for this moment, not with malaise, but with a little tremor of anticipation which was pleasant, and he would not cut this short by advancing the hour of his indulgence.

He called Ah Kay and told him that they were sailing in the morning on the strangers’ lugger. The boy nodded. He, too, was glad to get away. Dr. Saunders had engaged him when he was thirteen, and now he was nineteen. He was a slim, comely youth with large black eyes and a skin as smooth as a girl’s. His hair, coal–black and cut very short, fitted his head like a close cap. His oval face was of the colour of old ivory. He was quick to smile, and then he showed two rows of the most exquisite teeth possible, small and white and regular. In his short Chinese trousers of white cotton and the tight jacket without a collar he had a languorous elegance that was strangely touching. He moved silently and his gestures had the deliberate grace of a cat. Dr. Saunders sometimes flattered himself with the thought that Ah Kay regarded him with affection.

At ten, closing his book, he called:

“Ah Kay!”

The boy came in and Dr. Saunders watched him placidly as he took from a table the little tray on which were the oil lamp, the needle, the pipe and the round tin of opium. The boy put it down on the floor by the doctor, and himself squatting on his haunches, lit the lamp. He held the needle in the flame, and with the warm end extracted a sufficiency from the tin of opium; with deft fingers he made it into a ball and delicately cooked it over the little yellow flame. Dr. Saunders watched it sizzle and swell. The boy withdrew it from the flame, kneaded the pellet again and cooked it once more; he inserted it into the pipe and handed it to his master. The doctor took it and with the strong quick pull of the practised smoker inhaled the sweet–tasting smoke. He held it for a minute in his lungs and then slowly exhaled it. He handed the pipe back. The boy scraped it out and put it on the tray. He warmed the needle again and began to cook another pellet. The doctor smoked a second pipe and a third. The boy rose from the floor and went into the cook–house. He came back with a little pot of jasmine tea and poured it into a Chinese bowl. The fragrance for an instant over–powered the acrid odour of the drug. The doctor lay back in his long chair, his head against a cushion and looked at the ceiling. They did not speak. It was very silent in the compound, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the sharp cry of a ghekko. The doctor watched it as it stood still on the ceiling, a little yellow beast that looked like a prehistoric monster in miniature, and occasionally made a rapid dart as a fly or a moth caught its attention. Ah Kay lit himself a cigarette, and taking an odd, stringed instrument, something like a banjo, amused himself by playing softly. The thin notes straggled along the air, disconnected sounds they seemed, and if now and then you heard the beginning of a melody, it was not completed and your ear was deceived; it was a slow and plaintive music, as incoherent as the varied scents of flowers, and it seemed to offer you but indications, a hint here and there, the suggestion of a rhythm, with which to create in your own soul a more subtle music than ears could hear. Now and then a sharp discord, like the scratching of a pencil on a slate, assaulted the nerves with a sudden shock. It gave the soul the same delicious tremor as startles the body when in the heat you plunge into an ice–cold pool. The boy sat on the floor in an attitude of unaffected beauty and meditatively plucked the strings of his lute. Dr. Saunders wondered what vague emotions touched him. His melancholy face was impassive. He seemed to be looking into his memory for melodies heard in some long past existence.

Presently the boy looked up, a rapid, charming smile suddenly lighting up his features, and asked his master if he was ready. The doctor nodded. Ah Kay put down his lute and relit the little lamp. He prepared another pipe. The doctor smoked it and two more besides. This was his limit. He smoked regularly, but with moderation. Then he lay back and surrendered himself to his thoughts. Ah Kay now made himself a couple of pipes, and having smoked them put out the lamp. He lay down on a mat with a wooden rest under his neck and presently fell asleep.