Читать книгу: «Stories by English Authors: Africa (Selected by Scribners)», страница 10
IX – A DISCOVERY AND A CONSPIRACY
For long he lay stretched out upon the floor in a state of half-consciousness. He could hear the mosquitos buzzing about his face, he could hear, too, the sounds of life rise up from the street below; but he was able to move neither arm nor leg, and his head seemed fastened to the floor by immovable leaden weights. That his son was lost was all he understood.
How long he lay there he scarcely knew, but it seemed to him weeks. At last he heard footsteps on the stairs. He endeavoured vainly to raise himself, and, though he strove to cry out, his tongue refused to frame the words. Lying there, living and yet lifeless, he saw the door open and Amos enter. The old man hesitated a moment, for the room was dark, while Gregorio, who had easily recognised his visitor, lay impotent on the floor. Before Amos could become used to the darkness the door again opened, and Madam Marx entered with a lamp in her hand. Amos turned to see who had followed him, and, in turning, his foot struck against Gregorio’s body. Immediately, the woman crying softly, both visitors knelt beside the sick man. A fierce look blazed in Gregorio’s eyes, but the strong words of abuse that hurried through his brain would not be said.
“He is very ill,” said Amos; “he has had a stroke of some sort.”
“Help me to carry him to my house,” sobbed the woman, and she kissed the Greek’s quivering lip and pallid brow. Then rising to her feet, she turned savagely on the Jew.
“It is your fault. It is you who have killed him.”
“Nay, madam; I had called here for my money, and I had a right to do so. It has been owing for a long time.”
“No; you have killed him.”
“Indeed, I wished him well. I was willing to forgive the debt if he would let me take the child.”
A horrid look of agony passed over Gregorio’s face, but he remained silent and motionless. The watchers saw that he understood and that a tempest of wrath and pain surged within the lifeless body. They stooped down and carried him downstairs and across the road to the Penny-farthing Shop. The Jew’s touch burned Gregorio like hot embers, but he could not shake himself free. When he was laid on a bed in a room above the bar, through the floor of which rose discordant sounds of revelry, Amos left them. Madam Marx flung herself on the bed beside him and wept.
Two days later Gregorio sat, at sunset, by Madam Marx’s side, on the threshold of the cafe. He had recovered speech and use of limbs. With wrathful eloquence he had told his companion the history of the terrible night, and now sat weaving plots in his maddened brain.
Replying to his assertion that Amos was responsible, Madam Marx said:
“Don’t be too impetuous, Gregorio. Search cunningly before you strike. Maybe your wife knows something.”
“My wife! Not she; she is with her Englishman. Amos has stolen the boy, and you know it as well as I do. Didn’t he tell you he wanted the child? I met him that night, and he told me if I did not pay I had only myself to blame for the trouble that would fall on me.”
“Come, come, Gregorio, cheer up!” said the woman; for the Greek, with head resting on his hands, was sobbing violently.
“I tell you, all I cared for in life is taken from me. But I will have my revenge, that I tell you too.”
For a while they sat silent, looking into the street. At last Gregorio spoke:
“My wife has not returned since that night, has she?”
“I have not seen her.”
“Well, I must see her; she can leave the Englishman now.”
Madam Marx laughed a little, but said nothing.
“There is Ahmed,” cried Gregorio, as a blue-clad figure passed on the other side of the street. He beckoned to the Arab, who came across at his summons.
“You seem troubled,” he said, as he looked into the Greek’s face; and Gregorio retold the terrible story.
“You know nothing of all this?” he added, suspiciously, as his narrative ended.
“Nothing.”
“My God! it is so awful I thought all the world knew of it. You often nursed and played with the boy?”
“Ay, and fed him. We Arabs love children, even Christian children, and I will help you if I can.”
“Why should Amos want the boy?” asked Madam Marx, as she put coffee and tobacco before the guests.
“Because I owe him money, and he knew the loss of my son would be the deadliest revenge. He will make my son a Jew, a beastly Jew. By God, he shall not, he shall not!”
“We must find him and save him,” said the woman.
“He will never be a Jew. That is not what Amos wants your son for; there are plenty of Jews.” Ahmed spoke quietly.
“They sacrifice children,” he continued, after a moment’s pause; “surely you know that, and if you would save your boy there is not much time to lose.”
Gregorio trembled at Ahmed’s words. He wondered how he could have forgotten the common report, and his fingers grasped convulsively the handle of his knife.
“Let us go to Amos,” he said, speaking the words with difficulty, for he was choking with fear for his son.
“Wait,” answered the Arab; “I will come again to-night and bring some friends with me, two men who will be glad to serve you. We Arabs are not sorry to strike at the Jews; we have our own wrongs. Wait here till I come.”
“But what will you do?” asked Madam Marx, looking anxiously on the man she loved, though her words were for the Arab.
“Gregorio will ask for his son. If the old man refuses to restore him, or denies that he has taken him, then we will know the worst, and then – ”
Gregorio’s knife-blade glittered in the sunset rays, as he tested its sharpness between thumb and finger. The Arab watched with a smile. “We understand one another,” he said. There was no need to finish the description of his plan. With a solemn wave of his hand he left the cafe.
“That man Ahmed,” said Madam Marx, “has a grudge against Amos. It dates from the bombardment, and he had waited all these years to avenge himself. I believe it was the loss of his wife.”
“Amos made her a Jewess, eh?” And then, after a pause, Gregorio added:
“So we can depend on Ahmed. To-night I will win back my son or – ”
“Or?” queried madam, tremblingly.
“Or Amos starts on his journey to hell. God, how my fingers itch to slay him! The devil, the Jew devil!”
X – AT THE HOUSE OF AMOS
As Ahmed had advised, Gregorio settled himself patiently to await the summons. Madam would have liked to ask him many questions, and to have extracted a promise from him not to risk his life in any mad enterprise his accomplice might suggest. But though the Greek’s body seemed almost lifeless, so quietly and immovably he rested on his chair, there was a restless look in his eyes that told her how fiercely and irrepressibly his anger burned. She knew enough of his race to know that no power on earth could stop him striking for revenge. And she trembled, for she knew also that directly he had begun to strike his madness would increase, and that only sheer physical exhaustion would stay his hand.
Madam Marx was unhappy, and as she waited on her customers her eyes rested continually on the Greek, who heeded her not. Once she carried some wine to him, and he drank eagerly, spilling a few drops on the floor first. “It’s like blood,” he muttered, and smiled. Madam hastily covered his mouth with her trembling fingers.
Just before midnight Ahmed arrived with his two friends. Gregorio saw them at once, and, calling them to him, they spoke together in low voices for a few moments. There was little need for words, and soon, scarcely noticed by the drinkers and gamblers, they passed out into the street and walked slowly toward the Jew’s house. Ahmed rapidly repeated the plan of action. When they reached the door they stood for a moment before they woke the Arab, and these words passed between them:
“For a wife.”
“For a sister.”
“For a son.”
Gregorio then demanded admittance and led the way, followed by his three friends. He had visited the house of Amos before, on less bloody but less delightful business, and he did not hesitate, but strode on to where he knew the Jew would be. His companions stood behind the curtain, awaiting the signal.
Amos looked somewhat surprised at the Greek’s entrance, but motioned him to a seat, and, as on the occasion of his first visit, clapped his hands together as a signal that coffee and pipes were required.
“It is kind of you to come, for doubtless you wish to pay me what is owing.”
“I wish to pay you.”
“That is well. I hope you are better again. I regretted to find you so ill two nights ago.”
“I am better.”
The conversation ceased, for Gregorio was restless and his fingers itched to do their work. Something in his manner alarmed Amos, for he summoned in two of his servants and raised himself slightly, as if the better to avoid an attack. But he continued to smoke calmly, watching the Greek under his half-closed lids.
“I have another piece of business to settle with you.”
“Do you want to borrow more money because I refuse to lend you any?”
“No; it is you who have borrowed, and I have come to you to receive back my own.”
“I fail to understand you.”
Gregorio tried to keep calm, but it was not possible. Rising to his feet, he bent over the Jew and cried out:
“Give me back my son, you Jew dog!”
“Your son is not here.”
“You lie! by God, you lie! If he is not here you have murdered him.”
“Madman!” shouted Amos, as the Greek’s knife flashed from its sheath; but before he or his servants could stay the uplifted arm the Jew sank back among his cushions, wounded to the heart. With a shout of triumph and a “Death of all Jews!” Gregorio turned savagely on the servants and, reinforced by his companions, soon succeeded in slaying them. Then leaving the dead side by side, the four men dashed through the house seeking fresh victims. Ten minutes later they were in the street again, dripping with the blood of women and men, for in their fury they had killed every human being in the house.
Down the narrow native streets they pushed on quickly, hugging the shadows, toward the Penny-farthing Shop. Madam Marx, her ears sharpened by fear, heard them, admitted them by a side door, and led them quickly to an upper room. Thither she carried water and clean garments, but dared not ask any questions. Sick with anxiety, she re-entered the bar and waited.
At length the murderers appeared and called for coffee, and Madam Marx attended to their wants. In a few minutes the Egyptians left, and Gregorio and she were alone. Coming near him, she placed her hand timidly on his shoulder, and asked him, in a hoarse whisper, to tell her what had happened.
“My son was not there.”
“Well?”
“Well, you can guess the rest. Not one person remains alive of that devil’s household.”
Madam Marx gasped at the magnitude of the crime, and though her terrors increased, her pride in the man capable of so tremendous revenge increased also.
“What will happen to you?” she found voice to ask.
“Nothing. I must hide here. We were not seen. Besides, you remember the last time a Greek murdered a Jew – it was at Port Said – the matter was hushed up. Our consuls care as little for Jews as we do. My God, how glad I am I killed him!”
His eyes were fixed on the street as he spoke, and suddenly he started to his feet. Madam rose too, and clung to him. He pushed her roughly on one side, while an evil smile played on his lips.
“By God, she shall come back now!”
“Who?”
“Xantippe. There is no need for her to live with the Englishman now. Our son is dead and the Jew in hell. I will at least have my wife back.”
“She will not come.”
“She will come. By God, I will make her! I have tasted blood to-night, and I am not a child to be treated with contempt. I say I will make her come.”
“But if she refuses?”
“Then I will take care she does not go back to the Englishman.”
“You will – ” but madam’s voice faltered. Gregorio read her meaning and laughed a yes.
“But, Gregorio, think; you will be hanged for that. You wife is not a Jewess.”
But Gregorio laughed again and strode into the street. He was mad with grief and the intoxicating draughts of vengeance he had swallowed. He strode across the road and mounted the stairs with steady feet. Madam Marx followed him, weeping and calling on him to come back. As he reached the door of his room she flung herself before him, but he pushed her on one side with his feet and shut the door behind him as he entered.
Lying on the threshold, she heard the bolt fastened, and knew the last act of the tragedy was begun.
XI – HUSBAND AND WIFE
As Gregorio entered the room, Xantippe, who was kneeling by a box into which she was placing clothes neatly folded, turned her head and said laughingly:
“You are impatient, my friend; I have nearly – ”
But recognising Gregorio, she did not finish the sentence. She sat down on the edge of the box. Her face became white, and the blood left her lips. With a great effort she remained quiet and folded her hands on her lap.
Gregorio looked at her for a moment, a cruel smile making his sinister face appear almost terrible, and his bloodshot eyes glared at her savagely. At last he broke the silence by shouting her name hoarsely, making at the same time a movement toward her. He looked like a wild animal about to spring upon his prey. Xantippe, however, did not flinch, answering softly:
“I am not deaf. What do you want here?”
“It is my room; I suppose I have a right to be here.”
“I apologise for having intruded.”
“None of your smooth speeches. The Englishman has schooled you carefully, I see. Can you say ‘good-bye’ in English yet?”
“Why should I say ‘good-bye’?”
“It is time. You will come back to me now.”
“Never.”
Gregorio laughed hysterically and stood beside her. His fingers played with her hair. In spite of her fear lest she should irritate him, Xantippe shrank from his touch. Gregorio noticed her aversion and said savagely:
“You must get used to me, Xantippe. From to-night we live together again. It is not necessary now for you to earn money.”
“I shall not come back to you. I have told you I hate you. It is your own fault that I leave you.”
“It will be my fault if you do leave me.”
He pushed her on to the mattress and held her there.
“Let us talk,” he said.
For a few minutes there was silence, and then he continued:
“Amos is dead, and our debts are paid.”
“How did you pay them?”
“With this,” and as he spoke he touched the handle of his knife. “Don’t shudder; he deserved it, and I shall be safe in a few days. These affairs are quickly forgotten. Besides, there is another reason why we should not live as we have lately been living.”
Xantippe opened her eyes as she asked, “What reason?”
Gregorio relaxed his hold, for the memory of his loss shook him with sobs. Cat-like, Xantippe had waited her opportunity and sprang away from his grasp. The movement brought the man to his senses. He rushed at her with an oath, waving the knife in his hand. Xantippe prepared to defend herself. They stood, desperate, before each other, neither daring to begin the struggle. Through the awful silence came the sound of sobs and a plaintive voice crying:
“Gregorio, come back, leave her; I love you.”
“Is Madam Marx outside?” hissed Xantippe.
“Yes.”
“Then go to her. I tell you I hate you.” She pointed to the half-filled box – “I was going to leave here to-night. I will never return to you.”
“You were going with the Englishman?”
“He is a man.”
Gregorio paused a moment, then in a suppressed voice, half choking at the words, said:
“Our son – do you know what has happened to him? You shall not leave me.”
“I know about our son. I am glad to think he is away from your evil influence. Let me pass.” Xantippe moved toward the door, but Gregorio seized her by the throat.
“You are glad our son is killed; you helped Amos to kill him.”
Rage and despair impelled him. Laughing brutally, he struck her on the breast, and, as he tottered, sent his knife deep into her heart. For a few seconds he stood over her exulting, and then opened the door. Madam Marx, white with fear, rushed into the room. Seeing the murdered woman, a look of triumph came into her eyes. But it was a momentary triumph, for she realised at once the gravity of the crime. She had little pity or sorrow to waste on the dead, but she was full of concern for the safety of the murderer.
“This is a bad night’s work, Gregorio.”
“Is it? She deserved death. I am glad I killed her. God, how peacefully I shall sleep tonight!”
“This is a worse matter than the other, my friend; you must get away from here at once.”
“Let us leave the corpse; I am thirsty,” Gregorio answered, callously. With a last look at Xantippe dead upon the floor, the two left the room and made fast the bolt before descending the stairs. As they emerged from the doorway into the street, some police rode by, and Gregorio trembled a little as he stood watching them.
“I want a drink; I am trembling,” he said, huskily, and followed Madam Marx into the shop.
The sun was beginning to rise, and already signs of a new life were stirring. The day-workers appeared at the windows and in the streets.
“You must get away at night, Gregorio, and keep hidden all day.”
“All right. Give me some wine. I can arrange better when my thirst is satisfied.”
After drinking deeply he turned and laughed. “It has been a busy time since sunset.”
Then, as if a new idea suddenly struck him, he queried cunningly, “There will be a reward offered?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then you will be a rich woman.”
Madam Marx flung herself at his feet and wept bitterly. The blow was a cruel one indeed. Eagerly she entreated him to retract his words. She reminded him of all she had done for him, of all she would still do. A sort of eloquence came to her as she pleaded her cause, and Gregorio, weary with excitement, kissed her as he asked:
“But why should you not give me up?”
“Because I love you.”
Neither blood nor cruelty could stain him in her eyes.
At last her passion spent itself; calmed and soothed by Gregorio’s caress she realised again the danger her lover ran. Vainly were plans discussed; no fair chance of escape seemed open. At last Gregorio said:
“I shall leave here to-night for Ramleh and live in the desert for a time. If you help me we can manage easily. When my beard is grown I can get back here safely enough, and the matter will be forgotten. You must collect food and take it by train to the last station, and get the box buried by Ahmed near the palace. I can creep toward it at night unseen.”
“But I will come to you at night and bring food and drink.”
“No. That would only attract attention. You must not leave your customers. But the drink is the worst part of the matter. I must have water. Get as many ostrich-eggs as you can, and fill them with water, and seal them. Hide these with the food, and I will carry some of them into the farther desert and bury them there.”
“Gregorio, if all comes right you will not be sorry you killed her?”
“She hated me. I shall not be sorry.”
And Madam Marx smiled and forgot her fears.
XII – IN THE DESERT AND ON THE SEA
By the last train leaving Alexandria for Ramleh, the next evening, Gregorio sought to escape his pursuers. He had heard from Ahmed on the platform, just before starting, that Xantippe’s body had been discovered, and that already the police were on his track. He sat in a corner of a third-class carriage closely muffled, and eyeing his neighbours suspiciously. He sighed with relief as the train moved out of the station and began to pass by the sand-hills and white villas, showing ghost-like in the damp mist.
When he reached St. Antonio he saw the lights of the casino blazing cheerfully, and the pure clear desert air invigorated him. Fascinated by the glare, he strolled toward the casino and decided, in spite of the risk, to enter. He watched from a corner the players, and greedily coveted the masses of gold and silver piled in pyramids behind the croupiers. He heard the violins playing Suppe’s overture, and the remembrance came vividly to him of the Paradiso and the fair girl with whom the Englishman talked. The exciting events following that evening passed before him – a lurid panorama.
An hour fled quickly away; then he sought the solitude of the desert, and, having collected into a bag as much food and as many eggs as he could carry, he walked away over the sands.
Under the stars he dug holes wherein to bury the eggs, and marked the spots with stones; then, wrapping himself in his cloak, lay down to sleep. All next day he loitered idly about, shunning the gaze of every wandering Arab. When evening came he drew near to the palace to seek for food. To his horror, the box had not been refilled. At first he hardly realised how awful was his plight. Then the truth dawned upon him. Ahmed and Madam Marx must have been arrested. He drew near to the casino and stood under the open windows listening. A cold shudder ran down his back, his face grew pale, and his lips trembled, for he heard two men discussing the murder and the capture of his friends. An involuntary smile lighted up the gloom of his features for a moment as one remarked that the chief offender, the woman’s husband, had eluded pursuit. Then he crept back into the desert and waited for the dawn.
The sun rose, fiery and relentless, glittering on the waters of Aboukir, and the cloudless heaven blazed like a prairie on fire. At midday, when its rays fell straight upon him, his thirst became intense, and with feverish fingers he dug up an egg. It was empty. He tossed it away and dragged himself to another hole. The second egg was empty. In turn he dug up all his eggs, and all alike were empty. Improperly sealed, scantily covered by the sand, the water had evaporated. A great despair seized him; he called on God in his anguish, and the silence of the desert terrified him. In a fit of desolate anger he pulled off his cap, and summoned all the saints, Christ, and God Himself, to enter it, and then trampled on it, laughing wildly. Then he flung himself upon the sand, his head still left bare to the pitiless sun. He knew the end had come, but there was not any regret in his heart for his crimes, only an impotent dismay and anger at his solitary condition. The thirst increased every minute, and he gripped the sand with his fingers in his agony. His last word was an oath.
At sunset he was dead.
Two days later Madam Marx left Alexandria by train for Ramleh. There was no evidence against her, and she had soon been released. Her own trouble scarcely disconcerted her; she had feared only for the Greek in the desert. The thought of his agony, his hunger, goaded her nearly to madness; but she was a little comforted when she remembered the eggs. There was enough water in them to last him two or three days. It was the hour of sunset when she arrived, and she instantly set out desertward, carrying a basket containing wine and food. She had determined to live at the hotel until the days of persecution were past. The heavy sand made it hard to proceed rapidly, but she struggled on bravely, and when far enough from civilisation called aloud the signal-word agreed on. But no one answered. All through the night she wandered, searching, till within an hour of sunrise; then she gave way and sat weeping on the sand. With daylight she rose to her feet, determined to find her lover, but had scarcely gone twenty yards before, with a low cry of grief, she knelt beside the body of a dead man. In the half-eaten, decayed features she recognised Gregorio and knew she had come too late. Undeterred by the hideous spectacle, she kissed him tenderly and lay beside him.
The sun mounted slowly in the heavens.
The living figure lay as lifeless as the dead. But after a while the woman rose and dug with her hands a hollow in the sand. She heeded not the heat, nor the flight of time, and by evening her work was done.
Raising the body in her arms, she carried it to the hollow and laid it gently down, then tearfully shovelled back the sand till it was hidden. So Gregorio found a tomb. Nor did it remain unconsecrated, for beside it Madam Marx knelt and spoke with faltering lips the remnants of the prayers she had learned when a child. As she prayed she watched vaguely a steamer disappear behind the horizon.
The khedival mail-boat Ramses sped swiftly over the unruffled surface of the sea. At the stern a tall fair Englishman sat looking on the level shores of Egypt and the minarets of Alexandria. With a sad smile he turned to the child who called to him by his name. They were a strange pair, for the boy was dark, and foreign-looking, and there was something of cunning in his restless black eyes. The man’s large hand rested softly on the raven curls of the youngster as he muttered to himself:
“For her sake I will watch over you, and you shall grow up to be a true man.”
So Xantippe’s life had not been lived in vain, for she had loved and been loved, and her memory was sweet to her lover. Moreover, Gregorio’s dreams of wealth for his son were to find fulfilment, and the sand of the desert, maybe, lies lightly on him.
