|
particular about the oil he used. The best olive oil was expensive,
but it was worth the money. The prison bread was good, and after
he had fried his fish, he fried a couple of pieces of bread in the rest
of the oil. He sniffed the savoury smell with satisfaction. He lit a
lamp, washed a lettuce grown in his own garden, and mixed him-
self a salad. He had a notion that no one in the world could mix a
salad better than he. He drank a glass of rum and ate his supper
with appetite. He gave a few odds and ends to the two mongrel
dogs who were lying at his feet, and then, having washed up, for
he was by nature a tidy man, and when he came in to breakfast
next morning did not want to find things in a mess, let the dogs out
of the compound to wander about the coconut grove. He took the
lamp into the house, made himself comfortable in his deck-chair,
and smoking a cigar smuggled in from the neighbouring Dutch
Colony settled down to read one of the French papers that had
arrived by the last mail. Replete, his mind at ease, he could not but
feel that life, with all its disadvantages, was good to live. He was
still affected by the amused surprise that had overcome him when
it suddenly occurred to him that he was a happy man. When you
considered that men spent their lives seeking for happiness, it
seemed hardly believable that he had found it. Yet the fact stared
him in the face. A man who has everything he wants is happy, he
had everything he wanted; therefore he was happy. He chuckled as
a new thought crossed his mind.
'There's no denying it, I owe it to Adele.'
Old Adele. What a foul woman!
Presently he decided that he had better have a nap; he set his
alarm clock for a quarter to twelve and lying down on his bed in a
few minutes was fast asleep. He slept soundly and no dreams
234 W
. Somerset Maugham
troubled him. He woke with a start when the alarm sounded, but
in a moment remembered why he had set it. He yawned and
stretched himself lazily.
'Ah, well, 1 suppose I must get to work. Every job has its incon-
veniences.'
He slipped from under his mosquito-net and relit his lamp. To
freshen himself he washed his hands and face, and then as a protec-
tion against the night air drank a glass of rum. He thought for a
moment of his inexperienced assistant and wondered whether it
would be wise to take some rum in a flask with him.
'It would be a pretty business if his nerves went back on him.'
It was unfortunate that so many as six men had to be executed.
If there had been only one, it wouldn't have mattered so much his
assistant being new to the game; but with five others waiting there,
it would be awkward if there were a hitch. He shrugged his shoul-
ders. They would just have to do the best they could. He passed a
comb through his tousled hair and carefully brushed his handsome
moustache. He lit a cigarette. He walked through his compound,
unlocked the door in the stout palisade that surrounded it, and
locked it again behind him. There was no moon. He whistled for
his dogs. He was surprised that they did not come. He whistled
again. The brutes. They'd probably caught a rat and were fighting
over it. He'd give them a good hiding for that; he'd teach them not
to come when he whistled. He set out to walk in the direction of
the prison. It was dark under the coconut trees and he would just
as soon have had the dogs with him. Still there were only fifty yards
to go and then he would be out in the open. There were lights in
the governor's house, and it gave him confidence to see them. He
smiled, for he guessed what those lights at that late hour meant;
the governor, with the execution before him at dawn, was finding
it hard to sleep. The anxiety, the malaise, that affected convicts and
ex-convicts alike on the eve of an execution, had got on his nerves.
It was true that there was always the chance of an outbreak then,
and the warders went around with their eyes skinned and their
hands ready to draw their guns at a suspicious movement.
Louis Remire whistled for his dogs once more, but they did not
come. He could not understand it. It was a trifle disquieting. He
was a man who habitually walked slowly, strolling along with a
sort of roll, but now he hastened his pace. He spat the cigarette out
of his mouth. It had struck him that it was prudent not to betray
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: |
