Chapter 13 people from the south

It was almost six o'clock, so I wanted to get myself a beer, go outside and sit on a deck chair by the pool and enjoy the evening sunset. I went to the bar, got the bottle of beer, took it out of the house, and strolled across the garden to the pool. This is a very beautiful garden: the grass is green, the flower beds are full of rhododendrons, and the coconut trees stand tall and graceful.The wind was blowing hard through the tops of the coconut trees, making the leaves rustle and crackle as if on fire.And the clusters of huge brown nuts hanging under the leaves are still vivid. There are deck chairs lined around the pool, along with white tables and huge, brightly colored parasols.Tanned men and women in bathing suits sat around the pool.There are three or four girls and twelve or thirteen boys in the pool.They were all splashing, yelling and making noise and throwing a big rubber ball around.

I stood there looking at them.Those girls were English girls who lived in the hotel.I didn't recognize the guys, but their accents sounded American.I think they are probably Naval cadets off the US Navy training ship that just came in this morning. I went over and sat down under a yellow parasol, where there were four empty chairs.I carefully poured the beer into the glass, wiped off the foam on my upper lip, lit a cigarette, and lay down comfortably on my back. Under the setting sun, with cigarettes and alcohol as company, sitting like this doing nothing is really a joy in the world.It is also a pleasant thing to sit there and watch the men and women who are playing in the blue waves splashing water and frolicking with each other.

The American sailors and English girls in the pool had a great time.They've gotten to the point of being informal with each other: the boys dive under the water to hook them down with their legs. Just then, a short, elderly man walked briskly along the edge of the swimming pool.He was dressed in a clean white suit, and walked quickly with bouncing steps.With each step he tipped his toes, pushing himself a little taller.He was wearing a big beige Panama hat, and he was bouncing along the edge of the pool to where I sat, looking at the chairs here. He stopped beside me and smiled at me, revealing two rows of white, slightly crooked teeth--they're obviously expensive to maintain.He was very dark and I guessed he was from South America somewhere.

"Excuse me, can I sit here?" "Of course," I said, "please sit down." He tiptoed to the back of the chair to inspect it to see if it was secure, and then sat down and crossed his legs, his white moccasins perforated for ventilation. "What a beautiful evening," he said, "the evenings are so beautiful in Jamaica." "Yes." I said, I didn't want to talk to him. "Ha, what kind of people are those people?" He pointed to those people in the swimming pool. "They're not guests staying at this hotel." He was a real talker.

"I think they're American sailors," I said to him, "and they're studying to be sailors." "American? No wonder. I hate Americans. They're so rowdy. You're not American, eh?" "No," I said, "I'm not." At this moment one of the gang of American cadets suddenly appeared in front of us.He was dripping with water from the swimming pool, and beside him stood an English girl. "Are these chairs taken?" he asked. "No." I replied. "You don't mind if we sit here?" "please." "Thank you," he said.He was holding a towel in his hand.After he sat down, he loosened the towel and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from it.He handed the girl a cigarette, but the girl refused.He then handed me the cigarette, and I took one.

The little man said, "Thank you, I don't want it. But I'd like a cigar." He took out a crocodile-skin case, took out a cigar for himself, then fished out a knife with small scissors, with which he cut off the butt of the cigar. "Come on, I'll light it for you." The American boy stretched out his hand and handed over his lighter. "This thing won't light in the wind." "Don't worry, it will definitely light up. It will try everything." The short man took the unlit cigar from his mouth, tilted his head to one side, and stared at the young man.

"Wanshi—Wanling?" He asked slowly. "Yes, it never makes a mistake. At least, it doesn't make a mistake in my hands." "Really?" The short man still tilted his head and stared at the young man. "Very good, very good. So, this lighter of yours never fails. Is that what you mean?" "That's right," said the lad, "not bad at all." He was about nineteen or twenty years old, with a long, freckled face and a pointed nose like a bird's beak.His chest wasn't too tanned by the sun, but it was also covered with freckles.But he was well-proportioned and looked good in swimming trunks.Now he is holding the lighter with his right hand, as if he is ready to press the wheel at any moment to make it fire. "It never goes wrong," he said. "Come on, let me order it for you."

"Please wait." The short man raised the hand holding the cigar. "Just a minute." His voice was soft and dull.He kept watching the boy closely. "Shall we make a little bet on this?" he said, smiling at the young man. "Shall we make a little bet and see if this lighter of yours will catch fire?" "Of course. I'll bet it," said the lad. "Why not?" "You like to bet?" "That's right. I'm willing to accompany anyone." The little man paused for a moment, looking at the cigar in his hand.Then he raised his forehead, frowned, and kept smiling.I suddenly found myself leaning forward in my chair, listening to the two of them talking.I looked over at the English girl and saw that she too was leaning forward, listening with a little nervousness.

I don't know what the hell it is, but there's something unsettling about the little guy.It seemed to me that it was a vague, foul smell emanating from all around him, menacing, portenting some terrible evil power, but I couldn't be sure.He must have looked about seventy years old. He looked up at the young man again, and said slowly, "I like to bet, too. Why don't we have a good bet on this? Bet on something big." "Wait, wait," said the boy, "then I can't afford to bet. But I can bet you twenty-five cents. I can even bet you a dollar, or whatever currency is here--a few A shilling, I suppose."

The short man shook his hand again. "Listen to me. Now we've got some fun to play with. Let's make a bet, and then we'll go up to my room in the hotel and play the game, where the wind doesn't blow in. I bet you can't use This brand name lighter of yours has been lit ten times and it works every time." "I bet I could set it on fire every time," said the lad. "Very well. Then we've got a bet, don't we?" "Sure, I bet you a dollar." "No, no, no. I'd like to make a good bet with you. I'm a rich man, and a bettor. Listen to me. There's a car of mine parked outside the hotel. .A nice car. It's your American—Cadillac..."

"Hey, wait a minute," said the young man, leaning back in the couch.He laughed. "I can't bet you anything like that. You're crazy." "Not at all. My Cadillac will be yours if you light it up ten times in a row. You'd love to win my Cadillac, huh?" "Naturally. I'd love to have a Cadillac." The boy grinned. "Very well. Let's make a bet, and I'll bet my Cadillac." "Then what am I betting on?" The short man carefully removed the red band from his unlit cigar. "Ah!" he said. "You bet that little finger on the top of your left hand." "My what?" The young man immediately put away his smile. "Yes. Why don't you take a gamble? If you win, you get the car. If you lose, your little finger is mine." "But I don't understand. What do you mean? My little finger is yours?" "I'll chop it off." "My God! That's a ridiculous bet. I think I'll only bet you a dollar." The short man leaned back in the chair.He put his palms up, stretched out his hands, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Oh, oh," he said, "I don't understand. You say it'll light, but you don't want to bet. Let's forget about that, shall we?" The boy sat there, very still.He stared wide-eyed at the people swimming in the pool.Then he suddenly remembered that he hadn't lit his own cigarette.He put the cigarette between his lips, put his hands in a circle to protect the lighter, and pushed the roller.The wick caught fire immediately, and a small, straight yellow flame flashed.He surrounded it with his palms so that the wind could not blow the flames at all. "Can I borrow a fire from you?" I asked the lad. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot, you're not on fire yet." He stood up, walked around to my chair, bent down, circled his hands, pressed the lighter, and lit a cigarette for me.He sat down again.At this moment, I could see that although he was sitting there, his heart began to tense up.He put his hands on his bare knees and began to tap his fingers on his knees. After a while, one of his feet also knocked away on the ground.He sat bare-chested and bare-backed in the recliner, watching the swimmers in the swimming pool, but the tension in his heart was obviously growing stronger. He turned at last to face the short man again, trying to make his voice sound casual. "Now, let me check that bet you proposed," he said, "You said we'd go to your room together, and if I light this lighter ten times in a row, I'll win a lighter." Cadillac. One failure and I'll lose my little finger on my left hand. Is that so?" "Of course it is. That's the bet I'm talking about. But I think you're frightened." "What shall we do if I lose? I have to stick out my little finger so you can chop it off?" "Oh, no! That's not okay. Then maybe you'll be tempted to hold it out for me to chop. Here's what I'm going to do: Before we start, I'll tie your hand to the table , I will wait by the side with a machete in my hand, and when your lighter fails, I will chop it immediately." "What year is that Cadillac of yours?" the boy asked. "Sorry, I didn't understand." "What year is it—how old is it?" "Well, how long ago? Yes, it was last year's product. 1950. But I don't think you're one to take a bet. You Americans aren't like that." The boy hesitated for a moment.He looked first at the English girl and then at me. "Okay," he snapped, "I'll accompany you." "Okay!" The short man clapped his hands calmly. "Well," he said, "we'll get to work now, sir," he said, turning to me. "You probably want to—what do you call it—referee." His eyes were gray and dull, with small pupils that were black and bright. "Oh," I said, "I think it's a ridiculous bet. I don't think I like it very much." "I don't like it either," said the English girl.This is her first time speaking. "I think it's a silly gamble." "If he loses, are you really going to chop off that guy's finger?" I asked. "Of course, I'll do it. If he wins, I'll give him the Cadillac too. Now go to my room." He stood up, "Do you want to put on some clothes before going?" He said. "No," the lad replied, "I'll just go." He turned to me and said, "If you'd like to be the referee, I'd appreciate you doing me a favor." "Okay," I said, "I will. But I don't like the bet." "Come too," he said to the girl, "come and see." The short man led the way through the garden and back to the hotel.Now he looked unusually active and excited.It made him look like he was bouncing more vigorously as he walked along. "I live in the new building," he said as he walked. "Would you like to see the car? It's parked there." He took us a little further to where we could see the driveway in front of the hotel.He paused to point out the Cadillac, which was parked not far away, glowing faintly in silver-green. "There it is. The green one. Do you like it?" "Why, that's a nice car," said the boy. "Okay. Now let's go upstairs and see if you can win it." We followed him into the new building and up the stairs.He opened the door and we filed in, into the large, comfortable double room.A women's dressing gown was thrown over the end of one of the beds in the room. "Let's have some martini first," he said. Drinks are placed on a small table in the far corner, ready to be prepared.There was also a shaker, ice cube jug and lots of glasses.He began to mix the martini, and at the same time he rang the bell, and then there was a knock on the door, and a black maid came in. "Ah!" he said, putting down the gin bottle. "Ah, listen!" he said, drawing his wallet from his pocket, and producing a one-pound note. "Please do me a favor." He handed the money to the maid. "Here's the money for you," he said. "We're going to play a little game here. I want you to go get me two—no, three things. I want some nails, a hammer, and a chopping Knife—a cook's knife for chopping meat, you can borrow one from the kitchen. You can do it, can't you?" "A meat cleaver?" The maid's eyes widened and she clasped her hands tightly in front of her chest. "You mean you want a real meat cleaver?" "Yes. Of course it's true. Do it now, please. You can get these things for me." "Yes, sir. I'll try. I'll try to get them," she said, and went. The short man poured martinis into glasses and handed them to us one by one.We just stood there drinking wine.The long, freckled, pointed-nosed lad was naked save for a pair of faded brown swimming trunks.The strong-boned, fair-haired, attractive English girl wore a light blue bathing suit.She watched the young man over her glass.As for the short, cloudy-eyed guy in the crisp white top, with his old face and quick feet, he stood drinking his martini and looking at the girl in the light blue bathing suit. I don't know how I should look at this matter.The guy seemed serious about the bet, and he seemed serious about chopping off his fingers.But, my God, if the boy lost, did he really chop off his finger?What can I do then?Then we'd have to take him to the hospital in the Cadillac he didn't win.That's a good thing.But is it really a good thing?In my eyes, it's a stupid and superfluous piece of shit.But, who am I, how can I intervene casually? "Don't you think this bet is boring?" I said. "I think it's interesting," replied the lad. "I think it's ridiculous," said the girl, "and what happens if you lose?" "Never mind. Now that I think about it, I don't remember that little finger on the top of my left hand having played any role in my life. That's where it grew," the lad held up the little finger. "It's been around here, but it's never done a thing for me. So why shouldn't I bet it? I think it's a good bet." The short man smiled and took the shaker to refill our glasses. "Before we start," he said, "I'm going to hand over the keys to that car to the judge—the referee." He took a car key from his pocket and handed it to me. "Those papers," he said, "the owner's papers and the insurance policy are in the bag in the car." Just then the black maid came into the room again.In one hand she held a small meat cleaver—the kind that butchers use to chop bones—and in the other a hammer and a pack of nails. "Very good! You got everything I wanted. Thank you, thank you. Now you can go." He waited for the maid to close the door before putting the tools on the bed, and said, "It's up to us Do yourself some prep work, haven't you?" He turned to the lad and said, "Do me a favor, please, lift this table and move it out a little bit." It was an ordinary hotel desk--an ordinary rectangular table, about four feet long and three feet wide.There is blotting paper, ink, pens and some paper on the desk.They lifted it from the side of the wall into the middle of the room.The short man then removed the stationery from the desk. "Now," he said, "a chair." He picked up a chair and put it beside the table.His manner was lively and quick, as if he were directing a game at a children's party. "Now, let's deal with the nails. I've got to drive them in." He reached for the nails and began hammering them into the table. There we stood—the young man, the girl and me.We watched the little guy go about his business with martinis in hand.We watched him hammer two iron nails into the table, so that a section of each nail was exposed on the top of the table.Then he tried it with his fingers to see if the nail was fastened. "He must have done it before," I thought. "It's something he's used to. Anyone can tell he's doing it at an old job—he's done it before." "Now," he said, "we just need a piece of rope." He found some rope. "Good! We're all ready at last. Could you please sit here by the table?" he said to the boy. The young man put down his glass and sat down. "Now put your left hand between those two iron nails. The iron nails are just for me to bind your hands to the table. Yes, very good. Now I will bind your hands, tightly Bind it to the table—yes, that's what it looks like." He wound the rope around the lad's wrist, and several times around his palm, and fastened the rope tightly to the nail.He is very good at this job.When he was done, the boy couldn't get his hands off any longer--but his fingers could still move. "Now please make a fist, except for the little finger - you have to straighten it flat on the table. . . . Great! Great! Everything is in place now. You use your right hand Press that lighter—but just a moment, please." He jumped up, jumped to the edge of the bed, reached out and grabbed the meat cleaver, and immediately returned to the original place, holding the sharp knife, standing by the table. "It's all set, isn't it?" he said. "Mr. Referee. You have to announce the start." The English girl in the light blue bathing suit stood behind the boy's chair.She just stood there, not saying a word.The young man sat motionless, raised the lighter in his right hand, and stared at the meat cleaver.The short man looked at me. "Are you ready?" I asked the lad. "Ready." "What about you?" I asked the short man. "I'm ready," he said, raising the meat cleaver, and hanging it about two feet above the lad's fingers, ready to chop it off at any moment.The young man didn't flinch from the sharp knife, and his mouth didn't tremble.He just raised his forehead and frowned. "Okay then," I said, "let's get started." The young man suddenly said, "Can you please tell me the number of times I light the lighter aloud every time I light it?" "Okay," I said, "I'll report it." He pushed open the top cover of the lighter with his thumb, and then used his thumb to twist the lighter's wheel quickly and lightly.The flint suddenly sparked, and the oil core ignited a flame, and a small yellow flame ignited. "Once!" I yelled. Instead of blowing out the flame, he closed the top cap of the lighter to put the flame out.He waited about five seconds before pushing the top cover back on. He gave the runner a hard turn, and the oil wick lit a small flame again. "twice!" No one speaks.The boy's eyes were fixed on his lighter.The short man held the meat cleaver high in the air, and also stared at the lighter without letting go. "three times!" "Four times!" "Five times!" "Six times!" "Seven times!" Obviously this lighter is very effective.The flint makes a huge spark and the wick is just the right length.I watched as the thumb smacked the flame with the top cap.A moment's pause followed.Then the thumb lifted the top cover again.The work was all taken up by the thumb, and everything was done by it alone.I breathed a sigh of relief and prepared to report "eight times".But when the thumb turned the wheel, the flint sparked, and the small flame reappeared. "Eight times!" I reported.Just as I reported the number, the door opened. We all turned our heads to see a woman standing in the doorway—a little woman with dark hair.She seems to be getting older.She stood there for about two seconds, then rushed forward, yelling, "Carlos! Carlos!" She grabbed the short man by the wrist, snatched the meat cleaver from his hand, threw it on the bed, took hold of the short man by the collar of his white coat, and shook him violently, using what sounded like The Spanish-like language yelled at him fast and loud and furious.She rocked him so fast we could barely see him.He became a blurred outline, like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "My God!" I thought to myself. "If she rocks like this any more, he's going to fall apart inside. That's a tough woman," I thought. "She's a really tough woman." Gradually her shaking slowed down, and we could see the short man's figure clearly again.She dragged him across the room and pushed him face up on a bed.Sitting on the edge of the bed, he blinked and turned his head to see if it was still turning around his neck. "I'm sorry," said the woman, "I'm so sorry that this happened." She spoke in almost flawless English. "It's too bad," she went on, "I think it's all my fault. I left him for ten minutes to wash his hair, and when I got back he was doing it again." She looked Deeply sorry and concerned. The lad is untying his hands from the table.The English girl stood by me and said nothing. "He's a real villain," said the woman. "He's got a total of forty-seven fingers from some people where we used to live--he's a collector of fingers. He's lost eleven cars for it. Then people tried to put him to be locked up somewhere, so I managed to bring him here." "We're just making a little bet," the short man muttered on the bed. "I guess his bet is a car," the woman said. "Yes," the boy replied, "a Cadillac." "But he doesn't have any more cars of his own, and that car is mine. He's getting worse," she said, "and when he has nothing to bet on, he'll Betting with other people. I'm deeply ashamed and sorry about it." She seemed like a very pleasant woman. "Oh," I said, "then here are the keys to that car of yours." I put the keys on the table. "We just made a small bet." The short man was still muttering. "He has nothing left with which to wager," said the woman. "He's got nothing in the world. Nothing. In fact, I've won all of his stuff into my hands myself a long time ago. It's going to take a lot of time, and it's a really hard job , but in the end I finally won them." She looked up at the young man and smiled slightly.It was a slow, deliberate, sad smile.She came over, reached out with one hand, and took the key from the table. Even now I can seem to see her hand--it's just one finger and the thumb.