The Comedians

'The

wrong

cemetery?' Jones asked.

'It can't be. We must be near Aquin now.' We went on down the track and opposite the further corner we did find a hut, but it didn't seem ruined so far as I could tell in the torch-light. There was nothing we could do but try it. If anyone lived there, he would be at least as scared as we were.

'I wish I had a gun,' Jones said.

'I'm glad you haven't, but what about your unarmed combat?' He muttered something that sounded like 'rusty'.

But there was nobody inside when the door opened to my push. A patch of paling night-sky showed through a hole in the roof. 'We are two hours late,' I said. 'He's probably come and gone.'

Jones sat on his kitbag and panted. 'We should have started earlier.'

'How could we? We were timed by the storm.'

'What do we do now?'

'When it's light I'll go back to the car. There's nothing compromising in a wrecked car on this road. Some time during the day I know there's a local bus between Petit Goave and Aquin, and perhaps I can hitch a ride on from there, or there may be another bus as far as Aux Cayes.'

'It sounds simple,' Jones said with envy. 'But what do I do?'

'Hold out until tomorrow night.' I added viciously, 'You're in your familiar jungle now.' I looked out of the doorway: there was nothing to be seen or heard, not even a barking dog. I said, 'I don't like staying here. Suppose we fell asleep - someone might come. The soldiers must sometimes patrol these roads - or a peasant going to work. He'd inform on us. Why shouldn't he? We are white.'

Jones said, 'We can keep watch in turn.'

'There's a better way. We'll sleep in the cemetery. No one will come there except Baron Samedi.'

We crossed the so-called road and clambered over a low stone-wall and found ourselves in the street of the miniature town, where the houses were only shoulder-high. We climbed the hillside slowly because of Jones's kitbag. I felt safer in the very middle of the cemetery, and there we found a house higher than ourselves. We put the bottle of whisky in one of the window embrasures and sat down with our backs to a wall. 'Oh well,' Jones said mechanically, 'I've been in worse places.' I wondered how bad a place would have to be before he forgot his signature tune.

'If you see a top-hat among the tombs,' I said, 'it will be the Baron.'

'Do you believe in zombies?' Jones asked.

'I don't know. Do you believe in ghosts?'

'Let's not talk about ghosts, old man, let's have another whisky.'

I thought I heard a movement and switched on the torch. It shone the whole length of a street of graves into a cat's eyes which reflected like Franco studs. It leapt upon a roof and was gone.

'Ought we to show a light, old man?'

'If there was anyone about to see it, he would be too scared to come. You couldn't do better than to dig in here tomorrow' - it was not a happily chosen phrase to use in a cemetery. 'I doubt if anyone comes here except to bury the dead.' Jones sucked in more whisky, and I warned him, 'There's only a quarter of a bottle left. You've got all tomorrow before you.'

'Martha filled the shaker for me,' he said. 'I've never known a girl so thoughtful.'

'Or such a good lay?' I asked.

There was a spell of silence - I thought perhaps he was remembering with pleasure the occasions. Then Jones said, 'Old man, the game's turned serious now.'

'What

game?'

'Playing at soldiers. I can understand why people want to confess. Death's a bloody serious affair. A man doesn't feel quite worthy of it. Like a decoration.'

'Have you such a lot to confess?'

'We all have. I don't mean to a priest or God.'

'To

whom?'

'To anyone at all. If I had a dog here tonight instead of you, I'd confess to the dog.'

I didn't want his confessions, I didn't want to hear how many times he had slept with Martha. I said, 'Did you confess to Midge?'

'There wasn't any occasion. The game hadn't turned serious then.'

'A dog at least has to keep your secrets.'

'I don't care a damn who tells what, but I don't fancy a lot of lies after I'm dead. I've lied enough before.'

I heard the cat come scrambling back over the roofs, and again I turned on my torch and lit the eyes. This time it flattened itself upon a stone and began to scrape its nails. Jones opened his kitbag and pulled out a sandwich. He broke it in half and tossed one half towards the cat which fled, as though the bread were a stone.

'You'd better be careful,' I said. 'You're on short rations now.'

'The poor devil's hungry.' He put the half-sandwich back, and we and the cat were silent a long while. It was Jones who broke the silence with his obstinate obsession. 'I'm an awful liar, old man.'

'I've always assumed that,' I said.

'What I said about Martha - there wasn't a word of truth in it. She's only one of fifty women I haven't had the courage to touch.'

I wondered if he was telling the truth now or graduating to a more honourable sort of lie. Perhaps he had detected something in my manner which told him all. Perhaps he pitied me. One could hardly sink lower, I thought, than that - to be pitied by Jones. He said, 'I've always lied about women.' He gave an uneasy laugh. 'The moment I had Tin Tin, she became a leading member of the Haitian aristocracy. If there had been anyone around to tell about it. Do you know, old man, I haven't had a single woman in my life I haven't paid - or at least promised to pay. Sometimes I've had to welsh when things were bad.'

'Martha told me she's slept with you.'

'She can't have told you that. I don't believe you.'

'Oh yes. It was almost the last words she said to me.'

'I never realized,' he said gloomily.

'Realized

what?'

'That she was your girl. Another of my lies has found me out. You mustn't believe her. She was angry because you were going away with me.'

'Or angry because I was taking you away.'

There was a scrabble in the dark where the cat had found the bit of sandwich. I said, 'There's quite a jungle atmosphere here. You'll feel at home.'

I heard him take a pull at the whisky and then he said, 'Old man, I've never been in a jungle in my life - unless you count the Calcutta Zoo.'

'Were you never in Burma?'

'Oh yes, I was. Or nearly. Anyway I was only fifty miles from the border. I was at Imphal, in charge of entertaining the troops. Well, not exactly in charge. We had Noel Coward once,' he added with pride and a sense of relief - it was something true that he could boast about.

'How did the two of you get on?'

'I didn't actually speak to him,' Jones said.

'But you were in the army?'

'No. I was rejected. Flat feet. They found I'd managed a cinema in Shillong, so they gave me this job. I had a uniform of a kind but without badges of rank. I was in liaison,' he added with that note of odd pride, 'with E.N.S.A.'

I flashed my torch around the acre of grey tombs. I said, 'Why the hell are we here then?'

'I boasted a bit too much, didn't I?'

'You've let yourself into a nasty situation. Aren't you frightened?'

'I'm like a fireman at his first fire,' he said.

'Your flat feet won't enjoy these mountain tracks!

'I can manage with supports,' Jones said. 'You won't tell them, old man? It was a confession.'

'They'll soon find out without my telling them. So you can't even use a Bren?'

'They haven't got a Bren.'

'You've spoken too late. I can't smuggle you back.'