Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry [41]
"I say I say what's the matter there?" The English "King's Parade" voice, scarcely above him, called out from behind the steering wheel, the Consul saw now, of an extremely long low car drawn up beside him, murmurous: an M. G. Magna, or some such.
"Nothing." The Consul sprang to his feet instantly sober as a judge. "Absolutely all right."
"Can't be all right, you were lying right down in the road there, what?" The English face, now turned up toward him, was rubicund, merry, kindly, but worried, above the English striped tie, mnemonic of a fountain in a great court.
The Consul brushed the dust from his clothes; he sought for wounds in vain; there was not a scratch. He saw the fountain distinctly. Might a soul bathe there and be clean or slake its drought?
"All right, apparently," he said, "thanks very much."
"But damn it all I say you were lying right down in the road there, might have run over you, there must be something wrong, what? No?" The Englishman switched his engine off, "I say, haven't I seen you before or something."
"Trinity." The Consul found his own voice becoming involuntarily a little more "English." "Unless--"
"Cams."
"But you're wearing a Trinity tie--" the Consul remarked with a polite note of triumph.
"Trinity?... Yes. It's my cousin's, as a matter of fact." The Englishman peered down his chin at the tie, his red merry face become a shade redder. "We're going to Guatemala... Wonderful country this. Pity about all this oil business, isn't it? Bad show.--Are you sure there's no bones broken or anything, old man?"
"No. There are no bones broken," the Consul said. But he was trembling.
The Englishman leaned forward fumbling as for the engine switch again. "Sure you're all right? We're staying at the Bella Vista Hotel, not leaving until this afternoon. I could take you along there for a little shuteye... Deuced nice pub I must say but deuced awful row going on all night. I suppose you were at the ball--is that it? Going the wrong way though, aren't you? I always keep a bottle of something in the car for an emergency... No. Not Scotch. Irish. Burke's Irish. Have a nip?
But perhaps you'd--"
" Ah..." The Consul was taking a long draught. "Thanks a million."
"Go ahead... Go ahead..."
"Thanks." The Consul handed back the bottle. "A million."
"Well, cheerio." The Englishman restarted his engine. "Cheerio man. Don't go lying down in roads. Bless my soul you'll get run over or run in or something, damn it all. Dreadful road too. Splendid weather, isn't it?" The Englishman drove away up the hill, waving his hand.
"If you're ever in any kind of a jam yourself," the Consul cried after him recklessly, "I'm--wait, here's my card--"
"Bungho!"
--It was not Dr. Vigil's card the Consul still held in his hand: but it was certainly not his own. Compliments of the Venezuelan Government. What was this? The Venezuelan Government will appreciate... Wherever could this have sprung from? The Venezuelan Government will appreciate an acknowledgement to the Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores. Caracas, Venezuela. Well, now, Caracas--well, why not?
Erect as Jim Taskerson, he thought, married now too, poor devil--restored, the Consul glided down the Calle Nicaragua.
Within the house there was the sound of bathwater running out: he made a lightning toilet. Intercepting Concepta (though not before he had added a tactful strychnine to her burden) with the breakfast tray, the Consul, innocently as a man who has committed a murder while dummy at bridge, entered Yvonne's room. It was bright and tidy. A gaily coloured Oaxaquenan serape covered the low bed where Yvonne lay half asleep with her head resting on one hand.
"How!"
"How!"
A magazine she'd been reading dropped to the floor.