Lost Worlds by David Yeadon Read Free Book Online Page A

languor was too good to be true.
    The unpleasantness began innocently enough one afternoon as we passed a series of small fishing villages beyond Mbandaka. We were cruising calmly up the western side of the river quite close to the bank. Drums echoed occasionally in the forest—an ancient system for indicating the progress of the boat to piroguistes farther upstream. I was doodling rather ineffective sketches on a pad stained with beer and sweat.
    A thin, weasely-faced man, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a skin the color of cold cappuccino, edged up the long, open veranda near my cabin. There was something officious about him, tinged with an undoubted penchant for forelock pulling in the presence of appointed superiors. His dress was innocuous enough. He wore a rather grubby white shirt, pink tie, creased gray trousers stained at the cuffs, and plastic, imitation-leather shoes. His smile, when I looked up and nodded a good afternoon, was exactly what I thought it would be—tight and false. In fact, downright unpleasant. The very epitome of Uriah Heepishness.
    “ Parlez-vous Français, monsieur? ”
    “A little, yes—but I prefer English.”
    “Ah—I am not so good by my English.”
    “Ah.”
    I was hoping that might be the end of our little chat. Rarely do I take such an instant dislike to newly met individuals, but this particular one exuded mistrust and guile.
    “ J’pense que— I am sorry—I will try the English…. I see that you are artist.”
    “I’m sketching—yes.”
    “Ah—yes, artisting.”
    I smiled. His new word had an amusing ring to it. Unfortunately, he took my smile for encouragement and crept closer (I mean really crept, as if he sensed that at any second I might take a swing at him with my pencil).
    Then he was peering over my shoulder.
    “Ah, les villages— the villages. Yes.”
    He began a flurry of noddings. Either that or he had a very bad attack of the tics.
    “You are very good, monsieur . Your artisting —c’est trés bonne! ”
    “Thank you.”
    “You have many like this?”
    “Quite a few, yes.” Looking back, I should have shut the sketchbook and shut myself up too. But instead I flicked through a few of my other quick doodles, including a few I’d done when we were invaded at that little town with all the pirogues.
    “Ah, yes. You have many. Very good.”
    He stood—or rather stooped—for a while and was silent. When he started up again I could have sworn he almost reached up to pull his forelock.
    “I am sorry to interrupt you.”
    “No, no—that’s fine.”
    “Excuse me, monsieur , but do you have a beer?”
    “No, sorry—I’ve just finished the last one.”
    “Ah, yes.”
    More silence. I was getting a little irritated now. I don’t like sketching when people are watching and he gave no indication of moving on.
    “Ah—I see you smoke cigars.”
    “Yes. Yes, I enjoy the occasional cigar.”
    “Excuse me, monsieur— but do you have one cigar for me?”
    “I’m sorry. I’m out. My cigars are all back in the cabin.” I wished I’d had one. He may have left me alone.
    “Of course.”
    The throb of the boat’s engine ran through my body like a vibrator bed. A pleasant sensation, made even more relaxing by the river breezes which Uriah Heep was now effectively blocking.
    “I wonder, monsieur . I am needing of buying something. Is it possible that you have a little—excuse me—a few zaires for me —un petit cadeau .”
    Okay, I’d had it. My patience had gone now and I wanted my breeze back—and my solitude.
    I turned and gave him my stern look.
    “I am sorry, I don’t have a beer, I don’t have a cigar, and I don’t have any zaires on me at the moment. Now, if you don’t mind…”
    And he did it! He actually reached up and touched his forelock. Didn’t exactly pull it, but near enough to confirm all my expectations.
    “Ah. Eh, bien . I will leave you now. Adieu, monsieur .”
    Five minutes later I’d forgotten about him. But the