The Black House by Paul Theroux

Author:Paul Theroux [Theroux, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Paul Theroux
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2012-03-20T14:59:52+00:00

“They love it,” said Janet disgustedly to Munday —but .they were all speaking to Munday, appealing, looking to him for approval, as if he were judging them. “The local people don’t know any better. They chase around on foot while the wealthy ones are on horseback..It’s a class thing in actual fact.”

“Hunting,” said Munday, and everyone listened, “is the perfect expression of the English tribal character. Formal murder, a lot of ceremony, a little blood, the classes together, the aristocrats in the saddle, the poorer on foot, the middle classes gaping from their gardens. It’s how all our best wars have been fought. You can be sure that when someone is dealt with that way the English mean business.”

“What Janet really objects to is the blooding,” said Michael.

“God,” said Janet, “they take the fox’s brush, dripping with blood, and they wipe it—”

“Yes, yes,” said Munday, who had just thought of a Bwamba custom which was an appropriate comparison, one of the puberty rites.

But Awdry interrupted. “They rarely sight a fox— that should give you some consolation, surely? Though on Christmas day,” he said, turning to Munday, “we saw one up by the Black House. We lost him behind the mill at Stoke Abbot.”

“I’m glad,” said Janet.

“Earth-stoppers didn’t do their job properly,” said Awdry.

“They be drinking,” said Peter Motherwell, trying to imitate a local accent; but it was not a good imitation, he was embarrassed, there was a guilty hesitance in his delivery—he blushed—and after he finished by saying, “Oy zeed ’em over yere at The Yew Tree,” there was a silence, the vicar expressed frank disapproval and several of the women glanced nervously in the direction of the door.

Breaking the silence, in what was clearly intended to help out her husband by diverting attention away from his galfe, Anne said, “I wonder what’s happened to Caroline.”

“And Jerry’s coming as well,” said Awdry. “I suggest we all have another drink while we wait. Help yourselves to the punch.”

“Maybe they’re coming together,” said Michael confidentially to Anne.

“I don’t believe all those things they say about Caroline,” Anne said. “Do you?”

“Yes,” said Michael, and smiled, but became serious again when he saw that the rest were listening.

“How long have you lived here?” Emma was asking the Motherwells.

“Two years,” said Peter. “The Stricks have been here five—they’re old-timers!”

“We’re starting our seventh year,” said the vicar proudly. He smiled at his wife. But she looked apprehensive, as if she were being called upon to speak.

Munday made himself a drink and then wandered to a side table where he had spotted an African carving. He picked it up and turned it over and weighed it in his hand.

“Kamba,” he said.

“I know,” said Awdry, who had followed him to the table. “I’m told they’re becoming quite valuable.”

“Nowadays they make them in a factory in Nairobi,” said Munday. “To sell to tourists. Horrible shiny things.”

“I’ll show you some more,” said Awdry, and led Munday to the library. “Here, these are rather fun.” On a table, covered by a

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