The Scorpion-Fish by Nicolas Bouvier

Author:Nicolas Bouvier [Nicolas Bouvier]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780600475
Publisher: Eland Publishing
Published: 2014-03-17T04:00:00+00:00

XI

A Pinch of Curiosity …

For we have reached the oldest land

herein the Powers of Darkness range.

— Rudyard Kipling

One day when nothing was going right, and because I’m fascinated by all the stories I hear, I went down to M—. It is a large village at the far south of my Island; a coach whose slashed velvet seats go back to Edward VII’s childhood will take you there for two rupees. I went on foot, relying on the exercise to help me get a grip on myself. The route provides a magnificent display of superfluous beauty. The road is nibbled on one side by the surf, on the other by a profusion of hyacinths, and runs straight under the tall coconut palms. It is a long, abandoned riding track, almost deserted, which could well lead to some deposed giant’s den. On gusty days you can see a hail of nuts crashing to the ground from twenty yards above smashing the palm canopies over handcarts, knocking down the passer-by who hasn’t hitched up his sarong and taken to his heels. Calm restored, the path is strewn with open shells, which a tribe of voracious crabs scrambles for, madly zig-zagging across the road or, balancing on their claws, makes as though to stop your passing. Well before reaching the village you see the gigantic tree which shelters nearly all of it. It is a lordly banyan, head and shoulders above the tallest coconut-palm. Above it revolves a black column, lazily twining and untwining with a low murmur. From a distance I took it for a flight of crows. In fact it is a troupe of vampire bats, leaving the tree where they have slept all day hanging upside down, their triangular ears pointing groundwards. By the time I arrived there were only a few of these dark fruits in the lower branches, delicately unfolding their wings to reveal the silky stomachs of well-fucked whores, taking to the air and spiralling upwards to join in the twilight sabbath. The village lay in filtered light under that black parasol. Two short streets, a square giving on to the shore where the fishing boats were already beached for the night, and several stalls just vacated, whose brass scales inexplicably jingled in the still air. Between the stalls, squatting around a fly-blown butcher’s block, were half a dozen men smoking in silence. I greeted them as I passed, received no look or word in response, and went to lie on the beach, chin in hands, looking at the square. Saw another of those mendicant bonzes renowned for their insolence and impudence, who approached the group ringing his little bell, took one look and went on his way — like a bad dog giving wide berth to even worse curs. I was tired with walking and dropped off for a moment. When I woke up the sea had turned to pewter; the bats were breaking out of their circle and scattering to the four corners of space. Dusk overflowed in its sumptuous, melancholy beauty.

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