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THE BIG MAN



A. McIntyre


I read the telegram. Marshall dead. Proceed Port Campbell immediately. So Marshall was dead. One of our best men. I lit a cigarette, wondering how he might have died. There had been an outbreak of cholera recently. I knew he hadn’t been well. Poor old Marshall. I remembered a large fellow, clipped mustache, very English. My wife brought whisky. I have to go to Port Campbell, I said, Marshall’s dead, I’ve got to close the negotiations. She paused for a few seconds, Oh dear, how awful. How long will it take? I don’t know, I replied, A couple of days perhaps. I stared into the dark, the oil lamp flickering in the slight breeze.
Marshall had been very close to concluding the business. A matter of formalities. The consortium was about to control a quarter of the region’s gold. We were going to mine an area bigger than London. Negotiations to resolve, apparently some of the natives’ demands were still creating problems. I leaned towards the window. Below, jungle as far as I could see. The plane rocked and jolted, falling a few hundred feet. The pilot leaned round grinning, Sorry mate, storm ahead, we should make it, if not we’ll put down in Zindawa. I nodded. Parts of the land were still unexplored, there was so much potential. In the distance, beyond the Jirian range, heavy black clouds seethed with the light of a vast storm. The plane banked and we flew in the opposite direction. The pilot shouted, Slight diversion mate, we don’t want to be over there. I nodded again. Leaning back in the seat, I felt the sweat dripping down my face. I took two mouthfuls of whisky from the flask, followed by a long drink from the water bottle. Twilight came fast, the sky flaming red then dark blue. I dozed.
A shout interrupted a dream of fly fishing in Scotland, Nearly there. I rubbed my eyes. We were circling. Port Campbell below, capital of the northern region, just a few shacks and a hotel. Towns meant nothing here. Three dirt roads to nowhere, a vast blackness beyond, and the river, its source in the western highlands. Far to the south, the sky periodically lit up like a huge theater. We landed, bumping heavily a couple of times. I thanked the pilot and staggered out of the plane. A huge figure was walking towards me. Caruthers? Yes, I replied. Name’s Brodrick, Moss Brodrick. We shook hands. You’re lucky to be here. The storm, he added, Should arrive tonight. We climbed into the jeep.
We sat in my room, the fan creaking above us, outside a torrent of rain. Be like this for a few hours, said Brodrick, Nothing else to do but down more of these. He pointed at the beer. Well, I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it, I said. We sat in silence, the heat rendering all movement absurd. So Marshall, how did he die? I asked. Brodrick exhaled smoke, handing me another bottle, It was a game. A game? Yes, he continued, Christmas Day, they were playing a game. Who? I interrupted. Oh, some planters and Harry Morgan, he’s a local trader, well, he drinks a bit you know, and they like to rib him now and then. That night they were putting a dead snake on his car roof, and when old Harry left the bar to drive home of course he saw the snake. So he dashed back into the bar yelling about a snake on his car. Everyone laughed and said, You’re drunk old man, seeing things again. Marshall nipped outside and removed the snake, so when everyone went to see what Harry was on about naturally there was no snake. Harry had one more for the road, Marshall put the snake back, and the same thing happened, Harry came running in again scared out of his wits. They repeated the joke several times until Harry was frantic. The last time Marshall went out to remove the dead snake to give Harry a rest, there was a real snake, it bit him. Northern Taipan, must’ve fallen from a tree. He was dead within minutes. They thought it was his heart till they saw the fang marks, unmistakable. Poor old Marshall. And it finished off Harry, he left for England. Good God, I said. Brodrick turned and stared through the window at the rain, Yes, most unfortunate. By the way, this might slow us down, but things should clear. I suggest we get some rest, you must be exhausted. Good idea, I agreed. Stay in the room, he added, Keep the door locked, and here, take this. He handed me a .45. Haven’t seen one of these since the war, I said. Where were you? he asked. North Africa mainly, how about you? Sweat dripping down his face, he stared, Burma, then here. He waved and closed the door. I washed, climbed onto the rickety bed, and fell asleep lulled by the crashing of the rain, the .45 on the floor.
A knock on the door. I touched the gun, Who’s there? A deep voice, Big Man him wanna you eat breakfast. Footsteps down the corridor. The rain had stopped. I opened the blinds. Dawn, the end of the storm, retreating clouds penetrated by daggers of light. The air reeking of hot soggy vegetation. I could see the blue lines of the highlands a hundred miles to the north. A rooster pecked at the mud.
Brodrick was seated in the dining room, drinking tea. I hope you’ll forgive me, I already ate, hope you slept well. Thank you, I said, Like a log. Master Number One ready now, Brodrick shouted suddenly. A hulking native emerged from the kitchen. He placed a plate on the table and served a four inch Witches Grub, fried to perfection. Looks good, I said. This wallah fine man, said Brodrick. The native grinned and bowed. Well, dig in old chap, then I’ll fill you in on what’s happening. Good idea, I mumbled. I chewed the soft meat, relishing the smoky aftertaste. Brodrick lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. It’s very simple. Every member of the tribe wants a bungalow, a lawn, some gardening equipment, especially lawnmowers, and money to invest. I want the best for them, I hate to see them lose out, they helped us in the war you know. I recommended five hundred pounds each. Should see them through, they’re all dead by forty anyway. Marshall was very against it for some reason. Is that all? I asked. Yes, Brodrick replied, You need to drive up country with me and sign with the chief. I’ll be there, of course, you wouldn’t make it alone. The missionaries send volunteers but they eat them. Nice fat missionary roasting on a fire. Have you ever seen that? No, I replied, Never. You get used to it, said Brodrick, First ate human in the war, thought it was monkey till they told me it was Jap, liver’s the best part. Why do they leave you alone? I asked. Brodrick laughed softly, I’m the beer man, Imperial Breweries. I bring their beer, manna from heaven. We brew extra strong lager especially for them, sold nowhere else. Keeps them happy. It’s currency, they treat it like gold. You know what they say? No, I said. He watched me, searching for signs of unease, Strong man strong beer. Come on let’s get going, we must be back before night.
The village was a three hour drive through an emerald landscape, the grass lush with the recent rains. Trees laden with fruit, insects, brightly colored butterflies the size of dinner plates. Birds of Paradise. Brodrick was right, I could not have done the journey alone. We passed tribesmen carrying spears, naked except for penis horns, bones through their noses, their bodies muscled like Greek statues. Very few whites had ever been this far. They watched suspiciously until they saw Brodrick, then they cheered, running alongside the jeep mile after mile. We were towing a trailer crammed with beer. By the time we reached the village, sixty or seventy warriors surrounded us. Brodrick stopped the jeep and yelled, Where is Big Man One Talk? Take me to One Talk Big Man. The tribe sighed as one, a vast exhalation, as a very old man was lifted towards us on a chair, carried by six men their hard bodies caked in gray ash. One Talk Big Man me lug beer, Brodrick ranted, Strong man beer for big men. The old man gestured towards me, What name belong him? This man Master Number One, him Big Man too, friend of King. Pressed by the tribe, we followed the old chief to the long house, the interior lit by a single animal fat candle that sputtered in the breeze, the yellow light flickering over hundreds of skulls lining the walls. For a long time Brodrick lapsed into pidgin, the old man nodding occasionally, then he produced a document with the King’s seal. All in order, he whispered, You just sign. I duly scrawled the quill over the parchment. Now we give them the beer and we leave. We want to be well away before nightfall.
I smoked a cigarette while warriors unloaded the beer. Brodrick stood while other warriors presented him with gifts, a twelve foot dead cobra, piglets, young girls, mirrors, a pack of cards. I stared across the countryside imagining the mine in a few years, the biggest in the world, and it would be ours. Poor old Marshall would be have been pleased. Pity about the view, but there was plenty more land, heavens, we’d only just started exploring the place. The Japs had tried to take it and now it was ours, we’d got there before the Americans. Who knows what lay beyond? If they wanted bungalows, lawns, lawnmowers, a few hundred pounds, they’d bloody well have them. I watched a group of monkeys in some nearby trees. A dominant male was pursuing younger members of the troop. Fitzroy’s Macaques, said Brodrick, following my gaze, That one’s the Big Man. Sometimes, I wonder what the hell we’re doing, he continued, Damn pity how it’s all going to change, with the mine, I was really quite attached. There’s bags more land, I replied, You can always move up country if you want. But the monkey’s aren’t giving up their trees for bungalows and lawnmowers, are they? he interrupted, And they couldn’t care less about gold. I stared at him, Don’t be absurd man, of course not, they’re dumb animals.
Six months later they filmed the opening of the mine, the excavations a gaping red hole in the earth. The gold was already starting to flow. The company’s stock quadrupled, and I was promoted to head office. And the natives have tasted the fruits of their success, droned the narrator’s BBC voice, Only a year ago these people were living in tribal poverty but today they enjoy a wealth which is the envy of anyone, all thanks to the Imperial Consolidated Mining Company. We saw a man naked except for his penis horn mowing a lawn by a bungalow. One of his wives was grinning at the camera, wearing nothing more than an apron. The narrator continued, It’s a lovely day, and Mrs. Bangalooloo’s off to do the shopping, the first supermarkets are on their way.




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