"Hemingway, Ernest - Green Hills of Africa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hemingway Ernest)

'There's no hurry about getting back,' Pop said. 'We'll look for you
when we see you.'
'All right.'
'We'll send the lorry to haul that sportsman into Handeni. He's sending
his men ahead walking.'
'You're sure the lorry can stand it? Don't do it because he's a friend
of mine.'
'Have to get him out. The lorry will be in to-night.'
'The Memsahib's still asleep,' I said. 'Maybe she can get out for a
walk and shoot some guineas?'
'I'm here,' she said. 'Don't worry about us. {Oh}, I hope you get
them.'
'Don't send out to look for us along the road until day after
to-morrow,' I said. 'If there's a good chance we'll stay.'
'Good luck.'
'Good luck, sweet. Good-bye, Mr. J. P.'


CHAPTER TWO

We were out from under the shade of camp and along the sandy river of a
road, driving into the western sun, the bush thick to the edge of the sand,
solid as a thicket, the little hills rising above it, and all along the road
we passed groups of people making their way to the westward. Some were naked
except for a greasy cloth knotted over one shoulder, and carried bows and
sealed quivers of arrows. Others carried spears. The wealthy carried
umbrellas and wore draped white cloth and their women walked behind them,
with their pots and pans. Bundles and loads of skins were scattered along
ahead on the heads of other natives. All were travelling away from the
famine. And in the heat, my feet out over the side of the car to keep them
away from the heat of the engine, hat low over the eyes against the sun,
watching the road, the people, and all clearings in the bush for game, we
drove to the westward.
Once we saw three lesser kudu cows in an open place of broken bush.
Grey, big bellied, long necked, small headed, and with big ears, they moved
quickly into the woods and were gone. We left the car and tracked them but
there was no bull track.
A little beyond there a flock of guineas quick-legged across the road
running steady-headed with the motion of trotters. As I jumped from the car
and sprinted after them they rocketed up, their legs tucked close beneath
them, heavy-bodied, short wings drumming, cackling, to go over the trees
ahead. I dropped two that thumped hard when they fell and as they lay, wings
beating, Abdullah cut their heads off so they would be legal eating. He put
them in the car where M'Cola sat laughing; his old man's healthy laugh, his
making-fun-of-me laugh, his bird-shooting laugh that dated from a streak of
raging misses one time that had delighted him. Now when I killed, it was a
joke, as when we shot a hyena, the funniest joke of all. He laughed always
to see the birds tumble and when I missed he roared and shook his head again
and again.
'Ask him what the hell he's laughing about?' I asked Pop once.