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

'No one knows how to behave in America,' Pop said. 'Most uncivilized.'
'We'll carry you in Key West,' Karl said. 'Poor old Mama.'
'Let's not talk about it,' P.O.M. said. 'I like it too much. Shouldn't
I maybe distribute largess?'
'They didn't do it for that,' Pop said. 'But it is all right to give
something to celebrate.'
'Oh, I want to give them all a great deal of money,' P.O.M. said.
'Isn't triumph simply marvellous?'
'Good old Mama,' I said. 'You killed him.'
'No, I didn't. Don't lie to me. Just let me enjoy my triumph.'
Anyway M'Cola did not trust me for a long time. Until P.O.M.'s licence
ran out, she was his favourite and we were simply a lot of people who
interfered and kept Mama from shooting things. Once her licence was out and
she was no longer shooting, she dropped back into non-combatant status with
him and as we began to hunt kudu and Pop stayed in camp and sent us out
alone with the trackers, Karl with Charo and M'Cola and I together, M'Cola
dropped Pop visibly in his estimation. It was only temporary of course. He
was Pop's man and I believe his working estimations were only from day to
day and required an unbroken series of events to have any meaning. But
something had happened between us.


PART II

PURSUIT REMEMBERED

CHAPTER ONE

It dated back to the time of Droopy, after I had come back from being
ill in Nairobi and we had gone on a foot safari to hunt rhino in the forest.
Droopy was a real savage with lids to his eyes that nearly covered them,
handsome, with a great deal of style, a fine hunter and a beautiful tracker.
He was about thirty-five, I should think, and wore only a piece of cloth
knotted over one shoulder, and a fez that some hunter had given him. He
always carried a spear. M'Cola wore an old U. S. Army khaki tunic, complete
with buttons, that had originally been brought out for Droopy, who had been
away somewhere and had missed getting it. Twice Pop had brought it out for
Droopy and finally M'Cola had said, 'Give it to me'.
Pop had let him have it and M'Cola had worn it ever since. It, a pair
of shorts, his fuzzy wool curler's cap, and a knitted army sweater he wore
when washing the tunic, were the only garments I ever saw on the old man
until he took my bird-shooting coat. For shoes he used sandals cut from old
motor-car tyres. He had slim, handsome legs with well-turned ankles on the
style of Babe Ruth's and I remember how surprised I was the first time I saw
him with the tunic off and noticed how old his upper body was. It had that
aged look you see in photographs of Jeffries and Sharkey posing thirty years
after, the ugly, old-man biceps and the fallen pectoral muscles.
'How old is M'Cola?' I asked Pop.
'He must be over fifty,' Pop said. 'He's got a grown-up family in the
native reserve.'