So now, going along the sandy track of the road in the car, the lights picking out the eyes of night birds that squatted close on the sand until the bulk of the car was on them and they rose in soft panic; passing the fires of the travellers that all moved to the westward by day along this road, abandoning the famine country that was ahead of us, me sitting, the butt of my rifle on my foot, the barrel in the crook of my left arm, a flask of whisky between my knees, pouring the whisky into a tin cup and passing it over my shoulder in the dark for M’Cola to pour water into it from the canteen, drinking this, the first one of the day, the finest one there is, and looting at the thick bush we passed in the dark, feeling the cool wind of the night and smelling the good smell of Africa, I was altogether happy.
Then ahead we saw a big fire and as we came up and passed, I made out a lorry beside the road. I told Kamau to stop and go back and as we backed into the firelight there was a short, bandy-legged man with a Tyrolese hat, leather shorts, and an open shirt standing before an unhooded engine in a crowd of natives.
‘Can we help?’ I asked him.
Wo,’ he said. ‘Unless you are a mechanic. It has taken a dislike to me. All engines dislike me.’
‘Do you think it could be the timer? It sounded as though it might be a timing knock when you went past us.’
‘I think it is much worse than that. It sounds to be something very bad.’
‘If you can get to our camp we have a mechanic.’
‘How far is it?’
‘About twenty miles.’
‘In the morning I will try it. Now I am afraid to make it go farther with that noise of death inside. It is trying to die because it dislikes me. Well, I dislike it too. But if I die it would not annoy it.’
‘Will you have a drink?’ I held out the flask. ‘Hemingway is my name.’
‘Kandisky,’ he said and bowed. ‘Hemingway is a name I have heard. Where? Where have I heard it? Oh, yes. The {dichter}. You know Hemingway the poet?’
‘Where did you read him?’
‘In the {Querschnitt.’}
‘That is me,’ I said, very pleased. The {Querschnitt} was a German magazine I had written some rather obscene poems for, and published a long story in, years before I could sell anything in America.
‘This is very strange,’ the man in the Tyrolese hat said. ‘Tell me, what do you think of Ringelnatz?’
‘He is splendid.’
‘So. You like Ringelnatz. Good. What do you think of Heinrich Mann?’
‘He is no good.’
‘You believe it?’
‘All I know is that I cannot read him.’
‘He is no good at all. I see we have things in common. What are you doing here?’
‘Shooting.’
{‘Not} ivory, I hope.’
‘No. For kudu.’
‘Why should any man shoot a kudu? You, an intelligent man, a poet, to shoot kudu.’
‘I haven’t shot any yet,’ I said. ‘But we’ve been hunting them hard now for ten days. We would have got one to-night if it hadn’t been for your lorry.’
‘That poor lorry. But you should hunt for a year. At the end of that time you have shot everything and you are sorry for it. To hunt for one special animal is nonsense. Why do you do it?’
‘I like to do it.’
‘Of course, if you {like} to do it. Tell me, what do you really think of Rilke?’
‘I have read only the one thing.’
‘Which?’
‘The Cornet.’
‘You liked it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have no patience with it. It is snobbery. Valery, yes. I see the point of Valery, although there is much snobbery too. Well at least you do not kill elephants.’
‘I’d kill a big enough one.’
‘How big?’
‘A seventy-pounder. Maybe smaller.’
‘I see there are things we do not agree on. But it is a pleasure to meet one of the great old {Querschnitt} group. Tell me what is Joyce like? I have not the money to buy it. Sinclair Lewis is nothing. I bought it. No. No. Tell me to-morrow. You do not mind if I am camped near? You are with friends? You have a white hunter?’