‘Absolutely,’ I told him in English. ‘And furthermore he can take the sleigh.’
‘More beer?’ M’Cola asked.
‘You want to see the old man tight, I suppose?’
‘N’Dio,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ pretending to understand the English.
‘Watch it, Roman.’ I started to let the beer go down, saw the Roman following the motion with his own throat, started to choke, barely recovered, and lowered the bottle.
‘That’s all. Can’t do it more than twice in an evening. Makes you liverish.’
The Roman went on talking in his language. I heard him say Simba twice.
‘Simba here?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Over there,’ waving at the dark, and I could not make out the story. But it sounded very good.
‘Me plenty Simba,’ I said. ‘Hell of a man with Simba. Ask M’Cola.’ I could feel that I was getting the evening braggies but Pop and P.O.M, weren’t here to listen. It was not nearly so satisfactory to brag when you could not be understood, still it was better than nothing. I definitely had the braggies, on beer, too.
‘Amazing,’ I told the Roman. He went on with his own story. There was a little beer in the bottom of the bottle.
‘Old Man,’ I said. ‘Mzee.’
‘Yes, B’wana,’ said the old man.
‘Here’s some beer for you. You’re old enough, so it can’t hurt you.’
I had seen the old man’s eyes while he watched me drink and I knew he was another of the same. He took the bottle, drained it to the last bit of froth and crouched by his meat sticks holding the bottle lovingly.
‘More beer?’ asked M’Cola.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And my cartridges.’
The Roman had gone on steadily talking. He could tell a longer story even than Carlos in Cuba.
‘That’s mighty interesting,’ I told him. ‘You’re a hell of a fellow, too. We’re both good. Listen.’ M’Cola had brought the beer and my khaki coat with the cartridges in the pocket. I drank a little beer, noted the old man watching and spread out six cartridges. ‘I’ve got the braggies,’ I said. ‘You have to stand for this, look!’ I touched each of the cartridges in turn, ‘Simba, Simba, Faro, Nyati, Tendalla, Tendalla. What do you think of that? You don’t have to believe it. Look, M’Cola!’ and I named the six cartridges again. ‘Lion, lion, rhino, buffalo, kudu, kudu.’
‘Ayee!’ said the Roman excitedly.
‘N’Dio,’ said M’Cola solemnly. ‘Yes, it is true.’
‘Ayee!’ said the Roman and grabbed me by the thumb.
‘God’s truth,’ I said. ‘Highly improbable, isn’t it?’
‘N’Dio,’ said M’Cola, counting them over himself. ‘Simba, Simba, Faro, Nyati, Tendalla, Tendalla!’
‘You can tell the others,’ I said in English. ‘That’s a hell of a big piece of bragging. That’ll hold me for to-night.’
The Roman went on talking to me again and I listened carefully and ate another piece of the broiled liver. M’Cola was working on the heads now, skinning out one skull and showing Kamau how to skin out the easy part of the other. It was a big job to do for the two of them, working carefully around the eyes and the muzzle and the cartilage of the ears, and afterwards flesh all of the head skins so they would not spoil, and they were working at it very delicately and carefully in the firelight. I do not remember going to bed, nor if we went to bed.
I remember getting the dictionary and asking M’Cola to ask the boy if he had a sister and M’Cola saying, ‘No, No’, to me very firmly and solemnly.
‘Nothing tendacious, you understand. Curiosity.’
M’Cola was firm. ‘No,’ he said and shook his head. ‘Hapana,’ in the same tone he used when we followed the lion into the sanseviera that time.
That disposed of the opportunities for social life and I looked up kidneys and the Roman’s brother produced some from his lot and I put a piece between two pieces of liver on a stick and started it broiling.
‘Make an admirable breakfast,’ I said out loud. ‘Much better than mincemeat.’
Then we had a long talk about sable. The Roman did not call them Tarahalla and that name meant nothing to him. There was some confusion about buffalo because the Roman kept saying ‘nyati’, but he meant they were black like the buff. Then we drew pictures in the dust of ashes from the fire and what he meant were sable all right. The horns curved back like scimitars, way back over their withers.