‘You are ill, senhor?’ inquired Hernandez patronizingly.
‘Yeah … Hernandez, what’ll you give me for these tools?’
‘Tools?’ Hernandez glanced down at the well-worn equipment. ‘You are quitting, Senhor Taggart?’
‘I guess so. I’ve got to get back to Rio and sort out this damned malaria. I can’t take another rainy season feeling this way.’
Hernandez chuckled. ‘You should count yourself lucky, Senhor Taggart. At least you have not yet the maculo. That one, she is a real killer … malaria, a man gets to live with. You will see, in a day or so, the badness will pass …’
‘I ain’t planning on waiting a day or so. Come on, Hernandez, how much for these?’
Hernandez gazed at the tools disdainfully, prodding them with his fingers. ‘These … there is little life in them, eh, senhor? I give you fifty cruzeiros.’
‘Fifty! They damned near cost me five thousand!’
Hernandez shrugged expressively. ‘That is what they are worth to me, Senhor Taggart. Maybe you should keep them. You may decide to come back, eh? They say a garimpeiro never quits until he has made his fortune … or died trying for it.’ He chuckled unpleasantly.
‘I can buy more in Rio, if I ever decide to come back to this rat-hole. Come on, give me a hundred for them, at least.’ He shuddered violently and swore beneath his breath.
‘Sorry, senhor. Fifty. That’s my offer.’
‘All right, dammit, give me that! At least I’m not in debt to you for anything and I guess I can just about afford the train fare back to Rio.’ He accepted the notes that Hernandez counted out from a cigar box under the counter. Martin knew that Hernandez kept a double-barrelled shot-gun beside the box.
‘The senhor should try a bottle of my aguardente; it’s very good for the fevers.’
‘No thanks, Hernandez, I couldn’t afford your prices.’ Martin leaned forward across the counter. ‘Unless, of course, you were offering me a bottle free, out of the goodness of your heart …’
Hernandez shook his head. ‘Alas, senhor, nothing in this life is free.’
Martin sneered and turned away from the counter; he froze for an instant when he recognized the figure standing in the doorway: the bearded Portuguese who had questioned him the day before. He was gazing at Martin with interest, leaning against the edge of the doorframe.
Goddammit, thought Martin desperately. The bastard knows something! But he kept his face impassive as he pushed by the man and trudged slowly outside. The man turned and came quickly after him.
‘Senhor, wait a moment! You leave tomorrow, yes?’
‘Maybe.’ Martin did not pause or look back.
‘Sure, I hear you tell Hernandez! Hold up a moment …’
Martin turned round, his expression threatening. ‘So all right, I’m leaving. What the hell’s it got to do with you?’
The man nodded and an arrogant smile played on his lips. ‘Yes, I figured so … you found something, no?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘A diamond, senhor. You found a diamond, two days ago when I was working near. I wasn’t sure then, but I had an idea … just … something in your face; so I say to myself, Orlando, you wait to see what he does next. He will show you yes or no. And now suddenly you are ill and you have to leave … it is for sure you found a diamond, a big diamond or you would not risk to run with it.’
‘You’re crazy,’ snapped Martin.
‘I don’t think so, senhor. Can I … have a look at it, huh? Listen, I’m not a greedy man, you know. We could be partners you and me … What do you say?’
‘I say you’re crazy. There is no diamond. I’m leaving because I’m sick.’
‘Oh yes, of course! The malaria. Well, senhor, you’re a good actor. But I have seen malaria many times. In cases as bad as this, the skin of the face turns grey … but yours now, senhor, looks perfectly good to me. So you tell me where is the diamond? Can I see it? You keep it on you somewhere, no?’ The man stepped forward and began to finger the fabric of Martin’s shirt; then he lurched backward with an oath as Martin’s right fist clipped him hard against the jaw. He stood there, smiling ruefully and massaging his chin. ‘A strong arm for a man with malaria,’ he observed.
Martin said nothing. He glanced quickly about. Nobody seemed to have observed the fight but there were people around who would come running if the thing escalated. He fixed the man with a contemptuous glare and said, ‘Just keep away from me. You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And he turned and walked away, remembering to keep his gait slow and awkward, just in case anybody else was observing him. He was terrified.
Back at his shack, he threw his meagre belongings into an old carpet bag and made his plans. The Portuguese was wise to him, but what did he plan to do about it? It seemed likely that he’d try to get to Martin before the morning train arrived. Well, let him come; if he was foolish enough to try anything … But would he tell anybody else? Martin guessed not. The man was as greedy as any other garimpeiro and would not wish to share the diamond with any ‘partners’. Besides, he could have no idea how big this particular gem was. Martin could only hope that this reasoning was sound. If several men came after him in the night he wouldn’t stand a chance of holding them off. One man he figured he could handle.
When dusk fell, he bundled the carpet bag and whatever bits of rubbish that were lying about the place into the hammock and covered them with a blanket. He lit a candle and placed it a short distance away, so that it just about illuminated the shape. Then, taking his razor-sharp, big-bladed knife from its sheath, he dropped down into the shadows in the corner of the shack. As a last resort, he placed his pistol where he could grab it in an emergency but he was hoping there would be no need of it. A shot would alert everybody in the garimpo to the fact that he had something worth defending.
He resigned himself to a long, monotonous wait. The hours began their slow, laborious journey towards the dawn. He sat crosslegged in darkness, sweating in the stifling heat. Mosquitoes worried relentlessly at his forehead and bare neck but he remained stock-still, staring out at the slightly lighter rectangle of blue that was the doorway of the shack. The candle gradually burned its way downwards through the wax and from time to time a large moth fluttered jerkily round the halo of light before moving away to rest in darkness. Time seemed suspended and Martin began to wonder if he really had any reason to be afraid. He had slept little over the last couple of nights and now his eyelids grew heavy, his head inclined downwards by degrees until his chin rested against his chest. He slept, a deep, dreamless slumber of exhaustion.
And then he was awake, suddenly, with the intense conviction that something was about to happen. His legs were badly cramped and his mind woolly; but, glancing towards the doorway, he was aware of a shape moving there, crouched down by the floor to the left. For a moment he thought it was some animal that had wandered in from the jungle after food; but then the shape inclined upwards and