Men of Men

"Make a book," Kamusa said, and Ralph scribbled a receipt for sixteen sovereigns on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Kamuza, who examined it minutely. He trusted Ralph without question. He could not read, but the rituals of European commerce fascinated Kamuza and he had seen white men passing slips of paper whenever they exchanged coin.

"Good." He tucked the receipt into the springbuckskin wallet.

"I have four gold queens of my own." Ralph displayed his life savings. "I will pay my share of the entrance fee and bet the rest of it."

"May the gods go with us all, Henshaw," said Bazo, and handed Ralph the precious little basket.

Ralph adjusted his cap to an angle that would hide as much of his face as possible. It was unlikely that his father would be amongst the crowd, and if he was, the cap would hardly disguise his firstborn sufficiently for him not to be recognized, so the gesture was instinctive, as was his fear of his father's wrath.

"I will wait here for the money," Kamuza told him.

"If she wins," Ralph agreed.

"She will win," said Bazo darkly. "Would that I could serve her with my own hands."

There was no law to prevent a black man entering a fancy in the lists, but none of them had ever done so.

The niceties of this complex society were unwritten but understood by all.

Ralph slipped out of the alley and mingled with the crowd, working his way through the press until he was on the outskirts of the group of handlers, each of them with his woven basket, as they waited to enter their fancy.

"Ah, young Ballantyne." Chaim Cohen looked up from his register, the wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose, sweating jovially in the dust and blazing sun.

"Haven't seen you in some time."

"Didn't have a fancy, mister Cohen. Caught a new one now," Ralph lied glibly.

"What happened to, what did you call her, some kaffir name?"

"She died. Lost a leg and died after her last fight."

"What is your new lady's name?"

"Salome, sir."

"Salome it is, then. That will be two pounds, young Ballantyne."

The coins disappeared with unca

He found a place near the tailboard of one of the wagons, where he was partly concealed and from where he could watch the ladies in the crowd. Some of them were young and pretty, and they knew it. Every few minutes one would pass close enough to Ralph for him to hear the frou-frou of her petticoats and to smell her, for the heat brought out the subtle musk of womankind that was emphasized and not concealed by the sweet reek of French perfume. It seemed to catch in Ralph's throat, too poignant to breathe, and there was a hollow aching place at the base of his belly and weird thoughts in his head.

The fruity smell of cognac suddenly blotted out that French perfume and a hoarse voice close to his ear put the imaginings to flight.

"You are fighting a new fancy, I see, young Ballantyne."

"Yes, sir. That's right, sir, mister Le

mister Barry Le

Of course, neither Ralph's father nor any other member of the Committee would acknowledge Le

"She died, mister Le

"Baboon spiders live nearly twenty years and more," Le

"I don't like to unsettle her, not just before a bout, sir."

"Does your daddy know where you spend your Sunday afternoons, young Ballantyne?"

"All right, sir." Ralph capitulated swiftly and lifted the lid of the basket a crack. Le

"That looks like a strong left front, new grown."

"No, sir. Well, it might be. Caught her just the other day. Don't know her history, mister Le

"Boy, you wouldn't be ru

"Fess up now." Le

"You don't want to go up before the Diggers" Committee, do you?

The shame you would bring on your daddy.

It might break his heart."

it might not break Zouga Ballantyne's heart, but it would certainly break Ralph's head.

Miserably Ralph shook his head. "Very well then, mister Le

Barry Le

"You don't do anything so stupid, Ralph, my lad. You fight your fancy, and if she wins there will be a special treat for you. That's a promise. Barry Le

Chaim Cohen climbed up onto the disselboom of the nearest wagon to the arena and began chalking up the draw on a greenruled board, and the bookmakers craned for the matchings and then began calling their odds for each bout.

"Threes on mister Gladstone in the first."

"Dreadnought even money. Buttercup fives in the second."

Ralph waited as bout after bout was drawn, and each time that Inkosikazi's name was omitted his nerves stretched tighter. There were only ten bouts, and mister Cohen had finished chalking the ninth already.

"Bout number 10," he called as he wrote. "This is a biblical match, gentlemen and ladies, a diamondiferous bout straight out of the Old Testament." Chaim Cohen used the adjective "diamondiferous" to describe anything from a thoroughbred horse to a fifteen-year-old whisky. "A pure diamondiferous match, the one and only, the great and deadly, Goliath!" There was a burst of applause and whistles of approval. Goliath was the champion spider of the diamond fields, with twelve straight kills to her credit. "Matched against your favourite is a pretty little newcomer, Salome!"

The name was greeted with indifference as the punters scrambled to get money onto the champion.

"I'm giving tens on Salome," called one desperate bookie as he tried to stem the flow of wagers. They were taking Goliath at odds on, and Ralph shared his distress.