Black White/Chapter 1

F YOU will pardon a stranger for intruding upon your talk, señores, I can settle that argument of yours. I mean that I can tell you the whole truth about the matter. Perhaps you will not believe when you have heard that truth, but truth it is.

Gracia’—thank you—I will sit. Tobalito, bring a bottle of ron anciado of Maracaibo from the cantina at the corner, and a paper of cigarrillos—the Emperadores. No, gentlemen; allow me to do the buying. You Americans are not long in Venezuela, and you might be overcharged, while I—the cantineros of this Ciudad Bolívar know better than to try to cheat Loco León. The last one who tried it was three weeks in recovering.

Ha! You smile. Have you already heard of Loco León—Mad Lion? No? My name is Lucio León. But because I roam in wild places where these townsmen dare not go and see things which they do not believe, they have changed Lucio to Loco. I do not care. The laughter of fools is harmless.

Ah, si, I am a Spaniard. You at first thought me an American like yourselves, perhaps, because I am blond? It is a compliment. True, it is odd to find a yellow-haired and blue-eyed Spaniard on this Rio Orinoco, where almost every man is very dark of skin, hair, and eye. I am the only blond Venezolano on all the long Orinoco. Yet that is not so strange as the thing I now shall tell you.

And before I tell it, señores, let me say this: that tomorrow you may go to any one here in Bolívar—to the Banco de Venezuela, to the Royal Bank of Canada, to any house of business—and ask the presidents of them whether Lucio León, called León Loco or Loco León, who once each year brings down his balata rubber from the Alto Orinoco, is a liar. And they will answer that never, in the largest or smallest matter, has León been known to speak false., Then they may smile and add:

“Except when he speaks of things in the unknown mountains of Guayana and the jungles of Rio Negro.”

You may judge for yourselves, señores, whether a man who never has lied to save himself or his money would tell false tales about matters that profit him nothing.

Now you were speaking of that tale which most men here have heard, but which is new to you strangers—that of El Blanco Negro, or Black White; the man of mystery who roams like a lost soul through the Guayana mountains south of here, and who never is seen by any man except the Indians who live there. You said, Mr. Davis, that it was “all bunk,” which, I think, means you do not believe a word of it. And you, Mr. Seabury, said that

Pardon? Oh, yes, I know your names: I know all about you. You came in on the last Delta, you are going up the Rio Caroní—a bad river, too, señores—to hunt gold and diamonds, but your guns are held in customs and you must wait here until Presidente Gomez telegraphs from Caracas to release them. How do I know? Ha! Everybody knows. When a North American comes in here every one learns everything about him. All the world watches and listens and tells.

But you were saying, Mr. Seabury, that the story of Black White was not only possible but probable; that you have heard that a man named White did come into Venezuela years ago, and went up the Orinoco, and disappeared; and that perhaps he liked the wild life so well, or found some Indian girl so attractive, that he “went native,” as you call it. Now it happens that you have hit something near the truth, but yet not the truth. And I, who saw the beginning and the ending, will tell you all.

It was—let me see, what is the year? One forgets. Ah yes, nineteen twenty-two. It was, then, six years ago when I first saw White. I had brought down my balata from the Rio Padamo, and settled my last year’s trade account at Blum’s store here on the Calle Orinoco, and now, after traveling hundreds of leagues in boats, I wished to harden my legs again. So, while I was eating my cena here at this hotel, I decided that later I would walk up and down these steep Bolívar streets for the good of my muscles, as well as to see what I might see. I was just finishing my coffee and beginning to smoke another cigarrillo, when in came the man White.

I was sitting at that little table just there, señores, where I sat tonight and overheard your talk about him. At this table, where we now are, ate an Englishman whom I knew but did not speak to—a heavy man who drank too much and whose eyes were too close together; he was manager of an English trading-store which now is gone from Bolívar, and his name was Lord. I was thinking of matters up the river and looking out into this little patio beyond the rail, when the voice of the man Lord jarred on me like the sudden roar of an areguato—the big red howling monkey.

“Well, it’s about time!” he said. “What’s the delay about? Got a new one to kiss in the corner?”

Then I saw White. He was swinging along past the tables, dressed in white from soft collar to rubber-soled shoes, carrying his white helmet in one hand, and laughing at Lord’s bawl. My first thought was that he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. My second was that he was an Englishman like Lord—probably because he was coming to Lord’s table and because of the helmet. Only new-come Englishmen or Americans wear helmets here. We Venezolanos use our sombreros of straw or felt.

But when White slid into his chair and mocked the Englishman I decided he was not English. He made too much fun of the English way of speaking.

“Wot say, old nut?” he drawled. “Why all the bally rumpus? Cahn’t a chappy come a bit late to tea”

Lord broke in with a snort.

“Bah! You Americans, with your stage-English twaddle!” he said.

White laughed loud and slapped the table. And he said:

“Got your goat again so soon? You ought to leave it in the store, you old rummy. And don’t roar out such embarrassing questions at a virtuous young man. It isn’t sportin’, y’know. My word!”

This time it was Lord that laughed. He leaned back and gurgled so that I thought he was choking. Then he got out:

“Virtuous! Haw-haw-haw! You virtuous? Hee-hee-hee—I’ll tell Felicia that one tonight—haw-haw! But jokin’ aside, White, you’re headin’ into trouble if you’re not careful. Mercedes and Rosita are jealous, and a jealous woman down here is likely to be the, y’know. Two of ’em are two. And”

“Oh, they can both go jump in the river, for all I care,” White cut him off. “Now shut up and let me eat in peace.”

Lord did shut up, except to chuckle now and then, and went on with his own eating. White sat just where you are now, Mr. Davis, facing toward me; and while he was waiting for his soup I studied him, while pretending not to notice him at all.

He was a striking man; tall, and strongly shaped; with curly dark hair, big blue eyes with long lashes, and splendid white teeth which gleamed now and then as if he were thinking of a joke. The dark hair and blue eyes seemed odd together, but yet they made him all the better looking. His jaw was well set and his lips full and good-humored, making him look much more manly than the eyes. But the most handsome thing about him, I think, was his skin.

It was as clear and clean a skin as that of a baby—a girl baby. Never have I seen anything like it on living man, or woman either—it was such a soft, glowing skin as one sees only in the colored pictures sometimes given away on calendars by Blum’s store. It seemed too fine to be real. Somehow I felt that he must take very good care of it—almost too much care for a man to devote to himself. And as I glanced over his clothes this feeling grew.

His suit was almost too free from wrinkles, too perfect in fit. His bow tie seemed a little too exact, his shoes a trifle too snugly tied. I noticed, too, that he sat with legs forward and feet a little apart, so that he would neither cause his trousers to grow baggy nor soil his silk socks with shoe-sole or heel. And then, as I glanced at the helmet he had laid on an empty chair, I saw that it was very wide; it looked as if bought to give his skin all possible protection from sunburn.

My first admiration for him began to grow cool.

“He is a traveler for some large company in the United States,” I thought. “Probably he has had to come around from Caracas on some business and will leave by the next steamer. A among the women, without doubt. Soon he will return to his country and tell his friends about his adventures in the ‘wilds of the Orinoco,’ all of which happened in the electric-lighted, police-guarded city of Bolívar. Caramba! What would he do if he ever really found himself in the wilds?”

A moment later I decided that one of my guesses was good but others were bad. The señora, who runs the hotel, brought him several letters.

“Some mail for you, Mr. White,” she said. “The Delta came in today, you know.”

“Good!” he cried, glancing at the envelopes. “Thank you, señora. I didn’t expect anything just yet, but I’ll bet this is what I’ve been waiting for. Now let’s see.”

There were three long white envelopes, and two small square ones which were light gray. He scowled in a puzzled way at the last two, then threw them on the table and ripped open one of the big white ones. I saw that the gray envelopes were covered with lines and writing, where old addresses had been changed to later ones.

Lord fixed his eyes on those letters and grinned, but said nothing. White read rapidly through all the others, which seemed to be letters of business.

“Aha! Now we’re off!” he said, carefully folding them and slipping them into a pocket. “That’s the dope I needed. Now I can sail for the Caura, where the bean does the tango and the balata balls its tar.”

I nearly dropped my cigarrillo. This girl-skinned man going to the Caura? I knew the Caura, where both the tonca-bean and the balata grow, and I knew it was bad. It flows into the Orinoco, señores, from those same wild Guayana hills of which I have spoken—the land called by the Indians “Parima,” which' means “high falling waters,” or cataracts. Its mouth is not far from here—about forty leagues—and its lower part, running through the open sabana country, is not very difficult; but the balata and the serrapia—tonca bean—grow only in the upper part, and there the river becomes wicked with raudales—or, as you call them, rapids. And the mosquitoes—I looked at White’s wonderful skin and concluded that he must be joking, or else that he knew not what he did.

Lord said something which I do not remember, then pointed at the unopened mail.

“Those can wait,” White said carelessly, and went to eating.

But soon, as if tired of seeing the gray envelopes there, he ripped them with a fork and opened up the folded sheets inside. After reading a few words he scowled again and flipped over the pages to look at the name signed.

“Oh!” he said, as if remembering. And then: “Ho, ho!” as if something was funny.

Turning back to the beginning, he read straight through the letter. Then he went through the second one. Long before he had finished he was scowling again as if annoyed.

“Oh, rats!” he snapped when he was through. “No chance!”

“She loves him no more,” said Lord in a deep voice, trying to look solemn.

“No more? Huh! Too much! Here, look at ’em.”

White tossed the letters over. Lord hesitated, then said, “Oh, all right,” and began reading. Soon his mouth turned down.

“Hm. Yes. The old stuff,” he said soon. “Those who dance must pay the fiddler.”

White looked a little sober, but then he laughed in an impatient way.

“How can I help it now?” he complained. “Marrying won’t do any good. If a fellow had to marry all the girls that—well, you know. Anyway, I’m thousands of miles away from there. I should worry!”

“Of course,” Lord nodded. “Just as well for you, p’r’aps, that you’re here now, y’know. You can lie doggo while it blows over. How is the—ah—law in your country about that sort o’ thing?”

“Law? Humph! Nothing to worry about. She’d never take it to law. She’s the proud sort—go away and hide somewhere instead of raising a row. I’m sort of sorry, but—it’s all in a lifetime. Let’s forget it.”

And he resumed eating as if his appetite was all the better.