Argosy, September 1955 — page 38: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

36 H. E. BATES gorges of grey volcanic rock, under steep declivities of pine and eucalyptus, intensively planted as saplings against the erosion of a sparse burnt soil, red and cindrous, veined yellow here and there by long-dried watercourses. The car crept upward very slowly, beetle-wise, on black setts of blistered rock that gave way, beyond the last windowless white houses, to a track of pot-holes sunk in grey and crimson sand. ‘“‘ It was a stroke of genius of yours to bring the cook,”’ she said. He did not feel that this was flattery. It really was, he thought, rather a stroke of genius on his part to think of the cook—because from the idea of the cook sprang his recollection that, at the top of the mule-pass, there was also a rest-house. For practically nothing you could put up there, cook meals, and do the thing in comfort. He was very pleased about that. It saved a lot of trouble. He didn’t think he could have come all the way up that hot dreary track otherwise. The /este, after all, had died. The air in the mountains was still hot, but height began to give it, as the car climbed slowly, a thin- ness that was fresh and crystalline. Objects began to appear so vivid that they stuck out, projected by strong blue lines that were pulsations rather than shadow. In a curious way everything was enlarged by scintillation. Perhaps it was this that made Manson, sitting at the back of the car with Miss Vane, fix his eyes, as if hypnotized, on the black hair of the cook, in front with the driver. The head of the cook was like an ebony bowl, polished to a sheen of greasy magnificence by brushings of olive oil. Below it the shoulders were flat and square, the erectness of them giving power to a body that was otherwise quite short and stiff, except when it bent in sudden bows of politeness to Miss Vane. Sometimes the car jolted violently in and out of pot-holes and Manson and Miss Vane were pitched helplessly upward and against each other, taken unawares. But the shoulders of Manuel, the cook, were never disturbed by more than a quiver and sometimes it seemed to Manson that they gave a shrug. This hypnosis about the cook lasted until the car-road ended and the mule-track began, winding away into a thick scrub of wild bay trees and stunted, blue-needled pines. At the foot of the track the mules were waiting, four flickering skeletons brought up by a barefoot peasant wearing trousers of striped blue shirt material and a black trilby hat. Manuel loaded two osier baskets of provisions, Manson’s. ruck- sack, and one of Miss Vane’s scarlet-labelled, too neat suitcases onto one of the mules, and the peasant began to lead the mule up the hill. When Manuel had shouted after him the peasant came back. The peasant looked downtrodden in protestation and Manuel, stan eung over him, square and erect, looked more assertive than efore. ay ok ih comichooks.conis ae