Man From The South
A Short story by Roald Dahl
Narrated by Kenneth D'Silva
It was getting on toward six o'clock so l
thought I'd buy myself a beer and go out and
sit in a deck chair by the swimming pool and
have a little evening sun.
I went to the bar and got the beer and carried
it outside and wandered down the
garden toward the pool.
It was a fine garden with lawns and beds of
azaleas and tall coconut palms, and the
wind was blowing strongly through the tops
of the palm trees making the leaves hiss and
crackle as though they were on fire.
I could see the clusters of big brown nuts
hanging
down underneath the leaves.
There were plenty of deck chairs around the
swimming pool and there were white
tables and huge brightly colored umbrellas
and sunburned men and women sitting around
in bathing suits.
In the pool itself there were three or four
girls and about a dozen boys,
all splashing about and making a lot of noise
and throwing a large rubber ball at one
another.
I stood watching them.
The girls were English girls from hotel.
The boys I didn't
know about, but they sounded American and
I thought they were probably naval cadets
who'd come ashore from the U.S. naval training
vessel which had arrived in harbor that
morning.
I went over and sat down under a yellow umbrella
where there were four empty seats,
and I poured my beer and settled back comfortably
with a cigarette.
It was very pleasant sitting there in the
sunshine with beer and cigarette.
It was
pleasant to sit and watch the bathers splashing
about in the green water.
The American sailors were getting on nicely
with the English girls.
They'd reached
the stage where they were diving under the
water and tipping them up by their legs.
Just then I noticed a small, oldish man walking
briskly around the edge of the pool.
He was immaculately dressed in a white suit
and he walked very quickly with little
bouncing strides, pushing himself high up
onto his toes with each step.
He had on a large
creamy Panama hat, and he came bouncing along
the side of the pool, looking at the
people and the chairs.
He stopped beside me and smiled, showing two
rows of very small, uneven teeth,
slightly tarnished.
I smiled back.
"Excuse pleess, but may I sit here?"
Certainly," I said.
'Go ahead."
He bobbed around to the back of the chair
and inspected it for safety, then he sat
down and crossed his legs.
His white buckskin shoes had little holes
punched all over
them for ventilation.
"A fine evening," he said.
"They are all evenings fine here in Jamaica."
I couldn't tell
if the accent was Italian or Spanish, but
I felt fairly sure he was some sort of a South
American.
And old too, when you saw him close.
Probably around sixty-eight or seventy.
"Yes," I said.
"It is wonderful here, isn't it?"
"And who, might I ask, are all dese?
Dese is no hotel people."
He was pointing at the
bathers in the pool.
"I think they're American sailors," I told
him.
"They're Americans who are learning to
be sailors."
"Of course dey are Americans.
Who else in de world is going to make as much
noise
at dat?
You are not American, no?"
"No," I said.
"I am not."
Suddenly one of the American cadets was standing
in front of us.
He was dripping
wet from the pool and one of the English girls
was standing there with him.
"Are these chairs taken?" he said.
"No," I answered.
"Mind if I sit down?"
"Go ahead."
"Thanks," he said.
He had a towel in his hand and when he sat
down he unrolled it
and produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
He offered the cigarettes to the girl and
she refused; then he offered them tome and
I took one.
The little man said, "Tank you,
no, but I tink I have a cigar."
He pulled out a crocodile case and got himself
a cigar, then
he produced a knife which had a small scissors
in it and he snipped the end off the cigar.
"Here, let me give you a light."
The American boy held up his lighter.
"Dat will not work in dis wind."
"Sure, it'll work.
It always works."
The little man removed his unlighted cigar
from his mouth, cocked his head on one
side and looked at the boy.
"All-ways?" he said slowly.
"Sure, it never fails.
Not with me anyway."
The little man's head was still cocked over
on one side and he was still watching the
boy.
"Well, well, So you say dis famous lighter
it never fails.
Iss dat you say?"
"Sure," the boy said.
"That's right."
He was about nineteen or twenty with a long
freckled face and a rather sharp birdlike
nose.
His chest was not very sunburned and there
were freckles there too, and a few wisps of
palereddish hair.
He was holding the lighter in
his right hand, ready to flip the wheel.
"It never fails," he said, smiling now because
he
was purposely exaggerating his little boast.
"I promise you it never fails."
"One momint, pleess."
The hand that held the cigar came up high,
palm outward, as
though it were stopping traffic.
"Now juss one momint."
He had a curiously soft, toneless
voice and he kept looking at the boy all the
time.
"Shall we not perhaps make a little bet on
dat?"
He smiled at the boy.
"Shall we not
make a little bet on whether your lighter
lights?"
"Sure, I'll bet," the boy said.
"Why not?"
"You like to bet?"
"Sure, I'll always bet."
The man paused and examined his cigar, and
I must say I didn't much like the way he
was behaving It seemed he was already trying
to make something out of this, and to
embarrass the boy, and at the same time I
had the feeling he was relishing a private
little
secret all his own.
He looked up again at the boy and said slowly,
"I like to bet, too!
Why we don't have
a good bet on dis ting?
A good big bet"
"Now wait a minute," the boy said.
"I can't do that, But I'll bet you a quarter.
I'll even
bet you a dollar, or whatever it is over here
some shillings, I guess."
The little man waved his hand again.
"Listen to me.
Now we have some fun.
We
make a bet.
Den we go up to my room here in de hotel where
iss no wind and I bet you
you cannot light dis famous lighter of yours
ten times running without missing once."
"I'll bet I can," the boy said.
"All right.
Good.
We make a bet, yes?"
'Sure.
I'll bet you a buck."
"No, no.
I make you very good bet.
I am rich man and I am sporting man also.
Listen
to me.
Outside de hotel iss my car.
Its very fine car.
American car from your country.
Cadillac."
"Hey, now.
Wait a minute."
The boy leaned back in his deck chair and
he laughed.
"I
can't put up that sort of property.
This is crazy."
"Not crazy at all.
You strike lighter successfully ten times
running and Cadillac is
yours.
You like to have dis Cadillac, yes?"
"Sure, I'd like to have a Cadillac."
The boy was still grinning.
"All right.
Fine.
We make a bet and I put up my Cadillac."
"And what do I put up?"
The little man carefully removed the red band
from his still unlighted cigar.
"I never
ask you, my friend, to bet something you cannot
afford.
You understand?"
"Then what do I bet?"
"I make it very easy for you, yes?"
"Okay.
You make it easy."
"Some small ting you can afford to give away,
and if you did happen to lose it you
would not feel too bad.
Right?"
"Such as what?"
"Such as, perhaps, de little finger of your
left hand."
"My what!"
The boy stopped grinning.
"Yes.
Why not?
You win, you take de car.
You looss, I take de finger."
"I don't get it.
How d'you mean, you take the finger?"
"I chop it off."
"Jumping jeepers!
That's a crazy bet.
I think I'll just make it a dollar."
The little man leaned back, spread out his
hands palms upward and gave a tiny
contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
"Well, well, well," he said.
"I do not understand.
You say it lights but you will not bet.
Den we forget it, yes?"
The boy sat quite still, staring at the bathers
in the pool.
Then be remembered
suddenly he hadn't lighted his cigarette.
He put it between his lips, cupped his hands
around the lighter and flipped the wheel.
The wick lighted and burned with a small,
steady, yellow flame and the way he held his
hands the wind didn't get to it at all.
"Could I have a light, too?"
I said.
"Gee, I'm sorry.
I forgot you didn't have one."
I held out my hand for the lighter, but he
stood up and came over to do it for me.
"Thank you," I said, and he returned to his
seat.
"You having a good time?"
I asked.
"Fine," he answered.
"It's pretty nice here."
There was a silence then, and I could see
that the little man had succeeded in
disturbing the boy with his absurd proposal.
He was sitting there very still, and it was
obvious that a small tension was beginning
to build up inside him.
Then he started
shifting about in his seat, and rubbing his
chest, and stroking the back of his neck,
and
finally he placed both hands on his knees
and began taptapping with his fingers against
the kneecaps.
Soon he was tapping with one of his feet as
well.
"Now just let me check upon this bet of yours,"
he said at last, "You say we go up to
your room and if I make this lighter light
ten times running I win a Cadillac.
If it misses
just once then I forfeit the little finger
of my left hand.
Is that right?"
"Certainly.
Dat is de bet.
But I think you are afraid."
"What do we do if I lose?
Do I have to hold my finger out while you
chop it off?"
"Oh, no!
Dar would be no good.
And you might be tempted to refuse to hold
it out.
What I should do I should tie one of your
hands to de table before we started and I
should
stand dere with a knife ready to go chop de
momint your lighter missed."
"What year is the Cadillac?" the boy asked.
"Excuse.
I not understand."
"What year—how old is the Cadillac?"
"Ah!
How old?
Yes.
It is last year.
Quite new car.
But I see you are not betting man.
Americans never are."
The boy paused for just a moment and he glanced
first at the English girl, then at me.
"Yes," he said sharply.
"I'll bet you."
"Good!"
The little man clapped his hands together
quietly, once.
"Fine," he said.
"We
do it now.
And you, sir," he turned to me, "you would
perhaps be good enough to, what
you call it, to—to referee."
He had pale, almost colorless eyes with tiny
bright black
pupils.
"Well," I said.
"I think it's a crazy bet.
I don't think I like it very much,"
"Nor do I." said the English girl.
It was the first time she'd spoken.
"I think its a
stupid, ridiculous bet."
"Are you serious about cutting off this boys
finger if he loses?"
I said.
"Certainly l am.
Also about giving him Cadillac if he win.
Come now.
We go to my
room."
He stood up.
"You like to put on some clothes first?" he
said.
"No," the boy answered.
"I'll come like this."
Then he turned to me.
"I'd consider it a
favor if you'd come along and referee."
"All right," I said.
"I'll come along, but I don't like the bet."
"You come too," he said to the girl.
"You come and watch."
The little man led the way back through the
garden to the hotel.
He was animated
now, and excited, and that seemed to make
him bounce up higher than ever on his toes
as
he walked along.
"I live in annex," he said.
"You like to see car first?
Iss just here."
He took us to where we could see the front
driveway of the hotel and he stopped and
pointed to a sleek palegreen Cadillac parked
close by.
"Dere she iss.
De green one.
You like?"
"Say, that's a nice car," the boy said.
"All right.
Now we go up and see if you can win her."
We followed him into the annex and up one
flight of stairs.
He unlocked his door and
we all trooped into what was a large pleasant
double bedroom.
There was a woman's
dressing gown lying across the bottom of one
of the beds.
"First," he said, "we 'ave a little Martini."
The drinks were on a small table in the far
corner, all ready to be mixed, and there
was a shaker and ice and plenty of glasses.
He began to make the Martini, but meanwhile
he'd rung the bell and now there was a knock
on the door and a coloured maid came in.
"Ah!" he said, putting down the bottle of
gin, taking a wallet from his pocket and
pulling out a pound note.
"You will do something for me now, pleess."
He gave the maid
the pound.
"You keep dat," he said.
"And now we are going to play a little game
in here and I
want you to go off and find for me two—no
tree rings.
I want some nails; I want a
hammer, and I want a chopping knife, a butcher's
chopping knife which you can borrow
from de kitchen.
You can get, yes?"
"A chopping knife!"
The maid opened her eyes wide and clasped
her hands in front of
her.
"You mean a real chopping knife?"
"Yes, yes, of course.
Come on now, pleess.
You can find dose rings surely for me."
"Yes, sir, I'll try, sir.
Surely I'll try to get them."
And she went.
The little man handed round the Martinis.
We stood there and sipped them, the boy
with the long freckled face and the pointed
nose, barebodied except for a pair of faded
brown bathing shorts; the English girl, a
largeboned, fairhaired girl wearing a pale
blue
bathing suit, who watched the boy over the
top of her glass all the time; the little
man
with the colourless eyes standing there in
his immaculate white suit drinking his Martini
and looking at the girl in her pale blue bathing
dress.
I didn't know what to make of it all.
The man seemed serious about the bet and he
seemed serious about the business of
cutting off the finger.
But hell, what if the boy lost?
Then we'd have to rush him to the
hospital in the Cadillac that he hadn't won.
That would be a fine thing.
Now wouldn't that
be a really fine thing?
It would be a damn silly unnecessary thing
so far as I could see.
"Don't you think this is rather a silly bet?"
I said.
"I think it's a fine bet," the boy answered.
He had already downed one large Martini.
"I think it's a stupid, ridiculous bet," the
girl said.
"What'll happen if you lose?"
"It won't matter.
Come to think of it, I can't remember ever
in my life having had any
use for the little finger on my left hand.
Here he is."
The boy took hold of the finger.
"Here he is and he hasn't ever done a thing
for me yet.
So why shouldn't I bet him.
I think
it's a fine bet."
The little man smiled and picked up the shaker
and refilled our glasses.
"Before we begin," he said, "I will present
to de—to de referee de key of de car."
He
produced a car key from his pocket and gave
it to me.
"De papers," he said, "de owning
papers and insurance are in de pocket of de
car."
Then the colored maid came in again.
In one hand she carried a small chopper, the
kind used by butchers for chopping meat bones,
and in the other a hammer and a bag of
nails.
"Good!
You get dem all.
Tank you, tank you.
Now you can go."
He waited until the
maid had closed the door, then he put the
implements on one of the beds and said, "Now
we prepare ourselves, yes?"
And to the boy, "Help me, pleess, with dis
table.
We carry it
out a little."
It was the usual kind of hotel writing desk,
just a plain rectangular table about four
feet by three with a blotting pad, ink, pens
and paper.
They carried it out into the room
away from the wall, and removed the writing
things.
"And now," he said, "a chair," He picked up
a chair and placed it beside the table.
He
was very brisk and very animated, like a person
organizing games at a children's party.
"And now de nails.
I must put in de nails."
He fetched the nails and he began to hammer
them into the top of the table.
We stood there, the boy, the girl, and I,
holding Martinis in our hands, watching the
little man at work.
We watched him hammer two nails into the table,
about six inches
apart.
He didn't hammer them right home; he allowed
a small part of each one to stick up.
Then he tested them for firmness with his
fingers.
Anyone would think the son of a b*t*h had
done this before, I told myself.
He never
hesitates.
Table, nails, hammer, kitchen chopper.
He knows exactly what he needs and
how to arrange it.
"And now," he said, "all we want is some string."
He found some string.
"All right, at
last we are ready.
Will you pleess to sit here at de table,"
he said to the boy.
The boy put his glass away and sat down.
"Now place de left hand between dese two nails.
De nails are only so I can tie your
hand in place.
All right, good.
Now I tie your hand secure to de table—so."
He wound the string around the boy's wrist,
then several times around the wide part
of the hand, then he fastened it tight to
the nails.
He made a good job of it and when he'd
finished there wasn't any question about the
boy being able to draw his hand away But he
could move his fingers.
"Now pleess, clench de fist, all except for
de little finger.
You must leave de little
finger out, lying on de table.
"Ex-cellent!
Ex-cellent!
Now we are ready.
Wid your right hand you manipulate de
lighter.
But one momint, pleess."
He skipped over to the bed and picked up the
chopper.
He came back and stood
beside the table with the chopper in his hand.
"We are all ready?" he said, "Mister referee,
you must say to begin"
The English girl was standing there in her
pale blue bathing costume right behind the
boys chair.
She was just standing there, not saying anything.
The boy was sitting quite
still, holding the lighter in his right hand,
looking at the chopper.
The little man was
looking at me.
"Are you ready?"
I asked the boy.
"I'm ready."
"And you?" to the little man.
"Quite ready," he said and he lifted the chopper
up in the air and held it there about
two feet above the boy's finger, ready to
chop.
The boy watched it, but he didn't flinch
and his mouth didn't move at all.
He merely raised his eyebrows and frowned.
"All right," I said.
"Go ahead."
The boy said, "Will you please count aloud
the number of times I light it."
"Yes," I said.
"I'll do that."
With his thumb he raised the top of the lighter,
and again with the thumb he gave the
wheel a sharp flick.
The flint sparked and the wick caught fire
and burned with a small
yellow flame.
"One!"
I called.
He didn't blow the flame out; he closed the
top of the lighter on it and he waited for
perhaps five seconds before opening it again.
He flicked the wheel very strongly and once
more there was a small flame burning on
the wick.
"Two!"
No one else said anything.
The boy kept his eyes on the lighter.
The little man held
the chopper up in the air and he too was watching
the lighter.
"Three!"
"Four!"
"Five!"
"Six!"
"Seven!"
Obviously it was one of those lighters that
worked.
The flint gave a big
spark and the wick was the right length.
I watched the thumb snapping the top down
onto
the flame.
Then a pause.
Then the thumb raising the top once more.
This was an allthumb operation.
The thumb did everything.
I took a breath, ready to say eight.
The
thumb flicked the wheel.
The flint sparked.
The little flame appeared.
"Eight!"
I said, and as I said it the door opened.
We all turned and we saw a woman
standing in the doorway, a small, black haired
woman, rather old, who stood there for
about two seconds then rushed forward shouting,
"Carlos!
Carlos!"
She grabbed his wrist,
took the chopper from him, threw it on the
bed, took hold of the little man by the lapels
of his white suit and began shaking him very
vigorously, talking to him fast and loud and
fiercely all the time in some Spanish-sounding
language.
She shook him so fast you
couldn't see him any more.
He became a faint, misty, quickly moving outline,
like the
spokes of a turning wheel.
Then she slowed down and the little man came
into view again and she hauled him
across the room and pushed him backward onto
one of the beds.
He sat on the edge of it
blinking his eyes and testing his head to
see if it would still turn on his neck.
"I am so sorry," the woman said.
"I am so terribly sorry that this should happen."
She
spoke almost perfect English.
"It is too bad," she went on.
"I suppose it is really my fault.
For ten minutes I leave
him alone to go and have my hair washed and
I come back and he is at it again."
She
looked sorry and deeply concerned.
The boy was untying his hand from the table.
The English girl and I stood there and
said nothing.
"He is a menace," the woman said, "Down where
we live at home he has taken
altogether forty-seven fingers from different
people, and he has lost eleven cars.
In the
end they threatened to have him put away somewhere.
That's why I brought him up here."
"We were only having a little bet," mumbled
the little man from the bed.
"I suppose he bet you a car," the woman said.
"Yes," the boy answered, "A Cadillac."
"He has no car.
It's mine.
And that makes it worse," she said, "that
he should bet you
when he has nothing to bet with.
I am ashamed and very sorry about it all."
She seemed
an awfully nice woman,
"Well," I said, "then here's the key of your
car."
I put it on the table,
"We were only having a little bet," mumbled
the little man.
"He hasn't anything left to bet with," the
woman said.
"He hasn't a thing in the world.
Not a thing.
As a matter of fact I myself won it all from
him a long while ago.
It took
time, a lot of time, and it was hard work,
but I won it all in the end."
She looked up at the
boy and she smiled, a slow sad smile, and
she came over and put out a hand to take the
key from the table.
I can see it now, that hand of hers; it had
only one finger on it, and a thumb.
