Read Online In High Places by Arthur Hailey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arthur Hailey
Ads: Link
prove where your mother came from?'
'No paper.'
'Do you belong to any country?'
'No country.'
'Do you want a country?'
Duval looked puzzled.
'I mean,' Dan said slowly, 'you want to get of this ship. You told me that.' A vigorous nod, assenting.
'Then you want to have a country - a place to live?'
'I work,' Duval insisted. 'I work good.'
Once more, thoughtfully, Dan Orliffe surveyed the young stowaway. Was his tale of homeless wandering true? Was he, in fact, a castoff, a misborn whom no one claimed or wanted? Was he a man without a country? Or was it all a fabrication, an artful texture of lies and half-truths calculated to elicit sympathy?
The youthful stowaway looked guileless enough. But was he really?
The eyes seemed appealing, but somewhere within them was a veil of inscrutability. Was there a hint of cunning behind it, or was imagination playing tricks?
Dan Orliffe hesitated. Whatever he wrote would, he knew, be hashed over and checked out by the Post's rival afternoon paper, the Vancouver Colonist.
With no immediate deadline, it was up to himself how much time he took in getting the story. He decided to give his doubts a thorough workout.
'Henri,' he asked the stowaway, 'do you trust me?'
For an instant the earlier suspicion returned to the young man's eyes. Then abruptly he nodded.
'I trust,' he said simply.
'All right,' Dan said. 'I think perhaps I can help. But I want to know everything about you, right back from the beginning.' He glanced towards where De Vere was assembling his camera flash equipment. 'We'll take some photographs first, then we'll talk. And don't skip anything, and don't hurry because this is going to take a long time.'
Chapter 5
Henri Duval was still tiredly awake in the galley of the Vastervik.
The man from the newspaper had a tongue with many questions.
It was a puzzle at times, the young stowaway thought, to be certain what he wished. The man asked much, expecting plain words in return. And each answer made was written down quickly upon the sheets of paper before them at the table. It was as if Duval himself were being drawn out through the hurrying pencil point, his life that was past placed carefully in order. And yet, about so much of his life, there was nothing of order, only disconnected pieces. And so many things were hard to tell in plain words - this man's words - or even to remember in just the way they happened.
If only he had learned to read and write, to use pencil and paper for storing things from the mind, as this man and others like him did. Then he, too - Henri Duval - could preserve thoughts and the memory of things past. And not everything would have to stay in his brain, as on a shelf, hoping it would not become lost in forgetfulness, as some of the things he searched for now, it seemed, had done.
His mother had spoken once of schooling. She herself had been taught as a child to read and write. But that was long ago, and his mother had died before any schooling for himself could be begun. After that there was no one else to care what, or whether, he learned.
He frowned, his young face creased, groping for recollection; trying to answer the questions; to remember, remember, remember...
First there had been the ship. His mother had told him of it and it was on the ship that he had been born. They had sailed from Djibouti, in French Somaliland, the day before his birth and he believed that his mother had once told him where the ship was bound, but he had long since forgotten. And if she had ever said what flag the ship flew, that was forgotten too.
The birth had been hard and there was no doctor. His mother became weak and fevered and the ship's captain had turned his vessel, putting back into Djibouti. At the port, mother and child had been taken to the hospital for the poor.
- They had had little money, then or later.
Henri remembered his mother as comforting and gentle. His impression was that she was beautiful, but perhaps this was
'only
'No paper.'
'Do you belong to any country?'
'No country.'
'Do you want a country?'
Duval looked puzzled.
'I mean,' Dan said slowly, 'you want to get of this ship. You told me that.' A vigorous nod, assenting.
'Then you want to have a country - a place to live?'
'I work,' Duval insisted. 'I work good.'
Once more, thoughtfully, Dan Orliffe surveyed the young stowaway. Was his tale of homeless wandering true? Was he, in fact, a castoff, a misborn whom no one claimed or wanted? Was he a man without a country? Or was it all a fabrication, an artful texture of lies and half-truths calculated to elicit sympathy?
The youthful stowaway looked guileless enough. But was he really?
The eyes seemed appealing, but somewhere within them was a veil of inscrutability. Was there a hint of cunning behind it, or was imagination playing tricks?
Dan Orliffe hesitated. Whatever he wrote would, he knew, be hashed over and checked out by the Post's rival afternoon paper, the Vancouver Colonist.
With no immediate deadline, it was up to himself how much time he took in getting the story. He decided to give his doubts a thorough workout.
'Henri,' he asked the stowaway, 'do you trust me?'
For an instant the earlier suspicion returned to the young man's eyes. Then abruptly he nodded.
'I trust,' he said simply.
'All right,' Dan said. 'I think perhaps I can help. But I want to know everything about you, right back from the beginning.' He glanced towards where De Vere was assembling his camera flash equipment. 'We'll take some photographs first, then we'll talk. And don't skip anything, and don't hurry because this is going to take a long time.'
Chapter 5
Henri Duval was still tiredly awake in the galley of the Vastervik.
The man from the newspaper had a tongue with many questions.
It was a puzzle at times, the young stowaway thought, to be certain what he wished. The man asked much, expecting plain words in return. And each answer made was written down quickly upon the sheets of paper before them at the table. It was as if Duval himself were being drawn out through the hurrying pencil point, his life that was past placed carefully in order. And yet, about so much of his life, there was nothing of order, only disconnected pieces. And so many things were hard to tell in plain words - this man's words - or even to remember in just the way they happened.
If only he had learned to read and write, to use pencil and paper for storing things from the mind, as this man and others like him did. Then he, too - Henri Duval - could preserve thoughts and the memory of things past. And not everything would have to stay in his brain, as on a shelf, hoping it would not become lost in forgetfulness, as some of the things he searched for now, it seemed, had done.
His mother had spoken once of schooling. She herself had been taught as a child to read and write. But that was long ago, and his mother had died before any schooling for himself could be begun. After that there was no one else to care what, or whether, he learned.
He frowned, his young face creased, groping for recollection; trying to answer the questions; to remember, remember, remember...
First there had been the ship. His mother had told him of it and it was on the ship that he had been born. They had sailed from Djibouti, in French Somaliland, the day before his birth and he believed that his mother had once told him where the ship was bound, but he had long since forgotten. And if she had ever said what flag the ship flew, that was forgotten too.
The birth had been hard and there was no doctor. His mother became weak and fevered and the ship's captain had turned his vessel, putting back into Djibouti. At the port, mother and child had been taken to the hospital for the poor.
- They had had little money, then or later.
Henri remembered his mother as comforting and gentle. His impression was that she was beautiful, but perhaps this was
'only
Similar Books
