Read Online The Sun Between Their Feet by Doris Lessing - Free Book Online

shell-fire before our very eyes.
    First, the village had to be built.
    It appears that the General and his subordinates stood around in the red dust of the parade-ground under a burning sun for the whole of one day, surrounded by building materials, while hordes of African labourers ran around with boards and nails, trying to make something that looked like a village. It became evident that they would have to build a proper village in order to destroy it; and this would cost more than was allowed for the whole entertainment. The General went home in a bad temper, and his wife said what they needed was an artist, they needed Michele. This was not because she wanted to do Michele a good turn; she could not endure the thought of him lying around singing while there was work to be done. She refused to undertake any delicate diplomatic missions when her husband said he would be damned if he would ask favours of any little Wop. Shesolved the problem for him in her own way: a certain Captain Stocker was sent out to fetch him.
    The Captain found him on the same camp-bed under the same tree, in rolled-up trousers, and an uncollared shirt; unshaven, mildly drunk, with a bottle of wine standing beside him on the earth. He was singing an air so wild, so sad, that the Captain was uneasy. He stood at ten paces from the disreputable fellow and felt the indignities of his position. A year ago, this man had been a mortal enemy to be shot on sight. Six months ago, he had been an enemy prisoner. Now he lay with his knees up, in an untidy shirt that had certainly once been military. For the Captain, the situation crystallized in a desire that Michele should salute him.
    â€˜Piselli!’ he said sharply.
    Michele turned his head and looked at the Captain from the horizontal. ‘Good morning,’ he said affably.
    â€˜You are wanted,’ said the Captain.
    â€˜Who?’ said Michele. He sat up, a fattish, olive-skinned little man. His eyes were resentful.
    â€˜The authorities.’
    â€˜The war is over?’
    The Captain, who was already stiff and shiny enough in his laundered khaki, jerked his head back, frowning, chin out. He was a large man, blond, and wherever his flesh showed, it was brick-red. His eyes were small and blue and angry. His red hands, covered all over with fine yellow bristles, clenched by his side. Then he saw the disappointment in Michele’s eyes, and the hands unclenched. ‘No, it is not over,’ he said. ‘Your assistance is required.’
    â€˜For the war?’
    â€˜For the war effort. I take it you are interested in defeating the Germans?’
    Michele looked at the Captain. The little dark-eyed artisan looked at the great blond officer with his cold blue eyes, his narrow mouth, his hands like bristle-covered steaks. He looked and said: ‘I am very interested in the end of the war.’
    â€˜Well?’
said the Captain between his teeth.
    â€˜The pay?’ said Michele.
    â€˜You will be paid.’
    Michele stood up. He lifted the bottle against the sun, then took a gulp. He rinsed his mouth out with wine and spat. Then he poured what was left on to the red earth, where it made a bubbling purple stain.
    â€˜I am ready,’ he said. He went with the Captain to the waiting lorry, where he climbed in beside the driver’s seat and not, as the Captain had expected, into the back of the lorry. When they had arrived at the parade-ground the officers had left a message that the Captain would be personally responsible for Michele and for the village. Also for the hundred or so labourers who were sitting around on the grass verges waiting for orders.
    The Captain explained what was wanted, Michele nodded. Then he waved his hand at the Africans. ‘I do not want these,’ he said.
    â€˜You will do it yourself – a village?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜With no help?’
    Michele smiled for the first time. ‘I will do it.’
    The Captain hesitated.