I am seated in his den. The large, austere, expensively appointed den. The beams of the ceiling are massive and oak. The fireplace is gigantic, almost large enough to stand inside. There is a small fire whispering away, whispering the word crackle, over and over, the word echoing softly inside the grey stones. I am seated at the end of a long red table; my host is seated at the other end. I look at the blank walls. Shouldn't there be animal heads on the wall? Something important is being conveyed by the walls being blank... what is it..? What is my host trying to say..? My thoughts are interrupted by the man-servant returning with our drinks. The big Russian serves Victor first and then brings the tray to me.
The Russian wears shiny black boots and has a great wide mustache, although his head is bald. At his side is a long scabbard and a small holster, I am certain he is proficient with either weapon, proficient with either the sword or the pistol, because he carries them with ease and confidence. There are also two heavy can-shaped metal flasks clipped to his wide belt. They are grenades.
I think to myself... does this man even need weapons? The Russian weighs three hundred fifty pounds, or more. His arms are as big around as my thighs. His hands are so big, that the tray he carries right now, has his fat fingers sticking out past the great round edge. The only limitation to his intimidating distinctiveness, is his un-imposing stature. The Russian is four foot tall. I reach down and take my Shirley Temple from the tray.
"I've noticed there aren't any trophies on these walls." I say.
"So you've noticed."
"I've noticed."
"A man of your breeding must know what that means."
"Oh I know. I know exactly what that means. It means you only hunt human beings... and those are the kind of trophies that can't be displayed... and that's why you live on this large deserted island... that's why you have a Russian servant... that's why you saved me from that ship and why you've been taking care of me. You intend to hunt me out in that jungle. You intend to chase me with hounds and then drag me off into some mad scientist torture compound... where you'll practice vivisection on me... replace my puny sexual appendage with something hacked off a rhinoceros... then you'll force me to mate with a woman who's half Jennifer Lopez and half, sleek, lust-crazed, female puma in heat. (My puny appendage tingled with anticipation.)
"You are only partially correct. I do intend to hunt you... but I don't intend to mate you with anyone... I intend to kill you."
The tingling stopped. "No puma..?" I say.
"No."
"How bout'... half Daniela Pestova, half white tigress..?"
"Nope."
"One quarter Laura Bush, three quarter zebra..?"
"All we do is hunt." Victor replies. The Russian nods his head.
"Why may I ask? Why? What good is hunting a man..? Any man..?"
"Come now... You aren't just anyone. I recognized you from the very first. You are Meekly Blanderman, the author of, 'Yeti Stalking Made Easy' and 'How to Skin Carcasses for Dummies'."
Those were books! I don't actually know anything about hunting! Those who can... do. Those who can't... teach. Those who don't have a clue... write."
"Be that as it may." Victor says softly, "Be that as it may... at dawn... we hunt."
The Russian points his pistol at me and marches me up to my room. I dream the hounds are chasing me... chasing me... chasing me...
* * *
The morning arrives. Now I can hear the hounds baying for real. They are running in the valley. The sun is already high. I am bathed in sweat. Breathing harder than I'd ever breathed before. I hear a rifle shot... then another. I jump out of the bed, and run to the window. I've overslept! They've started without me! I'm bathed in sweat because I've been dreaming about Jennifer Lopez doing things with Daniela Pestova. I quickly put on shoes and run to catch up.
During our discussion the previous evening Victor twice denied there was a swamp at the East end of the island. I immediately turn West. I want there to be a swamp. I want to hide in the swamp. I realize there are two possibilities; either Victor denied the swamp because he didn't want to enter a swamp; or he really didn't want me to go into the swamp because he felt it would be dangerous for me. Either way I realize... if the swamp were to the West and Victor wanted me there, he would have said East... and if he didn't want me there and it was in the West, he would still have said West. I've studied philosophy and all I had to do was ask myself... what would Victor ask himself... if he was asking himself.
I run ahead, so intent on reaching quicksand that I am a hundred yards into the thorn bushes before I realize I'm flayed from the waist down. I hear a rustling sound and turn. It's Victor. A hundred yards away stands my enemy. He is standing at the edge of the bushes.
"I thought sure you'd head for the swamp." Victor shouts.
"Where's your Russian flunky?" I ask.
A hand pops up over the low thorn bushes telling me he hasn't left Victor's side.
Victor takes his rifle off his shoulder and aims it at me.
"You're not going to do that." I tell him.
He doesn't even take his eye away from the telescopic sight. "Why not?"
"If you kill me now... you'll have no trophy for your den. As soon as I hit the ground there'll be ants, and flies, and buzzards...
"Oh... and maybe some lions and tigers and bears, Oh my." Victor taunts me.
"I'm serious." I say. "It will take you hours to go back to the compound and bring back hedge clippers, and get me out of here."
He thinks it over. A truce is agreed to. Back at the compound we eat our second dinner together; this time without discussion.
The next morning the Russian makes sure I am actually out the door before the hunt begins.
I run like a man pursued. Because I'm... a man... and... I'm... being... pursued. The baying of the hounds tells me I am ten minutes ahead. Not directly. Not like... in a secretly arranged code or anything. The baying only tells me I'm that far ahead, because I can pretty much guess where they are, and I pretty much know where I am. I stop. I reach into my pants... I'm not thinking about Jennifer Lopez... I'm searching for the spoon I've stolen... taken from dinner table last night. I begin to dig.
What I have in mind is a Mandaly... Pruit Igo... Shangri-La... crescent shaped... deep... trash compactor log powered pit... something I read about in the last issue of Better Homes and Gardens.
All I need for them to do... is step on the loose straw coving, fall in the hole, and on their way out, pull on a certain particular grease-covered vine. What happens isn't exactly what I have planned. As the hunting party scrambles around the corner, they find me rolling on the ground swatting at ants. Pretty soon they are with me. All of us rolling on the ground covered in red ants.
"Damn this hurts." cries the Russian.
"You talk." says Victor in amazement.
So another truce, and another retreat to the compound. Once more we sit around the fire. We all have our pants off. We are sitting around in our underwear, and we are daubing ourselves with calamine lotion.
The Russian is in terrible shape. Being close to the ground, those ants almost had him for lunch. Using sterilized tweezers he is pulling out a particularly tenacious myrmecological antagonist.
Victor looks at his friend. "How come you never talked before? How come you haven't spoken a word for the seventeen years I've known you? You've never asked for more stew, or wanted wages, or commented about the weather. How come you never voiced a single complaint for seventeen years?" Victor asks.
The Russian continues to dig. When he holds the ant he answers. "Well, up till now everything's been OK."
The next days pass much like the day of the ants. There's the poison ivy truce, and the hornet nest incident, and then three days where it rains.
It seems like we're brothers in some sick fraternity: they looking at my head, wondering if it will still make a good trophy, since a good part of my ear was bitten off by a rat that got in my room; me walking around with my pants so full of silverware I can't even go to the kitchen and get a boysenberry for fear it will make me think of Halle Berry.
Then the weather clears. We run about the island with Victor shooting me a few times and the Russian hitting me on the ankle with a club, and the hounds jumping around chasing birds and then running off.
By nightfall it is just me and Victor. The Russian, speaking now, speaking up for himself at last, has sensibly demanded an eight hour workday. He also wanted and received his own accommodations; he now lives in the guest house out behind the compound. The Russian went back to his rooms at exactly five p.m.
So it's me and Victor.
We are near the coast. I've been counting. Counting each time Victor fires his gun. I know something important. I know something that might save my life. (And I mean besides not using cigarettes.) Victor only has 92 bullets left. If my math is right, he only has fifty-one left for his pistol, and forty-seven left for his rifle.
I run towards the sound of the ocean. I am at the cliffs, below me is the pounding surf. Suddenly Victor appears behind me. I'm trapped.
He screams at me; with the pounding surf below it's hard to make out what he says. It sounds like, "Will you pump navel jelly?"
I yell back, "Not even to save my life."
He steps closer and now I understand him. "Beg. Crawl on your belly." he orders.
That I don't mind doing.
While I'm crying and begging I develop a plan. I stand up. "I'm not begging anymore." I tell him.
"No..?"
"No."
"I've got a gun!" says Victor "Two guns in fact!"
"But I've got an education." I answer him, "And I know the difference between a protagonist and an antagonist. I know that even if you shoot me fifty times, and then throw me off this cliff... something will happen. Something. In fact all that shooting and my guts coming out and blood and even my bouncing off the rocks below... any of that... all of that... that's now part of my plan. That's how I'm going to win. As soon as I hit the water... (I look down, and below me right now, all there seems to be is rocks) ...as soon as the tide comes in and lifts me off those rocks down there... I'm going to start swimming... and I'm going to make it to the compound first and I'm going to wait for you and surprise you and I'm going to sleep in your big round pink fluffy bed.
Victor looked instantly stung by my last words. He gripped the rifle even tighter than usual. "Has the Russian told you anything..?
"What..?"
"About us? The Russian... has he admitted anything..?"
"No." I answer him.
He lowers the rifle. "So now what?" asks Victor.
"Look Victor... you own a great island. I have a degree in hotel management. The Russian works for nothing. He even has family who we can bring here and they'll work for nothing. Surely there are better things to do than shoot each other.
Victor nods. Inside of a year we're owners of six hundred condominiums and four hotels. One day I drop by his office.
"Victor, aren't you glad you gave up hunting?"
"Who says I gave up hunting?" Victor answers me. He opens the door to his back room. On the wall there's a collection of underwear. Half from Haines; half from Victoria's Secret, and no Underoos, thankfully enough.
"I hope you're being careful." I caution him.
"What's the main safety rule..?" he asks, knowing we both know the answer. In fact we recite it together.
"Whether you have a tiny tiny derringer or a great big elephant gun..."
we
say, "never walk around with the safety off."
Copyright © 2002 by Thomas Lee Joseph Smith