214
DORIS LESSING
us to go, burst one after another into shrill sound. And in the sister
clump of trees, unnoticed by us, had arrived two pigeons who sat
there cooing. Paul contemplated them, his rifle swinging. "No," said
Maryrose, "Please don't."
"Why not?"
"Please Paul."
The heap of nine dead pigeons, tied together by their pink feet,
dangled from Paul's free hand, dripping blood.
"It is a terrible sacrifice," said Paul gravely, "but for you, Mary–
rose I will refrain."
She smiled at him, not in gratitude, but in the cool reproachful
way she always used for him. And he smiled back,
his
delightful,
brown, blue-eyed face all open for her inspection. They walked off
together in front, the dead birds trailing their wings over jade–
colored clumps of grass.
The three of us followed.
"What a pity," remarked Jimmy, "that Maryrose disapproves so
much of Paul. Because there is no doubt they are what are known as
a perfectly-matched couple." He had tried the light ironic tone, and
almost succeeded. Almost, not quite; his jealousy of Paul grated in
his voice.
We looked: they were, those two, a perfect couple, both so light
and graceful, the sun burnishing their bright hair, shining on their
brown skins. And yet Maryrose strolled on without looking at Paul
who gave her his whimsically appealing blue glances
all
in vain.
It was too hot to talk on the way back. Passing the small kopje
on whose granite chunks the sun was beating, waves of dizzying heat
struck at us so that we hurried past it. Everything was empty and
silent, only the cicadas and a distant pigeon sang. And past the
kopje we slowed and looked for the grasshoppers, and saw that the
bright clamped couples had almost disappeared. A few remained, one
above another, like painted clothes-pegs with painted round black
eyes. A few. And the butterflies were almost gone. One or two
floated by, tired, over the sun-beaten grass.
Our heads ached with the heat. We were slightly sick with the
smell of blood.
At the hotel we separated with hardly a word.
