Anatomy of Restlessness by Bruce Chatwin Page B

are Devils. For sheer arrogance they beat the lot. Think they can blast through anywhere.’
    â€˜They are tough,’ I said.
    â€˜You know something?’ The Major returned to the Moors. ‘Moors remind me of Frogs. Same look. Both look at you as though you’re dirt.’
    â€˜Don’t let them get you down.’
    â€˜But I hate ’em. We had a welder here. A Belgian. Good boy. I used to cut his hair. Fell fifteen feet and broke his neck on a girder. And the Moor who was helping him stood by and laughed. Laughed! Stood there laughing. It makes you sick.’
    In the evening it was windy and flights of swifts cut the green air. It was the third year of the drought. The nomads had lost most of their livestock and flocked to the fringes of the mining camp.
    In the market a marabout was reciting the suras of the Koran. He was blind. His eyes were almonds of red veins and cloudy blue-white cataracts. His words came harsh and soaring as a drum solo. An old man kept time with one hand. He rested the other hand on the marabout’s shoulders. He was his father.
    Some camel men were saddling up. The saddles were of red and yellow leather. The men hated the mine.
    The Major hoped to get me a ride down on the company plane. He said we shouldn’t know until the last minute. He telephoned and got word that a Frenchman had cancelled.
    â€˜Cheers!’ he called. ‘You’ve a seat.’
    We drove to the airstrip but found another Frenchman who had taken his friend’s place. So we drove back into town and found a white pick-up ready to leave. They were waiting for one more passenger. I squeezed in behind the tailboard.
    â€˜I’m awfully sorry about the plane,’ the Major said.
    â€˜Don’t think about it.’
    â€˜You look pretty uncomfortable.’
    â€˜But will survive.’
    â€˜It does seem awful after promising the plane.’
    â€˜I said not to worry, Major.’
    â€˜It’s a shame. Bloody Frogs.’
    â€˜Don’t let them get you down.’
    â€˜Easier said than done. No fun stuck in the desert witch a lot of Frogs.’
    The engine started and the red rear light lit up the Major’s shorts and knees.
    â€˜We’re off,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Major, and thanks.’
    â€˜Cheers!’ said the Major, looking miserable.

THE JOURNEY BACK
    The boy lay on the floor of the pick-up. His long tapering hands held onto a cotton sheet. He was trying to keep the dust off his clothes. They were beautiful clothes, green pants, a yellow sweater and a scarf striped orange and white. He had worn them fresh to start the journey and now they were greasy and floury with sand.
    He was the best-looking boy I ever saw. He had the kind of looks to make anyone feel ugly and inadequate. He was frightened and unhappy and kept rolling his huge black eyes and shivering.
    â€˜Where are you going?’
    â€˜Dakar.’
    â€˜Home?’
    â€˜They turned me back at the frontier. I had a passport and they turned me back.’
    He was all broken up about being turned back.
    â€˜Where were you going?’
    â€˜Paris.’
    â€˜To study?’
    â€˜To continue my profession.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜You wouldn’t understand.’
    â€˜I would.’
    â€˜Non, Monsieur. Comprenez-pas. C’est un métier special.’
    â€˜I know most occupations in France.’
    â€˜But this métier, no.’
    â€˜Say it.’
    â€˜You will not understand. I am an ébéniste. I make bureaux-plats , Louis Quinze and Louis Seize.’

THE ESTATE OF MAXIMILIAN TOD
    On 6 February 1975, Dr Estelle Neumann fell down a crevasse of the Belgrano Glacier in Chilean Patagonia.
    Her death robbed Harvard University of the finest glaciologist at work in the United States; I lost a close ally and a good friend. I cannot think of Estelle without recalling her humour, her capacity for statistics and the blind,