GRAHAM GREENE
Born in England in 1904, Graham Greene was educated at Oxford. His first published work was a volume of verse in 1925 and his first novel was The Man Within. Since then he has published more than a dozen novels from The Quiet American, The End of the Affair and The Heart of the Matter to The Comedians. In addition, he has written a number of books which he refers to as entertainments, such as The Third Man, Brighton Rock and Our Man in Havana.
Several of Greene's novels and short stories have been made into successful motion pictures and two of his plays were produced on Broadway. His novels have won him an international reputation for subtle characterizations and accomplished craftsmanship. In 1952, Graham Greene was given the Catholic Literary Award for The End of the Affair.
Bantam Books by Graham Greene
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed
BRIGHTON ROCK
A BURNT-OUT CASE
THE COMEDIANS
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
THE MAN WITHIN
MAY WE BORROW YOUR HUSBAND?
THE MINISTRY OF FEAR
ORIENT EXPRESS
THE POWER AND THE GLORY
THE QUIET AMERICAN
TRAVELS WITH MY AUNT
TWENTY-ONE STORIES
TO VIVIEN
WITH DEAREST LOVE
THE POWER AND THE GLORY
PART I
Chapter One
MR. TENCH went out to look for his ether cylinder: out into the blazing Mexican sun and the bleaching dust. A few buzzards looked down from the roof with shabby indifference: he wasn't carrion yet. A faint feeling of rebellion stirred in Mr. Tench's heart, and he wrenched up a piece of the road with splintering finger-nails and tossed it feebly up at them. One of them rose and flapped across the town: over the tiny plaza, over the bust of an ex-president, ex-general, ex-human being, over the two stalls which sold mineral water, towards the river and the sea. It wouldn't find anything there: the sharks looked after the carrion on that side. Mr. Tench went on across the plaza.
He said Buenos días to a man with a gun who sat in a small patch of shade against a wall. But it wasn't like England: the man said nothing at all, just stared malevolently up at Mr. Tench, as if he had never had any dealings with the foreigner, as if Mr. Tench were not responsible for his two gold bicuspid teeth. Mr. Tench went sweating by, past the Treasury which had once been a church, towards the quay. Half-way across he suddenly forgot what he had come out for-a glass of mineral water? That was all there was to drink in this prohibition state-except beer, but that was a government monopoly and too expensive except on special occasions. An awful feeling of nausea gripped Mr. Tench in the stomach-it couldn't have been mineral water he wanted. Of course, his ether cylinder ... the boat was in. He had heard its exultant piping when he lay on his bed after lunch. He passed the barbers' and two dentists' and came out between a warehouse and the customs onto the river bank.
The river went heavily by towards the sea between the banana plantations: the General Obregon was tied up to the bank, and beer was being unloaded-a hundred cases were already stacked upon the quay. Mr. Tench stood in the shade of [4] the customs house and thought: What am I here for? Memory drained out of him in the heat. He gathered his bile together and spat forlornly into the sun. Then he sat down on a case and waited. Nothing to do. Nobody would come to see him before five.
The General Obregon was about thirty yards long. A few feet of damaged rail, one lifeboat, a bell hanging on a rotten cord, an oil-lamp in the bow, she looked as if she might weather two or three more Atlantic years-if she didn't strike a norther in the gulf. That, of course, would be the end of her. It didn't really matter: everybody was insured when he bought a ticket automatically. Half a dozen passengers leant on the rail, among the hobbled turkeys, and stared at the port: the warehouse, the empty baked street with the dentists' and the barbers'.
Mr. Tench heard a revolver-holster creak just behind him and turned his head. A customs officer was watching him angrily. He said something which Mr. Tench could not catch. Pardon me, Mr. Tench said.
My teeth, the customs man said indistinctly.
Oh, Mr. Tench said, yes, your teeth. The man had none: that was why he couldn't talk clearly: Mr. Tench had removed them all. He was shaken with nausea-something was wrong-worms, dysentery ... He said: The set is nearly finished. Tonight, he promised wildly. It was, of course, quite impossible; but that was how one lived, putting off everything. The man was satisfied: he might forget, and in any case what could he do? He had paid in advance. That was the whole world to Mr. Tench: the heat and the forgetting, the putting off till tomorrow, if possible cash down-for what? He stared out over the slow river: the fin of a shark moved like a periscope at the mouth. In the course of years several ships had stranded and they now helped to prop up the riverside, the smoke-stacks leaning over like guns pointing at some distant objective across the banana-trees and the swamps.
Mr. Tench thought: Ether cylinder: I nearly forgot. His mouth fell open and he began moodily to count the bottles of Cerveza Moctezuma. A hundred and forty cases. Twelve times a hundred and forty: the heavy phlegm gathered in his mouth: twelve fours are forty-eight. He said aloud in English: My [5] God, a pretty one : twelve hundred, sixteen hundred and eighty: he spat, staring with vague interest at a girl in the bows of the General Obregon-a fine thin figure, they were generally so thick, brown eyes, of course, and the inevitable gleam of the gold tooth, but something fresh and young ... Sixteen hundred and eighty bottles at a peso a bottle.
Somebody asked in English: What did you say?
Mr. Tench swivelled round. You English? he said in astonishment, but at the sight of the round and hollow face charred with a three days' beard, he altered his question: You speak English?
Yes, the man said, he spoke English. He stood stiffly in the shade, a small man dressed in a shabby dark city suit, carrying a small attaché case. He had a novel under his arm: bits of an amorous scene stuck out, crudely coloured. He said: Excuse me. I thought just now you were talking to me. He had protuberant eyes: he gave an impression of unstable hilarity, as if perhaps he had been celebrating a birthday ... alone.
Mr. Tench cleared his mouth of phlegm. What did I say? He couldn't remember a thing.
You said: 'My God, a pretty one.'
Now what could I have meant by that? He stared up at the merciless sky. A buzzard stood there like an observer. What? Oh, just the girl, I suppose. You don't often see a pretty piece round here. Just one or two a year worth looking at.
She is very young.
Oh, I don't have intentions, Mr. Tench said wearily. A man may look. I've lived alone for fifteen years.
Here?
Hereabouts.
They fell silent and time passed, the shadow of the customs house shifted a few inches farther towards the river: the buzzard moved a little, like the black hand of a dock.
You came in her? Mr. Tench said.
No.
Going in her?
The little man seemed to evade the question, but then as if some explanation were required, I was just looking, he said. I suppose she'll be sailing quite soon?
To Vera Cruz, Mr. Tench said. In a few hours.
[6] Without calling anywhere?
Where could she call? He asked: How did you get here?
The stranger said vaguely: A canoe.
Got a plantation, eh?
No.
It's good hearing English spoken, Mr. Tench said. Now you learnt yours in the States?
The man agreed. He wasn't very garrulous.
Ah, what wouldn't I give, Mr. Tench said, to be there now. He said in a low anxious voice: You don't happen, do you, to have a drink in that case of yours? Some of you people back there-I've known one or two-a little for medical purposes.