gallery.
I would have to get Timoteo shooting soon at moving targets. Nick Lewis had an antiquated machine which I had inherited. Sometimes it worked . . . sometimes it didn't. It was run by a small electric motor which turned cogs which turned a conveyor belt. Attached to the belt were six screw bolts. On the bolts you could fix decoy birds, targets, beer cans and so on. The motor could be speeded up if it felt like speeding up or it could take the targets along at a snail's pace.
I was working on the machine when Raimundo and Timoteo came in.
"We'll keep to target shooting for today," I said to Timoteo as I handed him the rifle. "Tomorrow, we'll try a moving target."
I wasn't sure if he had heard me. He didn't look as if he had, but I was past caring. His despairing, broken down look bored me.
He shot until noon. His score of bulls was increasing. A few minutes after noon, his concentration began slipping and I could see it was time to stop.
I turned to Raimundo who was lighting yet another cigarette.
"I'll take him to the bungalow and feed him. We'll start again at 14.00."
Raimundo got to his feet.
"I'll feed him, soldier. He stays with me. Come on, Mr. Savanto, let's go see what Nick's cooked up for us." He cocked a mocking eye at me. "I'll have him here at 14.00."
That suited me. The less I had to do with this goon the better I liked it.
I watched them walk off towards the line of distant palm trees, then I went back to the bungalow.
The next three days are of no interest to record: they followed the same pattern. Raimundo delivered Timoteo to the gallery at nine o'clock every morning, took him away to eat at noon, brought him back at 14.00 and took him away at 19.00. During this time Timoteo shot, used up a lot of ammunition, did what he was told, often badly and sometimes better than badly.
I had to contain my impatience and control my temper when he started on the moving targets. He either shot ahead or behind, but after some hours he began to hit a few beer cans that were being conveyed along at the slowest speed the machine would operate at.
Lucy continued to paint the bungalow. She no longer asked about Timoteo. She had no chance of seeing him anyway. Our personal feelings for each other had suffered a knock. We were both too goddam polite to each other, and we had long minutes of complete silence that hadn't come into our lives before.
I knew she was worried sick and she was hurt, but I kept telling myself that when this was over it would be forgotten and we would get together again as before.
After the third day I became more aware that time was running out and I began to turn on the heat. It wasn't good enough for Timoteo to hit two beer cans out of five as they crept along the belt. He had to sharpen up his ideas.
I gave the wheels driving the belt some machine oil and advanced the motor.
The cans jolted along at three times their previous speed. He fired off forty shots without hitting a can.
Exasperated, I shouted at him, "Shoot ahead ! All the time you're shooting behind !"
I didn't believe anyone could sweat the way he sweated. He was trying all right, but his reflexes were those of a cripple.
He kept shooting, kept missing, and I could see by his desperate expression he was becoming hysterical.
"Okay, stop." I turned to Raimundo. "Take him away. Let him relax." I switched off the motor. "I've had enough of him for today."
Raimundo stared at me, his black eyes evil.
"He hasn't time to relax, soldier. Mr. Savanto is coming to check on him the day after tomorrow. You'll be the one who'll need to relax if he isn't doing better than this."
I would have to be deaf not to catch the threat in his voice. So I kept him shooting until dusk, but it was a
I would have to get Timoteo shooting soon at moving targets. Nick Lewis had an antiquated machine which I had inherited. Sometimes it worked . . . sometimes it didn't. It was run by a small electric motor which turned cogs which turned a conveyor belt. Attached to the belt were six screw bolts. On the bolts you could fix decoy birds, targets, beer cans and so on. The motor could be speeded up if it felt like speeding up or it could take the targets along at a snail's pace.
I was working on the machine when Raimundo and Timoteo came in.
"We'll keep to target shooting for today," I said to Timoteo as I handed him the rifle. "Tomorrow, we'll try a moving target."
I wasn't sure if he had heard me. He didn't look as if he had, but I was past caring. His despairing, broken down look bored me.
He shot until noon. His score of bulls was increasing. A few minutes after noon, his concentration began slipping and I could see it was time to stop.
I turned to Raimundo who was lighting yet another cigarette.
"I'll take him to the bungalow and feed him. We'll start again at 14.00."
Raimundo got to his feet.
"I'll feed him, soldier. He stays with me. Come on, Mr. Savanto, let's go see what Nick's cooked up for us." He cocked a mocking eye at me. "I'll have him here at 14.00."
That suited me. The less I had to do with this goon the better I liked it.
I watched them walk off towards the line of distant palm trees, then I went back to the bungalow.
The next three days are of no interest to record: they followed the same pattern. Raimundo delivered Timoteo to the gallery at nine o'clock every morning, took him away to eat at noon, brought him back at 14.00 and took him away at 19.00. During this time Timoteo shot, used up a lot of ammunition, did what he was told, often badly and sometimes better than badly.
I had to contain my impatience and control my temper when he started on the moving targets. He either shot ahead or behind, but after some hours he began to hit a few beer cans that were being conveyed along at the slowest speed the machine would operate at.
Lucy continued to paint the bungalow. She no longer asked about Timoteo. She had no chance of seeing him anyway. Our personal feelings for each other had suffered a knock. We were both too goddam polite to each other, and we had long minutes of complete silence that hadn't come into our lives before.
I knew she was worried sick and she was hurt, but I kept telling myself that when this was over it would be forgotten and we would get together again as before.
After the third day I became more aware that time was running out and I began to turn on the heat. It wasn't good enough for Timoteo to hit two beer cans out of five as they crept along the belt. He had to sharpen up his ideas.
I gave the wheels driving the belt some machine oil and advanced the motor.
The cans jolted along at three times their previous speed. He fired off forty shots without hitting a can.
Exasperated, I shouted at him, "Shoot ahead ! All the time you're shooting behind !"
I didn't believe anyone could sweat the way he sweated. He was trying all right, but his reflexes were those of a cripple.
He kept shooting, kept missing, and I could see by his desperate expression he was becoming hysterical.
"Okay, stop." I turned to Raimundo. "Take him away. Let him relax." I switched off the motor. "I've had enough of him for today."
Raimundo stared at me, his black eyes evil.
"He hasn't time to relax, soldier. Mr. Savanto is coming to check on him the day after tomorrow. You'll be the one who'll need to relax if he isn't doing better than this."
I would have to be deaf not to catch the threat in his voice. So I kept him shooting until dusk, but it was a
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