THE VENDETTA ANALYSIS

SHORT STORY ANALYSIS

THE VEDETTA

By: Guy de Maupassant

This paper is as assignment of the subject English Prose

The Lecturer: Muhammad EdyThoyib,M.A

                             Present By:

SHIVA RAHMAYANTI FAUZIAH (10320095)

ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LETTERS DEPARTMENT

FACULTY OF HUMANITIES AND CULTURE

MAULANA MALIK IBRAHIM STATE ISLAMIC UNIVERSITY OF MALANG

2012

 

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Preface

            Mercies and blessing just for Allah swt since my assignment of this paper has finished and I hope this paper can be one important and necessity things for us in English Prose content course

            Next, I am as the writers say thanks for my beloved lecturer who gave me the responsible assignment to make a paper and indeed, hopefully it can be useful in our study especially in English Prose Course.

            Finally, if there are some mistakes and errors from this paper, I do apologize for you all because I am as the learners have a mistake.

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TABLE OF CONTENT

TITLE PAGE................................................................................................ i

Preference ...................................................................................................ii

TABLE OF CONTENT.............................................................................iii

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

1.1 Background of the study...................................................................... 1

1.2 Objective of the Study......................................................................... 1

1.3 Theoretical framework......................................................................... 1

1.4 Presentation......................................................................................... 3

           

CHAPTER II

DISCUSSION

2.1  Summary of the Vendetta story............................................................ 4

2.2  Analysis............................................................................................... 4

CHAPTER III

CONCLUSSION....................................................................……………7

REFFERENCE

APPENDIX

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CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

1.1    Background of Study.

The short story 'A Vendetta' is one of famous short story that written by very well-known author, Guy de Maupassant in the 1800s. Guy de Maupassant was born in France in 1850.  He was a popular 19th-century French writer, considered one of the fathers of the modern short story and one of the form's finest exponents. He was developed to be one of the most famous short story writers of all time.

Maupassant's stories are characterized by their economy of style and efficient. Many of his stories are set during the Franco-Prussian War of the 1870s and several describe the futility of war and the innocent civilians who caught in the conflict, emerge changed. He has written 300 short stories, six novels, three travel books, and one volume of verse.

The short story of The Vendettais one of his short storyabout an old mother who avenging her son's death. It raises some important points for consideration about the idea of revenge.The Vendetta short story will contain only a few characters. Only looked from the tittle it will affects the reader by posing the question of how she is going to get revenge. At this point in the story, the reader will start to think up their own ideas of how the story is going to end.

1.2    Objective of Study.

     The following character analysis is carried out on a script entitled The Vendetta By: Guy de Maupassant. The analysis will identify three basic question of the theoretical framework:

(1) Who are the major and the minor characters?

(2) How are the character traits of the characters?

(3) How is the complexity of their qualities (flat or round)?

1.3    Theoretical Framework

     Character is the combination of qualities or features that distinguishes one person, group, or thing from another. But character in fiction is representation of a person or who take roles in story or dramatic work of art (such as a novel, play, or film).

A character is a person depicted in a narrative or drama. Character is revealed by how a character responds to conflict, by his or her dialogue, and through descriptions.  In literature, characters guide readers through their stories, helping them to understand plots and themes. The character is based on three elements:

1.    roles

It’s consisting of major and minor character. The major character takes the main roles in the story. It’s influence the development of the story. Main characters as described by the course of their development in a work of literature. The minor characters help to develop the story more complex. Minor Characters is someone who fill out the story but who do not figure prominently in it and often provides support and illuminates the protagonist.

2.    The complexity of characterization.

It’s consistingof round and flat characters. There are two basic types of characters that importance for the development of the novel: flat characters and round characters.Flat character are uncomplicated and do not change along the story and it is defined by a single quality without much individualizing detail. Flat characters have few but easily recognizable traits that make them stereotypical characters.

           By contrast, A round character has many complex traits-and those traits develop and change in a story. A round character will seem more real than a flat character, because people are complex. A round character is a major character in a fiction who meet the conflict and is changed by it. A round character is more to be developed and described than flat characters.

3.    values

           The main character in a story is generally known as the protagonist; the character who is in conflict with antagonist. The protagonist is supposed to be the hero of the story. The protagonist of a story is often called the main or major character at the center of the story.There may be more than one main character.

           The opposite of the protagonist is a character known as the antagonist, who represents or creates obstacles to the protagonist character. As with protagonists, there may be more than one antagonist in a story. The antagonist may be society, nature, or a person. It could be a situation that is creating an obstacle in the path of the protagonist towards her/his final goal.

Characterization or character traits

Characterization is the representation of persons in narrative and dramatic works. This may include direct methods like the attribution of qualities in description or commentary, and indirect (or ‘dramatic’) methods inviting readers to infer qualities from characters' actions, speech, or appearance. Based on the explanation in www.Literary Terms.com Character refers to the qualities assigned to the individual figures in the plot. Consider why the author assigns certain qualities to a character or characters and how any such qualities might relate to the topic.

1.4    Presentation

     This paper will be presented in three chapters. The first chapter contains of introductions, which consists of the background of study, objective of study,    theoretical framework. The second chapter contains of discussion of the analysis from “The Vendetta” short story. And for the last chapter is conclusion from the analysis.

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CHAPTER II

DISCUSSION

1.1  Summary of the Vendetta Story

      Paolo Saverini is a widow who lives with her son, Antoine Saverini and her bitch, Semillante. She lived in the poor little house on the rampart of Bonifacio. Her house is in the very edge of the cliff.

      One evening, Antoine was treacherously with knife-thrust by Nicolas Revolati because they were fight. When Paolo receive his body, she did not cry at all. She was motionless for long time. Then she swore in front of her son’s body that she will avenge to Nicolas. Nicolas was fled and hides to longosardo after kill Antonie. He looked for refuge in that village. But Paolo knew that Nicholas was hiding there.

      Next day Anthonie was buried. He left her old mother alone. Paolo have no one stay with her since her son was dying. All day long, Paolo think the way how to avenge to Nicolas. She could not do avenge by herself without another help because she was too old and weak. On the other hand, she could not break her promise too that she would avenge to Nicolas. She though hardly until she could not sleep, no peacefulness in her life.

      One night, she got an idea how to avenge to Nicolas. She meditates, prayed in the church and asking help and strength from the God. Then she returns homeand she stained up Semillante in the kennel. She no longger gave her dog some food. All day long the dog mad with hunger.

In the morning, Paolo went to her neighbor to ask two trusses of straw. And make the stuffed from the trawl into human figure. Then she took her husband’s old dress and worn into it. She train her dog how to rend and devour person by using the straw man. With great bites her dog rent away the straw man’s face and tore the whole neck to shreds.

      Paolo watched with a gleam in her eyes. And she chain up again her dog and made her dog go without food for two more days. For three month she trains her dog well. She no longerchains her dog up but she givesSemillante a sign. She would reward the dog with the gift of the black pudding.

      The time for avenge was come, Paolo went with an ecstatic fervor come to longosardo. She brought a large piece of black pudding for her dog. Her dog had nothing to eat for two days. Every minute she made her dog smell the delicious food to stimulate the dog’s hunger.

In longosardo she asks to everyone about Nicolas’ house. When she found Nicolas, she ordered her dog to bite him till die. That was her cruelavenge for Nicolas.

1.2  Character Analysis

A.  Major Character :

Ø        Paolo Saverinior widow saverini

     Paolo Saverini is an old widow who has many wrinkle and lived with her only son who killed by Nicholas. She is a character with mental problems or moral failings. She is the one who plotting the revenge and train her dog for become one of her avenges attribute.

     From this story the author using mixing method for the characterization of Paolo Saverini. In each part the author tell the characteristic of Paolo but in other part the author make the reader guess the characteristic of Paolo by looking from Paolo’s behavior, and then we can guess that Paolo is an avenger, cruel, etc.

     Paolo has round character. She has two side in her personality. At the first she lived peacefully and happily with her son without vengeance feeling but her lived change since her son was killed by Nicholas. Because of it she become an avenger who rancorous, cruel and unloved.

     In this poin Paolo take the role as the protagonis character although she is the one who avenge to Nicolas. Because she would not avenge to Nicholas if he did not kill her lovely son.

Ø        Semillante

     Semillante is a large, thin bitch with shaggy hair that usually was used by Paolo Saverini for hunting an animal. In this story thedog is very important character because the dog is the attribute for Paolo’s avenge to Nicholas.

     To characterize Semillante, the author give mixing method. The witer tell the just the part of Semillante’s characteristic and sometimes we can guess the characteristif of her from Semillante’s action and behavior.

     This dog has round character too. At the firs the dog was obedient and good dog. It was proved from the dogs action when mourn day. Usually Paolo Saverni used her dog for hunting but this dog’s utility was change become a killer human hunting. It began after Paolo train her dog to be savage and fierce dog.

     The dog also take role of protagonis character because at the first he is an unimal which use only for hunting not for kill person.

Ø      Nicholas Ravolati

     Nicholas Ravolati is the killer of AnthonieSaverini. He washide and escape after kill Anthonie to Sardinian village. He is the one who make Paolo Saverini swore to avenge on him. This character is the one who begin the conflict therefore, he take role as the antagonis character although he is appear only in some part of the story. This character has a flat character.

B.   Minor Character

Ø      AnthoineSaverini

     AnthoineSaverini is Paolo Saverini’s die son who was killed by Nicholas. He was the only son of Paolo.

     In this story the author did not tell to the reader the reason why Anthoine was killed by Nicholas. We also cannot guess the characteristic of him because no spesific action and characteristic which is given by the author for him.

Ø      The neighbor.

He is the neighbor who gives Paolo Saverini two trusses of straw in order to make straw man for her revenge.

Ø      Sardinian Fisherman.

He is the one who took Paolo to the Nicolas’ hiding place.

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CHAPTER III

CONCLUSSION

1.    In this story, there are many the major and minor characters. The major or mayor characters are including the main character which influence the story from the first until the end of the story. They are Paolo Saverini, Semillante, Nicholas Ravolati. They have the main role to make the improvement of the story. Beside that, there are also many minor characters which help and make the different situation. They are. AnthoineSaverini, Paolo’s neighbor, Sardinian Fisherman.

2.    The character traits (characteristic) of each character is quiet different. Paolo SaveriniPaolo Saverini is an old widow who has one son. She is a character with mental problems or moral failings. She is the one who plotting the revenge. Semillanteis a large, thin bitch with shaggy hair that usually used by Paolo Saverini for hunting an animal. Nicholas Ravolati he is the killer who take role as the antagonis character. The neighborhe is the neighbor who gives Paolo Saverini two trusses of straw in order to make straw man for her revenge.Sardinian Fisherman he is the one who took Paolo to the Nicolas’ hiding place.

The author did not tell the reader the characteristic for each character. He only told the characteristic only in Paolo and Semillante’s character. For the other character he did not explain and no delination character for them. Therefore, the reader can not guess the characteristic of them.

3.    The complexity of their qualities are based on their character in the story. There are two part of  character, flat and round. The round characters includes Paolo Saverini and Semillante. At the first they are good person and dog whom life happily but they life change since Anthoine was death. The flat character includes Nicholas Ravolati.

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REFFERENCE

ü      http://www.markedbyteachers.com/gcse/english/the-vendetta-short-story-analysis.html

ü      http://darkpartyreview.blogspot.com/2006/10/literary-sketch-guy-de-maupassants.html

ü      http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/1681/

ü      http://www.123helpme.com/view.asp?id=100877

THE VENDETTA

Paolo Saverini's widow lived alone with her son in a poor little house on the ramparts of Bonifacio. The town, built on a spur of the mountains, in places actually overhanging the sea, looks across a channel bristling with reefs, to the lower shores of Sardinia. At its foot, on the other side and almost completely surrounding it, is the channel that serves as its harbour, cut in the cliff like a gigantic corridor. Through a long circuit between steep walls, the channel brings to the very foot of the first houses the little Italian or Sardinian fishing-boats, and, every fortnight, the old steamboat that runs to and from Ajaccio. 

Upon the white mountain the group of houses form a whiter patch still. They look like the nests of wild birds, perched so upon the rock, dominating that terrible channel through which hardly ever a ship risks a passage. The unresting wind harasses the sea and eats away the bare shore, clad with a sparse covering of grass; it rushes into the ravine and ravages its two sides. The trailing wisps of white foam round the black points of countless rocks that everywhere pierce the waves, look like rags of canvas floating and heaving on the surface of the water.

The widow Saverini's house held for dear life to the very edge of the cliff; its three windows looked out over this wild and desolate scene.

She lived there alone with her son Antoine and their bitch Semillante, a large, thin animal with long, shaggy hair, of the sheep-dog breed. The young man used her for hunting.

One evening, after a quarrel, Antoine Saverini was treacherously slain by a knife-thrust from Nicolas Ravolati, who got away to Sardinia the same night. 

When his old mother received his body, carried home by bystanders, she did not weep, but for a long time stayed motionless, looking at it; then, stretching out her wrinkled hand over the body, she swore vendetta against him. She would have no one stay with her, and shut herself up with the body, together with the howling dog. The animal howled continuously, standing at the foot of the bed, her head thrust towards her master, her tail held tightly between her legs. She did not stir, nor did the mother, who crouched over the body with her eyes fixed steadily upon it, and wept great silent tears.

The young man, lying on his back, clad in his thick serge coat with a hole torn across the front, looked as though he slept; but everywhere there was blood; on the shirt, torn off for the first hasty dressing; on his waistcoat, on his breeches, on his face, on his hands. Clots of blood had congealed in his beard and in his hair. 

The old mother began to speak to him. At the sound of her voice the dog was silent.
"There, there, you shall be avenged, my little one, my boy, my poor child. Sleep, sleep, you shall be avenged, do you hear! Your mother swears it! And your mother always keeps her word; you know she does."
Slowly she bent over him, pressing her cold lips on the dead lips. 

Then Semillante began to howl once more. She uttered long cries, monotonous, heart-rending, horrible cries.
They remained there, the pair of them, the woman and the dog, till morning. 

Antoine Saverini was buried next day, and before long there was no more talk of him in Bonifacio.
He had left neither brothers nor close cousins. No man was there to carry on the vendetta. Only his mother, an old woman, brooded over it. 

On the other side of the channel she watched from morning till night a white speck on the coast. It was a little Sardinian village, Longosardo, where Corsican bandits fled for refuge when too hard pressed. They formed almost the entire population of this hamlet, facing the shores of their own country, and there they awaited a suitable moment to come home, to return to the maquis of Corsica. She knew that Nicolas Ravolati had taken refuge in this very village.

All alone, all day long, sitting by the window, she looked over there and pondered revenge. How could she do it without another's help, so feeble as she was, so near to death? But she had promised, she had sworn upon the body. She could not forget, she could not wait. What was she to do? She could no longer sleep at night, she had no more sleep nor peace; obstinately she searched for a way. The dog slumbered at her feet and sometimes, raising her head, howled into the empty spaces. Since her master had gone, she often howled thus, as though she were calling him, as though her animal soul, inconsolable, had retained an ineffaceable memory of him. 

One night, as Semillante was beginning to moan again, the mother had a sudden idea, an idea quite natural to a vindictive and ferocious savage. She meditated on it till morning, then, rising at the approach of day, she went to church. She prayed, kneeling on the stones, prostrate before God, begging Him to aid her, to sustain her, to grant her poor worn-out body the strength necessary to avenge her son. 

Then she returned home. There stood in the yard an old barrel with its sides stove in, which held the rain-water; she overturned it, emptied it, and fixed it to the ground with stakes and stones; then she chained up Semillante in this kennel, and went into the house. 

Next she began to walk up and down her room, taking no rest, her eyes still turned to the coast of Sardinia. He was there, the murderer. 

All day long and all night long the dog howled. In the morning the old woman took her some water in a bowl, but nothing else; no soup, no bread. 

Another day went by. Semillante, exhausted, was asleep. Next day her eyes were shining, her hair on end, and she tugged desperately at the chain. Again the old woman gave her nothing to eat. The animal, mad with hunger, barked hoarsely. Another night went by.

When day broke, Mother Saverini went to her neighbour to ask him to give her two trusses of straw. She took the old clothes her husband had worn and stuffed them with the straw into the likeness of a human figure. Having planted a post in the ground opposite Semillante's kennel, she tied the dummy figure to it, which looked now as though it were standing. Then she fashioned a head with a roll of old linen.The dog, surprised, looked at this straw man, and was silent, although devoured with hunger. Then the woman went to the pork-butcher and bought a long piece of black pudding.

She returned home, lit a wood fire in her yard, close to the kennel, and grilled the black pudding. Semillante, maddened, leapt about and foamed at the mouth, her eyes fixed on the food, the flavour of which penetrated to her very stomach. Then with the smoking sausage the mother made a collar for the straw man. She spent a long time lashing it round his neck, as though to stuff it right in. When it was done, she unchained the dog. With a tremendous bound the animal leapt upon the dummy's throat and with her paws on his shoulders began to rend it. She fell back with a piece of the prey in her mouth, then dashed at it again, sank her teeth into the cords, tore away a few fragments of food, fell back again, and leapt once more, ravenous.

With great bites she rent away the face, and tore the whole neck to shreds.
The old woman watched, motionless and silent, a gleam in her eyes. Then she chained up her dog again, made her go without food for two more days, and repeated the strange performance.
For three months she trained the dog to this struggle, the conquest of a meal by fangs. She no longer chained her up, but launched her upon the dummy with a sign.

She had taught the dog to rend and devour it without hiding food in its throat. Afterwards she would reward the dog with the gift of the black pudding she had cooked for her.
As soon as she saw the man, Semillante would tremble, then turn her eyes towards her mistress, who would cry "Off!" in a whistling tone, raising her finger.

When she judged that the time was come, Mother Saverini went to confession and took communion one Sunday morning with an ecstatic fervour; then, putting on a man's clothes, like an old ragged beggar, she bargained with a Sardinian fisherman, who took her, accompanied by the dog, to the other side of the straits.
In a canvas bag she had a large piece of black pudding. Semillante had had nothing to eat for two days. 

Every minute the old woman made her smell the savoury food, stimulating her hunger with it.
They came to Longosardo. The Corsican woman was limping slightly. She went to the baker's and inquired for Nicolas Ravolati's house. He had resumed his old occupation, that of a joiner. He was working alone at the back of his shop. 

The old woman pushed open the door and called him: 

"Hey! Nicolas!" He turned round; then, letting go of her dog, she cried: 

"Off, off, bite him, bite him!" 

The maddened beast dashed forward and seized his throat.
The man put out his arms, clasped the dog, and rolled upon the ground. For a few minutes he writhed, beating the ground with his feet; then he remained motionless while Semillante nuzzled at his throat and tore it out in ribbons. 

Two neighbours, sitting at their doors, plainly recollected having seen a poor old man come out with a lean black dog which ate, as it walked, something brown that its master was giving to it.
In the evening the old woman returned home. That night she slept well.

MAN FROM THE SOUTH

By: Ronald Dahl

It was getting on toward six o’clock so I thought I’d buy myself a beer and go out and sit in a deck chair by the swimming pool and have a little evening sun.

I went to the bar and got the beer and carried it outside and wandered down the garden toward the pool.

It was a fine garden with lawns and beds of azaleas and tall coconut palms, and the wind was blowing strongly through the tops of the palm trees making the leaves hiss and crackle as though they were on fire.  I could see the clusters of big brown nuts handing down underneath the leaves.

There were plenty of deck chairs around the swimming pool and there were white tables and huge brightly colored umbrellas and sunburned men and women sitting around in bathing suits.  In the pool itself there were three or four girls and about a dozen boys, all splashing about and making a lot of noise and throwing a large rubber ball at one another.

I stood watching them.  The girls were English girls from the hotel.  The boys I didn’t know about, but they sounded American and I thought they were probably naval cadets who’d come ashore from the U.S. naval training vessel which had arrived in the harbor that morning.

I went over and sat down under a yellow umbrella where there were four empty seats, and I poured my beer and settled back comfortably with a cigarette. It was very pleasant sitting there in the sunshine with beer and a cigarette.  It was pleasant to sit and watch the bathers splashing about in the green water.

The American sailors were getting on nicely with the English girls.  They’d reached the stage where they were diving under the water and tipping them up by their legs. Just then I noticed a small, oldish man walking briskly around the edge of the pool.  He was immaculately dressed in a white suit and he walked very quickly with little bouncing strides, pushing himself high up onto his toes with each step.  He had on a large creamy Panama hat, and he came bouncing along the side of the pool, looking at the people and the chairs. He stopped beside me and smiled, showing two rows of very small, uneven teeth, slightly tarnished.  I smiled back.

“Excuse pleess, but may I sit here?”

“Certainly,” I said.  “Go ahead.”

He bobbed around to the back of the chair and inspected it for safety, then he sat down and crossed his legs.  His white buckskin shows had little holes punched all over them for ventilation.

“A fine evening,” he said.  “They are all evenings fine here in Jamaica.”  I couldn’t tell if the accent were Italian or Spanish, but I felt fairly sure he was some sort of a South American.  And old too, when you saw him close.  Probably around sixty-eight or seventy.

“Yes,” I said.  “It is wonderful here, isn’t it.”

“And who, might I ask are all dese?  Dese is no hotel people.”  He was pointing at the bathers in the pool.

“I think they’re American sailors,” I told him.  “They’re Americans who are learning to be sailors.”

“Of course dey are Americans.  Who else in de world is going to make as much noise as dat?  You are not American, no?”

“No,” I said.  “I am not.”

Suddenly one of the American cadets was standing in front of us.  He was dripping wet from the pool and one of the English girls was standing there with him.

“Are these chairs taken?” he said.

“No,” I answered.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” he said.  He had a towel in his hand and when he sat down he unrolled it and produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.  He offered the cigarettes to the girl and she refused; then he offered them to me and I took one.  The little man said, “Tank you, no, but I tink I have a cigar.”  He pulled out a crocodile case and got himself a cigar, then he produced a knife which had a small scissors in it and he snipped the end off the cigar.

“Here, let me give you a light.”  The American boy held up his lighter.

“Dat will not work in dis wind.”

“Sure, it’ll work.  It always works.”              

The little man removed his unlighted cigar from his mouth, cocked his head on one side and looked at the boy.

“All-ways?” he said softly.

“Sure, it never fails.  Not with me anyway.”

The little man’s head was still cocked over on one side and he was still watching the boy.  “Well, well.  So you say dis famous lighter it never fails.  Iss dat you say?”

“Sure,” the boy said.  “That’s right.”  He was about nineteen or twenty with a long freckled face and a rather sharp birdlike nose.  His chest was not very sunburned and there were freckles there too, and a few wisps of pale-reddish hair.  He was holding the lighter in his right hand, ready to flip the wheel.  “It never fails,” he said, smiling now because he was purposely exaggerating his little boast.  “I promise you it never fails.”

“One momint, pleess.”  The hand that held the cigar came up high, palm outward, as though it were stopping traffic.  “Now juss one momint.”  He had a curiously soft, toneless voice and he kept looking at the boy all the time.

“Shall we not perhaps make a little bet on dat?”  He smiled at the boy.  “Shall we not make a little bet on whether your lighter lights?”

“Sure, I’ll bet,” the boy said.  “Why not?”

“You like to bet?”

“Sure, I’ll always bet.”

The man paused and examined his cigar, and I must say I didn’t much like the way he was behaving.  It seemed he was already trying to make something out of this, and to embarrass the boy, and at the same time I had the feeling he was relishing a private little secret all his own.

He looked up again at the boy and said slowly, “I like to bet, too.  Why we don’t have a good bet on dis ting?  A good big bet?

“Now wait a minute,” the boy said.  “I can’t do that.  But I’ll bet you a dollar, or whatever it is over here-some shillings, I guess.”

The little man waved his hand again.  “Listen to me.  Now we have some fun.  We make a bet.  Den we go up to my room here in de hotel where iss no wind and I bet you you cannot light dis famous lighter of yours ten times running without missing once.”

“I’ll bet I can,” the boy said.

“All right.  Good.  We make a bet, yes?”

“Sure.  I’ll bet you a buck.”

“No, no.  I make you very good bet.  I am rich man and I am sporting man also.  Listen to me.  Outside de hotel iss my car.  Iss very fine car.  American car from your country.  Cadillac-”

“Hey, now.  Wait a minute.”  The boy leaned back in his deck chair and he laughed.  “I can’t put up that sort of property.  This is crazy.”

“Not crazy at all.  You strike lighter successfully ten times running and Cadillac is yours.  You like to have dis Cadillac, yes?”

“Sure, I’d like to have a Cadillac.”  The boy was still grinning.

“All right.  Fine.  We make a bet and I put up my Cadillac.”

“And what do I put up?”

“The little man carefully removed the red band from his still unlighted cigar.  “I never ask you, my friend, to bet something you cannot afford.  You understand?”

“Then what do I bet?”

“I make it very easy for you, yes?”

“Okay.  You make it easy.”

“Some small ting you can afford to give away, and if you did happen to lose it you would not feel too bad.  Right?”

“Such as what?”

“Such as, perhaps, de little finger of your left hand.”

“My what!  The boy stopped grinning.

“Yes.  Why not?  You win, you take de car.  You looss, I take de finger.”

“I don’t get it.  How d’you mean, you take the finger?”

“I chop it off.”

“Jumping jeepers!  That’s a crazy bet.  I think I’ll just make it a dollar.”

The man leaned back, spread out his hands palms upward and gave a tiny contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.  “Well, well, well,” he said.  “I do not understand.  You say it lights but you will not bet.  Den we forget it, yes?”

The boy sat quite still, staring at the bathers in the pool.  Then he remembered suddenly he hadn’t lighted his cigarette.  He put it between his lips, cupped his hands around the lighter and flipped the wheel.  The wick lighted and burned with a small, steady, yellow flame and the way he held his hands the wind didn’t get to it at all.

“Could I have a light, too?” I said.

“Gee, I’m sorry.  I forgot you didn’t have one.”

I held out my hand for the lighter, but he stood up and came over to do it for me.

“Thank you,” I said, and he returned to his seat.

“You having a good time?” I asked.

“Fine,” he answered.  “It’s pretty nice here.”

There was a silence then, and I could see that the little man has succeeded in disturbing the boy with his absurd proposal.  He was sitting there very still, and it was obvious that a small tension was beginning to build up inside him.  Then he started shifting about in his seat, and rubbing his chest, and stroking the back of his neck, and finally he placed both hands on his knees and began tapping his fingers against his knee-caps.  Soon he was tapping with one of his feet as well.

“Now just let me check up on this bet of yours,” he said at last.  “You say we go up to your room and if I make this lighter light ten times running I win a Cadillac.  If it misses just once then I forfeit the little finger of my left hand.  Is that right?”

“Certainly.  Dat is de bet.  But I tink you are afraid.”

“What do we do if I lose?  Do I have to hold my finger out while you chop it off?”

“Oh, no!  Dat would be no good.  And you might be tempted to refuse to hold it out.  What I should do I should tie one of your hands to de table before we started and I should stand dere with a knife ready to go chop de momint your lighter missed.”

“What year is the Cadillac?” the boy asked.

“Excuse.  I not understand.”

“What year-how old is the Cadillac?”

“Ah!  How old?  Yes.  It is last year.  Quite now car.  But I see you are not betting man.  Americans never are.”

The boy paused for just a moment and he glanced first at the English girl, then at me.  “Yes,” he said sharply.  “I’ll bet you.”

“Good!” The little man clapped his hands together quietly, once.  “Fine,” he said.  “We do it now.  And you, sir,” he turned to me, “you would perhaps be good enough to, what you call it, to-to referee.”  He had pale, almost colorless eyes with tiny bright black pupils.

“Well,” I said.  “I think it’s a crazy bet.  I don’t think I like it very much.”

“Nor do I,” said the English girl.  It was the first time she’d spoken.  “I think it’s a stupid, ridiculous bet.”

“Are you serious about cutting off this boy’s finger if he loses?” I said.                  

“Certainly I am.  Also about cutting off this boy’s finger if he loses?” I said.

“Certainly I am.  Also about giving him Cadillac if he win.  Come now.  We go to my room.”

He stood up.  “You like to put on some clothes first?” he said.

“No,” the boy answered.  “I’ll come like this.”  Then he turned to me.  “I’d consider it a favor if you’d come along and referee.”

“All right,” I said.  “I’ll come along, but I don’t like the bet.”

“You come too,” he said to the girl.  “You come and watch.

The little man led the way back through the garden to the hotel.  He was animated now, and excited, and that seemed to make him bounce up higher than ever on his toes as he walked along.

“I live in annex,” he said.  “You like to see car first?  Iss just here.”

He took us to where we could see the front driveway of the hotel and he stopped and pointed to a sleek pale-green Cadillac parked close by.

“Dere she iss.  De green one.  You like?”

“Say, that’s a nice car,” the boy said.

“All right.  Now we go up and see if you can win her.”                   

We followed him into the annex and up one flight of stairs.  He unlocked his door and we all trooped into what was a large pleasant double bedroom.  There was a woman’s dressing gown lying across the bottom of one of the beds.

“First,” he said, “we’ave a little Martini.”

The drinks were on a small table in the far corner, all ready to be mixed, and there was a shaker and ice and plenty of glasses. He began to make the Martini, but meanwhile he’d rung the bell and now there was a knock on the door and a colored maid came in.

“Ah!” he said, putting down the bottle of gin, taking a wallet from his pocket and pulling out a pound note.  “You will do something for me now, pleess.”  He gave the maid the pound.

“You keep dat,” he said.  “And now we are going to play a little game in here and I want you to go off and find for me two-no three tings.  I want some nails; I want a hammer, and I want a chopping knife, a butcher’s chipping knife which you can borrow from de kitchen.  You can get, yes?”

“A chopping knife!” The maid opened her eyes wide and clasped her hands in front of her.  “You mean a real chopping knife?”

“Yes, yes, of course.  Come on now, pleess.  You can find dose tings surely for me.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try, sir.  Surely I’ll try to get them.”  And she went.

The little man handed round the Martinis.  We stood there and sipped them, the boy with the long freckled face and the pointed nose, bare-bodied except for a pair of faded brown bathing shorts; the English girl, a large-boned, fair-haired girl wearing a pale blue bathing suit, who watched the boy over the top of her glass all the time; the little man with the colorless eyes standing there in his immaculate white suit drinking his Martini and looking at the girl in her pale blue bathing dress.  I didn’t know what to make of it all.  The man seemed serious about the bet and he seemed serious about the business of cutting off the finger.  But hell, what if the boy lost?  Then we’d have to rush him to the hospital in the Cadillac that he hadn’t won.  That would be a fine thing.  Now wouldn’t that be a really find thing?  It would be a damn silly unnecessary thing so far as I could see.

“Don’t you think this is rather a silly bet?” I said.

“I think it’s a fine bet,” the boy answered.  He had already downed one large Martini.

“I think it’s a stupid, ridiculous bet,” the girl said.  “What’ll happen if you lose?”

“It won’t matter.  Come to think of it, I can’t remember ever in my life having had any use for the little finger on my left hand. Here he is.”  The boy took hold of the finger.  “Here he is and he hasn’t ever done a thing for me yet.  So why shouldn’t I bet him.  I think it’s a fine bet.”

The little man smiled and picked up the shaker and refilled our glasses.

“Before we begin,” he said, “I will present to de-to de referee de key of de car.”  He produced a car key from his pocket and gave it to me.  “De papers,” he said, “de owning papers and insurance are in de pocket of de car.”

Then the colored maid came in again.  In one hand she carried a small chopper, the kind used by butchers for chopping meat bones, and in the other a hammer and a bag of nails.

“Good!  You get dem all.  Tank you, tank you.  Now you can go.”  He waited until the maid had closed the door, then he put the implements on one of the beds and said, “Now we prepare ourselves, yes?”  And to the boy “Help me, pleess, with dis table.  We carry it out a little.”

It was the usual kind of hotel writing desk, just a plain rectangular table about four feet by three with a blotting pad, ink, pens and paper.  They carried it out into the room away from the wall, and removed the writing things.

“And now,” he said, “a chair.”  He picked up a chair and placed it beside the table.  He was very brisk and very animated, like a person organizing games at a children’s party.  “And now de nails.  I must put in de nails.”  He fetched the nails and he began to hammer them into the top of the table.

We stood there, the boy, the girl, and I, holding Martinis in out hands, watching the little man at work.  We watched him hammer two nails into the table, about six inches apart.  He didn’t hammer them right home; he allowed a small part of each one to stick up.  Then he tested them for firmness with his fingers.

Anyone would think the son of a bitch had done this before, I told myself.  He never hesitates.  Table, nails, hammer, kitchen chopper.  He knows exactly what he needs and how to arrange it.

“And now,” he said, “all we want is some string.”  He found some string.  “All right, at last we are ready.  Will you pleess to sit here at de table,” he said to the boy.

The boy put his glass away and sat down.

“Now place de left hand between dese two nails.  De nails are only so I can tie your hand in place.  All right, good.  Now I tie your hand secure to de table-so,”

He wound the string around the boy’s wrist, then several times around the wide part of the hand, then he fastened it tight to the nails.  He made a good job of it and when he’d finished there wasn’t any question about the boy being able to draw his hand away. But he could move his fingers.

“Now pleess, clench de fist, all except for de little finger.  You must leave de little finger sticking out, lying on de table.”

“Ex-cellent!  Ex-cellent!  Now we are ready.  Wid your right hand you manipulate de lighter.  But one momint, pleess.”

He skipped over to the bed and picked up the chopper.  He came back and stood beside the table with the chopper in his hand.

“We are all ready?” he said.  “Mister referee, you must say to begin.”

The English girl was standing there in her pale blue bathing costume right behind the boy’s chair.  She was just standing there, not saying anything.  The boy was sitting quite still, holding the lighter in his right hand, looking at the chopper.  The little man was looking at me.

“Are you ready?” I asked the boy.

“I’m ready.”

“And you?” to the little man.

“Quite ready,” he said and he lifted the chopper up in the air and held it there about two feet above the boy’s finger, ready to chop.  The boy watched it, but he didn’t flinch and his mouth didn’t move at all.  He merely raised his eyebrows and frowned.

“All right,” I said.  “Go ahead.”

The boy said, “Will you please count aloud the number of times I light it.”

“Yes,” I said.  “I’ll do that.”

With his thumb he raised the top of the lighter, and again with the thumb he gave the wheel a sharp flick.  The flint sparked and the wick caught fire and burned with a small yellow flame.

“One!” I called.

He didn’t blow the flame out; he closed the top of the lighter on it and he waited for perhaps five seconds before opening it again.

He flicked the wheel very strongly and once more there was a small flame burning on the wick.

“Two!”

No one else said anything.  The boy kept his eyes on the lighter.  The little man held the chipper up in the air and he too was watching the lighter.

“Three!”

“Four!”

“Five!”

“Six!”

“Seven!” Obviously it was one of those lighters that worked.  The fling gave a big spark and the wick was the right length.  I watched the thumb snapping the top down onto the flame.  Then a pause.  Then the thumb raising the top once more.  This was an all-thumb operation.  The thumb did everything.  I took a breath, ready to say eight.  The thumb flicked the wheel.  The flint sparked.  The little flame appeared.

“Eight!” I said, and as I said it the door opened.  We all turned and we saw a woman standing in the doorway, a small, black-haired woman, rather old, who stood there for about two seconds then rushed forward shouting, “Carlos!  Carlos!”  She grabbed his wrist, took the chopper from him, threw it on the bed, took hold of the little man by the lapels of his white suit and began shaking him very vigorously, talking to him fast and loud and fiercely all the time in some Spanish-sounding language.  She shook him so fast you couldn’t see him any more.  He became a faint, misty, quickly moving outline, like the spokes of a turning wheel.

Then she slowed down and the little man came into view again and she hauled him across the room and pushed him backward onto one of the beds.  He sat on the edge of it blinking his eyes and testing his head to see if it would still turn on his neck.

“I am so sorry,” the woman said.  “I am so terribly sorry that this should happen.”  She spoke almost perfect English.

“It is too bad,” she went on.  “I suppose it is really my fault.  For ten minutes I leave him alone to go and have my hair washed and I come back and he is at it again.”  She looked sorry and deeply concerned.

The boy was untying his hand from the table.  The English girl and I stood there and said nothing.

“He is a menace,” the woman said.  “Down where we live at home he has taken altogether forty-seven fingers from different people, and he has lost eleven cars.  In the end they threatened to have him put away somewhere.  That’s why I brought him up here.”

“We were only having a little bet,” mumbled the little man from the bed.

“I suppose he bet you a car,” the woman said.

“Yes,” the boy answered.  “A Cadillac.”

“He has no car.  It’s mine.  And that makes it worse,” she said, “that he should bet you when he has nothing to bet with.  I am ashamed and very sorry about it all.”  She seemed an awfully nice woman.

“Well,” I said, “then here’s the key of your car.”  I put it on the table.

“We were only having a little bet,” mumbled the little man.

“He hasn’t anything left to bet with,” the woman said.  “He hasn’t a thing in the world.  Not a thing.  As a matter of fact I myself won it all from him a long while ago.  It took time, a lot of time, and it was hard work, but I won it all in the end.”  She looked up at the boy and she smiled, a slow sad smile, and she came over and put out a hand to take the key from the table.
I can see it now, that hand of hers; it had only one finger on it, and a thumb.

 

man from the south