Gobi Desert

Pierre Benoit

Description

This is a highly unusual adventure story describing a hunting expedition in search of a legendary snow tiger in the Gobi Desert of Mongolia and north-east China in 1926. Originally published in French in 1941, it has now been translated into English for the first time. The story is full of local colour and dramatic descriptions of the bleak and desolate landscape of the Gobi Desert. An atmosphere of menace and dread is built up as the hunting party, after many days spent traversing the terrifying and pitiless wilderness, approaches its quarry. As well as seeking a vast reward from an Australian zoo for the capture of the tiger, the two principal characters - Michel Rodianko, a world-weary ex-lieutenant in the former Russian imperial army, and Jack Sanders, a rough Australian adventurer and big-game hunter - are both intent on winning the love of an exotic and beautiful night-club dancer named Alzire, who is waiting for the return of the party with its trophy. In a highly-charged sub-plot, the fraught and triangular relationship between Alzire, Sanders and Rodianko, and the obsessive conflict between Sanders and Rodianko as to who will claim Alzire, are explored in compelling detail. The story ends in a violent and terrible conclusion.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure fiction
• Adventure

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 octobre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785894565
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE GOBI DESERT
by Pierre Benoit
Translated from the French by Robert Wight

Copyright © 2015 Pierre Benoit
Translated by Robert Wight
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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Contents

Cover


The Gobi Desert


I


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The Gobi Desert
Pierre Benoit
Pierre Benoit was born in Albi in southern France in 1886.
He lived in Algeria and Tunisia until 1907, before studying in Montpellier, and moving to Paris in 1910. His first two novels, Koenigsmark and L’Atlantide, published in 1917 and 1919, won him an enormous readership. In total Pierre Benoit wrote almost 50 novels.
He was elected to the Academie francaise in 1931, and died at Cibourne in France in 1962.
*
Translated from the French by Robert Wight
*
The Gobi, the terrifying desert, devouring men and herds of animals, with its confusion of ravines, steep slopes, and precipices: a dreadful labyrinth, in turn burning and frozen, where men and beasts turn and turn without escape . . .
In this hell, swept by pitiless tornados, two adventurers, Sanders and Rodianko, are hunting for Kublai, the giant snow tiger . . . . But each one of them is secretly pursuing the conquest of the dancer Alzire. Will Alzire belong to the one who brings back the mythical creature?
I

Is there anything more annoying than seeing a ship preparing to set sail when you don’t have the ready money in your pocket to get on board, and nor are you likely to get the money anyway? The ship in question was not concerned about that. Its name was Bendigo, a curious name, don’t you think? The flag at its stern was so covered in coal dust that you had to look hard to make out its nationality.
The dockyard at Fouzan wasn’t very pretty that morning either. It had been snowing, of course, and normally snow is cheerful. Yes, but rain had started to fall almost immediately on that particular snow, transforming it into a sort of mushy soot. You couldn’t help shivering as you made your way along those quaysides, which were mercilessly beaten by a pale greenish backwash from all the passing ships . And to complete the joyful experience for your soul, here and there, from all sides there disappeared and then loomed up again the reassuring silhouettes of myriads of little Japanese policemen.
Fouzan, at the southern tip of Korea, is the terminus of the country’s railway line. The connection with Japan is provided by a flotilla of steamships which in a few hours make the crossing to Simonosaki. Precisely at that moment the mail ship sailed majestically into port. It passed in front of the old Bendigo with the scorn that a pedigree greyhound might have for some poor dog from the muddy backstreets.
I wasn’t paying pay much attention to these matters. There was nothing of any interest for me, in the somewhat awkward situation in which I found myself. An ugly worn-out old suit, a pair of shoes which were letting in water, a stomach and a wallet which were both equally just about empty, all of which would prevent anyone from looking to the future through rose-coloured spectacles, don’t you think? I should add that all of this would have been of no importance if something, something dear and slim by the name of Alzire, was not just then waiting for me at the house, in a mood which I preferred not to think about.
I had left her early that morning, promising her, and myself as well, that I would be back before midday, having got everything together which we needed to get us both out of trouble. I had about one hour left to keep my promise. It would be too bad for me if I didn’t manage to do so. I knew Alzire well enough, and I knew all right what would undoubtedly happen.
*
‘Well, there are some people who you wonder what on earth they could be good for!’ I jumped. This exclamation corresponded exactly with what I was thinking just then about myself. But that was no reason for the first clown to disembark from the ship to think he could just say what he liked on the subject. Besides which, I should at least make sure it was me who he was talking about.
‘Who might you be talking about, my dear sir?’ I enquired politely.
‘Who do you think I’m talking about if not yourself, you layabout?’
I looked at this individual who had taken upon himself the right to speak to me in such a manner. He was tall and sharply dressed. I’m not what you might call a weakling, and it wasn’t his shoulders, as wide as a wardrobe, or the revolver which he carried prominently in a leather belt, which in ordinary times would have been enough to impress me. But these were not exactly ordinary times. And my time was too valuable on that particular morning to waste it in silly quarrels. But on the other hand – why not just tell the truth? – I had a sudden intuition that the character who had taken the liberty to walk into my life in such a discourteous manner was perfectly capable of helping me to overcome the unfortunate set of circumstances which Alzire and I were trying to get away from.
He was a strapping fellow, with an appearance that was genuinely sympathetic, and in any other circumstances I would have felt a real pleasure in shaking him by the hand. Imagine a huge man with ginger eyebrows and sideboards, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. Instinctively, instantly, I felt that particular type of inclination towards him that an Englishman might have for any self-respecting Russian. Perhaps he was English himself! Or rather a Yank, or a South African, or, even better, an Australian, yes that must be it, some wool merchant from Brisbane. I wasn’t entirely wrong, as will become clear from the following idiotic conversation.
‘Layabout? What makes you think I’m a layabout?’ I asked, without losing my composure.
He shrugged his shoulders scornfully. ‘What makes me think that?’ he said. ‘Such a gentleman, dressed up in his Sunday best as you are, is not going to convince me that he wouldn’t want to take advantage of an opportunity being offered to him to earn a few dollars.’
He spat on the ground in the most disgusting manner.
‘I have no need of your dollars’, I replied equably. ‘However, if you wish to pursue any further a conversation which you have initiated, don’t you think it would be more suitable to begin by introducing ourselves?’
I bowed slightly.
‘Count Michel Rodianko, ex-lieutenant in the former imperial Russian army,’ I said. ‘And now I should like to ask you a question, after you have introduced yourself, of course’.
‘I shall perhaps allow myself to accept some conditions from a scruffy type like you,’ he growled, a bit put out. ‘But I don’t see that when I’ve told you that my name is Sanders, Jack Sanders, how you will be any better off, young lad.’
‘Everyone is free to have his own opinions,’ I replied calmly. ‘So, my dear Mr Sanders, let’s come to my question. A moment ago you offered me a few dollars. I presume it would be in return for me giving a helping hand to these good fellows here who seem to be having great difficulty in their work?’
He sniggered. ‘That’s just it, Mr Lieutenant. But however much Mr Lieutenant insists he has no need of money, I notice that even so Mr Lieutenant hasn’t quite understood.’
Not understood? I would have to have been devoid of any sense of observation not to have understood. For almost a quarter of an hour I had been witnessing the scene below. Imagine if you can on the quay, on the port side of the Bendigo, five wretched Korean coolies, the least skilful and the most undernourished specimens in the world. Despite the curses from Sanders, these poor devils were completely incapable of slipping a double noose of chains under an enormous crate, big enough to contain half a dozen pianos lined up in a row. No doubt some aeroplane was being transported. From the ship’s gangway, the European mechanic and the dock workers entrusted with this manoeuvre looked down at this performance, waiting patiently and philosophically for the moment for them to operate the steam-powered crane.
‘What a mess!’ said Sanders through gritted teeth, as the fourth attempt by the poor wretches failed. ‘Yes, it’s a real mess!’
Once again he spat a disgusting jet of saliva.
‘It’s not entirely the fault of your coolies’, I said amiably. ‘I think they would ask for nothing more than reinforcements from someone far more intelligent than themselves, and who would take on the supervision of the job. From the remarks which we have had the honour of exchanging, I think this is the role, isn’t it, which you would like me to accept?’
‘I admire the perspicacity of His Excellency the count’, he replied, with considerably less insolence than before.
‘Very good! Then let me ask you a second question, the last, I promise. It will cost a lot of dollars for the time required. Why not therefore economise, if only for half the amount, and pi