The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More(3)

        ‘Is that true?’ one of the women asked the fisherman. ‘Would he snap off a person’s hand?’

        ‘He would right now,’ the fisherman said, smiling with brilliant white teeth. ‘He won’t ever hurt you when he’s in the ocean, but you catch him and pull him ashore and tip him up like this, then man alive, you’d better watch out! He’ll snap at anything that comes in reach!’

        ‘I guess I’d get a bit snappish myself,’ the woman said, ‘if I was in his situation.’

        One idiotic man had found a plank of driftwood on the sand, and he was carrying it towards the turtle. It was a fair-sized plank, about five feet long and maybe an inch thick. He started poking one end of it at the turtle’s head.

        ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ the fisherman said. ‘You’ll only make him madder than ever.’

        When the end of the plank touched the turtle’s neck, the great head whipped round and the mouth opened wide and snap, it took the plank in its mouth and bit through it as if it were made of cheese.

        ‘Wow!’ they shouted. ‘Did you see that! I’m glad it wasn’t my arm!’

        ‘Leave him alone,’ the fisherman said. ‘It don’t help to get him all stirred up.’

        A paunchy man with wide hips and very short legs came up to the fisherman and said, ‘Listen, feller. I want that shell. I’ll buy it from you.’ And to his plump wife, he said, ‘You know what I’m going to do, Mildred? I’m going to take that shell home and have it polished up by an expert. Then I’m going to place it smack in the centre of our living-room! Won’t that be something?’

        ‘Fantastic,’ the plump wife said. ‘Go ahead and buy it, baby.’

        ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s mine already.’ And to the fisherman, he said, ‘How much for the shell?’

        ‘I already sold him,’ the fisherman said. ‘I sold him shell and all.’

        ‘Not so fast, feller,’ the paunchy man said. ‘I’ll bid you higher. Come on. What’d he offer you?’

        ‘No can do,’ the fisherman said. ‘I already sold him.’

        ‘Who to?’ the paunchy man said.

        ‘To the manager.’

        ‘What manager?’

        ‘The manager of the hotel.’

        ‘Did you hear that?’ shouted another man. ‘He’s sold it to the manager of our hotel! And you know what that means? It means turtle soup, that’s what it means!’

        ‘Right you are! And turtle steak! You ever have a turtle steak, Bill?’

        ‘I never have, Jack. But I can’t wait.’

        ‘A turtle steak’s better than a beefsteak if you cook it right. It’s more tender and it’s got one heck of a flavour.’

        ‘Listen,’ the paunchy man said to the fisherman. ‘I’m not trying to buy the meat. The manager can have the meat. He can have everything that’s inside including the teeth and toenails. All I want is the shell.’

        ‘And if I know you, baby,’ his wife said, beaming at him, ‘you’re going to get the shell.’

        I stood there listening to the conversation of these human beings. They were discussing the destruction, the consumption and the flavour of a creature who seemed, even when upside down, to be extraordinarily dignified. One thing was certain. He was senior to any of them in age. For probably one hundred and fifty years he had been cruising in the green waters of the West Indies. He was there when George Washington was President of the United States and Napoleon was being clobbered at Waterloo. He would have been a small turtle then, but he was most certainly there.

        And now he was here, upside down on the beach, waiting to be sacrificed for soup and steak. He was clearly alarmed by all the noise and the shouting around him. His old wrinkled neck was straining out of its shell, and the great head was twisting this way and that as though searching for someone who would explain the reason for all this ill-treatment.