The Devil's Garden Read Online Free

more about the Judge’s work and turn the conversation back on them.
    ‘Everyone. We are registering everyone.’ He was annoyed to have been distracted from looking at Sole’s legs. ‘Outlaws, smugglers, gun-runners, rat-eaters,
monkey-fiddlers. If it shows up alive . . . we register it.’
    ‘Surely they need some kind of proof of identity?’ I was not so naive as to believe this, but because of my continued irritation with Cordero, I was determined to be affable with the
Judge. ‘Otherwise anyone could turn up and there would be no record for next time and the whole electoral register would become—’
    ‘A farce.’ The Judge interrupted me. ‘A protracted farce. Like so much.’ He paused to upend his remaining wine directly into his throat before setting down the stem of
the glass with exaggerated care. ‘Look, most of the people we register are barely human. So how can they have an address? An address . . . An address requires a sense of time and place, a
sense of the world beyond. These creatures crawl out of the forest and stand there smelling of sweat and faeces until the soldiers frighten them away. First they come for the knives, then for the
free drink, then for the televisions.’
    ‘I think what you are doing is worthwhile.’ Kim spoke to him directly for the first time since we had sat down. ‘Those that want to have a say are getting that chance. We
should let them know about their rights and what those rights mean. It’s all about giving them an understanding of their situation, their choices.’
    I tightened. This earnestness was not her true nature and evinced itself when she felt shy.
    She sat forward. ‘We should be helping them understand the processes of land registration and the reservations and everything. We owe . . . we owe the indigenous peoples that
much.’
    ‘They, the indigenous peoples’ – the Judge returned the word as though throwing back an undersized fish – ‘are not the slightest bit interested in
registration, or voting, or the sham of their so-called rights.’ He fingered a cigarette from his case, his pale eyes unreadable and unwavering. ‘This entire question is an
embarrassment to all who concern themselves with it. The map claims the Indians live on a reservation and yet they have not the slightest idea that any such place is reserved for them. They
don’t know what reservation means. Who decided this? Not them. They were simply existing. Now their men beg for alcohol and pornography while the women sell themselves for mirrors and
cosmetics. What does that tell us about Homo sapiens ?’
    Kim’s brow needled. ‘Well, I’m not an anthropologist or a campaigner but I believe that people have the right to choose their own . . . destiny.’
    The Judge’s match flared as he spoke. ‘Miss Van der Kisten, we hear a lot of this kind of talk in our country. And so we ask ourselves, why do you people come to the jungle?’
He raised his jaw and exhaled towards the sky. His voice had an incantatory quality so that his words seemed to range out into the blackness of the night beyond and to echo on into the silence.
‘Let me tell you. Always, always, it is for one of two reasons: either to find the green hell and to see some kind of a freak show; or to find a green heaven and so rediscover some ancient
truth that you pretend to yourself humanity has lost but that in reality has everything to do with your own feelings of emptiness and worthlessness and nothing whatsoever to do with the Indians or
their lives. And what happens the moment your own way of life is threatened? You retreat – you retreat the better to commune with your narcissistic little sense of entitlement, which simply
will not go away however much you recycle your packaging.’
    ‘I come for the ants,’ I said, softly. ‘And the food.’
    ‘We’re scientists,’ Kim said.
    ‘So you say,’ he smiled. ‘But I have met many of your tribe, Miss Van der Kisten, and they seem to