Black Mischief

  For an appreciable time Basil hesitated in a decision of greater importance than either of them realized. The General sat jauntily on the edge of the table bending his riding-cane over his knee; his expression was one of cordiality and of persuasive good sense. Basil hesitated. Was it some atavistic sense of a caste, an instinct of superiority, that held him aloof? Or was it vexed megalomania because Mr Youkoumian had trotted so obediently from the room in his stockinged feet?

  ‘You should have made your representations before,’ he said. ‘The tone of your first note made discussion impossible. The boots will be issued to the war department next week.’

  ‘Bloody young fool,’ said Connolly and took his leave.

  As the door opened Mr Youkoumian hastily stepped back from the keyhole. The General pushed past him and left the Ministry.

  ‘Oh, Mr Seal, why the ‘ell do you want a bust-up with ‘im for? Look, how about I go after ‘im and fix it, eh, Mr Seal?’

  ‘You won’t do anything of the sort. We’ll carry right on with the plans for the pageant of contraception.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, Mr Seal, there ain’t no sense at all in ‘ aving bust-ups.’

  News of the rupture spread like plague through the town. It was first-class gossip. The twenty or so spies permanently maintained by various interests in the Imperial Household carried tidings of the split through the Legations and commercial houses; runners informed the Earl of Ngumo; Black Bitch told her hairdresser; a Eurasian bank clerk told his manager and the bank manager told the Bishop; Mr Youkoumian recounted the whole incident in graphic gesture over the bar of the Empereur Seth; Connolly swore hideously about it at the Perroquet to Prince Fyodor; the Minister of the Interior roared out a fantastically distorted version to the assembled young ladies of the leading maison de société. That evening there was no dinner table of any importance in Debra Dowa where the subject was not discussed in detail.

  ‘Pity,’ remarked Sir Samson Courteney. ‘I suppose this’ll mean that young Seal will be coming up here more than ever. Sorry, Prudence, I dare say he’s all right, but the truth is I can never find much to say to the chap … interested in different things … always going on about local politics … Damn fool thing to quarrel about, anyway. Why shouldn’t he wear boots if he wants to?’

  ‘That wasn’t quite the point, Envoy.’

  ‘Well, it was something of the kind, I know.’

  ‘Ha! Ha!’ said Monsieur Ballon. ‘Here is a thing Sir Samson did not foresee. Where is his fine web now, eh? Gossamer in the wind. Connolly is our man.’

  ‘Alas, blind, trusting husband, if he only knew,’ murmured the first to the second secretary.

  ‘The Seal-Courteney faction and their puppet emperor have lost the allegiance of the army. We must consolidate our party.’

  It was in this way it happened that next morning there occurred an event unique in Black Bitch’s experience. She was in the yard in front of her house laundering some of the General’s socks (for she could not bear another woman to touch her man’s clothes), chewing nut and meditatively spitting the dark juice into the soap-suds, when a lancer dismounted before her in the crimson and green uniform of the French Legation.

  ‘Her Grace the Duchess of Ukaka.’

  She lifted her dress, so as not to soil it, and wiped her hands on her knickers. ‘Me,’ she said.

  The man saluted, handed her a large envelope, saluted again, mounted and rode away.

  The Duchess was left alone with her large envelope; she squatted on her heels and examined it, turning it this way and that, holding it up to her ear and shaking it, her head sagely cocked on one side. Then she rose, padded into the house and across the hall to her bedroom; there, after circumspection, she raised a loose corner of the fibre matting and slipped the letter beneath it.

  Two or three times during the next hour she left her wash-tub to see if her treasure was safe. At noon the General returned to luncheon and she handed it over to him, to await his verdict.

  ‘Hullo, B lack Bitch, what do you suppose this is? Madame Ballon wants to us dine at the French Legation tomorrow.’

  ‘You go?’

  ‘But it’s for both of us, old girl. The invitation is addressed to you. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘Oh, my! Me dine with Madame Ballon! Oh my, that’s good!’

  The Duchess could not contain her excitement; she threw back her head, rolled her eyes, and emitting deep gurgles of pleasure began spinning about the room like a teetotum.

  ‘Good for the old geeser,’ said the Duke, and later when the acceptance was written and dispatched by the hand of the Imperial Guard’s most inspiring sergeant-major, and Connolly had answered numerous questions about the proper conduct of knife, fork, glass and gloves, and the Duchess had gone bustling off to Mr Youkoumian’s store for ribbon and gold braid and artificial peonies to embellish her party frock, he went back to barracks with unusual warmth at heart towards the French Legation, remarking again, ‘Good for the old geeser. He’s the first person who’s troubled to ask Black Bitch to anything in eight years. And wasn’t she pleased as Punch about it too, bless her black heart?’

  As the time approached Black Bitch’s excitement became almost alarming and her questions on etiquette so searching that the General was obliged to thump her soundly on the head and lock her in a cupboard for some hours before she could be reduced to a condition sufficiently subdued for diplomatic society. The dinner party, however, was a great success. The French Legation were there in full force, the director of the railway with his wife and daughters, and Lord Boaz, the Minister for the Interior. Black Bitch as Duchess of Ukaka took precedence and sat beside M. Ballon, who spoke to her in English in praise of her husband’s military skill, influence and discretion. Any small errors in deportment which she may have committed were completely eclipsed by the Minister for the Interior who complained of the food, drank far too much, pinched the ladies on either side of him, pocketed a dozen cigars and a silver pepper mill which happened to take his fancy, and later in the drawing-room insisted on dancing by himself to the gramophone until his slaves appeared to hoist him into his car and carry him back to Mine ‘Fifi’, of whose charms he had been loudly boasting throughout the evening with a splendour of anatomical detail which was, fortunately, unintelligible to many of the people present.

  In the dining-room when the succession of wines finally ended with the few ceremonial spoonfuls of sweet champagne and the men were left alone — the Minister for the Interior being restrained with difficulty from too precipitately following the ladies — M. Ballon signalled for a bottle of eau de vie and, moving round to the General’s side, filled his glass and prompted him to some frank criticism of the Emperor and the present régime.

  In the drawing-room the French ladies crowded about their new friend, and before the evening was Out several of them, including Madame Ballon, had dropped the ‘Duchess’ and were on terms of calling her ‘Black Bitch’. They asked her to come and see their gardens and children, they offered to teach her tennis and piquet, they advised her about an Armenian dressmaker in the town and a Hindu fortune-teller; they were eager to lend her the patterns of their pyjamas; they spoke seriously of pills; best of all they invited her to sit on the committee which was being organized in the French colony to decorate a car for the forthcoming Birth-Control Gala. There was no doubt about it; the Connollys had made the French set.

  Ten days later the boots arrived at Debra Dowa; there were some formalities to be observed, but these were rendered simple by the fact that the departments involved were now under the control of the Ministry of Modernization. Mr Youkoumian drew up an application to himself from the Ministry of War for the delivery of the boots; he made out a chit from the War Office to the Ministry of Supplies; passed it on to the Treasury, examined and countersigned it, drew himself a cheque and in the name of the Customs and Excise Department allowed his own claim to rebate of duty on the importation of articles of ‘national necessity’. The wh
ole thing took ten minutes. A few hours later a thousand pairs of black boots had been dumped in the square of the Guards barracks, where a crowd of soldiers rapidly collected and studied them throughout the entire afternoon with vivid but nervous interest.

  That evening there was a special feast in honour of the boots. Cook-pots steaming over the wood fires; hand drums beating; bare feet shuffling unforgotten tribal rhythms; a thousand darkies crooning and swaying on their haunches, white teeth flashing in the fire-light.

  They were still at it when Connolly returned from dinner at the French consulate.

  ‘What in hell are the boys making whoopee for tonight? It’s not one of their days, is it?’

  ‘Yes, General, very big day,’ said the sentry. ‘Boots day.’ The singing reached Basil as he sat at his writing-table at the Ministry, working long after midnight at the penal code.

  ‘What’s going on at the barracks?’ he asked the servant.

  ‘Boots.’

  ‘They like ‘em, eh?’

  ‘They like ‘em fine.’

  ‘That’s one in the eye for Connolly,’ he said, and next day, meeting the General in the Palace yard, he could not forbear to mention it. ‘So the boots went down all right with your men after all, Connolly.’

  ‘They went down.’

  ‘No cases of lameness yet, I hope?’

  The General leant over in his saddle and smiled pleasantly. ‘No cases of lameness,’ he replied. ‘One or two of bellyache, though. I’m just writing a report on the matter to the Commissioner of Supplies — that’s our friend Youkoumian, isn’t it? You see, my adjutant made rather a silly mistake.

  He hadn’t had much truck with boots before and the silly fellow thought they were extra rations. My men ate the whole bag of tricks last night.’

  Dust in the air; a light wind rattling the leaves in the eucalyptus trees. Prudence sat over the Panorama of Life gazing through the window across the arid Legation croquet lawn; dun grass rubbed bare between the hoops, a few sap-less stalks in the beds beyond. She drew little arabesques in the corners of the page and thought about love.

  It was the dry season before the rains, when the cattle on the hills strayed miles from their accustomed pastures and herdsmen came to blows over the brackish dregs of the drinking holes; when, preceded by a scutter of children, lions would sometimes appear, parading the streets of the town in search of water; when Lady Courteney remarked that her herbaceous borders were a positive eye-sore.

  How out of tune with Nature is the spirit of man! wrote Prudence in her sprawling, schoolroom characters. When the earth proclaims its fertility, in running brooks, bursting seed, mating of birds and frisking of lambs, then the thoughts of man turn to athletics and horticulture, water-colour painting and amateur theatricals. Now in the arid season when Nature seems all dead under the cold earth, there is nothing to think about except sex. She bit her pen and read it through, substituting hot soil for cold earth. ‘I am sure I’ve got something wrong in the first part,’ she thought, and called to Lady Courteney who, watering-can in hand, was gloomily surveying a withered rose tree. ‘Mum, how soon after the birds mate are the lambs born?’

  ‘Eggs, dear, not lambs,’ said her mother and pottered off towards some azalea roots which were desperately in need of water.

  ‘Damn the panorama of life,’ said Prudence, and she began drawing a series of highly stylized profiles which by an emphasis of the chin and disordering of the hair had ceased during the last six weeks to be portraits of William and had come to represent Basil Seal. ‘To think that I wanted to be in love so much,’ she thought, ‘that I even practised on William.’

  ‘Luncheon,’ said her mother, repassing the window. ‘Arid. I shall be hate again. Do go in and be bright to your father.’

  But when Lady Courteney joined them in the dining-room she found father, daughter and William sitting in moody silence.

  ‘Tinned asparagus,’ said Sir Samson. ‘And a letter from the Bishop.’

  ‘He’s not coming out to dinner again?’

  ‘No, no, it isn’t as bad as that. But apparently Seth wants to pull down his Cathedral for some reason. What does he expect me to do about it I should like to know? Shocking ugly building, anyhow. I wish, Prudence and William, you’d take the ponies out this afternoon. They haven’t had any proper exercise for days.’

  ‘Too hot,’ said Prudence.

  ‘Too busy,’ said William.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Sir Samson Courteney. And later he remarked to his wife: ‘I say, there isn’t any trouble between those two, is there? They used to be such pals.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to mention it for some time, Sam, only I was so worried about the antirrhinums. I don’t think Prudence is at all herself. D’you think it’s good for a girl of her age hiving at this height all the year round? It might be an idea to send her back to England for a few months. Harriet could put her up in Belgrave Place. I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good thing for her to go out in London for a season and meet some people of her own age. What d’you think?’

  ‘I dare say you’re right. All that What-d’you-call-it of Life she keeps working away at … Only you must write to Harriet. I’m far too busy at the moment. Got to think of something to say to the Bishop.’.

  But next day Prudence and William went out with the ponies. She had an assignation with Basil.

  ‘Listen, William, you’re to go out of the city by the lane behind the Baptist school and the Jewish abattoirs, then past the Parsee death-house and the fever hospital.’

  ‘Not exactly the prettiest ride.’

  ‘Darling, don’t be troublesome. You might get seen the other way. Once you’re clear of the Arab cemetery you can go where you like. And you’re to fetch me at Youkoumian’s at five.’

  ‘Jolly afternoon for me leading Mischief all the time.’

  ‘Now, William, you know you manage him perfectly. You’re the only person I’d trust to take him. I can’t leave him outside Youkoumian’s, can I, because of discretion.’

  ‘What you don’t seem to see is that it’s pretty dim for me, floundering about half the day, I mean, in a dust heap with two ponies while you neck with the chap who’s cut me out.’

  ‘William, don’t be coarse. And anyway, “cut you out” nothing. You had me all to yourself for six months and weren’t you just bored blue with it?’

  ‘Well, I dare say he’ll be bored soon.’

  ‘Cad.’

  Basil still lived in the large room over Mr Youkoumian’s store. There was a verandah, facing on to a yard littered with scrap iron and general junk, accessible by an outside staircase. Prudence passed through the shop, out and up. The atmosphere of the room was rank with tobacco smoke.

  Basil, in shirt—sleeves, rose from the deck—chair to greet her. He threw the butt of his Burma cheroot into the tin hip-bath which stood unemptied at the side of the bed; it sizzled and went Out and floated throughout the afternoon, slowly unfurling in the soapy water. He bolted the door. It was half dark in the room. Dusty parallels of light struck through the shutters on to the floor-boards and the few shabby mats. Prudence stood isolated, waiting for him, her hat in her hand. At first neither spoke. Presently she said, ‘You might have shaved,’ and then ‘Please help with my boots.’

  Below, in the yard, Madame Youkoumian upbraided a goat. Strips of sunlight traversed the floor as an hour passed. In the bath water, the soggy stub of tobacco emanated a brown blot of juice.

  Banging on the door.

  ‘Heavens, ‘ said Prudence, ‘that can’t be William already.’

  ‘Mr Seal, Mr Seal.’

  ‘Well, what is it? I’m resting.’

  ‘Well, you got to stop,’ said Mr Youkoumian. ‘They’re looking for you all over the town. Damn fine rest I’ve had this afternoon, like ‘ell I ‘aven’t.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Emperor must see you at once. ‘E’s got a new idea. Very modern and important. Some damn fool nonsense about Swedish
drill.’

  Basil hurried to the Palace to find his master in a state of high excitement.

  ‘I have been reading a German book. We must draft a decree at once … Communal physical exercises. The whole population, every morning, you understand. And we must get instructors from Europe. Cable for them. Quarter of an hour’s exercise a morning. And community singing. That is very important. The health of the nation depends on it. I have been thinking it over. Why is there no cholera in Europe? Because of community singing and physical jerks … and bubonic plague … and leprosy.’

  Back in her room Prudence reopened the Panorama of Life and began writing: a woman in love …

  ‘A woman,’ said Mr Youkoumian. ‘That’s what Seth needs to keep ‘im quiet. Always sticking ‘is nose in too much everywhere. You listen to me, Mr Seal — if we can fix Seth with a woman our modernization will get along damn fine.’

  ‘There’s always Fifi.’

  ‘Oh Mr Seal, ‘e ‘ad ‘er when ‘e was a little boy. Don’t you worry. I’ll fix it O.K.’

  Royal interruptions of the routine of the Ministry were becoming distressingly frequent in the last few days as the Emperor assimilated the various books that had arrived for him by the last mail. Worst of all, the pageant of birth control was proving altogether more trouble than it was worth; in spite of repeated remonstrances, however, it continued to occupy the mind of the Emperor in precedence of all other interests. He had already renamed the site of the Anglican Cathedral, Place Marie Stopes.

  ‘Heaven knows what will happen if he ever discovers psycho-analysis,’ remarked Basil, gloomily foreseeing a Boulevard Kraft-Ebing, an Avenue Oedipus and a pageant of coprophagists.

  ‘He’ll discover every damn modern thing,’ said Mr Youkoumian, ‘if we don’t find him a woman damn quick … ‘ ere’s another letter from the Vicar Apostolic. If I ‘adn’t ordered all that stuff from Cairo I’d drop the whole pageant. But you can’t use it for nothing else but what it’s for — so far as I can see, not like boots what they can eat.’