Basil read this at the railway station, where he drove in a horse-cab as soon as he landed. He went to the booking-office and bought a first-class ticket to Debra Dowa. It cost two hundred rupees.
‘Will you please reserve me a seat on this afternoon’s train?’
‘That is impossible. There is only one carriage. The places have been booked many days.’
‘When is the next train?”
‘Who can say? Perhaps next week. The engine must come back from Debra Dowa. The others are broken and the mechanic is busy on the tank.’
‘I must speak to the stationmaster.’
‘I am the stationmaster.’
‘Well, his ten, it is very urgent that I go to Debra Dowa today.’
‘You should have made your arrangements sooner. You must understand, monsieur, that you are no longer in Europe.’
As Basil turned to go, a small man who had been sitting fanning himself on a heap of packing-cases, scrambled down and came across the booking-hall towards him. He was dressed in alpaca and skull cap; he had a cheerful, round, greasy, yellowish face and ‘Charlie Chaplin’ moustache.
“Ullo Englishmans, you want something.’
‘I want to go to Debra Dowa.’
‘O.K. I fix it.’
‘That’s very nice of you.’
‘Honour to fix it. You know who I am. Look here.’ He handed Basil a card on which was printed: M. Krikor Youkoumian, Grand Hotel et Bar Amurath Matodi, grand Hotel Café Epicerie, et Bibliothèque Empereur Seyid Debra Dowa. Tous les renseignements. The name Seyid had been obliterated in purple ink and Seth substituted for it.
‘You keep that,’ said Mr Youkoumian. ‘You come to Debra Dowa. You come to me. I fix everything. What’s your name, sir?’
‘Seal.’
‘Well look, Mr Seal. You want to come to Debra Dowa. I got two seats. You pay me two hundred rupees, I put Mine Youkoumian in the mule truck. ‘Ow’s that, eh?’
‘I’m not going to pay anything like that, I’m afraid.’
‘Now listen, Mr Seal. I fix it for you. You don’t know this country. Stinking place. You miss this train, you stay in Matodi one, two, three, perhaps six weeks. How much you pay then? I like Englishmens. They are my favourite gentlemen. Look, you give me hundred and fifty rupees I put Mine Youkoumian with the mules. You don’t understand what that will be like. They are the General’s mules. Very savage stinking animals. All day they will stamp at her. No air in the truck. ‘Orrible, unhealthy place. Very like she die or is kicked. She is good wife, work ‘ard, very loving. If you are not Englishmans I would not put Mme Youkoumian with the mules for less than five hundred. I fix it for you, O.K.?’
‘O.K.,’ said Basil. ‘You know, you seem to me a good chap.’
‘Look, ‘ow about you give me money now. Then I take you to my café. Dirty little place, not like London. But you see. I got fine brandy. Very fresh, I made him myself Sunday.’
Basil and Mr Youkoumian took their seats in the train at two o’clock and settled down to wait for the arrival of the imperial party. There were six other occupants of the carriage — a Greek who offered them oranges and soon fell asleep, four Indians who discussed their racial grievances in an eager undertone, and an Azanian nobleman with his wife who shared a large pie of spiced mutton, lifting the slices between pieces of newspaper and eating silently and almost continuously throughout the afternoon. Mr Youkoumian’s personal luggage was very small, but he had several crates of merchandise for his Debra Dowa establishment: by a distribution of minute tips he had managed to get these into the mail van. Mine Youkoumian squatted disconsolately in a corner of the van clutching a little jar of preserved cherries which her husband had given her to compensate for the change of accommodation; a few feet from her in the darkness came occasional nervous brays and whinnies and a continuous fretful stamping of the straw.
In spite of Seth’s proclamation the police were at some difficulty in keeping the platform clear of the public; twenty or thirty of them prosecuted a vigorous defence with long bamboo staves, whacking the woolly heads as they appeared above the corrugated iron fence. Even so, large numbers of unauthorized spectators were established out of reach on the station roof. The Indian who supplied pictures of local colour to an International Press Agency was busily taking snapshots of the notables. These had not observed the Emperor’s instructions to the letter. The Nestorian Metropolitan swayed on the arm of his chaplain, unquestionably drunk; the representative of the Courier d’Azanie wore an open shirt, a battered topee, crumpled white trousers and canvas shoes; the Levantine shipping agent who acted as vice-consul for Great Britain, the Netherlands, Sweden, Portugal and Latvia had put on a light waterproof over his pyjamas and come to the function straight from bed; the Eurasian bank manager who acted as vice-consul for Soviet Russia, France and Italy was still asleep; the general merchant of inscrutable ancestry who represented the other great powers was at the moment employed on the mainland making final arrangements for the trans-shipment from Alexandria of a long-awaited consignment of hashish. Some Azanian dignitaries in national costume sat in a row on the carpets their slaves had spread for them, placidly scratching the soles of their bare feet and conversing intermittently on questions of sex. The stationmaster’s livestock — two goats and a few small turkeys — had been expelled in honour of the occasion from their normal quarters in the ladies’ waiting-room, and wandered at will about the platform gobbling at fragments of refuse.
It was more than an hour after the appointed time when the drums and fifes of the Imperial guard announced the Emperor’s arrival. They had been held up by the derelict motor-car which had all the morning resisted the efforts of the convicts to move it. The Civil Governor, on whom rested the ultimate responsibility for this mishap, was soundly thrashed and degraded from the rank of Viscount to that of Baronet before the procession could be resumed. It was necessary for the Emperor to leave his car and complete the journey on mule back, his luggage bobbing behind him on the heads of a dozen suddenly conscripted spectators.
He arrived in a bad temper, scowled at the stationmaster and the two vice-consuls, ignored the native nobility and the tipsy Bishop, and bestowed only the most sour of smiles on the press photographers. The guard presented arms, the interlopers on the roof set up an uncertain cheer and he strode across to the carriage prepared for him. General Connolly and the rest of the royal entourage bundled into their places. The stationmaster stood hat in hand waiting for orders.
‘His Majesty is now ready to start.’
The stationmaster waved his hat to the engine-driver; the guard once more presented their arms. The drums and fifes struck up the national anthem. The two daughters of the director of the line scattered rose petals round the steps of the carriage. The engine whistled, Seth continued to smile … nothing happened. At the end of the verse the band music died away; the soldiers stood irresolutely at the present; the Nestorian Metropolitan continued to beat the time of some interior melody; the goats and turkeys wandered in and out among the embarrassed spectators. Then, when all seemed frozen in silence, the engine gave a great wrench, shaking the train coach by coach from the tender to the mule boxes, and suddenly, to the immense delight of the darkies on the roof, shot off by itself into the country.
‘The Emperor has given no orders for a delay.’
‘It is a thing I did not foresee,’ said the stationmaster. ‘Our only engine has gone away alone. I think I shall be disgraced for this affair.’
But Seth made no comment. The other passengers came out on to the platform, smoking and making jokes. He did not look out at them. This gross incident had bruised his most vulnerable feelings. He had been made ridiculous at a moment of dignity and triumph; he had been disappointed in plans he had made eagerly; his own superiority was compromised by contact with such service. Basil passed his window and caught a glimpse of a gloomy but very purposeful black face under a white sun helmet. And at that moment the Emperor was resolving. ‘My people are a wort
hless people. I give orders; there is none to obey me. I am like a great musician without an instrument. A wrecked car broadside across the line of my procession … a royal train without an engine … goats on the platform … I can do nothing with these people. The Metropolitan is drunk. Those old landowners giggled when the engine broke away; I must find a man of culture, a modern man … a representative of Progress and the New Age.’ And Basil again passed the window; this time in conversation with General Connolly.
Presently, amid cheers, the runaway engine puffed backwards into the station.
Mechanics ran out to repair the coupling.
At last they started.
Basil began the journey in a cheerful temper. He had got on very well with the general and had accepted an invitation to ‘Pop in for a spot any time’ when they reached the capital.
The train which brought the Emperor to Debra Dowa also brought the mail. It was a great day at the British Legation. The bags were brought into the dining-room and they all sat round dealing out the letters and parcels, identifying the handwritings and reading over each other’s shoulders … ‘Peter’s heard from Flora.’
‘Do let me read Anthony’s letter after you, Mabel.’
‘Here’s a page to go on with.’
‘Does anyone want Jack’s letter from Sybil?’
‘Yes, I do, but I haven’t finished Mabel’s from Agnes yet.’
‘What a lot of money William owes. Here’s a bill for eighty-two pounds from his tailor.’
‘And twelve from his book-shop.’
‘Who’s this from, Prudence? I don’t know the writing …’
‘Awful lot of official stuff,’ complained Sir Samson. ‘Can’t bother about that now. You might take charge of it, Peter, and have a look through it when you get time.’
‘It won’t be for a day or two, I’m afraid, sir. We’re simply snowed under with work in the chancery over this gymkhana.’
‘Yes, yes, my boy, of course, all in good time.’ Always stick to the job in hand. I dare say there’s nothing that needs an answer, and anyway there’s no knowing when the next mail will go … I say, though, here’s something interesting, my word it is. Can’t make head or tail of the thing. It says, “Good luck. Copy this letter out nine times and send it to nine different friends” … What an extraordinary idea.’
‘Envoy dear, do be quiet. I want to try the new records.’
‘No, but Prudence, do listen. It was started by an American officer in France. If one breaks the chain one gets bad luck, and if one sends it on, good luck. There was one woman lost her husband and another one who made a fortune at roulette — all through doing it and not doing it … you know I should never have believed that possible …‘
Prudence played the new records. It was a solemn thought to the circle that they would hear these eight tunes daily, week after week, without release, until that unpredictable day when another mail should arrive from Europe. In their bungalows, in their compound, in their rare, brief excursions into the outer world, these words would run in their heads … Meanwhile they opened their letters and unrolled their newspapers.
‘Envoy, what have you got there?’
‘My dear, another most extraordinary thing. Look here. It’s all about the Great Pyramid. You see it’s all a “cosmic allegory”. It depends on the “Displacement factor”. Listen, “The combined length of the two tribulation passages is precisely 153 Pyramid inches — 153 being the number symbolic of the Elect in Our Lord’s mystical enactment of the draught of 153 great fishes”. I say, I must go into this. It sounds frightfully interesting! I can’t think who sends me these things. Jolly decent of them whoever it is; ‘Eleven Punches, eleven Graphics, fifty-nine copies of The Times, two Vogues and a mixed collection of New Yorkers, Week End Reviews, St James’s Gazettes, Horses and Hounds, Journals of Oriental Studies, were unrolled and distributed. Then came novels from Mudie’s, cigars, soda-water sparklets.
‘We ought to have a Christmas tree next time the bag comes in.’
Several Foreign Office dispatches were swept up and incinerated among the hitter of envelopes and wrappings.
‘Apparently inside the Pyramid there is a chamber of the Triple Veil of Ancient Egyptian Prophecy … the east wall of the Antechamber symbolizes Truce in Chaos …
‘There is a card announcing a gala night at the Perroquet tomorrow, Envoy. Don’t you think we might go?’
‘… Four limestone blocks representing the Final Tribulation in 1936 …‘
‘Envoy.’
‘Eh … I’m so sorry. Yes, we’ll certainly go. Haven’t been out for weeks.’
‘By the way,’ said William, ‘we had a caller in today.’
‘Not the Bishop?’
‘No, someone new. He wrote his name in the book. Basil Seal.’
‘What does he want, I wonder? Know anything about him?’
‘I seem to have heard his name. I don’t quite know where.’
‘Ought we to ask him to stay? He didn’t bring any letters?’
‘No.’
‘Thank God. Well, we’ll ask him to luncheon one day. I expect he’ll find it too hot to come out often.’
‘Oh,’ said Prudence, ‘somebody new. That’s more than one could have hoped for. Perhaps he’ll be able to teach us backgammon.‘
That evening M. Ballon received a disquieting report.
‘Mr Basil Seal, British politician travelling under private title, has arrived in Debra Dowa, and is staying in M. Youkoumian’s house. He is avoiding all open association with the Legation. This evening he called, but presented no credentials. He is obviously expected. He has been seen in conversation with General Connolly, the new Duke of Ukaka.’
‘I do not like the look of this Mr Seal. The old fox, Sir Courteney, is playing a deep game — but old ‘ Ballon will outwit him yet.’
The Victory Ball at the Perroquet exceeded all its promoter’s highest expectations in splendour and gaiety. Every side of Azanian life was liberally represented. The court circle and diplomatic corps, the army and government services, the Church, commerce, the native nobility and the cosmopolitan set.
A gross of assorted novelties — false noses, paper caps, trumpets and dolls — had arrived by the mail from Europe, but demands exceeded the supply. Turbans and tarbooshes bobbed round the dancing floor; there were men in Azanian state robes, white jackets, uniforms, and reach-me-down tail coats; women of all complexions in recently fashionable gowns, immense imitation jewels and lumpy ornaments of solid gold. There was Mine ‘Fifi’ Fatim Bey, the town courtesan, and her present protector Viscount Boaz, the Minister of the Interior; there was the Nestorian Patriarch and his favourite deacon; there was the Duke and Duchess of Ukaka; there was the manager, Prince Fyodor Krononin, elegant and saturnine, reviewing the late arrivals at the door; there was Basil Seal and Mr Youkoumian, who had been hard at work all that day, making champagne for the party. At a long table near the back were the British Legation in full force.
‘Envoy, you can’t wear a false nose.’
‘I don’t at all see why not. I think it’s very amusing.’
‘I don’t think that you ought really to be here at all.’
‘Why? M. Ballon is.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t look as if he were enjoying himself.’
‘I say, shall I send him one of those chain letters?’
‘Yes, I don’t see why you shouldn’t do that.’
‘It will puzzle him terribly.’
‘Envoy, who’s that young man? I’m sure he’s English.’ Basil had gone across to Connolly’s table.
‘Hullo, old boy. Take a pew. This is Black Bitch.’
‘How do you do.’ The little Negress put down her trumpet, bowed with grave dignity and held out her hand. ‘Not Black Bitch any more. Duchess of Ukaka now.’
‘My word, hasn’t she got an ugly mug?’ said the Duke. ‘But she’s a good little thing.’.
Black Bitch flashed a great, white grin of pleasure
at the compliment. It was a glorious night for her; it would have been rapture enough to have her man back from the wars; but to be made a Duchess and taken to supper among all the white ladies … all in the same day …
‘You see,’ said M. Ballon to his first secretary. ‘That is the man, over there with Connolly. You are having him watched?’
‘Ceaselessly.’
‘You have instructed the waiter to attend carefully to the conversation at the English table?’
‘He reported to me just now in the cloakroom. It is impossible to understand. Sir Samson speaks all the time of the dimensions of the Great Pyramid.’
‘A trap, doubtless.’
The Emperor had signified his intention of making an appearance some time during the evening. At the end of the ballroom a box had been improvised for him with bunting, pots of palm, and gilt cardboard. Soon after midnight he came. At a sign from Prince Fyodor the band stopped in the middle of the tune and struck up the national anthem. The dancing couples scuttled to the side of the ballroom; the guests at supper rose awkwardly to their feet, pushing their tables forward with a rattle of knives and glass; there was a furtive self-conscious straightening of ties and removing of paper caps. Sir Samson-Courteney alone absent-mindedly retained his false nose. The royal entourage in frogged uniforms advanced down the polished floor; in their centre, half a pace ahead, looking neither to right’ nor left, strode the Emperor in evening dress, white kid gloves, heavily starched linen, neat pearl studs and jet black face.
‘Got up just as though he were going to sing Spirituals at a party,’ said Lady Courteney.
Prince Fyodor glided in front and ushered him to his table. He sat down alone. The suite ranged themselves behind his chair. He gave a slight nod to Prince Fyodor. The band resumed the dance music. The Emperor watched impassively as the company began to settle down to a state of enjoyment.