Black Mischief (13 page)

Authors: Evelyn Waugh

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
worthless 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.