Dorothy was worried. "I don't understand it," she muttered; "she usually has such good taste in clothes."
"Yes."
"Well, you must admit she has."
"If you ask me," said Greg; "she had a few belts of gin in her cabin before she came up."
"Now, darling, that's a nasty thing to say."
"Well, look at her."
Arlene, with her arms stretched out wide, her head turned over her right shoulder and her chin tilted imperiously, was now dancing a flamenco. Her partner, one of the ship's officers, was rotating around her somewhat helplessly. He had an uneasy grin on his face.
"She's just a little excited," said Dorothy defensively. "Anyway she's having a good time."
"In my opinion, she's making a horse's ass of herself."
"Really, Greg!"
Arlene did not return to their table. When a 'Leap Year' dance was announced, she made a bee-line for the Captain and after that dance returned with him to his table; whether by invitation or not it was impossible to determine.
The following morning, when they were going up the river to Saigon, she did not appear at her usual time ; but Greg and Dorothy were too busy shooting with their movie camera and watching the sampans and the river banks go by to give her much thought. They found her, immaculate but a trifle pensive, sitting in the bar after the ship had docked.
"What happened to you last night?" she asked Dorothy as they joined her.
"We went down around eleven-thirty."
"Four o'clock, me," Arlene said grimly; "the barman opened up a can of weinies. He's got an electric grill back there. That was after I'd switched to scotch."
"Who else was there?" Dorothy asked.
"Nobody. Just the barman and me. He comes from L.A. and he's a Dodger fan,” she added stoutly.
But after lunch she felt fine again and they all went ashore. At Arlene's suggestion they crushed into a small Renault taxi for a tour of the city.
It was insufferably humid, and the driver, a handsome young Vietnamese, smelt peculiarly of rotting fish. Arlene explained that the smell came from a sauce used in all Vietnamese cooking and was no reflection on the driver's personal cleanliness. The driver grinned.
"Is made from fish,” he said suddenly in English. "You like me show where make it?"
Up to that moment he had spoken nothing but French, and Arlene had been the interpreter. Nobody had troubled to ask him if he understood English, Greg remembered. Arlene, proud of the French she had acquired in her Red Cross days, had just gone ahead and spoken for them. As a result, they had unwittingly hurt the man's feelings. That was precisely the sort of stupid incident, Greg thought, that made Americans unpopular abroad.
However, the driver did not seem offended. "I show you on way back ship," he went on. "Make bad smell, but many vitamins."
"That so?"
They were travelling along a broad, tree-lined street that reminded Arlene and Dorothy of Paris, when the driver turned to Greg.
"Now I show you where Quiet American made bomb explosion," he said.
"How's that?"
"That
café
there." The driver pointed. "That was where Quiet American made bomb explosion. Many killed."
They were crossing a square now. Greg looked from the
café
to the driver.
"But
The Quiet American
was a novel," he said.
"Yes, sir. That is
café
back there. I was near at time of explosion. Was very bad."
"But it was fiction," Dorothy said. "It didn't actually happen."
"Apparently there was a bomb explosion there," Arlene explained. "I had this when I was here before. Somebody told me Graham Greene was in the city at the time."
"Graham Greene, yes." The driver nodded emphatically. "Presently I will show you bridge where Fowler found dead body of correspondent, and place where there was restaurant where they talk. Real restaurant now gone, pulled down."
"You mean people here believe that story?"
"Is true, sir. I show you the place."
"But it was just a novel."
"Look," said Arlene impatiently; "if you go to Marseille, they take you out to the Chateau d'lf and show you the hole in the wall that the Count of Monte Cristo made when he scratched his way through to the Abbe Faria. They show you the dungeon occupied by the Man in the Iron Mask. It doesn't mean anything. It's just to make the tourists feel they're getting their money's worth."
"But that was an anti-American novel. If they believe all that stuff, my God ! We're giving these people millions in aid."
"That's right," said Dorothy.
Arlene smiled. "I can see you two have got a few surprises coming to you on this trip."
They returned to the ship hot, tired and out of temper. On their way down to shower and change, Greg and Dorothy had to squeeze their way past a pile of baggage in the alleyway. Their steward told them that three new passengers had come on board. When they went up on deck, they saw Arlene sitting talking animatedly to a florid, thick-set man in a khaki bush shirt. They were drinking Pernod.
At cocktail time, Greg and Dorothy were sitting in their usual corner when Arlene appeared with the same man. He had changed into a white sharkskin suit. Evidently, he was one of the new passengers. They came over.
"Ce sont mes
amis, Greg
et
Dorothy Nilsen," said Arlene.
"Je veux vous présenter Monsieur Seguin."
"How do you do?" said Monsieur Seguin.
They shook hands.
Greg said: "Will you join us?"
"Thank you." With a courteous bow to Dorothy, Monsieur Seguin sat down.
He had small blue eyes, a merry smile, and large pudgy hands with little mats of gleaming blond hair on the backs of them.
"Monsieur Seguin
est ingénieur
civil," Arlene explained.
"Il va nous accompagner jusqu'à
Calcutta. Monsieur Nilsen
est ingénieur aussi."
"Indeed?" Monsieur Seguin looked interested. "In what branch of our profession, sir?" His English was excellent.
"How do you say die-casting in French?" Arlene asked.
Greg shrugged helplessly.
"Oh, but I understand," said Monsieur Seguin affably. "Mr. Nilsen makes the small pieces of all those things that the world thinks of when it hears an American use the phrase 'standard of living'."
Arlene laughed heartily. Greg and Dorothy smiled. More
Pernods
were arriving.
"Isn't it lucky?" Arlene said. "I had a word with the Chief Steward and he's fixed it for Monsieur Seguin to sit at our table."
The
Silver Isle
was an American ship and most of her passengers were Americans. Not unnaturally the cooking was American, and served in the American style.
Monsieur Seguin did not like it. He did not like the shrimp cocktail and tried to remove all the sauce from it. He asked for his steak
bleu
and, when it came rare, regretted that it had been overcooked. He did not want his salad on the side, but as a separate course, and requested that the slices of avocado pear be removed. He ignored the baked Idaho potato, and refused the ice-cream. He took one mouthful of the Wisconsin Brie, made a face and ate no more. However, he remained, apparently, good-humoured. His only comment seemed mild enough for a Frenchman who had not enjoyed his dinner.
"I needed to lose some weight," he said with a smile. "This ship will be very good for me. Here, it will be easy to maintain
a régime."
"I don't know what they think they're doing," Arlene burst out angrily. "You could get better food at a drug store."
Dorothy chuckled. "The other day you were saying you thought the food was great."
"Great is a relative term, dear. Even an American chef must be able to cook eatable food one day in thirty." She was sharing a bottle of wine with Monsieur Seguin and now she drained her glass.
Monsieur Seguin refilled it. "Mademoiselle, I think you are being very unfair to America," he said. "She has made some very important contributions to world civilisation. Let us see—" he pretended to search his memory —"she has given us chewing gum, and Coca-Cola, and gangster films, and she has given us atomic bombs." He smiled slyly at Greg. "As well as a lot of advice."
Greg raised his eyebrows. "Aren't you forgetting popcorn?"
"Ah yes. Pardon. And I was forgetting democracy also. McCarthy style, of course."
Arlene laughed.
"That's telling 'em!"
Dorothy's face froze.
Greg smiled placidly at Monsieur Seguin. "I expect you have a lot of jokes about American tourists, too. And foreign aid."
Monsieur Seguin shrugged. "It is sad," he said. "You Americans give away billions of dollars to defend yourselves against Communism, but you ask everyone to believe that you give it because you are good and kind. Why?"
"Because big daddy-o wants to be loved," said Arlene promptly.
"America," said Monsieur Seguin, "is rich, and behaves like the rich always behave. When they begin to fear death, they become philanthropists."
"Well, most Americans aren't rich," said Greg; "and they certainly don't feel particularly philanthropic when they're paying their taxes."
"That's just childish," snapped Arlene. "Monsieur Seguin was talking about us as a nation."
Dorothy's face went pink. "I don't think Greg's the one who's being childish," she said.
"What I meant to say," Monsieur Seguin went on evenly, "was simply that American foreign policy has always, from the first, been made by men who saw the world through the eyes of money, of riches."
"If you don't mind my saying so, Monsieur Seguin," said Greg; "that is one of the stupidest remarks I've ever heard."
Monsieur Seguin smiled. "You know, Mr. Nilsen, there was an American who owned fifteen thousand acres of some of the best land in America. He owned land in New York and Pennsylvania and Virginia and Maryland and the City of Washington. When he died he was one of the richest men in your country."
"Who was that, Rockefeller?"
"His name was George Washington," said Monsieur Seguin quietly; "but, of course, you knew that."
Arlene laughed so much that she had the whole dining-room looking at their table.
Dorothy sat with a face like stone.
After dinner, she and Greg went straight to their cabin.
"I think Arlene behaved disgustingly," Dorothy said, "and as for that ghastly little Frenchman . . . Was it right what he said, about Washington, I mean?"
Greg shrugged.
"Probably.
He's the sort of man who collects facts of that kind. Of course, they weren't relevant to the point he was trying to make, but that wouldn't interest him. He's a debater."
"It's Arlene I don't understand. Encouraging him to go on talking all that anti-American nonsense. And on an American ship, too. I mean it's such bad taste. And how dared she ask the steward to put him at our table, without even consulting us?"
"I tell you one thing, dear," said Greg; "and you'd better be ready for it. The next time that guy starts any anti-American stuff, I'm going to take a poke at him."
"You mean we have to go on eating with him?" Dorothy demanded.
Greg stared at her, a wild hope surging through him. "Darling, the ship's full. You know that. They can't rearrange the seating now."
"You mean we're stuck with them, all the way to Calcutta?"
"Unless we complain to the purser and make a personal issue of it, I'm afraid we are."
"Oh, Greg!" She sat down miserably on her bed. "Our lovely trip!"
He sat down beside her and put his arm round her waist. "You said it yourself, darling. We're not in a position to choose our travelling companions."
Dorothy stuck out her chin. "Maybe not. But we are in a position to choose the way we travel."
"Darling, we're booked through on this ship to Calcutta."
"Maybe we are, but we can change our minds. We could stop over at Singapore, take a side trip or two and then go on by air to Calcutta. You said you were going to do something for Mr. Tan in Singapore. All right! It's business. If you explained that, I know we could get a refund on the passage."
Greg had never loved her more. "That's right. Pan-Am and B.O.A.C. go via Bangkok. Maybe we could stop over there instead of Rangoon before we go on to Calcutta."
"Bangkok!
That would be wonderful!"
"As a matter of fact it wouldn't cost us any extra, even allowing for side trips. I didn't tell you, but this business that Mr. Tan asked me to do '11 net me a thousand dollars."
"Hong Kong?"
"No, real American dollars. And I could make a thousand more if we spent a day or two extra in Singapore."
"How?"
"Signing papers. Anyway I'll tell you about that later. The main thing is that we enjoy ourselves. We don't have to worry about the extra expense. If we decide we want to get off at Singapore, then that's all there is to it."