“Did you call me a scab?”
“I did not, but I will.”
“You will?”
“Sure, you’re a scab. Now what?”
“Call me a scab outside.”
“I call you a scab here.”
“Say that outside and see what you’ll get.”
Cries of “Shame” and “Aw, pipe down.”
*
“… gravely affecting our professional status. We welcome fair and free competition… obliged to enforce coercive measures…”
“Go on, sock me one and see what you get.”
“I don’t want to sock you one. You sock me first.”
“Aw, go sock him one.”
“Just you give me a poke in the nose and see what you’ll get.”
*
“… Notre condition professionnelle. Nous souhaitons la bienvenue à toute la compétition égale et libre.”
*
“… Nostra condizione professionale…”
*
“You poke me in the nose.”
“Aw, why can’t you boys sock each other and be friendly?”
“Resolution before the meeting… protest against the breach of faith on the part of the Ishmaelite government and demand that all restrictions on their movements be instantly relaxed. I call for a show of hands on this resolution.”
“Mr. Chairman, I object to the whole tone of this resolution.”
“May I propose the amendment that facilities be withheld from Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock until we have had time to get level with him.”
“… demand an enquiry into how and from whom he received his permission to travel and the punishment of the responsible official…”
“I protest, Mr. Chairman, that the whole tone is peremptory and discourteous.”
“… The motion as amended reads…”
Then Doctor Benito arrived; he came from the main entrance and the journalists fell back to make way. It was William’s first sight of him. He was short and brisk and self-possessed; soot black in face, with piercing boot-button eyes; he wore a neat black suit; his linen and his teeth were brilliantly white; he carried a little black attaché case; in the lapel of his coat he wore the button of the Star of Ishmaelia, fourth class. As he passed through them the journalists were hushed; it was as though the head-mistress had suddenly appeared among an unruly class of school-girls. He reached the table, shook Pappenhacker by the hand and faced his audience with a flash of white teeth.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I will speak first in English,” the correspondents of Havas and Paris-Soir began to protest, “after that in French.”
“I have a communication to make on the part of the President. He wishes to state first that he reserves for himself absolutely the right to maintain or relax the regulations he has made for the comfort and safety of the Press, either generally or in individual cases. Secondly, that, so far, no relaxation of these regulations has been made in any case. If, as is apparently believed, a journalist has left Jacksonburg for the interior it is without the Government’s consent or knowledge. Thirdly, that the roads to the interior are at the moment entirely unfit for travel, provisions are impossible to obtain and travelers would be in danger from disaffected elements of the population. Fourthly, that he has decided, in view of the wishes of the foreign Press, to relax the restrictions he has hitherto made. Those wishing to do so, may travel to the interior. They must first apply formally to my bureau where the necessary passes will be issued and steps taken for their protection. That is all, gentlemen.”
He then repeated his message in accurate French, bowed and left the meeting in deep silence. When he had gone Pappenhacker said, “Well gentlemen, I think that concludes our evening’s business in a very satisfactory manner,” but it was with a dissatisfied air that the journalists left the hotel for the wireless station.
“A triumph for the power of the Press,” said Corker. “They caved in at once.”
“Yes,” said William.
“You sound a bit doubtful, brother.”
“Yes.”
“I know what you’re thinking of—something in Benito’s manner. I noticed it too. Nothing you could actually take hold of, but he seemed kind of superior to me.”
“Yes,” said William.
They sent off their service messages. William wrote: THEY HAVE GIVEN US PERMISSION TO GO TO LAKU AND EVERYONE IS GOING BUT THERE IS NO SUCH PLACE AM I TO GO TOO SORRY TO BE A BORE BOOT.
Corker more succinctly: PERMISSION GRANTED LAKUWARD.
That night the wireless carried an urgent message in similar terms from every journalist in Jacksonburg.
William and Corker returned to the Liberty for a drink. All the journalists were having drinks. The two photographers were clinking glasses and slapping one another on the shoulder. Corker reverted to the topic that was vexing him. “What’s that blackamoor got to be superior about?” he asked moodily. “Funny that you noticed it too.”
Next day Corker brought William a cable: UNPROCEED LAKUWARD STOP AGENCIES COVERING PATRIOTIC FRONT STOP REMAIN CONTACTING CUMREDS STOP NEWS EXYOU UNRECEIVED STOP DAILY HARD NEWS ESSENTIALLEST STOP REMEMBER RATES SERVICE CABLES ONE ETSIX PER WORD BEAST.
Kätchen stood at his elbow as he read it. “What does it mean?” she asked.
“I’m to stay in Jacksonburg.”
“Oh, I am pleased.”
William answered the cable:
NO NEWS AT PRESENT THANKS WARNING ABOUT CABLING PRICES BUT IVE PLENTY MONEY LEFT AND ANYWAY WHEN I OFFERED TO PAY WIRELESS MAN SAID IT WAS ALL RIGHT PAID OTHER END RAINING HARD HOPE ALL WELL ENGLAND WILL CABLE AGAIN IF ANY NEWS.
Then he and Kätchen went to play ping-pong at Popo-takis’s.
*
The journalists left.
For three days the town was in turmoil. Lorries were chartered and provisioned; guides engaged; cooks and guards and muleteers and caravan boys and hunters, cooks’ boys, guards’ boys, muleteers’ boys, caravan-boys’ boys and hunters’ boys were recruited at unprecedented rates of pay; all over the city, in the offices and legations, resident Europeans found themselves deserted by their servants; seminarists left the missions, male-nurses the hospital, highly placed clerks their government departments, to compete for the journalists’ wages. The price of benzene was doubled overnight and rose steadily until the day of the exodus. Terrific deals were done in the bazaar in tinned foodstuffs; they were cornered by a Parsee and unloaded on a Banja, cornered again by an Arab, resold and rebought, before they reached the journalists’ stores. Shumble bought William’s rifle and sold a half share in it to Whelper. Everyone now emulated the costume of the Frenchmen; sombreros, dungarees, jodhpurs, sunproof shirts and bulletproof waistcoats, holsters, bandoliers, Newmarket boots, cutlasses, filled the Liberty. The men of the Excelsior Movie-Sound News, sporting the horsehair capes and silk skirts of native chieftains, made camp in the Liberty garden and photographed themselves at great length in attitudes of vigilance and repose. Paleologue made his pile.
There was an evening of wild indignation when it was falsely put around that Jakes had been lent a balloon by the Government for his journey. There was an evening of anxiety when, immediately before the day fixed for their departure, the journalists were informed that the passes for their journey had not yet received the stamp of the Ministry of the Interior. A meeting of the Press Association was hastily called; it passed a resolution of protest and dissolved in disorder. Late that evening Doctor Benito delivered the passes in person. They were handsome, unintelligible documents printed in Ishmaelite and liberally decorated with rubber stamps, initials and patriotic emblems. Benito brought one to William at the Pension Dressler.
“I’m not going after all,” William explained.
“Not going, Mr. Boot? But your pass is here, made out in
order.”
“Sorry if it has caused extra work, but my editor has told me to stay on here.”
An expression of extreme annoyance came over the affabl
e, black face.
“But your colleagues have made every arrangement. It is very difficult for my bureau if the journalists do not keep together. You see your pass to Laku automatically cancels your permission to remain in Jacksonburg. I’m afraid, Mr. Boot, it will be necessary for you to go.”
“Oh, rot,” said William. “For one thing there is no such place as Laku.”
“I see you are very well informed about my country, Mr. Boot. I should not have thought it from the tone of your newspaper.”
William began to dislike Doctor Benito.
“Well, I’m not going. Will you be good enough to cancel the pass and renew my permission for Jacksonburg?”
There was a pause; then the white teeth flashed in a smile.
“But, of course, Mr. Boot. It will be a great pleasure. I cannot hope to offer you anything of much interest during your visit. As you have seen we are a very quiet little community. The Academic year opens at Jackson College. General Gollancz Jackson is celebrating his silver wedding. But I do not think any of these things are of great importance in Europe. I am sure your colleagues in the interior will find far more exciting matter for their dispatches. Are you sure nothing can make you alter your decision?”
“Quite sure.”
“Very well.” Doctor Benito turned to go. Then he paused. “By the way, have you communicated to any of your colleagues your uncertainty about the existence of the city of Laku?”
“Yes, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“I suppose not. Perhaps they have more experience in their business. Good night.”
*
Next morning, at dawn, the first lorry started. It was shared by Corker and Pigge. They sat in front with the driver. They had been drinking heavily and late the night before and, in the gray light, showed it. Behind among the crates and camp furniture lay six torpid servants.
William rose to see them off. They had kept the time of their departure a secret. Everyone, the evening before, had spoken casually of “making a move at tennish,” but when William arrived at the Liberty the whole place was astir. Others beside Pigge and Corker conceived that an advantage might come from a few hours’ start; all the others. Corker and Pigge were away first, by a negligible margin. One after another their colleagues took the road behind them. Pappenhacker drove a little two seater he had bought from the British Legation. Many of the cars flew flags of Ishmaelia and of their own countries. One lorry was twice the size of any other; it rode gallantly on six wheels; its sides were armor-plated; it had been purchased, irregularly and at enormous expense, from the War Office and bore in vast letters of still tacky paint the inscription: EXCELSIOR MOVIE-SOUND EXPEDITIONARY UNIT TO THE ISHMAELITE IDEOLOGICAL FRONT.
During these latter days the rains had notably declined, giving promise of spring. The clouds lay high over the town, revealing a wider horizon, and, as the cavalcade disappeared from view, the road to Laku lay momentarily bathed in sunshine. William waved them goodbye from the steps of the Jackson memorial and turned back towards the Pension Dressler, but as he went the sky darkened and the first drops began to fall.
He was at breakfast when his boy reported. “All come back.”
“Who?”
“All newspaper fellows come back. Soldiers catch ’em one time and take ’em plison.”
William went out to investigate.
Sure enough the lorries were lined up outside the police station and inside, each with an armed guard, sat the journalists. They had found the barricades of the town shut against them; the officer in charge had not been warned to expect them; he had been unable to read their passes and they were all under arrest.
At ten, when Doctor Benito began his day’s routine at the Press Bureau, he received them apologetically but blandly. “It is a mistake,” he said. “I regret it infinitely. I understood that you proposed to start at ten. If I had known that you intended to start earlier I would have made the necessary arrangements. The night-guard have orders to let no one through. You will now find the day-guard on duty. They will present arms as you pass. I have given special instructions to that effect. Goodbye gentlemen and a good journey.”
Once more the train of lorries set off; rain was now falling hard. Corker and Pigge still led; Wenlock Jakes came last in a smart touring car. William waved; the populace whistled appreciatively; at the gates of the city the guard slapped the butts of their carbines. William once more turned to the Pension Dressler; the dark clouds opened above him; the gutters and wet leaves sparkled in sunlight and a vast, iridescent fan of color, arc beyond arc of splendor, spread across the heavens. The journalists had gone, and a great peace reigned in the city.
Three
Kätchen was smoking in a long chair on the verandah. “Lovely,” she said. “Lovely. In a few days now the rains will be over.”
She had been early to the hairdresser and, in place of the dank wisps of yesterday, her golden head was a tuft of curls. She had a new dress; she wore scarlet sandals and her toenails were painted to match them. “The dress came yesterday,” she said. “There is an Austrian lady who sewed it for me. I wanted to put it on last night, when we went to play ping-pong, but I thought you would like it best when my hair was done. You do like it?”
“Immensely.”
“And I got this,” she said. “It is French.” She showed him an enameled vanity case. “The hairdresser sold it to me… From Paris. Lipstick, powder, looking glass, comb, cigarettes. Pretty?”
“Very pretty.”
“And now Frau Dressler is angry with me again, because of her bill. But I don’t care. What business of hers is it if I sell my husband’s specimens? I offered them to her and she said they were not valuable. I don’t care, I don’t care. Oh, William, I am so happy. Look at the rainbow. It gets bigger and bigger. Soon there will be no room in the sky for it. Do you know what I should like to do today? I should like us to take a motor-car and drive into the hills. We could get some wine and, if you ask her, Frau Dressler will make a hamper. Do not say it is for me. Let us get away from this city for a day…”
*
Frau Dressler packed a hamper; Doctor Benito stamped a pass; Paleologue arranged for the hire of a motor-car. At midday William and Kätchen drove off towards the hills.
“Kätchen, I love you. Darling darling Kätchen, I love you…”
He meant it. He was in love. It was the first time in twenty-three years; he was suffused and inflated and tipsy with love. It was believed at Boot Magna, and jocularly commented upon from time to time, that an attachment existed between him and a neighboring Miss Caldicote; it was not so. He was a stranger alike to the bucolic jaunts of the hay field and the dark and costly expeditions of his Uncle Theodore. For twenty-three years he had remained celibate and heart-whole; landbound. Now for the first time he was far from shore, submerged among deep waters, below wind and tide, where huge trees raised their spongy flowers and monstrous things without fur or feather, wing or foot, passed silently, in submarine twilight. A lush place.
*
Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock threw open the shutters of his room and welcomed the sunshine. He thrust his head out of the window and called loudly for attention. They brought him a dozen steaming jugs and filled his tub. He bathed and shaved and rubbed his head with eau de quinine until his sparse hairs were crowned with foam and his scalp smarted and glowed. He dressed carefully, set his hat at an angle and sauntered to the wireless station.
CONSIDER ISHMAELITE STORY UP-CLEANED HE WROTE SUGGEST LEAVING AGENCIES COVER UPFOLLOWS. Then he returned to the hotel and ate a late breakfast of five lightly boiled eggs.
He packed his luggage and waited for his reply. It came before sundown for there was little traffic at the wireless station that day. PROCEED LUCERNE COVER ECONOMIC NONINTERVENTION congress. There was a train to the coast that night. He paid his bill at the hotel and, with three hours to spare, took a walk in the town.
The promise of the morning had been barely fulfilled. At noon the rain had started ag
ain; throughout the afternoon had streamed monotonously and now, at sundown, ceased; for a few minutes the shoddy roofs were ablaze with scarlet and gold.
With loping steps, Erik Olafsen came down the street towards Sir Jocelyn; his face was uplifted to the glory of the sunset and he would have walked blandly by. It was Sir Jocelyn’s first impulse to let him; then, changing his mind, he stepped forward and greeted him.
“Sir Hitchcock, you are back so soon. It will disappoint our colleagues to find you not at Laku. You have had many interests in your journey, yes?”
“Yes,” said Sir Jocelyn briefly.
Across the street, deriding the splendor of the sky, there flashed the electric sign of Popotakis’s Ping Pong Parlor, while, from his door, an ancient French two-step, prodigiously amplified, heralded the day’s end.
“Come across and have a drink,” said Sir Jocelyn.
“Not to drink, thank you so much, but to hear the interests of your journey. I was told that Laku was no such place, no?”
“No,” said Sir Jocelyn.
Even as they crossed the street, the sky paled.
Popotakis had tried a cinema, a dance hall, baccarat and miniature golf; now he had four ping-pong tables. He had made good money, for the smart set of Jacksonburg were always hard put to get through the rainy season; the polyglot professional class had made it their rendezvous; even attachés from the legations and younger members of the Jackson family had come there. Then for a few delirious days it had been over-run with journalists; prices had doubled, quarrels had raged, the correspondent of the Methodist Monitor had been trussed with a net and a photographer had lost a tooth. Popotakis’s old clients melted away to other, more seemly resorts; the journalists had broken his furniture and insulted his servants and kept him awake till four in the morning but they had drunk his home-made whisky at an American dollar a glass and poured his home-made champagne over the bar at ten dollars a bottle. Now they had all gone and the place was nearly empty. Only William and Kätchen sat at the bar. Popotakis had some genuine sixty per cent absinthe; that is what they were drinking. They were in a somber mood, for the picnic had been a failure.