“Not at all,” said William. “Not at all. Very glad to have been any help.”
“It was the act of an Englishman—a fellow Englishman,” said the little man simply. “I hope that one day I shall have the opportunity of requiting it… I probably shall,” he added rather sadly. “It is one of the pleasant if onerous duties of a man of my position to requite the services he receives—usually on a disproportionately extravagant scale.”
“Please,” said William. “Do not give the matter another thought.”
“I never do. I try to let these things slip from my mind as one of the evanescent delights of travel. But it has been my experience that sooner or later I am reminded of them by my benefactor… You are on your way to the Côte d’Azur?”
“No, only as far as Marseilles.”
“I rejoice in the Côte d’Azur. I try to get there every year but too often I am disappointed. I have so much on my hands—naturally—and in winter I am much occupied with sport. I have a little pack of hounds in the Midlands.”
“Oh. Which?”
“You might not have heard of us. We march with the Fernie. I suppose it is the best hunting country in England. It is a little hobby of mine, but at times, when there is a frost, I long for my little house at Antibes. My friends are kind enough to say I have made it comfortable. I expect you will one day honor me with a visit there.”
“It sounds delightful.”
“They tell me the bathing is good but that does not interest me. I have some plantations of flowering trees which horticulturalists are generous enough to regard with interest, and the largest octopus in captivity. The chef too is, in his simple seaside way, one of the best I have. Those simple pleasures suffice for me… You are surely not making a long stay in Marseilles?”
“No, I sail tomorrow for East Africa. For Ishmaelia,” William added with some swagger.
The effect on his companion was gratifying. He blinked twice and asked with subdued courtesy:
“Forgive me; I think I must have misheard you. Where are you going?”
“To Ishmaelia. You know, the place where they say there is a war.”
There was a pause. Finally: “Yes, the name is in some way familiar. I must have seen it in the newspapers.” And, taking a volume of pre-Hitler German poetry from the rack above him, he proceeded to read, shaping the words with his lips like a woman in prayer and slowly turning the leaves.
Undeviating as the train itself, the dinner followed its changeless course from consommé to bombe. William’s companion ate little and said nothing. With his coffee he swallowed two crimson cachets. Then he closed his book of love poems and nodded across the restaurant car.
The soldierly valet who had been dining at the next table rose to go.
“Cuthbert.”
“Sir.”
He stood attentively at his master’s side.
“Did you give my sheets to the conductor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See that he has made them up properly. Then you may go to bed. You know the time in the morning?”
“Yes sir, thank you sir, good night sir.”
“Good night, Cuthbert…” Then he turned to William and said with peculiar emphasis: “A very courageous man that. He served with me in the war. He never left my side so I recommended him for the V.C. He never leaves me now. And he is adequately armed.”
William returned to his carriage to lie awake, doze fitfully and at last to raise the blinds upon a landscape of vines and olives and dusty aromatic scrub.
*
At Marseilles he observed, but was too much occupied to speculate upon the fact, that his companion of the evening before had also left the train. He saw the dapper, slightly rotund figure slip past the barrier a few paces ahead of the valet, but immediately the stupendous responsibilities of his registered baggage pressed all other concerns from his mind.
Five
The ships which William had missed had been modern and commodious and swift; not so the Francmaçon in which he was eventually obliged to sail. She had been built at an earlier epoch in the history of steam navigation and furnished in the style of the day, for service among the high waves and icy winds of the North Atlantic. Late June in the Gulf of Suez was not her proper place or season. There was no space on her decks for long chairs; her cabins, devoid of fans, were aired only by tiny portholes, built to resist the buffeting of an angrier sea. The passengers sprawled listlessly on the crimson plush settees of the lounge. Carved mahogany panels shut them in; a heraldic ceiling hung threateningly overhead; light came to them, dimly, from behind the imitation windows of stained, armorial glass, and, blinding white, from the open door, whence, too, came the sounds of the winch, the smell of cargo and hot iron, the patter of bare feet and the hoarse, scolding voice of the second officer.
William sat in a hot, soft chair, a map of Ishmaelia open upon his knees, his eyes shut, his head lolling forwards on his chest, fast asleep, dreaming about his private school, now, he noted without surprise, peopled by Negroes and governed by his grandmother. An appalling brass percussion crashed and sang an inch or two from his ear. A soft voice said, “Lunce pliss.” The Javanese with the gong proceeded on his apocalyptic mission, leaving William hot and wet, without appetite, very sorry to be awake.
The French colonial administrator, who had been nursing his two children in the next armchair to William’s, rose briskly. It was the first time that day they had met face to face, so they shook hands and commented on the heat. Every morning, William found, it was necessary to shake hands with all the passengers.
“And madame?”
“She suffers. You are still studying the map of Ishmaelia…” they turned together and descended the staircase towards the dining saloon; the functionary leading a tottering child by either hand. “… It is a country of no interest.”
“No.”
“It is not rich at all. If it were rich it would already belong to England. Why do you wish to take it?”
“But I do not wish to.”
“There is no oil, there is no tin, no gold, no iron—positively none,” said the functionary, growing vexed at such unreasonable rapacity. “What do you want with it?”
“I am going as a journalist.”
“Ah well, to the journalist every country is rich.”
They were alone at their table. The functionary arranged his napkin about his open throat, tucked the lowest corner into his cummerbund and lifted a child on to either knee. It was always thus that he sat at meals, feeding them to repletion, to surfeit, alternately, from his own plate. He wiped his glass on the tablecloth, put ice into it, and filled it with the harsh, blue-red wine that was included free in the menu. The little girl took a deep draught. “It is excellent for their stomachs,” he explained, refilling for his son.
There were three empty places at their table. The administrator’s wife’s, the Captain’s and the Captain’s wife’s. The last two were on the bridge directing the discharge of cargo. The Captain led a life of somewhat blatant domesticity; half the boat deck was given up to his quarters, where a vast brass bedstead was visible through the portholes, and a variety of unseamanlike furniture. The Captain’s wife had hedged off a little verandah for herself with pots of palm and strings of newly laundered underclothes. Here she passed the day stitching, ironing, flopping in and out of the deck-house in heelless slippers, armed with a feather brush, often emerging in a dense aura of Asiatic perfume to dine in the saloon; a tiny, hairless dog capered about her feet. But in port she was always at her husband’s side, exchanging civilities with the company’s agents and the quarantine inspectors, and arranging, in a small way, for the transfer of contraband.
“Even supposing there is oil in Ishmaelia,” said the administrator, resuming the conversation which had occupied him ever since, on the first night of the voyage, William had disclosed his destination. “How are you going to get it out?”
“But I have no interest in commerce. I am going to report t
he war.”
“War is all commerce.”
William’s command of French, just adequate, inaccurately, for the exchange of general information and the bare courtesies of daily intercourse, was not strong enough for sustained argument, so now, as at every meal, he left the Frenchman victorious, saying “Peut-être,” with what he hoped was Gallic skepticism and turning his attention to the dish beside him.
It was a great, white fish, cold and garnished; the children had rejected it with cries of distress; it lay on a charger of imitation silver; the two brown thumbs of the colored steward lay just within the circle of mayonnaise; lozenges and roundels of colored vegetable spread symmetrically about its glazed back. William looked sadly at this fish. “It is very dangerous,” said the administrator. “In the tropics one easily contracts disease of the skin…”
… Far away the trout were lying among the cool pebbles, nose upstream, meditative, hesitant, in the waters of his home; the barbed fly, unnaturally brilliant overhead; they were lying, blue-brown, scarred by the grill, with white-bead eyes, in chaste silver dishes. “Fresh green of the river bank; faded terra-cotta of the dining-room wall-paper, colors of distant Canaan, of deserted Eden,” thought William—“are they still there? Shall I ever revisit those familiar places…?”
…”Il faut manger, il faut vivre,” said the Frenchman, “qu’est ce qu’il-y-a comme viande?”
And at that moment, suddenly, miasmically, in the fiery wilderness, there came an apparition.
A voice said in English, “Anyone mind if I park myself here?” and a stranger stood at the table, as though conjured there by William’s unexpressed wish; as though conjured, indeed, by a djinn who had imperfectly understood his instructions.
The newcomer was British but, at first sight, unprepossessing. His suit of striped flannel had always, as its tailor proudly remarked, fitted snugly at the waist. The sleeves had been modishly narrow. Now in the midday heat it had resolved into an alternation of wrinkles and damp adherent patches, steaming visibly. The double breasted waistcoat was unbuttoned and revealed shirt and braces.
“Not dressed for this climate,” remarked the young man, superfluously. “Left in a hurry.”
He sat down heavily in the chair next to William’s and ran his napkin round the back of his collar. “Phew. What does one drink on this boat?”
The Frenchman who had regarded him with resentment from the moment of his appearance, now leant forward and spoke, acidly.
The hot man smiled in an encouraging way and turned to William.
“What’s old paterfamilias saying?”
William translated literally. “He says that you have taken the chair of the Captain’s lady.”
“Too bad. What’s she like? Any good?”
“Bulky,” said William.
“There was a whopper upstairs with the Captain. What I call the Continental Figure. Would that be her?”
“Yes.”
“Definitely no good, old boy. Not for Corker anyway.”
The Frenchman leant towards William.
“This is the Captain’s table. Your friend must not come here except by invitation.”
“I do not know him,” said William. “It is his business.”
“The Captain should present him to us. This is a reserved place.”
“Hope I’m not butting in,” said the Englishman.
The steward offered him the fish; he examined its still unbroken ornaments and helped himself. “If you ask me,” he said cheerfully, his mouth full, “I’d say it was a spot off color, but I never do care much for French cooking. Hi, you, Alphonse, comprenez pint of bitter?”
The steward gaped at him, then at the fish, then at him again. “No like?” he said at last.
“No like one little bit, but that’s not the question under discussion. Me like a big tankard of Bass, Worthington, whatever you got. Look, comme ça,”—he made the motions of drinking—“I say, what’s the French for bitter?”
William tried to help.
The steward beamed and nodded.
“Whisky-soda?”
“All right, Alphonse, you win. Whisky-soda it shall be. Beaucoup whisky, beaucoup soda, tout-de-suite. The truth is,” he continued, turning to William, “my French is a bit rusty. You’re Boot of the Beast, aren’t you? Thought I might run into you. I’m Corker of the U.N. Just got on board with an hour to spare. Think of it; I was in Fleet Street on Tuesday; got my marching orders at ten o’clock, caught the plane to Cairo, all night in a car and here I am, all present and, I hope, correct. God, I can’t think how you fellows can eat this fish.”
“We can’t,” said William.
“Found it a bit high?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Corker, “the moment I saw it. Here, Alphonse, mauvais poisson—parfum formidable—prenez—et portez vite le whisky, you black bum.”
The Frenchman continued to feed his children. It is difficult for a man nursing two children, aged five and two and clumsy eaters at that, to look supercilious, but the Frenchman tried and Corker noticed it.
“Does the little mother understand English?” he asked William.
“No.”
“That’s lucky. Not a very matey bird?”
“No.”
“Fond of la belle France?”
“Well I can’t say I’ve ever been there—except to catch this ship.”
“Funny thing, neither have I. Never been out of England except once, when I went to Ostend to cover a chess congress. Ever play chess?”
“No.”
“Nor do I. God, that was a cold story.” The steward placed on the table a siphon and a bottle of whisky which carried the label “Edouard VIII: Very old Genuine Scotch Whisky: André Bloc et Cie, Saigon,” and the colored picture of a Regency buck, gazing skeptically at the consumer through a quizzing glass.
“Alphonse,” said Corker, “I’m surprised at you.”
“No like?”
“Bloody well no like.”
“Whisky-soda,” the man explained, patiently, almost tenderly, as though in the nursery. “Nice.”
Corker filled his glass, tasted, grimaced, and then resumed the interrupted enquiry. “Tell me honestly, had you ever heard of Ishmaelia before you were sent on this story?”
“Only very vaguely.”
“Same here. And the place I’d heard of was something quite different in the Suez Canal. You know, when I first started in journalism I used to think that foreign correspondents spoke every language under the sun and spent their lives studying international conditions. Brother, look at us! On Monday afternoon I was in East Sheen breaking the news to a widow of her husband’s death leap with a champion girl cyclist—the wrong widow as it turned out; the husband came back from business while I was there and cut up very nasty. Next day the Chief has me in and says, @Corker, you’re off to Ishmaelia.@ @Out of town job?@ I asked. @East Africa,@ he said, just like that, @pack your traps.@ @What’s the story?@ I asked. @Well,@ he said, @a lot of niggers are having a war. I don’t see anything in it myself, but the other agencies are sending feature men, so we’ve got to do something. We want spot news,@ he said, @and some color stories. Go easy on the expenses.@ @What are they having a war about?@ I asked. @That’s for you to find out,@ he said, but I haven’t found out yet. Have you?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters. Personally I can’t see that foreign stories are ever news—not real news of the kind U.N. covers.”
“Forgive me,” said William, “I’m afraid I know very little about journalism. What is U.N.?”
“No kidding?”
“No,” said William, “no kidding.”
“Never heard of Universal News?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, I won’t say we’re the biggest news agency in the country—some of the stuffier papers won’t take us—but we certainly are the hottest.”
“And what, please,” asked William,
“is a news agency?”
Corker told him.
“You mean that everything that you write goes to the Beast?”
“Well, that’s rather a sore point, brother. We’ve been having a row with you lately. Something about a libel action one of our boys let you in for. But you take the other agencies, of course, and I daresay you’ll patch it up with us. They’re featuring me as a special service.”
“Then why do they want to send me?”
“All the papers are sending specials.”
“And all the papers have reports from three or four agencies?”
“Yes.”
“But if we all send the same thing it seems a waste.”
“There would soon be a row if we did.”
“But isn’t it very confusing if we all send different news?”
“It gives them a choice. They all have different policies so of course they have to give different news.”
They went up to the lounge and drank their coffee together.
The winches were silent; the hatches covered. The agents were making their ceremonious farewells to the Captain’s wife. Corker sprawled back in his plush chair and lit a large cheroot.
“Given me by a native I bought some stuff off,” he explained. “You buying much stuff?”
“Stuff?”
“Oriental stuff—you know, curios.”
“No,” said William.
“I’m a collector—in a small way,” said Corker. “That’s one of the reasons why I was glad to be sent on this story. Ought to be able to pick up some pretty useful things out East. But it’s going to be a tough assignment from all I hear. Cut-throat competition. That’s where I envy you—working for a paper. You only have to worry about getting your story in time for the first edition. We have to race each other all day.”
“But the papers can’t use your reports any earlier than ours.”
“No, but they use the one that comes in first.”