Black Mischief (22 page)

March 15th (continued)

Dinner
at Palace. Food v. nasty. Course after course different kinds of meat, overseasoned
and swimming in grease. Tried to manage some of it from politeness. Sarah ate
nothing. Emperor asked great number of questions, some of which I was unable to
answer. How many suits of clothes had the King of England? Did he take his bath
before or after his breakfast? Which was the more civilized? What was the best
shop to buy an artesian well? etc. Sarah v. silent. Told Emperor about
co-education and ‘free-discipline’. Showed great interest.

Dame
Mildred’s neighbour on her other side was the punctilious man who had
prostrated himself in the drawing-room — he see med engrossed in his eating. In
point of fact he was rehearsing in his mind and steeling his nerve to enunciate
some English conversation in which he had painfully schooled himself during
that day; at last it came up suddenly.

“Ow
many ox ‘ave you?’ he demanded, lifting up sideways from his plate a great
bearded face, “ow many sons? ‘ow many daughters? ‘ow many brothers? ‘ow many
sisters? My father is dead fighting.’

Dame
Mildred turned to him a somewhat startled scrutiny. There were crumbs and
scraps of food in various parts of his beard. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said..

But the
old gentleman had shot his bolt; he felt that he had said all and more than all
that good breeding required, and to tell the truth was more than a little taken
aback by his own fluency. He gave her a nervous smile and resumed his dinner
without again venturing to address her.

‘Which of the white ladies
would you like to have?’

‘The
fat one. But both are ugly.’

‘Yes.
It must be very sad for the English gentlemen to marry English ladies.’

Presently, when the last
vitamin had been guzzled, Viscount Boaz rose to propose the health of the
guests of honour. His speech was greeted by loud applause and was then done
into English by the Court Interpreter.

‘Your
Majesty, Lords and Ladies. It is my privilege and delight this evening to
welcome with open arms of brotherly love to our city Dame Mildred Porch and
Miss Tin, two ladies renowned throughout the famous country of Europe for their
great cruelty to animals. We Azanians are a proud and ancient nation but we
have much to learn from the white people of the West and North. We too, in our
small way, are cruel to our animals’ — and here the Minister for the Interior
digressed at some length to recount with hideous detail what he had himself
once done with a woodman’s axe to a wild boar — ‘but it is to the great nations
of the West and North, especially to their worthy representatives that are with
us tonight, that we look as our natural leaders on the road of progress. Ladies
and gentlemen, we must be Modern, we must be refined in our Cruelty to Animals.
That is the message of the New Age brought to us by our guests this evening.
May I, in conclusion, raise my glass and ask you to join with me in wishing
them old age and prolonged fecundity.’

The
toast was drunk and the company sat down. Boaz’s neighbours congratulated him
on his speech. There seemed no need for a reply and, indeed, Dame Mildred,
rarely at a loss for telling phrases, would on this occasion have been hard put
to it to acknowledge the welcome in suitable terms. Seth appeared not to have
heard either version of the speech. He sat inattentive, his mind occupied with
remote speculation. Dame Mildred attempted two or three conversations.

‘A very
kind meant speech, but lie seems to misunderstand our mission … It is so
interesting to see your people in their own milieu. Do tell me who is who …
Have they entirely abandoned native costume? …’

But she
received only abstracted answers.

Finally
she said, ‘I was so interested to learn about your Uncle Achon. ‘ The Emperor
nodded. ‘I do hope they get him out of the monastery. Such a useless life, I
always think, and so selfish. It makes people introspective to think all the
time about their own souls, don’t you think? So sensible of that Earl of
wherever it is to go and look for him.’

But
Seth had not heard a word.

March 16th

Could
not sleep late after party. Attempted to telephone legation. No reply. Attempted
to see Mr Seal. Said he was too busy. No sign of Sarah’s trunk. She keeps
borrowing my things. Tried to
pin
down Emperor
last night, no result. Went for walk in town. V. crowded, no one working.
Apparently some trouble about currency. Saw man strike camel, would have
reported him but no policeman about. Begin to feel I am wasting my time here.

The
Monastery of St Mark the Evangelist, though infected of late with the taint of
heresy, was the centre of Azanian spiritual life. Here in remote times
Nestorian missionaries from Mesopotamia had set up a church, and here, when the
great Amurath proclaimed Christianity the official creed of the Empire, the old
foundations had been unearthed and a native community installed. A well-substantiated
tradition affirmed that the little river watering the estate was, in fact, the
brook Kedron conveyed there subterraneously; its waters were in continual
requisition for the relief of skin diseases and stubborn boils. Here too were
preserved, among other relics of less certain authenticity, David’s stone
prised out of the forehead of Goliath (a boulder of astonishing dimensions), a
leaf from the Barren Fig Tree, the rib from which Eve had been created and a
wooden cross which had fallen from heaven quite unexpectedly during Good
Friday luncheon some years back. Architecturally, however, there was nothing
very remarkable: no cloister or ambulatory, library, gallery, chapter house or
groined refectory. A cluster of mud huts around a larger hut; a single stone
building, the Church dedicated to St Mark by Amurath the Great. It could be
descried from miles around, perched on a site of supreme beauty, a shelf of the
great escarpment that overlooked the Wanda lowlands, and through it the brook Kedron,
narrowed at this season to a single thread of silver, broke into innumerable iridescent
cascades as it fell to join the sluggish Izol five thousand feet below. Great
rocks of volcanic origin littered the fields. The hillside was full of
unexplored caverns whence hyenas sallied out at night to exhume the corpses
which it was a pious practice to transport from all over the empire to await
the last trump on that holy ground.

The
Earl of Ngumo had made good time. The road lay through the Sakuyu cattle
country, high plains covered with brown slippery grass. At first the way led
along the caravan route to the royal cities of the north; a clearly defined
track well frequented. They exchanged greetings with mule trains coming into
market and unusual bands of travellers, loping along on foot, drawn to the
capital by the name of the great Gala and the magnetic excitement which all the
last weeks had travelled on the ether, radiating in thrilling waves to bazaar,
farm and jungle, gossiped about over camp fires, tapped out on hollow tree
trunks in the swamplands, sniffed, as it were, on the breeze, sensed by
subhuman faculties that something was afoot.

Later
they diverged into open country; only the heaps of stones bridging the
water-courses and an occasional wooden culvert told them they were still on the
right road. On the first night they camped among shepherds. The simple men
recognized a great nobleman and brought him their children to touch.

‘We
hear of changes in the great city.’

‘There
are changes.’

On the
second night they reached a little town. The headman had been forewarned of
their approach. He came out to meet them, prostrating himself and covering his
head with dust,

‘Peace be
upon your house.’

‘You
come from the great city of changes. What is your purpose among my people?’

‘I wish
well to your people. It is not suitable for the low to babble of what the high
ones do.’

They
slept in and around the headman’s hut; in the morning he brought them honey and
eggs, a trussed chicken, dark beer in a jug and a basket of flat bread: they
gave him salt in bars, and continued their journey.

The third
night they slept in the open; there was a picket of royal Guards somewhere in
that country. Late on the fourth day they reached the Monastery of St Mark the
Evangelist.

A monk
watching on the hilltop sighted them and fired a single musket shot into the still
air; a troop of baboons scattered frightened into the rocks. In the church
below the great bell was rung to summon the community. The Abbot under his
yellow sunshade stood in the enclosure to greet them; he wore steel-rimmed
spectacles. A little deacon beside him plied a horsehair fly whisk.

Obeisance
and benediction. The Earl presented the Patriarch’s letter of commendation,
which was slipped un-opened into the folds of the Abbot’s bosom, for it is not
etiquette to show any immediate curiosity about such documents. Official
reception in the twilit hut; the Earl seated on a chair hastily covered with
carpet. The chief men of the monastery stood round the wall with folded hands.
The Abbot opened the letter of introduction, spat and read it aloud amid grunts
of approval; it was all preamble and titles of honour; no word of business. A
visit to the shrine of the Barren Fig Tree; the Earl kissed the lintel of the
door three times, laid his forehead against the steps of the sanctuary and made
a present of a small bag of silver. Dinner in the Abbot’s lodging; it was one
of the numerous fast days of the Nestorian Church; vegetable mashes in wooden
bowls, one of bananas, one of beans, earthenware jugs and brown vessels of
rough beer. Ponderous leave-takings for the night. The Earl’s tent meanwhile
had been pitched in the open space within the enclosure; his men squatted on
guard; they had made a fire; two or three monks joined them; soon they began
singing, wholly secular words in monotonous cadence. Inside the tent a single
small lamp with floating wick. The Earl squatted among his rugs waiting for the
Abbot who, he knew, would come that night. Presently through the flap of the
tent appeared the bulky white turban and straggling beard of the prelate. The
two great men squatted opposite each other, on either side of the little lamp;
outside the guards singing at the camp fire; beyond the stockade the hyenas and
a hundred hunting sounds among the rocks. Grave courtesies:

‘Our
little convent resounds with the fame of the great Earl … his prowess in
battle and in bed … the thousand enemies slain by his hand … the lions he
has speared … his countless progeny …

‘All my
life I have counted the days wasted until I saluted the Abbot … his learning
and sanctity … his dauntless fidelity to the faith, his chastity … the
austerities of his spiritual practices …’

Slowly
by a multitude of delicately graded steps the conversation was led to a more
practical level. Was there any particular object in the Earl’s visit, other
than the infinite joy afforded to all by his presence?

What
object could be more compelling than the universal ambition to pay respect to
the Abbot and the glorious shrine of the Barren Fig Tree? But there was, as it
so happened, a little matter, a thing scarcely worth a thought, which since he
were here, the Earl might mention if it would not be tedious to his host.

Every
word of the Earl’s was a jewel, valued beyond human computation; what was this
little matter?

It was
an old story … in the days of His Beatitude Gorgias of evil memory … a
prisoner, brought to the convent; now an old man … One of whom only high ones
might speak … supposing that this man were alive …

‘Oh,
Earl, you speak of that towards which my lips and ears are sealed. There are
things which are not suitable.’

‘Abbot,
once there comes a time for everything when it must be spoken of.’

‘What
should a simple monk know of these high affairs? But I have indeed heard it
said that in the times of His Beatitude Gorgias of evil memory, there was such
a prisoner.’

‘Does
he still live?’

‘The
monks of St Mark the Evangelist guard their treasures well.’

After
this all-important admission they sat for some time in silence; then the Abbot
rose and with ample formalities left his guest to sleep. Both parties felt that
the discussion had progressed almost too quickly. There were decencies to be
observed.

Negotiations
were resumed after Mass next morning and occupied most of the day; before they
parted for the night Earl and Abbot had reduced their differences to a monetary
basis. Next morning the price was decided and Achon, son of Amurath, legitimate
Emperor of Azania, Chief of the Chiefs of Sakuyu, Lord of Wanda and Tyrant of
the Seas, was set at liberty.

The
event took place without ceremony. After a heavy breakfast of boiled
goat’s-meat, cheese, olives, smoked mutton, goose and mead — it was one of the
numerous feast days of the Nestorian Church — the Earl and the Abbot set out
for the hillside unaccompanied except by a handful of slaves. A short climb
from the compound brought them to the mouth of a small cave.