East of Suez (22 page)

“Thomas, is there anything you
don’t
know?” This from Fiona. “I mean, I
know
you surprise all of us most of the time. I remember when … when you didn’t … Never mind. I suppose you know everything?” Fiona asked. I could see that Lanier had to struggle for a suitably modest answer, which I missed because the food was once more moving around the table. O’Mahannay patted Thomas on the arm as a final gesture of thanks, then went back to his dinner. It took a minute or two before the conversation got going again.

“The French changed the whole concept of local cooking,” Father O’Mahannay said. “The other chief influences are from the Buddhist north and the Muslim south. They have left the Bengali influence out completely, I think. Some of the dishes are Persian. I think we are dining well tonight.”

“I can’t fathom what
this
is,” whispered Fiona to her neighbor.

“Something very special for you,” Chester Ranken said, looking like a womanizer on television.

“I won’t tell you it’s an eyeball,” said Thomas loudly, grinning back at Ranken.

“But I
like
it!” insisted Beverley, as though she might get an argument. Fiona reached across the table and gave Bev the rest of hers.

“Sorry I don’t have more,” she said, and got a simulated sour look from her friend.

“Don’t forget, Father, that you now can get McDonald’s hamburgers and Kentucky Fried Chicken in several places along Ex-Charpentier Avenue.” A jab at his own people from the policeman. Was he trying to turn the gathering in a political direction, or was he making a joke? I looked at his name again where I had scribbled it.

Beverley was reorganizing herself: adjusting the placement of her plate and wineglass. When she had finished doing her own, she began working on the place settings of her neighbors. She did it slowly and without interfering with the conversation which went on around her. Of the whole company, apart from myself and Billy, Beverley was the most ill at ease. She kept looking at Billy when she thought he wasn’t watching. Was Billy her shy novelist? The one she was looking for? I watched him myself to see if he measured up to what I imagined a successful novelist looked like. I couldn’t imagine choosing Billy’s cover. But what did I know? When Beverley sent a smile across the table at me, the policeman noted it and mopped his chin with his napkin. In spite of the air conditioning, the room was hot and not without tension.

Billy Savitt said, “Yes, I know you can find fast food all over the world today. But the food here—I mean in this restaurant, not just in town—can compare with the
best
food served
anywhere
.” He coughed into his napkin.

I seem to be fated to run into food snobs wherever I go. I enjoy my food; I’ve even, back in Canada, thanks to Anna Abraham, got to know more about a wider variety of dishes than the ones I was brought up on. So far, I have failed to make a cult of it. And I think that chefs are more often floored by praise from vocal customers than they are by complaints that the wine has gone off. I had just vowed to say nothing of this to the company, when Chet said it for me. At this, Father O’Mahannay’s eyes blazed. He sucked in a big breath.

“You’re always saying that, Chet. It only proves that you have eaten too many hamburgers in your time. McDonald’s has killed your palate. Too many
steak-frites
. Not everyone has the capacity—”

“He won’t be put off by that, you tedious, lovable old fraud,” Lanier put in.

“You must know that there’s not a long way between the worst roast beef sandwich and the best,” Chester said. “It’s not the same distance as, say, between a good book and a rotten one. A county cricket club and what you might see at Lord’s. How far wrong can you go in boiling water to cook noodles in?”

“You can cook them in
broth
, for a start!” The priest was still smiling when he turned to the rest of us. “Chet gets carried away by his passion! You see how deeply he is committed to good cuisine.” He had caught Chet with his mouth open and his chopsticks inserting a fat morsel. “Look at him! He makes my argument better than I could have made it myself.”

I tried to move the discussion out of the kitchen and into the realm of politics. When fresh platters of food arrived, they came with a flourish of waiters in black and white with lots of silverplate on view and much steam and fuss. I thought it must be time for dessert. I got something very like sweet meatballs with gravy. The people around me looked happy with their choices, and the conversation went underground as the eating began. I tried to rekindle the talk with a question.

“Tell me, who actually runs this place?”

“But he came out with the Gâteau St Honoré.”

“No, no, no. Not the
restaurant
. I mean this
country
. Miranam.”

“Oh! Well, the top man is Gau Deemark,” the priest said. “
General
Gau Deemark. He conferred that title on himself a few years ago. That’s not telling tales out of school, is it, Colonel?”

The policeman, whose mouth was full at that moment, mimed his approbation with head and hands. After he had swallowed, he said: “Tonight I am not a colonel, not even a policeman. Think of me as simply another of this happy table.” His speech was just a touch formal. I thought it might be interesting to see who opened up and who buttoned up. In the end, he opened the door himself: “You know, Mr Cooperman, there is but one general in all Miranam. When our leader took the title, he demoted all other generals. The word is used now only with reference to Gau Deemark. You will find here no
general
contractors,
general
hospitals, or
general
practitioners. Large American corporations work here under names that they use only here: Universal Electric, Major Mills, International Motors. You need to wear specially tinted sunglasses in Miranam, Mr Cooperman.”

Then Father O’Mahannay went on: “He was bounced out of Sandhurst not for smuggling dope, booze, or women into his rooms, but for showing very little aptitude for field gunnery. He makes the laws and he is top of the list of the people who break them. He’s not a thug or gangster, not in the usual way. He’s the sort of fellow who might enjoy your piano-playing. Next day he’ll send a truck to pick up your piano. The day after that, he hauls you off to jail because the piano won’t play as well at the palace. He’s not mean-spirited. A practical man.”

The policeman’s face was redder than it had been. It wasn’t because something had gone down the wrong way. I reached for my wine and emptied the glass. The faces around me had lost the look of polite interest in what was being said. I let the waiter fill the glass again.

“He’s spoiled,” Fiona suggested, breaking the brief silence. “The French spoiled him, gave him too much for a boy that age. Now the multinationals spoil him.”

“So he rules by whim?”

“Oh,
le roi s’amuse
, but he has counselors: the Council of State. They keep him within bounds. His appetites are venal, not political.”

“So if you go into business here, and you make a go of it, he could move in and take it away from you?” I asked, hoping that the answer would simplify my job.

“Happens all the time. Twice in three years.”

“Is that what happened to that outfit I went diving with?”

“Poseidon Outfitters,” Beverley added to be helpful.

“I heard something about that lot. American, weren’t they?”

“
That
wasn’t Gau Deemark,” O’Mahannay said. “That’s not one of Gau Deemark’s interests. But his habits and practices have rubbed off on the people below him. The usual pattern is this: Gau Deemark picks out a young officer in the National Guard and brings him up the hill to Government House. In six months’ time he is running everything with the blessing of the Council of State. A year later, they are looking for ways to unload him. They intrigue, they scheme. But Gau Deemark stands behind his man. He swears that he will defend him to the death. But in the end, the man is sacrificed to prevent a rising, a coup, or the resignation of the council
en masse
. That’s the way the world goes round south of Bangkok.”

“So, it was one of these jumped-up young officers?”

The policeman was studying my face. He gave me a beingwatched feeling, and I didn’t like it.

“Why the interest, dear boy?”

“Are you planning to write a detective story, Mr Cooperman?” the policeman asked innocently. The look that followed his question should have put me on my guard. Instead, I looked at my wineglass.

“I went diving with that outfit yesterday. I heard about it on the boat going out to the reef. What’s the name of the present golden boy? And how far along the road has he come?”

“Fred Rungchiva has been the golden boy for over a year,” Beverley said. “He’s played his cards well, much better than most of the others. But I wouldn’t be surprised to see him disappear before this time next year. He’s pissed off quite a few people.”

“And when he goes? Will there be a public trial? What will happen to him?”

“Ben,” the priest replied, “many things here in Takot, in all of Miranam, are similar to things you know from home. But the police are another matter. Officially, the country abolished capital punishment after the Second World War. May I speak my mind freely, Colonel? There was cheering in the streets as the last rusty old guillotine was put on a boat and sent back to Mother France. There are no public executions. There aren’t even private ones. Officially, a murderer, for instance, is sent to prison for life. But not a long one. Officially, he dies trying to escape, of a ruptured spleen, or various and sundry questionable causes.”

That killed conversation for a while. The sound of chopsticks and ceramic spoons was heard in the land. The waiters came and went whispering of the weather in Tashkent. I held the wine under my nose for a few seconds before drinking down the contents. I let the waiter fill the glass again.

The conversation started again, as though we had all been sharing our silent thoughts, like our minds were partaking of the same thoughtful stew. Chester Ranken was the first to speak.

“All this within the walls of the Central Prison. The locals, you know, call it ‘the meat safe.’ I’ve seen some rough lock-ups in my day. This is one of the toughest.”

“So there’s no accountability? People go missing? People disappear?”

“Happens all the time,” our host replied. “Life is cheap in Takot, dear boy.”

“I say, you didn’t expect to read about that sort of thing in your guidebook, did you, Vicar?” Savitt’s eyes opened wide when he heard his own words. “Saving your reverence, Father.”

“
Ego te absolvo
, old chap.”

“You must do your best to stay out of jail, Mr Cooperman.” This was the policeman’s first comment on what the priest had said. “You must avoid taking unnecessary chances.”

That was the second clear warning to keep my nose clean. Fiona had warned me off earlier. People were so accommodating! I didn’t know what to say, so I said: “Please call me Ben.”

I looked down as though from a great height. My glass was empty again. I let the waiter replenish it. I watched the wine bubble and change colors as it filled the glass. I tried to catch up to the conversation, but as soon as I found a new starting place, I lost it again. I think it was politics. Someone said something very short and neat about beautiful women. Something about cleaning the palate. I tried to make the phrase come true in the agreeable face sitting nearby. She didn’t catch my eye or return my look. The wineglass was empty again. Having had the last drop of green tea (laced with God knows what) near me, I took a sip of my other drink, some sort of fortified wine, I think. One sip led to another. The wine was excellent.
All of them
said it was. (I don’t ask you to take
my
word for it—my taste in fine wines stops at Manischewitz Passover wine.) In my head I could hear the others going on and on about food and politics and politics and food until the leftover sauces were lying cold and congealed in their serving dishes. And I could feel myself growing relaxed and affable. Comfortable in this company. “We few, we happy few, we band of …” These were my kind of people. I heard laughter. Even the policeman was laughing. I was becoming witty. I was telling them about the old canal town I came from, about the football team and how they lost the cup. I told the story of how Jake’s last-minute touchdown was declared illegal because there were too many men on the field. I was funny, informed, and the words came easily.

At the time, I didn’t feel its evil influence. I didn’t hear it banging away at my brain pan. The more I drank, the looser my tongue became, until I heard myself saying: “Jake was the best football player we ever had at Grantham Collegiate. And Vicky as cheerleader was an extra treat. Did any of you know Vicky and Jake well? Does anyone know why they disappeared?” The table had become very quiet suddenly. My own voice drifted off into the silence I never should have abandoned. My mother had told me years ago that the only person who might drink on the job was a politician.

“I knew them when they first came out here. They—” Here Father O’Mahannay broke off, and for a moment you could hear the rain out in the street and the blast of wind on the awnings. I had made a bad mistake, and everybody could see that I’d made it. I tried to recapture lost ground by saying that I’d heard a lot about the couple on the boat out to the reef. But Beverley knew this was not so and so did everybody else. I remembered the other old adage: never retreat, never apologize, never explain. I kept on talking, probably about the wonders I saw on the reef or in the bazaar. I’m not exactly sure of what I said because I’d stopped listening. I had heard about trouble all my life. I’d been in trouble from time to time at home. But not like this. This was trouble with no out card, trouble that would end up with a “Freight Paid” sticker on the box to be returned to my grieving parents.

BOOK THREE