Short Fiction of Flann O'Brien (Irish Literature) (15 page)

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Malay Archipelago 1896
by A. E. Williams:

When sago is to be made, a full-grown tree is selected just before it is going to flower. It is cut down close to the ground, the leaves and leafstalks cleared away and a broad strip of the bark taken off the upper side of the trunk. This exposes the pithy matter, which is of a rusty colour near the bottom of the tree, but higher up pure white, about as hard as a dry apple, but with woody fibres running through it about a quarter of an inch apart. The pith is cut or broken down into a coarse powder, by means of a tool constructed for the purpose. . . .

Water is poured on the mass of pith, which is kneaded and pressed against the strainer till the starch is all dissolved and has passed through, when the fibrous refuse is thrown away, and a fresh basketful put in its place. The water charged with sago passes to a trough, with a depression in the centre, where the sediment is deposited, the surplus water trickling off by a shallow outlet. When the trough is nearly full, the mass of starch, which has a slight reddish tinge, is made into cylinders of about thirty pounds’ weight, and neatly covered with sago leaves, and in this state is sold as raw sago. Boiled with water, this forms a thick glutinous mass, with a rather astringent taste, and is eaten with salt, limes and chillies. Sago bread is made in large quantities, by baking it into cakes in a small clay oven containing six or eight slits, side by side, each about three-quarters of an inch wide and six to eight inches square. The raw sago is broken up, dried in the sun, powdered, and finely sifted. The oven is heated over a clear fire of embers, and is lightly filled with sago powder. The openings are then covered up with a flat piece of sago bark, and in about five minutes the cakes are turned out sufficiently baked. The hot cakes are very nice with butter, and when made with the addition of a little sugar and grated cocoa-nut, are quite a delicacy. They are soft, and something like corn-flour cakes, but have a slight characteristic flavour which is lost in the refined sago we use in this country. When not wanted for immediate use, they are dried for several days in the sun, and tied up in bundles of twenty. They will then keep for years; they are very hard, and very rough and dry.

Tim closed the book, finished the remains of his drink and thoughtfully re-charged his glass. He frowned a little as he filled his pipe. How could people seriously attempt to live on sago? Is it really a staple, such as bread made from wheaten flour is with us? And would those easterly people think it very odd that the Irish should put such trust in potatoes, even if the potatoes were (as assuredly they were not) Earthquake Wonders? By all accounts the Garden of Eden was not marshy and it was fairly sure that no lofty sago trees there kept off the heat of the sun, any more than Adam and Eve dug the sinless soil for the world’s first potatoes. He kindled the pipe and half-closed his eyes in reverie
.

The door flew inward with a noise and Sarsfield Slattery hurried inward, alert and frowning a bit.

“Tim, was Billy Colum here?”

“No. Nobody was here. Why?”

“I was bringing him up a cup of tea and a slice of brown bread. The Doctor told me to keep an eye on him. He’s gone!”

“
Gone
? Heavens, I was just reading some stuff here about sago to please the Doctor, and, well . . . thinking . . . and drinking. I thought Billy was working away down there.”

“Well, he has disappeared off the face of the earth. The Doctor is at your place. I’d better ring him.”

Tim nodded helplessly.

“I suppose it would be the wise thing,” he agreed.

6

At Poguemahone Hall Tim decided to leave Sarsfield and go up to Crawford MacPherson’s private quarters alone. His own life having so swiftly proceeded from simplicity to complexity, he now began to fear boundless confusion and resolved for his own part to be more than careful. What untold things might not result from the collision of the drug-charged Doctor and a foreigner with no right command of her wits? What incomparable things might happen in the house of Ned Hoolihan while the owner was up in an aeroplane mapping his oil empire in Texas or marking the spot of a rogue gusher? Tim knocked on the door and entered.

Doctor the Hon. Eustace Baggeley was elegantly sprawled on the broad sofa, smiling broadly with a gleam in his eyes. Crawford MacPherson was in the armchair by the fire: not annoyed, not genial but seemingly in an acceptable neutral humour.

“Well, Tim, what’s the trouble?” she asked.

“My dear boy, you look pale,” the Doctor beamed.

Tim ventured to take a seat, for his own ingestion of Locke’s had somewhat dissipated his natural reticence.

“I thought I should let you know, Doctor, that your man Billy Colum has disappeared. Sarsfield Slattery missed him and after we searched and shouted for him, we thought we should come over here and let you know right away.”

MacPherson put the glass in her hand on the table.

“What’s this, Doctor? People disappearing? Innocent bodies being whisked away? I thought things were settled in this country.”

The Doctor airily waved a hand.

“My dear Crawford, nothing in this world is ever settled. Billy is a queer little man, full of whims and crucified with rheumatism. He’ll probably show up again in a few days. Maybe he has gone to see his old mother in Killoochter. Did he leave a message, Tim?”

“He left nothing, sir. Just disappeared.”

MacPherson stood up.

“It seems it is just my misfortune to walk into some sort of criminality at your Castle, Doctor. A thing that smells of agrarian kidnapping, Fenianism or something of the kind. Where are the police? I can ring up the American Ambassador in Dublin if there is a telephone in working order in this unholy district.”

The Doctor also rose, intact in his good humour.

“My dear lady, nothing of the kind. Billy is quite harmless, and a first-class carpenter. He was panelling a hallway for me. We don’t keep office hours in this country, you know. You never can tell. He might have suddenly remembered that he had to post a letter and there’s a two-mile walk in that job.”

The lady snorted.

“I have no doubt at all,” she said in a hard voice, “that your wretched potatoes inflict weakness in the head as well as in the bones. All the same, he is your workman, Doctor. We had better go and investigate.”

“But, my dear Crawford. . . .”

“At once!”

In a surprisingly quick time coats and hats had been got and the company, including Sarsfield Slattery, were getting into the Doctor’s aged Bentley. Nothing could disturb his panache and, as the car started, he gave his new passenger caution of what to expect from the unkempt country roads of Ireland, even if the journey was less than a mile.

“I am not a complete tyro, Doctor,” she replied. “I got off the liner near Cork and drove up here in my Packard, and it couldn’t be worse in the highlands of Kangchenjunga. Why haven’t the people here smart ponies and traps instead of those donkey-carts?”

“Ponies,” replied the Doctor, “are useless for agricultural labour in the little fields. We need all-purpose animals here, and cars that can carry potatoes and manure as well as people. In my Army days outside Singapore we had ploughing done by cows. Did you ever eat yak butter, Crawford?”

“I did not, sir. I take it you have never heard of sago butter?”

The Doctor laughed.

“Indeed no, but though delicious, like sago cheese, it’s hardly as nourishing as cows’ butter.”

“
Nourishing
? That’s the nonsense to be heard from doctors all over the world—
nourishing
. Are potatoes nourishing? The purpose of food is to keep people alive,
and in their own country
. Potatoes are hardly known at all in the States. It is surprising how easy it is for the Irish who get there to forget their native spuds.”

“That reminds me,” Sarsfield interjected. “Billy Colum missed his dinner.”

The Doctor had been driving his gallant old car and was now nearing his own splendid castellated entrance, always hospitably open, with the pushed-back gates permanently immured in stones and bracken.

“Here we are at Sarawad, Crawford. The word sarawad is Gaelic and means ‘before long.’ A delightful name, you’ll agree. It spells out hope, and better times to come.”

Looking about her, the lady said:

“There’s a lot of loose, foolish talk out of the people here—all of them. The climate may take part of the blame but not all of it. I hope you have a drink in the house, Doctor?”

The Doctor had pulled up and reached for the doors.

“Here we are, madame. Sarawad Castle, home of peerless foodstuffs and the true, the blushful Hippocrene.”

Crawford MacPherson did not waste time or admiration on the fine old door or the lofty entrance hall, nor on the gaming weapons and animals’ heads which crowded its walls; she seemed to be leading the party, as if she owned the Castle, up the stairs to the lounge which had been the scene of Billy’s labours. The artificial walls of teak, flawless and complete, gleamed in the evening light while a chair, a saw, and the neat mess a good carpenter leaves behind were in the middle of the floor.

“He was finishing the job here as I passed down,” the Doctor said, tapping a section of the wall. “I gave him a little bit of a hand and he appeared to be his usual good self.”

“Was he sober?” MacPherson asked.

“Sober as the day he was born because Billy never touched intoxicating drink. It wasn’t that drink was against his rule, or mine either, but it played hell with his rheumatism. You see, his rheumatism was congenital, the poor man. He was a martyr to that disorder but he never complained nor let himself be depressed.”

“He offered all his pains up to God,” Tim said piously.

MacPherson glowered about the room and from face to face.

“How could a cripple be a carpenter?” she demanded.

“Oh, the Doctor himself looks after him,” Sarsfield replied. “He gets by all right, ma’am.”

“Don’t you dare call me ma’am!”

“You see, Crawford,” the Doctor interposed, “his trouble is not really old-fashioned inflammation of the muscles and joint tissue but a verruculose affection of the tendons. Very disabling and discouraging but a dart from me restores him to condition, rather like winding up an alarm clock. You may be sure I look after my staff.”

“I see. His muscles are all right but his tendons are permanently wrecked. I imagine that situation would make him worse. Has he been given to disappearing like this?”

“Not really, Crawford,” the Doctor replied amiably. “But he takes his own time at a job, and goes about it in his own way. You see, we’re a sort of happy family here. Billy Colum was a bit of an artist. You can’t hurry a man of that kind—not if you want a proper stylish job done.”

“And tell me, Doctor, do those injections sicken or upset him in any way?”

“Yerra not at all. They sometimes make him sing, help to take him out of himself. Help him to get a good night’s sleep, too, for he does have a touch of insomnia.”

“But does he eat properly?”

“Lord save us,” Tim interrupted, “
eat?
He’s so hungry most days he’d eat a dead Christian Brother. When Billy sits down he clears the decks. Give him a bucket of Irish stew—potatoes, onion, and any God’s amount of meat, boiling hot, and he’ll shovel it down the inside of his neck like a man possessed.”

MacPherson glared at him.

“You mean, young man, that he is addicted to gluttony? Doctor, could we pay a visit to your own quarters, just the two of us?”

“A pleasure, Crawford.”

Tim and Sarsfield looked at each other ruefully as their betters departed. This lady made as little distinction as between persons and classes. She was just as overbearing and peremptory with the Doctor as with them and apparently thought her husband’s money had demolished all barriers.

“This ould wan,” Sarsfield mused, “is getting a bit on my nerves.”

“Is that so, my poor man,” Tim rejoined drily. “This is the first time she has been here, possibly the last time. I have to live with her, day and night, and she may be staying at Poguemahone for years—
for years
, man. How would you like changing places with me?”

“I’d rather go to the States, like Hoolihan. But Billy . . . I know that the Doc sometimes gives him a dart of his own needle. Something terrible is going to happen. I didn’t hear Billy leave the house, in fact I didn’t miss him till I went to call him for his dinner.”

“What’s all the fuss about?” Tim asked irritably. “He finished his job. He finished his job and maybe decided to slope off for a drink. You heard the Doc say that Billy was a total abstainer? That was a good one.”

“Listen, Tim,” Sarsfield said earnestly, “you know very well Billy doesn’t get ideas of that kind. When he’s tired working, and hungry, the only idea in his head is to make a ferocious attack on his dinner. You know that very well.”

Tim did not pay much attention, for he was examining and testing the panelling—a job well done, he had to confess, and skillfully.

“Let’s hope,” he said at last, “that Billy won’t be found drowned in a bog hole.”

“Does her ladyship let you smoke?” Sarsfield asked.

“What?” Tim rasped. “Me, smoke? I’ll smoke my pipe any time and anywhere I want to.”

Sarsfield lit a cigarette and pulled gratefully at it, undeterred by returning voices.

“Since you have the instrument, my dear,” the Doctor said reentering, “you might give the chests of those two boys a run over. They are divils for smoking, a thing I personally steer clear of. Any news, boys?”

“Not a thing,” Tim said as he noticed that MacPherson was swinging a stethoscope.

“Holy God,” muttered Sarsfield, taken aback.

“Show me again, Doctor,” MacPherson said briskly, “just where the missing man finished his work.”

“Surely,” the Doctor replied. “I stopped to talk to him and gave him a slight amateur’s helping hand just here, look.”

She nodded and, with ear-pieces in place, began to run the bell of the stethoscope over that particular part of the wall, stooping to cover the lower parts. Suddenly she stood upright and wheeled round.