The Seersucker Whipsaw (22 page)

“Mr. Shartelle, Mr. Upshaw?”

“Yes, sir,” Shartelle said.

“Mr. Duncan's compliments, Sah, and would-you-do-him-the-honor-of-accepting-this-transport?” The last part was pure rote.

“Why, we'd be most honored,” Shartelle said happily, slipping into his fresh seersucker jacket and giving his vest a slight tug. He got his black hat on his head at a proper angle, clamped a twisty cigar between his teeth, and we went out, down the steps, and into the back seat of His Excellency's Rolls-Royce.

The liveried chauffeur closed the door, went around to the right-hand side where he slipped behind the wheel, and skillfully backed the car to the turnaround spot in the driveway. We rolled grandly down the drive and out into the street, on our way to Government House.

“Now ain't this fine, Petey—couple of country boys sitting up tall and straight in the back end of His Excellency's Rolls-Royce limousine.” He shook his head in frank admiration of the fate that had befallen him, gave his cigar a couple of puffs, and tapped a little ash into a convenient tray. “You ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, Pete?”

“I've been in Duffy's Bentley. It's the same car, but it's not really the same.”

“What you reckon His Excellency wants to see us about? You recollect his name?”

“Sir Charles Blackwelder. Call him Sir Charles.”

“Happy to,” Shartelle said. “Be most happy to. I believe he wants to see us about the election and maybe give us a little advice. I believe I'll do him the honor of listening. Man who's been out here as long as he has might just have picked up an idea or two.”

The driver steered the big car expertly through the crowded streets of Ubondo, apparently looking neither left nor right, and sounding the mellow horn only at the occasional goat or chicken who failed to recognize the official limousine. The traffic policewoman whom we had spotted the day before saw the Rolls approach and stopped cars from moving in any direction. The driver seemed to take no notice, but Shartelle grinned broadly.

Government House was built on the highest point in Ubondo, on the peak of one of the hills that ringed the town. The Rolls sped up a winding, metaled road that was bordered by carefully tended flowers and shrubs. The road doubled back on itself several times, and when we were on its outside edge the view of Ubondo was spectacular. Not beautiful. That town would never be beautiful. But it was spectacular.

“Looky there, Pete,” Shartelle said. “That sight just makes me shake all over with nastiness … just like I'd chewed up four aspirins.”

“It's some view,” I replied.

Government House was two stories high, painted white with a red tile roof, and it seemed to have grown from a rather simple, oblong structure into an imposing mansion complete with porte cochere where the driver parked the car. He hopped out quickly and ran around to open the door for us. As we got out, a man of about Shartelle's age started down the steps. He had a smile underneath his brush mustache. He moved down the steps quickly, and held his back stiffly straight. Either he wore a corset, I decided, or he had spent twenty years in the British Army. “I'm Ian Duncan,” he told us. “The A.D.C. Let's see, you'd be Mr. Shartelle—” They shook hands. “And Mr. Upshaw.” We shook hands. “If you'll just come along, I'll let you sign the book and then I'll announce you to H.E.”

We walked through fifteen-foot-high doors into a hall with a ceiling that was even higher. An Albertian clerk dozed over what seemed to be a reception desk. At one side was a stand with a large guestbook. Both Shartelle and I signed and marked the date. Duncan looked on with what seemed to be interest. He nudged the clerk awake and then said: “It's down the hall and to the right.” He walked briskly ahead of us, his head back, his chest out, chin in. His heels clicked loudly on the tile floor as we moved past a series of photographs of what I took to be former governors of the region dressed in full regalia. There were some tall-backed chairs along the wall that looked as if no one had sat in them since 1935. Duncan came to a set of twin doors, also fifteen feet high and four feet wide. He grasped the polished brass handles firmly, gave them an expert twist, and shoved both doors open simultaneously. Then he moved smartly to our left and stood parallel with the door. He didn't look at us; he looked straight ahead, and his voice could have been heard across any good-sized parade ground.

“Mr! Clinton! Shartelle! and Mr! Peter! Upshaw! from the United! States! of America!”

Shartelle and I later agreed that there should have been music. Maybe “Dixie” or “America, the Beautiful.” There was a good sixty-foot walk to the far end of the long room where the gray-looking man sat quietly at the carved oak desk. Shartelle snapped straight up and I noticed my own muscles responding as we walked that sixty feet, the longest sixty feet in the world. From the side of his mouth, Shartelle whispered: “My, ain't they got style!” As we grew near we could see Sir Charles Blackwelder regarding us with a faintly quizzical expression, as if we were some new and not too reputable neighbors come to call for the first time. He rose to his feet when we were fifteen feet away. There were three comfortable-looking chairs arranged in front of his desk.

The introductions were made by Duncan who sat in the chair farthest to the left. Shartelle sat in the middle and I was placed on the right. Sir Charles lounged in his high- backed executive type chair and smiled at us. It was a slight smile. There were a lot of lines in his face, I noticed, especially around the eyes and the corners of his mouth. It was a good, long wedge-shaped face with gray hair brushed to one side to cover a bald spot. His eyebrows were straight and dark and his eyes were a curious dark blue. He wore a white suit, white shirt, and a green tie fastened in a large knot. There was some kind of signet ring on his left hand.

“Politics, I understand, brings you gentlemen to Albertia,” Sir Charles said.

“That's correct, sir,” Shartelle said.

“At first I thought it strange that Chief Akomolo should pick an American firm. But then I thought it over, and it wasn't strange at all. Not at all. He hates us, you know. Oh, not individually perhaps—but as a collective whole. The man simply doesn't like the English. How do you get on with him?”

“So far, very well,” Shartelle said. I decided that he could be spokesman.

“You're an expert on politics, I believe, Mr. Shartelle?”

“I earn a living at it.”

“And you are a public relations expert, Mr. Upshaw?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I should say that you both have your work cut out for you during the next six weeks. I can't, for the life of me, predict who's going to win and I really can't see that it will make much difference.”

“Only to the winner—and the losers,” Shartelle said. “It usually makes a great deal of difference to them.”

“To be sure. But I'm not at all convinced that it will make much difference to Albertia as a country after independence. Of course, independence here will be more or less routine. The ceremonies will be kept to a minimum. It will happen three days after the results are in and the winner is acclaimed—or the coalition—or what have you. Then there will be merely a simple formality of handing over the reins of government. I shall be going home before that; I doubt that I shall be back to see it. I'd like to, really.”

I found something to say to that, and Shartelle asked: “How long have you been in Albertia, Sir Charles?”

“I came out in 1934. I was posted up north as an assistant district officer. It was different then. I'm not saying it was better, mind you, but it was different. It seems—and perhaps this is just memory playing tricks—but it seems to me that my Albertian friends and I had some rather good times together then. We would laugh more, have jolly parties, occasionally get drunk together, and sometimes I would put a few of them in jail for a day or so. And occasionally they'd play some rather unpleasant tricks on me, but on the whole we got along famously. Out in the bush.

“But tell me, Mr. Shartelle, why do you think your American brand of politics will work here in Albertia?”

“It's not a brand, Sir Charles. It's merely politics.”

“And you think it applies to Albertians as well as to Americans—and say the English?”

“It's a theory that'll undergo a severe test six weeks from now,” Shartelle said. “Perhaps I could talk about it more learnedly then.”

Blackwelder smiled. The aide-de-camp smiled and so did I. Sir Charles leaned far back in his chair, made a steeple of his fingers, and gazed up at his high, high ceiling. “Mr. Shartelle, I have been here for more than thirty years. I speak two of the dialects and I can get by in Hausa. What I'm saying is this: I've lived among these people all my adult life, and yet I don't think I know them. I don't think that I ever know what they're thinking.”

“Well, sir,” Shartelle said, warming to his favorite subject, people, “I think you underestimate yourself. I'd take you to be a shrewd judge of character, one who can tell pretty much about a man after talking to him for fifteen minutes or so. Do you agree?”

Blackwelder laughed. “I'm most susceptible to flattery, Mr. Shartelle.”

“Now I didn't mean that, Sir Charles. I didn't mean that at all. But I'd say that maybe you're too close to the Albertians. Man who spends more than thirty years with anybody is bound to take on some of their notions and characteristics. I'd say that if I were you, and wondered what the Albertians were thinking, then I'd ask myself what I'm thinking, and what I
would
be thinking if I were them. Then I'd just about have it wrapped up.”

“I couldn't possibly think the way that they do.”

“Well, I don't think you're thinking the way most British think. At least not the ones I've met.”

“Neither fish nor fowl, eh?” He smiled. “I'll devote some time to considering it—from both an English and Albertian point of view. Still, Mr. Shartelle, your job is to get votes for Chief Akomolo. How do
you
appeal to the typical Albertian voter—how do you know what he wants, how he'll react, or what influences his tribal feelings and natural rulers may have on him?”

Shartelle thought a moment. “I don't, Sir Charles. All I know is how people react. I think I know what they want because I believe everyone wants essentially the same thing—a sense of being, if you get right down to it. I'm betting a reputation that I've taken considerable pains to build that people, given a choice, will choose what will cause them the least pain. No majority that I've ever known of has voted for personal sacrifice. It may have ended up that way, but they didn't vote for it to begin with. No, they vote for those candidates who they think will cause them the least pain—either economic or social or emotional.”

Blackwelder nodded. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Pragmatic, to say the least.” He rose. The interview was over. “If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know.” He moved around the desk to shake hands with us. “I can only give you one word of advice, gentlemen. Don't stay in Albertia too long. West Africa, especially Albertia, has a way of getting into a man's blood. It's an unlovely spot, God knows, although during the harmattan it's not bad farther north. Cooler, you know. But there's something about this country that creeps into the very marrow and keeps drawing one back. Ju-ju, perhaps—eh, Ian?” Duncan smiled dutifully. “Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” we said. Sir Charles Blackwelder walked behind his carved oak desk and sat down. When we reached the door, I glanced back. He didn't seem to have much to do.

Once outside, Duncan offered cigarettes which both Shartelle and I accepted. “Haven't seen the old boy so talkative in weeks,” Duncan said. “I'm glad you chaps could drop around—although Upshaw here doesn't do much talking.”

“He's just courteous to his elders, Mr. Duncan,” Shartelle said.

“Well, I suppose you'll be wanting to get back or I'd invite you to have a cup of tea.”

Shartelle glanced at his watch. “We have an appointment at eleven-thirty. We'll make it another time.”

Duncan walked us to the Rolls-Royce where the same liveried driver held the door. We said goodbye and shook hands. The driver closed the door with a solidly-satisfying Rolls- Royce thunk and ran around to the wheel. We started the drive back home. Shartelle gave his usual close attention to the street scene. “I gotta get down here, Pete, and sort of sniff around. Get too far away from it sitting out there in the house. Got to josh around with them, find out what they're thinking.”

“Do it this afternoon. I'm going to be writing.”

“Might. Might just.”

“Wonder what Dekko wants?”

“Reassurance, probably. Just a little conversation.”

“Maybe he'll stay for lunch.”

Shartelle grunted. “Ought to give the man more credit than that.”

“You're right.”

Although we were back at the house by a quarter-past eleven, Chief Dekko was already there, comfortably seated in one of the chairs, a glass of squash in his hand. He had on a fresh set of robes. This time they were orange with white embroidery.

Shartelle watched the Rolls drive away, a little regretfully, I thought. “They do it up nice, don't they, Pete?” he had said on the way back. “You and me walking down that long, long room to where that nice old man sat behind that fancy desk. And that aide-de-camp just bellering out our names like we were junketing senators. You could have heard him over in the next county. I like it. I swear I shouldn't, but I like it.”

“All we needed was a little music when we started down the room.”

“Maybe ‘Dixie' played in march time with a big brass section.”

“I'd settle for that.”