Jerry played a 3/4 tango rhythm with his left hand. “We might as well start, I think. It’s only an amateur show, Una.”
She put one hand on the quarter-deck’s port rail, glanced at the smooth sea, raised herself on the points of her ballet slippers, twirling in her three-quarter-length skirt. She began to smile. It was the professional in her. To encourage his companion, Jerry played a white note glissando and began to hum the tune of their song as Major Nye, Mrs Nye, the Nye daughters and the Nyes’ little boy, Pip, took their places at two tables near the front. Major Nye was smiling in delight. “How jolly!” Mrs Nye did her best to smile, but she was not in Una’s class. The girls looked a trifle embarrassed and the little boy seemed astonished. He wore a sailor suit, as did his sisters. The Dyaks bent over them to take their orders. Mrs Cornelius, in a huge cream-and-strawberry day dress and a lopsided Gainsborough hat, arrived on the arm of her son Frank who wore an orange, blue and green blazer, white cotton trousers and a yellow boater. Una began to sing in her high, sweet voice:
My pulse rate stood at zero
When I first saw my Pierrot.
Jerry sang to her over his right shoulder as he continued to play:
My temperature rose to ninety-nine
When I beheld my Columbine.
Catherine ran onto the deck, arriving just in time to join Una. Catherine, too, was masked, dressed as Harlequin in colours to match Una’s. She had her magic wand in her hand, Harlequin’s slapstick with which, traditionally, everything could be transformed into something else. They all sang the chorus:
Sigh, sigh, sigh…
For love that’s oft denied.
Cry, cry, cry…
My lips remain unsatisfied
I’m yearning so, for my own Pierrot.
Catherine took Una about the waist and they danced together for the last line of the chorus.
As we dance the En-tropy Tan-go!
Jerry played the chorus through again, making it more lively and giving it a strict tango rhythm now, for Auchinek had reached them. He was in white from head to foot, half his thin face covered in an expressionless white mask, the rest caked in dead white make-up, a false grey beard, huge glasses, crowned by an elongated silk hat. He was old Pantaloon, as orthodox as ever in the traditional dell’arte costume.
Una and Catherine were cheek to cheek. “Sigh, sigh, sigh…” Their eyes were fixed on the audience. Auchinek went to stand awkwardly on the other side of Jerry, evidently trying to remember the lyrics. When Jerry had told him of the plan he had gone from Naples to Rome by train to buy his costume. “For love that’s oft denied.” Jerry stared mournfully at Columbine. “Cry, cry, cry… My lips remain unsatisfied…” Facing Jerry now, Una sang perhaps a mite too sardonically: “I’m yearning so for my own Pierrot.” And altogether: “As we dance the Entropy Tan-tan-go!”
Colonel Pyat sat down, raising his cap in jovial, if uncomprehending appreciation. Nearby, Frank Cornelius frowned as he tried to make out the words, comprehending all too well. He began to look a bit alarmed.
Prinz Lobkowitz came up at last, all in black velvet save for a white frill around his neck, a beribboned mandolin in his hand, his eyes merry behind his mask, as Scaramouche, and behind him was Shakey Mo Collier, panting, scrambling, swaggering as soon as he was in sight of the audience, in a gorgeously elaborate military uniform, festooned with braid, blazing with brass, a great Wellington hat on his head, sporting ostrich and peacock feathers, wearing false moustachios which he twirled rather too often, monstrous eyebrows which threatened to blind him, jackboots and sabre, a perfect burlesque bantam dandy, Captain Fracasse.
Assembled they sang the next chorus with wavering gusto:
I’ll weep, weep, weep
Till he sweeps me off my feet.
My heart will beat, beat, beat,
And my body lose its heat.
Oh, life no longer seems so sweet
Since that sad Pierrot became my beau
And taught me the En-tro-py Tan-go!
Harlequin tango’d with Pantaloon, Columbine with Scaramouche, Pierrot with Captain Fracasse, until Jerry had to return to his place at the piano for his own verse:
So flow, flow, flow…
As the rains turn into snow.
And it’s slow, slow, slow…
As the colours lose their glow…
The Winds of Limbo no longer blow
For cold Columbine and her pale Pierrot,
As we dance the En-tro-py Tan-go!
Frank was groaning and looking about him as if expecting attack from all sides, as if he contemplated ducking under the table. His face had turned a colour that was ugly in contrast to his blazer, but his mother merely shook her head. “Ai deown’t know ai’m shewer.” She was using her posh voice. “Yew cearn’t unnerstand a word of the songs these days, cean yew?” She waved a teacake. Crumbs cascaded over her strawberry flounces. “An’ wot they doin’, ai wondah, puttin’ on a bleedin’ pentomime et Easter?” She pushed back the brim of her hat as her eye caught something in the distance. She tugged at a Dyak’s jacket. “Blimey! Wot’s that?”
Absent-mindedly Frank swallowed his whole cake. His eyes popped. He choked. “What?”
Although they had planned another chorus, Mrs Cornelius’s cry was so loud that even the performers turned to stare in the same direction.
Sebastian Auchinek’s eyes were weeping, doubtless from the toxic effects of the make-up. He removed his topper. “Where?”
“What?” said Shakey Mo, twirling a disappointed moustachio. He had only just begun to enjoy himself for the first time since Nice.
“That!” said Mrs Cornelius dramatically.
Miss Brunner, Karen von Krupp, Bishop Beesley and the whole Nye family rose to their feet.
“That smudge over there!” Mrs Cornelius crammed another teacake into her mouth. She made a further remark, also, but it was entirely muffled.
Prinz Lobkowitz put his mandolin on top of the piano. He seemed relieved. “That’s Africa.”
RECAPITULATION
Mais Arlequin le Roi commande à l’Acheron,
Il est duc des esprits de la bande infernale.
Histoire plaisante des faits et gestes de
Harlequin etc., Paris, 1585
Once, the giant huntsman was Odin, the Norse god of the dead, who rode through the night skies seeking the souls of the dying. Though his name was changed with the coming of Christianity, his role did not. Often he was thought of as the Devil himself, but in different parts of France he was identified as the ghost of King Herod, or of Charlemagne. In northern England he was sometimes called Woden, while other counties saw him as Wild Elric, who defied the Conqueror, or even as Arthur. The phantom hounds were the spirits of unbaptised children, or of unrepentant sinners … Some critics have pointed out, however, that their cries, as they seek the souls of the damned, closely resemble those of migrating geese.
Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain,
London, 1973
FILTH AND NOISE: PORTOBELLO RESIDENTS COMPLAIN
Portobello Road Market is a disgrace say some local residents—and they are backed up by Sisters of St Joseph’s Convent. The cause is the junk and litter left by second hand dealers—the Steptoes and “totters” of North Kensington. It’s not just the noise of the Borough Council workmen clearing up the rubbish that is annoying the Catholic Sisters. By day, says the Mother Superior, people throw old shoes, suitcases and other unwanted articles over the Convent wall. “The main door is thick with filth sometimes,” she said. “It is quite degrading.” … Mrs Anna Marks, a Portobello Road shopkeeper, described the northern part of the market as “shameful”. It was a disgrace to London … Her husband, Mr W. Marks, added: “I have lived here all my life—I remember when they used to drive sheep down the Portobello Road. The market has gone downhill lately.”
Kensington Post, 23 April, 1965
1. THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE
“The new century,” said Major Nye
, “doesn’t seem awfully different from the old.” He stretched his arms in his stiff drab jacket, settled his topee on his grey locks, and clumped in booted feet out onto the verandah to salute the flag as it was raised for the morning. In the fort’s quadrangle a squadron of troopers in the uniform of the 3rd Punjab Irregular Rifles, a squadron of Bengali riflemen in red and dark blue, with red and yellow turbans, and Ghoorka infantrymen in gun-green and red, saluted the Union Jack. Young Cornelius was in charge of the guard. “Sir!” He, too, wore drab, with black lace and red facings, a solar topee wound about with the regiment’s green, black and red colours.
“Morning, Cornelius. Happy New Year to you. Looked for you last night.”
“I was still on my way back from Simla, sir. I’ve just had time to change.”
“Of course. Any news?”
“Not much, sir.”
“Ha!”
Major Nye yawned. Then he craned forward to inspect first the British and then the native troops who stood to attention on three sides of the parade ground as the bugle began its traditional call. Currently he and Cornelius were the only white officers here. He raised his eyes to the great hills beyond the walls. He had faith in his Sikhs and Ghoorkas. Secundra Dass and his Chinese allies might be threatening from the east, while Zakar Khan, the old hill fox, could be on his way from the north, with Russian machine guns and officers, but they’d be no match for a couple of battalions of these chaps, plus a squadron or two of the 3rd Punjab Cavalry. Major Nye frowned.
“Cavalry didn’t travel with you, after all?”
Cornelius dismissed the guard. “Yes, sir. But I was on duty, so I had to ride ahead. They shouldn’t be more than an hour or two at most, sir.”
“Jolly good.” Major Nye moved his head. “Mind coming inside for a moment, Cornelius?”
Major Nye retired into his gloomy office. It was almost cold. On the wall hung the photograph Major Nye usually referred to as his ‘personal touch’: a picture of Sarah Bernhardt as she appeared in her white costume in Richepin’s Pierrot Assassin at the Trocadero in Paris on 28 April, 1883, just before her marriage to M. Damala broke up. She had married Damala in London the previous year and Major Nye had been on leave at the time and witnessed it, almost by accident. Overhead the punkah swept back and forth, disturbing some of the dust on the piles of papers stacked everywhere. Major Nye rarely replied to communications but he did not have the heart to file anything before it had been officially answered. “Sit down, old chap.”
Cornelius sat in the rattan armchair on the other side of the desk. Major Nye removed something from his own chair before seating himself. “Had that fellow of yours in yesterday, Cornelius. What’s his name? Hashim?”
“Really, sir? Did he tell you anything worthwhile?”
“Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t talk to Subadar Bisht. Wouldn’t talk to Risaldar S’arnt Major. Would only talk to you. Trusts you, I suppose. Couldn’t blame him. But he seemed to have an urgent message for you. Worried me a bit. Could mean trouble coming, eh?”
“Quite likely, sir. He was riding with the Chinese until they stopped to recoup at Srinagar. He reported their position and then returned to their camp. I’d guess that the horde’s on the move again.”
Major Nye frowned. “It means that Secundra Dass and his men have joined them now.”
“That’s the report we had while I was in Simla, sir.”
“We’re going to need some Lancers, Cornelius.”
“Yes, sir. And a bit of artillery too, sir, I’d have thought.”
“Artillery would help. Still, I feel sorry for the Chinese if our Ghoorkas get at them. They’re not a fighting people, the Chinese.”
“No, sir.”
“Like the Americans. No good at it. They should leave fighting to the British, eh? And the Ghoorkas and the Sikhs, hm? And the Dogras and Mahrattas, what?”
“Who would we fight, sir?” Cornelius was amused, but Major Nye didn’t find the question sensible.
“Why, the bloody Afridis, of course. Who else? He’ll always give you a good scrap, your Afridi.”
“True, sir.”
“Damned true, Cornelius.” Major Nye became nostalgic and querulous. “Why’d the blasted Chinese want to interfere? Waste of time. Waste of everybody’s time.”
“They’ve conquered Tibet and Nepal and Kashmir and Iskandastan so far, sir.”
“Certainly they have. But they haven’t crossed the border yet, have they?”
“They must be about to, sir.”
“Then they’re blasted fools. And Secundra Dass is a blasted fool to tie himself down with a lot of Chinese.”
“They outnumber us by about a thousand to one, I should think, sir.” Cornelius spoke mildly. He was trying to read a partially exposed report on the major’s desk. The report was yellow, several months old at least. “If they attack while we’re at our present strength, we should have quite a hard time of it.”
“Certainly. It won’t be easy, Cornelius. But with the Cavalry here we should do it, what?”
“It could be the largest army on the march since the time of Genghis Khan.” Cornelius got up and looked through the blinds at the glinting hills.
Major Nye lit his pipe. “But Genghis Khan was a Mongol, not a Chinaman. Besides, he didn’t have the British to deal with—or the Ghoorkas, or the Jats or Baluchis, or Madrassis, or the Ranghars or Gorwalis or Pathans or Punjabis or Rajputs—or, for that matter, the 3rd Punjab Irregular Rifles. Not just the best trained soldiers in the world, not just the bravest and most spirited, but they’re the fiercest, too. Volunteers, you see. There’s nothing more terrifying, more ‘unstoppable’, than a force of British and Indian infantry supported by mixed Sikh and British lancers. That’s why we get on with them so well—they’re as civilised and no-nonsense savage as we are. It’s why we get on well with Arabs, too, you know. It’s why we don’t get on with Bombay brahmins…”
“The Chinese and Secundra Dass are sworn to sweep every European from Asia, sir.”
“Excellent idea.”
“Sir?”
“What? Ah!” Major Nye smiled in understanding. Dropping his voice he spoke slowly, as if he didn’t wish to startle Cornelius. “We’re not Europeans, after all. Never have been. We’re British. That’s why we’ve so much in common with India.”
“They seem to hate us just as much as any other—non-Indians—sir.”
“Of course they do. Why shouldn’t they? Good for them. But they won’t beat us.”
“It seems, sir, that the Chinese…”
“The Chinese are a peasant race, Cornelius. The British and their fighting Indian allies, do you see, are not peasant races. The Slavs, the Germans, most Latins, are natural tillers of the soil, makers of profits. They like to preserve the status quo above everything else. But we, like the Sikhs and Ghoorkas, are naturally aggressive and pretty rapacious. Not brutal, you understand—it’s peasants make brutal soldiers. Russians, Chinese, Japanese, Americans, Boers—all peasants and burghers. The infantry, at any rate, while the cavalry are full of ideas of swagger and glory—parvenu Uhlans the lot of them, Hussars-manqués, that’s what I think. Peasants—panicky butchers at best, and sometimes crueller than any Pathan—war’s an insanity for them, you see, no part of their way of life—they’d rather be at home doing whatever it is they do with the cows and pigs and shops. We’re cruel, arrogant, often ruthless, but we’ve lived by war for too long not to have become somewhat more humane in the way we wage it. We make quick decisions. We make our points hard and fast. We don’t have to hate our enemies to kill ’em, we do it decently, on the whole, with respect and economy.” Major Nye rang a bell on his desk. “Feel like some tea?”
“Thanks, sir.” Young Cornelius seemed somewhat depressed, probably because he had been up all night on the train from Simla.
“Same goes for your Arab, your Pathan, your Sikh. It’s self-interest, it’s efficiency, and sometimes it’s a sort of practical idealism, but we rarely have to wo
rk ourselves up to hatred, to find a Cause, a reason for loathing those we wish to kill. Practicality—it’s why we’re good at running an Empire. And as long as people don’t give us trouble, we look after ’em. The Dutch and the Belgians, for instance, take too much out of their colonies, and so do the French—the peasant instinct, again, a tendency to overwork the land, you might say. Also, of course, they were unfortunate enough to belong to the Continent of Europe. Then there’s the Cossacks. I’ve a lot of respect for your Cossack, by and large, though he’s inclined to get a bit carried away from time to time. Now if it was Cossacks we were dealing with I’d be looking forward to a good, professional scrap, but most Russians are tame. Most Europeans are tame. Most Americans, God bless ’em, are very tame indeed. I hope the British never become tame. It would be the end of us.”
“Well, I suppose if we ever lost a major war…”
“It’s not the winning and losing of wars that tames a nation—it’s the love of property, the acquisition of too many comforts for their own sake, the cosseting of oneself, that tames you. Thank God the bourgeoisie don’t run England yet, the way they run the Continent. Internationalism could ruin us. Stick to imperialism and you can’t go far wrong. A country should be in charge of its workers and its aristocrats. Farmers, shopkeepers and bankers have far too much regard for their cosy firesides to be trustworthy guardians of a nation’s pride or its well-being. Your aristocrat has no respect for wealth because he’s inherited it. Your common man has no respect for wealth because he’s never experienced it. See what I mean?”
“I think so, sir. But shouldn’t the army have a voice…?”
“Doesn’t need a voice if the country’s being properly run. No part of the army’s job, politics.”
An Indian orderly entered with a tray of tea. “No fresh milk today, sir. All cows gone.”
“Damn,” said Major Nye absently as he reached for the pot, “that’ll be their advance raiding parties, I shouldn’t wonder. Better lock up as soon as the Lancers arrive, Cornelius. Post extra guards and so on. And send some sort of message to Delhi, would you?”
Conditie van muzak Page 13