by Ross Thomas
“Respect is what you lack, boy, respect for quality folks. Now what I was saying is that I could understand how all this service might tempt a man to linger out here in this tropical paradise, expecially if the only thing he had waiting for him back home was a one-bedroom apartment or a house in Belair Heights or Edgemere Park.”
“But to tell you the truth, it just makes me damned uncomfortable so I’m going to turn over the responsibilities of running this menage to you and I’m sure that you’ll not only be damned good at planning the menus, but also at counseling this fine bunch of people in their personal problems, attending to their ills, and supervising the general administration of what I’m sure is going to be a might happy household.”
I took another swallow of my drink. “No you don’t, Shartelle. I’ll carry your bag, mix the drinks, and sharpen the pencils. I’ll laugh at your jokes and say ‘that’s right, Clint,’ like a parrot, but I’m not going to be honcho on this spread.”
Shartelle sighed and stretched. “I’m not much of a drinking man before noon, Petey, but I must say this gin and tonic did wonders for my disposition. Care to join me in another one?”
“Why not?”
“How do we get it, just yell?”
“I don’t see any buzzer.”
“What’s that little old skinny boy’s name—the steward?”
“Samuel.”
“That’s the cook. The other one.”
“Charles.”
“Why don’t you call and see if he comes running.”
“I’d feel like a goddamned fool,” I said.
“Reckon I’ll try,” Shartelle said. “Charles,” he said.
“You talking to me or to the steward? I think you’ve got your volume turned down.”
“By God, it does make you feel plumb foolish, doesn’t it?”
“Try it again.”
“Charles!” This time he let out a good bellow.
Charles, the steward, yelled back “Sah!” In a moment he appeared.
“Another gin and tonic for the good Mastah, Charles,” I said.
“Yes, Sah!”
Each of us mixed another drink from the tray that Charles held before us.
“How much we paying these people?” Shartelle asked.
I fished in a pocket for my billfold. “I don’t remember. Downer gave me the list before he left. We pay them once a month.” I found the list and unfolded it.
“Let’s see—it all comes to forty-nine pounds a month. That’s about—what—one hundred thirty-seven bucks a month.”
“How does it break down?”
“Well, Samuel gets twelve pounds; William gets eleven; Charles, the steward, gets ten; Small Boy gets four; Ojo gets six, and Silex gets six.”
“Merciful God,” Shartelle said.
“With Small Boy getting four—plus his quarters—that’s forty-eight pounds a year which is about twenty higher than the average Albertian annual income—for a family.”
“I don’t want to hear any more. You just keep all those depressing facts and figures to yourself. We’ll slip a few pounds their way now and then before we leave.”
“That’s the trouble with you bloody Americans,” I said, doing a fair Old Boy accent. “Come down here and first thing start spoiling the beggars.”
“We’ll let Pig spoil a few,” he said. “We’ll put it down on the expense sheet as hospitality for others. That makes me feel better just thinking about it.”
He rose from his chair and walked out onto the porch. He gazed at the lawn, fingered the honeysuckle vines that provided shade for the porch on the west side, shook his head and came back in. “Wonder how African Bermuda would do in Africa?” he said.
“I used to play golf at a club where they had bent-African Bermuda for the greens. It would grow half an inch and then bend over flat.”
Shartelle cocked his head at me. “I once knew a man who raised orchids and actually trained them to—”
The telephone rang before Shartelle could finish his lie. I got up, crossed to the desk, and answered it.
“Mr. Shartelle or Mr. Upshaw, please.” It was a man’s voice with an English accent.
“This is Mr. Upshaw,” I said.
“Mr. Upshaw, this is Ian Duncan. I’m A.D.C. to his excellency, Sir Charles Blackwelder. His Excellency would very much like to have you and Mr. Shartelle drop by Government House tomorrow morning. Would that be convenient?”
“I don’t know why not.”
“Splendid. Say about ten?”
“All right.”
“We’ll send a car around.”
“Thank you.”
“Very good. We’ll look for you tomorrow morning, then. Goodbye.”
I said goodbye and hung up.
“That was the aide-de-camp to His Excellency, Sir Charles Blackwelder, Governor of Western Albertia, Defender of the Crown, Representative of Her Majesty the Queen.”
“And?”
“He would like to see us at ten in the morning. I said all right. You heard what I said.”
“What do you know about Sir Charles?”
“He’s been Regional Governor for about seven years. He’ll go, of course, after independence. Maybe sooner. He started his career here in the 1930’s. Was a district officer in the north and then went up rather quickly. Nothing spectacular, but he had the reputation of being a good administrator. The Albertians don’t have anything against him other than the color of his skin.”
“But he keeps his hand in?”
“Apparently so.”
The Humber with William at the wheel and Ojo beside him sped up the graveled drive and came to stop in front of the porch. They got out of the car and went back to the trunk where the yellow metal handle of a lawnmower protruded. William was helping Ojo lift it out as we walked out on the porch.
“Very good grasscutter, Sah,” William said. “We make good bargain at eleven pound, four shilling, sixpence.”
I walked down the steps and took a look at the lawnmower which looked like any other I’d ever seen or pushed. It had been a long time since I had pushed one. Ojo smiled broadly and ran his hand shyly over the handles. The lawnmower’s brand name was Big Boy and the label said that it was made in Toledo, Ohio.
“Ojo very happy,” William said, taking out a leather purse and carefully counting my change. By this time the rest of the staff, except for the watch night, Silex, were standing around the lawnmower. “Very nice, Sah,” Samuel the cook said. Small Boy touched the lawnmower and received a brisk slap from Ojo who fired a question at Samuel in his unknown tongue.
“Ojo want to know if you or Mastah like to push grass-cutter first?”
“Tell him we appreciate the offer,” Shartelle said, “but that we feel he should have that honor.”
Samuel thought about that for a moment and then said something to Ojo who grinned hugely. He turned the lawnmower over so that the blades and roller were on top and wouldn’t turn, and pushed it to a suitable spot of grass. The servants gathered about him; Shartelle and I observed from the steps of the porch as befitted our station. Ojo flopped the lawnmower over carefully, rubbed his hands on his threadbare khaki shorts, and gave it an experimental shove of about a foot. It cut the grass. An “ahhhhh” and an “ohhhhh” of appreciation went up from his audience. He looked at us and Shartelle gave him the benediction with the twisty cigar. He pushed the lawnmower six feet straight ahead. Then he turned it slowly and cut another swath of grass for six feet more. Then he was off and his audience dispersed. We watched him for a while as he pushed his lawnmower across the lawn—a short, stubby figure with well-muscled legs—bending happily over the machine, his first brush with automation.
“We’d better start for Akomolo’s,” Shartelle said.
We got in the car and William backed it to the turnaround place. I watched Ojo and his lawnmower. “Maybe we should get him a basket to catch the grass clippings,” I said.
Shartelle puffed on his cigar. “That’s the trou
ble with you Americans. You want to spoil the goddamned natives.”
Chapter
11
Akomolo’s compound would have been in the heart of Ubondo’s downtown section if the city had had a downtown section. A ten-foot mud wall that needed a new coat of whitewash ran for seventy-five feet along the side that faced the street. The wall had an iron-barred gate that automobiles could pass through once they got by the two tough policemen who guarded it. The top of the wall was encrusted with the bottom halves of broken beer bottles.
Akomolo’s house poked up above the wall and from it rose a flagpole. There was no Union Jack, but there was a blue and white banner that hung limply in the breezeless air.
“What’s the flag, William?” I asked.
“Party flag, Sah. National Progressives.”
“Oh.”
William turned into the drive that led to the iron gate and stopped for the two policemen. They came over and looked into the car, one on each side. “Mr. Shartelle? Mr. Upshaw?” one of them asked.
“That’s right,” Shartelle said.
They looked at us some more and then waved us through. The driveway led past the gate and into a courtyard that was paved with cement. People—men, women and children—stood, sat and lay in the courtyard. Some had small boxes and used their tops to display a grubby collection of cigarettes and kola nuts. Others chatted with their neighbors. Mothers nursed their babies. An old man was curled up in the shade of the wall, fast asleep, or dead.
“Friends of Chief Akomolo,” William said, jerking his head towards the courtyard of people. There were about seventy or seventy-five of them. “He give them chop at night.”
The main building in the compound was a U-shaped, three-story, stuccoed house with windows set deep into its thick walls. It had neither style nor flavor, but it looked sturdy. The driveway ran down one side of it towards the rear. William drove the Humber down the drive and turned right behind the building into another courtyard that was enclosed by the same high mudwall and flanked by servants’ quarters. A collection of automobiles was parked near the rear wall. There were a Fleetwood Cadillac, a Mercedes 300, a Rolls Silver Wraith, a Facel-Vega, two big Oldsmobiles that looked like a matched pair, a Jaguar Mark X, a Jaguar XK-E with the top down and the left front fender crumpled, assorted Chevrolets, Fords, Plymouths, Rovers, and one lonely-looking Volkswagen.
William pulled up beside the Rolls and parked. Shartelle and I got out. A man in a flowing blue ordona hurried over to meet us from the courtyard formed by the Chief’s building. William tugged at my sleeve. “I no have chop, Mastah.”
“Can you find some around here?”
“I get chop from kitchen here. Not cost much.”
“Okay. You be back in a couple of hours. We’ll be that long at least.”
Shartelle was shaking hands with the man in the robes. He said: “Pete, this is Dr. Diokadu. He’s secretary of the National Progressive Party.”
Dr. Diokadu was a tall, thin man of thirty or so with a quick nervous smile, brilliant dark eyes, and a high, smooth brown forehead. He looked smart—the way some people do.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Shartelle.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Are we late?”
“No—not at all. The Leader would like to see you before—”
He didn’t finish his statement. It was interrupted by a piercing, off-key blast of what seemed to be a badly-played trumpet or cornet. Then a drum began to pound. Dr. Diokadu smiled nervously. “You must excuse me a moment,” he said. “The Ile is coming. I must greet him. You might wish to watch his entrance—it’s traditional, you know, and most Europeans find it—oh, well—amusing, I suppose.”
Shartelle and I smiled politely. The trumpet or cornet brayed again and a man dressed in lionskins and a grotesque mask, bounded around the corner waving a stick with what looked to be some raccoon tails attached to it. The mask was red and black and green with a hideously-formed mouth that was carved into an impolite leer. The mask had no nose, but the eyes were red and seemed to flash. The top of the mask was adorned by what, from a distance, seemed to be the model of a destroyer or a battleship. The masked figure waved his stick at some of the courtyard’s hangers-on and they shrank back, not laughing. The man in the lion’s suit shouted something. William was standing by me and he pulled back as the man with the coonskin stick drew near. I saw that the model of the ship on his head was a destroyer and that it had a name: “Ft. Worth, Texas.”
“Who the hell’s that?” I asked William.
“He small ju-ju man,” William said.
Dr. Diokadu stood straight and still in the middle of the courtyard as the ju-ju man shouted and pranced around him, waving his furry wand.
“He get rid of evil spirits before Ile come,” William explained.
“Ain’t this something,” Shartelle said, grinning hugely.
The trumpet blasted again and four men in white robes appeared around the corner. Each carried a tray and on each tray was a single kola nut. The men walked straight ahead after turning the corner. They ignored Dr. Diokadu and he ignored them.
“They bring kola nut from Ile to Chief Akomolo,” William whispered.
The trumpet blasted again and the drums rolled.
“Talking drums,” William said.
“What do they say?” Shartelle asked.
“They say Ile coming.”
Another figure turned the corner dressed in bright blue robes. He carried a gold staff, eight feet long, that had an intricately-carved bird on its end. He used the staff to walk with. He was old and he chanted in a high thin voice as he came.
“He say Ile of Obahma now comes—he say that he is great man and that all who see him—”
“That’s just a rough translation,” a voice said at my elbow. I turned and a smiling dark man with heavily-framed sunglasses was standing near me. “I’m Jimmy Jenaro,” he said. “I’m the Treasurer of the Party.”
I whispered my name and introduced Shartelle. “I’ll give you the play-by-play,” Jenaro said. “The one who is jumping around out there is a small-time, combination witch doctor and court jester. Don’t ask me where he got the outfit or the Ft. Worth boat. It’s part of his magic. The four guys with the kola nuts are part of the Ile’s retinue. The kola nuts, of course, are symbols of friendship and loyalty. Now, the senior citizen with the gold staff is the court herald. That’s real gold, by the way. The staff is the symbol of the Ile’s authority as the traditional ruler or emperor or king or what-have-you of Obahma. The herald sings his praise. If you’ll notice when he says a phrase, the drums pick it up—the intonation, the beat, the cadence. That’s why they’re called the talking drums. I’ll give it to you phrase by phrase—
“People of this land bow down … for he who is mightier than all does—or doth—come thy way—prostrate thyselves for the son of lightning, brother of the Moon approaches….”
The old man with the staff walked slowly. He would sing out a phrase and pause and the drums would pick it up. The trumpet would blow. And then he would sing another phrase. Jenaro translated:
“Greater than those from the land of Kush … comes now Arondo, son of Arondo, and son of those Arondos who were in the beginning … He camel now … He comes now … prostrate thyselves for mighty is his wrath, his great wisdom unmatched—or unparalleled, I guess—his valor in war feared and remembered and his fecundity the envy of the world.”
The old man had stopped walking and stood near the entrance to the building. He beat the staff on the courtyard in time to his sentences as he chanted some more praise. Around the corner came a six or seven-year-old boy bearing the bell of an eight-foot brass horn on his shoulder. Behind him walked the hornplayer. He gave it another toot. The old man kept on chanting. Next came two men carrying long, skin-covered drums that tapered at either end and were hung around their necks by straps of animal skin. They walked slowly, their heads cocked to hear the chant of the Ile’s herald. When a
phrase of the chant was ended, their hands beat out its rhythm on the drumheads.
The people in the courtyard silently listened to the herald. Dr. Diokadu still stood in the center of the courtyard straight and motionless. The kola bearers were slightly to one side of the herald who continued his dry, reedy paean for the Ile of Obahma.
“Here he comes now,” Jenaro whispered to Shartelle and me.
A car poked its nose slowly around the corner of the building. I could hear Shartelle grunt. It was some car. It was a 1939 specially-built LaSalle convertible, painted a gleaming white, with the whitewall tires mounted in the fender wells.
“Looks like somebody fixed that busted block, Clint,” I said.
“Damned if it don’t.”
It was a seven-passenger limousine and in the back seat, by himself, sat a small man with a straw boater. He wore sunglasses and seemed to stare straight ahead. The straw boater had a large ostrich feather stuck into it and it waved a little in the breeze.
As soon as the car and its occupant came into sight, William dropped flat on the ground, his head pressed tightly against the cement of the courtyard. Dr. Diokadu went down more slowly, but he too knelt and pressed his head against the cement.
“It’s part of the game, fellows,” Jenaro said beside us and went down on his knees and pressed his head to the ground. The rest of the people in the courtyard were lying flat. Shartelle waved at the Ile with his cigar and raised his hat—like a gambler in a western who meets the schoolmarm. I just stood there.
The car stopped and the driver got out, prostrated himself in a practiced, hasty manner, got up and opened the door. The Ile took off his sunglasses, tucked them away into the folds of his robe, and allowed himself to be helped from the car. Dr. Diokadu rose from his prostrate position and hurried over to greet him. Jenaro also rose, but William and the rest of the occupants of the courtyard remained flat.
“Plays hell with the threads,” Jenaro said, dusting off the knees of his fawn-colored Daks. He wore a white shirt with a yellow and black ascot at the throat, a black cashmere jacket so lightweight that it actually looked cool, and black suede loafers. From the breast pocket of his jacket peeked a yellow and black handkerchief to match his ascot. I caught Shartelle and Jenaro eyeing each other’s sartorial splendor.