by Brian Aldiss
‘Do you mean just now, or continually?’ Soames asked.
‘Just now, of course. Nobody can speak it continually, least of all a man with a position to maintain.’
‘I think,’ Soames said, ‘that what he said was mainly true, though whether he intended it for truth I can’t decide: his speech seemed so impromptu it may well have come out accidentally.’
‘Do you think he spoke the truth about being denationalised?’
This was asked so urgently that Soames instinctively gave an evasive answer.
‘You will find as you grow older,’ he said patronisingly, ‘that one’s instinctive enquiry after the truth softens into a lookout for some truth.’
‘It may be so,’ Jimpo admitted. ‘What worries me more at present is this problem of being denationalised. In England, at school, I rejoiced to feel myself become English inside. In the holidays I travelled to France and Germany and Scandinavia and Greece, sending censored reports of my visits to my father, and then I rejoiced to feel myself become European. It is easy to become European: one has only to subscribe to Le Figaro and smoke American cigarettes. But now that I am back here, I find I do not fit. Nor am I sure if I want to fit. This must be because either I am denationalised or I am an existentialist; it is very worrying not to know.’
Soames scarcely heard Jimpo’s last remark, for a previous one had started off a line of thought in his own head, and he said, wondering aloud, ‘Do you think I might become an African?’
‘It is more difficult than becoming European or English,’ Jimpo said shortly. ‘You could not do it. I am not even sure that I can manage it again.’
‘But, you see,’ Soames began, plunging into deep water, ‘last night I had an experience for which I was, in your father’s phrase, unprepared. It was as if a barrier went down within me –’
‘I thought,’ Jimpo said, delivering each word in an ice cube, English-fashion, ‘we now discussed my troubles, not yours.’
Soames did not reply. He was not affronted; rather, he was glad that he had been checked before indulging himself in embarrassing confidences. Relievedly, he looked round to find they were alone. Even the gravediggers had left the burial site. A beetle the size of an ashtray hurried on to the arena of brown earth and commenced fussily to dig.
‘Perhaps things will improve when the Apostle is working,’ Jimpo said optimistically. ‘Denationalised people may be needed to operate it.’
‘From some of your remarks and your father’s,’ said Soames, ‘I wondered if you were not already regretting the purchase; is not the Apostle an agent of denationalisation?’
Digging, scowling, into the pocket of his shorts, Jimpo produced an Italian ten lire coin and held it out on the yellow palm of his hand.
‘This coin has two sides,’ he said. ‘On one is ear of corn, on other is plough. Now pretend one means denationalising and one means progress. When Goya goes shopping in the world market and gets this coin for her small change, how can she accept one side without the other? Is impossible.’
He hurled the coin into the bushes. It would be discovered two thousand years later by two Eskimo archaeologists, one of whom, extrapolating from this evidence, would write a learned paper entitled, ‘The Extent of Italian Conquest in the African Continent Prior to the Immolation by Q-Bomb Warfare of All Land Masses Situated in the Temperate and Tropical Zones’, which would sell nine copies in Peary Land alone.
‘Why do you find it important to shop in the world market?’ Soames asked.
Jimpo took his arm. ‘My good humour with you is restored by that foolish question, which you would not dream of asking of your own tiny country, half the size of Goya. Come, before I go back to watch Timpleton at work, I will show you about Umbalathorp.’
Anyone seeking a physical model of the contradictions in the average human mind could have done worse than pick on Umbalathorp. Soames considerably revised his first impressions of it. There were good, even grand, buildings to be seen, often marred by pretentious fronts. Modern shops were surrounded by huddled shanties, as in the mind a little science may still be swamped by a lot of superstition. Paved streets petered out abruptly into muddy lanes, patios looked into pig runs, plate glass on to jungle. Neurotic bantams foraged outside a white concrete clinic, while a contemporary style garage struggled for breathing space amid beehive huts and boxwood shacks. Tree lizards skittered up telegraph poles.
Leading Soames into a more prosperous road, Jimpo said, ‘I do not wish your stay here to be without enjoyment. In this area live the ladies of pleasure. From my stay in your country I realise that the English are as amorous as any other nation, even when they pretend not to be. So I think you may like to pay a visit to some of these ladies, as relaxation after the sorrow of the funeral.’
Anxiety seized Soames immediately.
‘That’s very decent of you,’ he said. ‘But wouldn’t it be a little – dangerous? What about the dreaded akkabaksi pox?’
His friend looked blank.
‘This is something I have not heard of. Is it a disease?’
‘A killing disease. Three or four days after contracting it, the victim’s bones turn to jelly. There is no cure known to medicine.’
‘How curious. I have not heard of this disease in Goya.’
‘Oh.’ It dawned on Soames that the disease was a mere fabrication of José Soares, designed to drive trade into his rascally hands. He was filled with relief.
‘This is a good establishment. Let us go in here,’ Jimpo urged, halting before a building on the verandah of which three women lolled idly, watching them. Over the doorway, written in several languages, was a notice with the bald announcement, ‘AMERICAN MASSAGE’.
Instinctively Soames drew back.
‘To tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘I have never consorted with prostitutes and I am reluctant to do so now. The business is too cold-blooded for my liking. You go in if you like, but I’ll wait here.’
‘You are a romantic and I honour you for it. But this is not England – and indeed in that sense many parts of the world are not England.’
‘Oh, undeniable. But I am English.’
‘Equally undeniable. And as my honoured guest, the benefits of my father’s capital are doubly open to you.’
To continue this foolish argument, Soames had had to follow Jimpo, who was moving forward. They were now both on the verandah, where willing hands grasped them and pushed them inside. With twittering black girls jockeying for position about him, Soames was too much the gentleman to resist.
Jostled into a narrow and sweltering corridor on to which cubicles opened, he found himself cornered by a dark scrawny girl. She wore a crumpled cotton skirt and a blouse which opened wide enough to reveal the extent to which her pectoral muscles had let down her narrow pointed breasts. Their immense dark nipples stared at Soames accusingly.
Panting and tugging, the girl manoeuvred Soames away from the other females and into one of the other cubicles. Jimpo meanwhile was discussing prices in his own tongue with an enormous black man in jeans and a peaked cap.
‘I’ll be in the next cubicle,’ he called as Soames was swept away by his fate.
A pleasant feeling of resignation overcame Soames.
In protesting, he had defended his scruples; in yielding, he had shown his adaptability. Nor was this determined young woman in charge of him exactly unprepossessing. Her breasts might look a little shop-soiled, but her face, with its copper sheen and wild eyes, was quite attractive – until she opened her mouth and smiled. To his horror, Soames saw that her teeth had been filed to points. An awful vision assailed him of being bitten on the ear; it might be as deadly as a vampire bite.
She motioned to him to lie down.
A hard couch was provided, covered with a sheet. It looked clean enough. At least there were no cockroaches in sight.
As he climbed on to it, Soames wondered to what race the girl belonged; ethnic groups meant nothing to his untutored eyes. Perhaps she was an Ara
b. He recalled the tale the recently interred Birmingham man had related on the plane before they crashed, about the Arab girl who dug her heels into the small of her partner’s back.
The girl was methodically undressing him, bending over him so that her long brown breasts swung before his eyes. Gingerly, he touched one. It was warm and felt like soft leather. The girl murmured encouragingly; she spoke no English. Feeling at once foolish and titillated, Soames allowed his shoes and trousers to be removed. He kept his shirt on.
‘Have you tried the American Massage before?’ Jimpo called over the top of the cubicle.
Wondering what extraordinary experience lay behind this euphemistic title, Soames had to admit his innocence.
‘It’s a great fashion here in the capital, since we got the electricity. Many men now like no other satisfaction.’
‘Oh … I say, Jimpo, are you on the bed?’
‘Yes. My little lady is just plugging in. Are you comfortably okay?’
‘Yes, I think so. Good Lord, Jimpo, she’s got a hand vibromassager!’
‘Specially imported, very up to date. A modern sensation for an ancient region. All the ladies here are carefully trained to use them for maximum effect.’
‘Mmmm. Now I begin to see what you mean …’
‘I hear that your machine has started. Now mine also has started … Ah, capital, capital. The sensation is commendable, no?’
‘My God … Yes, yes, highly commendable. My God … I didn’t realise how far automation had gone. This is an absolute eye-opener for me.’
‘As I told you on the occasion of our first fortunate meeting, here we are most progressive.’ He rumbled on, developing the theme of Goya’s march into the future.
It was, Soames reflected, a curious time and place to choose for an oration. He lay back, head propped on one bent arm, watching his girl devoutly at work. She knelt on the couch beside him, busily moving the vibro-massager a cunning inch or two, frequently looking up to smile at Soames with her pointed teeth.
‘… Enlightened application of science, allied with enlightened application of politics, will give our people new liberty and pride in their work,’ rumbled Jimpo, his voice rumbling over the top of the partition.
This girl with the filed teeth, Soames speculated, did she take pride in her work? Was there a union of vibro-masseuses in Goya? And why, after all, should he find that idea funny? This creature contributed as much to the happiness of man as any craftsman wielding a hand drill that she so resembled.
‘We shall enlighten men and women to play their part. Our new programme of education will ensure that both sexes play their full role …’
‘So that you can shop in the world market?’ Soames asked, interrupting.
But his mind was jogged off the subject by his body, his long white body turgid under those lean black hands. The little remorseless engine was working its wonders. Warmth spread, then gathered through his thighs. Yes, he thought, I’m a new man, a new vigorous man, big in big Africa, full of potential, full of seed, yes, bursting over, yes, yes, ah yes!
Ten minutes later, the two men were out in the dusty heat again.
As they walked down the chief street which, in deference to President Landor’s policy of incorporating in his realm strands from both sides of the Atlantic, was called Main High Street, Soames and Jimpo discovered they were thirsty. Soames indicated the first café they came to, but Jimpo shook his head and walked on, later passing several other cafés.
‘One has to be prudent,’ he explained. ‘The native cafés are not fit to use by your standards, and most of the others are owned either by the Portuguese José Soares or the Portuguese Lope de Duidos, who has a wooden leg much fancied by white ants; these two men are very powerful, and we at the palace must avoid showing preference to either one.’
Finally they came to a little, dark Chinese shop into which the princeling ushered Soames, remarking as they crossed the threshold, ‘This place will be fine for us. It is called “The Fountain of One Thousand Appetising Intestines”, but at least it is clean.’
‘You speak Chinese?’ asked Soames, surprised.
‘No. But the name is not the sort you forget when you have heard it once.’
They drank two glasses of cold Russian tea apiece, Jimpo paid, and they emerged blinking into the daylight again. People were now about in the streets again, the hottest part of the day being over; the men divided, as far as outward appearance was concerned, into two types: the ordinary, unsophisticated Goyese, who looked as if he had just drifted in from the bush, and the Umbalathorp Slicker, in slash tie and angel blue suit with huge lapels, who pinned down an office job. Both groups acknowledged Jimpo politely as they passed, though the Slickers did so with greater enthusiasm, obviously recognising in him a man who had fulfilled all their own ambitions; Soames was reminded of a group of schoolboys greeting the Duke of Edinburgh.
‘That’s the Catholic church,’ Jimpo said, indicating a weary-looking brick building with a corrugated iron roof. ‘Several of our young men are Catholics. The building was formerly a Methodist chapel.’
‘What happened to the Methodists?’
‘They tried to address the people in the streets through loudspeakers, which was much resented. They were captured and tied to branches of a tree selected by Dumayami, hanging by the wrists with their feet just off the ground. At night come the floods and snip, snip, snip, crocodiles bite off the Methodists’ ankles up to the waist, making them bleed to death. The Goyese are quiet people, but when roused are capable of great ingenuity. Now I show you the railway.’
They slipped through a narrow alley devoted to goats, past an Indian cinema and a warehouse, and came to the railway station. It was unmistakable. A tall palisade, some stakes of which had sprouted into good-sized trees, guarded it from the road. Boards running the length of the palisade announced in several languages: ‘The Royal Umbalathorp State Railway. Comfort; speed; perpetual motion.’ Jimpo put down his money at the booking office window, received two tickets, and led Soames on to the platform, which was crowded with people, many of whom obviously slept here, some of whom were already doing so.
‘This place was the joy of my childhood,’ Jimpo said, shaking hands warmly with a one-eyed porter who presented him and Soames with a leaf full of melon seeds. ‘The line was then being built by Portuguese contractors. Instead of the little electric trains which English boys play at, I had a real train. The railway was planned to connect us with the up-country town of Uiuibursam, two hundred and fifty miles away. To do this, a bridge had to be built; unfortunately it never was built, and so the railway will never be completed.’
‘What a pity!’ Soames exclaimed. ‘Why was the bridge so difficult?’
‘It had to go over a tributary of the Uiui and be made of steel. A suitable German engineer was chartered to come up from Windhoek and achieve this thing. He travelled up the Congo and then overland, and was within twenty miles of Umbalathorp when he became killed beneath a herd of wild elephants. There are no elephants near Umbalathorp now, for the poachers have finished them all; so you see if we had had patience and waited, this bad thing would not have happened, and we would now have had our bridge.’
‘Could you not now engage another engineer?’ Soames enquired; he no longer hesitated about putting questions which seemed obvious to him.
‘Now is fortunately no need for a bridge,’ Jimpo said. ‘Owing to failure of crops and baboon attacks, Uiuibursam is now deserted. Nobody requires to go there any more.’
‘Yet the line seems very popular,’ Soames observed, as a little 0–4–0 tank engine bustled into the station tugging two carriages. A good-humoured scrimmage ensued between those who wished to get out of the carriages and those who wished to get in.
‘This is the most popular entertainment in the capital,’ Jimpo said. ‘Everyone likes to ride on it. Come on, Soames! Let us have a joy ride, man!’
Lowering his rugger-playing shoulders, Jimpo pressed forward and fina
lly secured seats in a packed compartment for Soames and himself. A very fat lady wearing a palm leaf secured to her head with ribbon gave greyish nut kernels to everyone present, and the atmosphere became greasy with excitement.
‘This line runs only to the slum part of our capital,’ Jimpo said. ‘You can almost see one end of it from the other. But still, who is doing any caring? The scenery on the way is good, and the government has profited from increased real estate values, since everyone fights to build a house on the trackside, in order to watch the train going by.’
The one-eyed porter thrust his head through the glassless window, speaking with extraordinary rapidity to Jimpo and employing great facial expression as he did so.
‘I will be coming back soon, Soames,’ Jimpo said, rising. ‘My father wishes to correspond with me on the telephone. It should not detain me for a minute.’
He jumped off the train, following his porter friend into a room which evidently served as combined signal cabin, stationmaster’s office and cloak-room. Soames could watch him through the window as he seated himself at a vast desk and spoke reverently into an instrument designed in gracious Second Empire style. The princeling’s brow became overcast. He protested. He shot a glance or two at Soames. He remonstrated. He seized the telephone by its rococo throat. He listened again, and was convinced. He commenced a lengthy discourse. The train pulled out and he was still talking demonstratively.
This guileful move on the part of the train did not take Soames unawares. Indeed, he was given early notice of the manoeuvre by a jerk which caught his head a violent blow against the wall behind him – a mishap at which the other passengers, too experienced to be caught by the same trick, all laughed gaily; but he was too well wedged in by the fat lady, who had spread herself since Jimpo got out, to move quickly enough to dismount from the train. He consoled himself with the knowledge that the journey would be short.
Jimpo’s point about the real estate was soon made clear. Little wooden houses, squeezed together like match boxes standing on end, pressed so close to the rails that their occupants could easily shake fists at or even hands with the train passengers. For Soames, it was as if they moved slowly through a cross-section, cut with a monstrous knife, of Umbalathorp, because the Goyese – even this upper crust who could afford to live right on top of the tracks – led such airy existences that no privacy existed in their homes. In one room they passed, a negro, his shorts supported by braces stretched to breaking point over a massive bare chest, was either kissing or biting his wife; in another, three naked children bounced up and down on a prone relation; in a third, a woman sat working a sewing machine with a babe at each breast. On one tiny balcony, a man had built himself a signal gantry; he crashed the signal arms down smartly as they chugged by, and blew a silver whistle.