Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [39]
Frau Dressler packed a hamper; Dr. Benito stamped a pass; Paleologue arranged for the hire of a motor-car. At midday William and K�hen drove off towards the hills. "K�hen, I love you. Darling, darling K�hen, I love you..." He meant it. He was in love. It was the first time in twenty-three years; he was suffused and inflated and tipsy with love. It was believed at Boot Magna, and jocularly commented upon from time to time, that an attachment existed between him and a neighbouring Miss Caldicote; it was not so. He was a stranger alike to the bucolic jaunts of the hayfield and the dark and costly expeditions of his Uncle Theodore. For twenty-three years he had remained celibate and heart-whole; landbound. Now for the first time he was far from shore, submerged among deep waters, below wind and tide, where huge trees raised their spongy flowers and monstrous things without fur or feather, wing or foot, passed silently, in submarine twilight. A lush place.
Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock threw open the shutters of his room and welcomed the sunshine. He thrust his head out of the window and called loudly for attention. They brought him a dozen steaming jugs and filled his tub. He bathed and shaved and rubbed his head with eau de quinine until his sparse hairs were crowned with foam and his scalp smarted and glowed. He dressed carefully, set his hat at an angle and sauntered to the wireless station. CONSIDER ISHMAELITE STORY UPCLEANED, he wrote, SUGGEST LEAVING AGENCIES COVER UPFOLLOWS. Then he returned to the hotel and ate a late breakfast of five lightly boiled eggs. He packed his luggage and waited for his reply. It came before sundown, for there was little traffic at the wireless station that day.
PROCEED LUCERNE COVER ECONOMIC NONINTERVENTION CONGRESS
There was a train to the coast that night. He paid his bill at the hotel and, with three hours to spare, took a walk in the town.
The promise of the morning had been barely fulfilled. At noon the rain had started again, throughout the afternoon had streamed monotonously, and now, at sundown, ceased; for a few minutes the shoddy roofs were ablaze with scarlet and gold. With loping steps, Erik Olafsen came down the street towards Sir Jocelyn; his face was uplifted to the glory of the sunset and he would have walked blandly by. It was Sir Jocelyn's first impulse to let him; then, changing his mind, he stepped forward and greeted him. "Sir Hitchcock, you are back so soon. It will disappoint our colleagues to find you not at Laku. You have had many interests in your journey, yes?" "Yes," said Sir Jocelyn briefly. Across the street, deriding the splendour of the sky, there flashed the electric sign of Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour while, from his door, an ancient French two-step, prodigiously amplified, heralded the day's end. "Come across and have a drink," said Sir Jocelyn. "Not to drink, thank you so much, but to hear the interests of your journey. I was told that Laku was no such place, no?" "No," said Sir Jocelyn. Even as they crossed the street, the sky paled. Popotakis had tried a cinema, a dance hall, baccarat and miniature golf; now he had four ping-pong tables. He made good money, for the smart set of Jacksonburg were always hard put to get through the rainy season; the polyglot professional class had made it their rendezvous; even attach�from the legations and younger members of the Jackson family had come there. Then for a few delirious days it had been overrun with journalists; prices had doubled, quarrels had raged, the correspondent of the Methodist Monitor had been trussed with a net and a photographer had lost a tooth. Popotakis's old clients melted away to other, more seemly resorts; the journalists had broken his furniture and insulted his servants and kept him awake till four in the morning, but they had drunk his homemade whisky at an American dollar a glass and poured his homemade champagne over the bar at ten dollars a bottle. Now they had all gone and the place was nearly empty. Only William and K�hen sat at the bar. Popotakis had some genuine sixty per cent. absinthe; that is what they were drinking. They were in a sombre mood, for the picnic had been a failure. Olafsen greeted them with the keenest pleasure. "So you have not gone with the others, Boot? And you are now friends with K