Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [53]
chapter 4
The sun sank behind the gum trees and the first day of the Soviet of Ishmaelia ended in crimson splendour. The deserted barroom of Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour glowed in the fiery sunset. "I really do not know how to thank you," said William. "Please," said his companion, laying a hand lightly on his, "please do not embarrass me. The words you have just used seem to haunt me, wherever I go. Ever since that auspicious afternoon when you were kind enough to give me a place in your aeroplane, I have feared sooner or later to hear them on your lips. I suggested as much at the time, I think, if my memory does not deceive me." Mr. Popotakis switched on the lights above the ping-pong table and asked: "You want a game, Mr. Baldwin?" � for it was by this name that William's friend now preferred to be called. ("It is a convenient name," he had explained. "Noncommittal, British, and above all easily memorable. I am often obliged to pursue my business interests under an alias. My man Cuthbert chooses them for me. He has a keen sense of what is fitting, but he sometimes luxuriates a little. There have been times when his more fanciful inventions have entirely slipped my memory, at important moments. So now I am plain Mr. Baldwin. I beg you to respect my confidence.") Mr. Baldwin resumed his little dissertation. "In the rough and tumble of commercial life," he said, "I endeavour to requite the kindnesses I receive. The kindnesses have become more profuse and the rewards more substantial of recent years... however, I am sure that in you I met an entirely disinterested benefactor. I am glad to have prospered your professional career so inexpensively. "Do you know, my first impression of you was not of a young man destined for great success in journalism? Quite the reverse. In fact, to be frank with you, I was sceptical of your identity and when you told me of your destination, I feared you might be coming here with some ulterior object. If I seemed evasive in the early days of our � our, I hope I may say, friendship � you must forgive me. "And now Mr. Popotakis is offering us a game of ping-pong. For my part, I think it might be refreshing." Mr. Baldwin removed his coat and rolled the sleeves of his crepe de Chine shirt. Then he took his bat and poised himself expectantly at the end of the table. William served. Love, fifteen; love, thirty; love, forty, game; fifteen, love; thirty, love; forty, love, game. The little man was ubiquitous, ambidextrous. He crouched and bounded and skipped, slamming and volleying; now spanning the net, now five yards back, now flicking the ball from below his knees, now rocketing high among the electric lights; keeping up all the while a bright, bantering conversation in demotic Greek with Mr. Popotakis. At the end of the love set he resumed his coat and said, "Quarter past six. No doubt you are impatient to send your second message..." For a private wireless transmitter was one of the amenities to which William had been introduced that day. Since Mr. Baldwin's arrival Jacksonburg � or Marxville as it had been called since early that morning � had proved a town of unsuspected convenience. "I have a little pied a terre here," Mr. Baldwin had explained when William suggested their lunching at the Pension Dressler. "My man Cuthbert has been putting it in order. I have not seen it and I fear the worst, but he is a sensitive fellow and might be put out if I lunched away from home on the day of my arrival. Will you not share the adventure of lunching with me?" They walked, for Mr. Baldwin complained that his flight had brought on a slight stiffness of the legs. He took William's arm, guiding him through the less frequented byways of the town and questioning him earnestly about the events of the last twenty-four hours. "And where are your colleagues? I anticipated being vexed by them." "They have all gone off into the interior to look for Smiles." "That is excellent. You will be the sole spectator at the last act of our little drama." "It won't be much help. They've shut the wireless bureau." "It shall be opened soon. Meanwhile I have no doubt Cuthbert will be able to accommodate you. He and a Swiss associate of mine have fixed up a little makeshift which appears to work. I have been in correspondence with them daily." Even in the side streets there was evidence of the new regime; twice they were obliged to shelter as police lorries thundered past them laden with glaucous prisoners. The Cafe Wilberforce had changed its name to Caf