Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [55]
� treasures from the Imperial palaces, timber, toys and so forth � were not much in demand in Ishmaelia, in presidential circles at any rate. President Jackson had long wanted to make adequate provision for his retirement, and I was fortunately placed in being able to offer him gold for his gold concession, and my rivals found themselves faced by the alternative of abandoning their ambitions or upsetting President Jackson. They both preferred the latter, more romantic course. The Germans, with a minimum of discernment, chose to set up a native of low character named Smiles as prospective dictator. I never had any serious fears of him. The Russians, more astutely, purchased the Young Ishmaelite party and are, as you see, momentarily in the ascendant. "That, I think, should give you your material for an article." "Yes," said William. "Thank you very much. I'm sure Mr. Salter and Lord Copper will be very grateful." "Dear me, how little you seem to have mastered the correct procedure of your profession. You should ask me whether I have any message for the British public. I have. It is this: Might must find a way. Not 'Force' remember; other nations use 'Force'; we Britons alone use 'Might.' Only one thing can set things right � sudden and extreme violence, or better still, the effective threat of it. I am committed to very considerable sums in this little gamble and, alas, our countrymen are painfully tolerant, nowadays, of the losses of their financial superiors. One sighs for the days of Pam or Dizzy. I possess a little influence in political quarters but it will strain it severely to provoke a war on my account. Some semblance of popular support, such as your paper can give, would be very valuable...But I dislike embarrassing my affairs with international issues. I should greatly prefer it, if the thing could be settled neatly and finally, here and now." As he spoke there arose from the vestibule a huge and confused tumult; the roar of an engine which, in the tranquil barroom, sounded like a flight of heavy aeroplanes, a series of percussions like high explosive bombs, shrill, polyglot human voices inarticulate with alarm and above them all a deep bass, trolling chant, half nautical, half ecclesiastical. The flimsy structure throbbed and shook from its shallow foundation to its asbestos roof; the metal-bound doors flew open revealing, first, the two black commissionaires, backing into the bar and, next, driving them before him, a very large man astride a motorcycle. He rode slowly between the ping-pong tables, then put his feet to the floor and released the handle-bars. The machine shot from under him, charged the bar, and lay on its side with its back wheel spinning in a cloud of exhaust gas, while the rider, swaying ponderously from side to side like a performing bear, surveyed the room in a puzzled but friendly spirit. It was the Swede; but a Swede transfigured, barely recognizable as the mild apostle of the coffeepot and the sticking plaster. The hair of his head stood like a tuft of ornamental, golden grass; a vinous flush lit the upper part of his face, the high cheekbones, the blank, calflike eyes; on the broad concavities of his forehead the veins bulged varicosely. Still singing his Nordic dirge he saluted the empty chairs and ambled towards the bar. At the first alarm Mr. Popotakis had fled the building. The Swede spanned the counter and fumbled in the shelf beyond. William and Mr. Baldwin watched him fascinated as he raised bottle after bottle to his nose, sniffed and tossed them disconsolately behind him. Presently he found what he wanted � the sixty per cent. He knocked off the neck, none too neatly, and set the jagged edge to his lips; his Adam's apple rose and fell. Then, refreshed, he looked about him again. The motorcycle at his feet, churning and stinking, attracted his notice and he silenced it with a single tremendous kick. "Might," said Mr. Baldwin reverently. The Swede's eyes travelled slowly about him, settled on William, goggled, squinted, and betrayed signs of recognition. He swayed across the room and took William's hand in a paralyzing grip; he jabbed hospitably at his face with the broken bottle and addressed him warmly and at length in Swedish. Mr. Baldwin replied. The sound of his own tongue in a strange land affected Olafsen strongly. He sat down and cried while Mr. Baldwin, still in Swedish, spoke to him comfortably. "Sometimes it is necessary to dissemble one's nationality," he explained to William. "I have given our friend here to believe that I am a compatriot." The black mood passed. Olafsen gave a little whoop and lunged in a menacing manner with the absinthe bottle. He introduced William to Mr. Baldwin. "This is my great friend, Boot," he said, "a famous journalist. He is my friend though I have been made a fool. I have been made a fool," he cried louder and more angrily, "by a lot of blacks. They sent me down the line to an epidemic and I was laughed at. But I am going to tell the President. He is a good old man and he will punish them. I will go to his residence, now, and explain everything." He rose from the table and bent over the disabled motorcycle. Mr. Popotakis peeped round the corner of the service door and, seeing the Swede still in possession, popped back out of sight. "Tell me," said Mr. Baldwin. "Your friend here