Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [56]
The Presidential Residence, on this first, and, as it turned out, last, evening of the Soviet Union of Ishmaelia, was ceremoniously illuminated, not with the superb floods of concealed arc lamps dear to the more mature dictatorships, but, for want of better, with a multitude of "fairy lights" with which the Jacksons were wont to festoon the verandah on their not infrequent official birthdays; all the windows of the facade, ten of them, were unshuttered, and the bright lamps behind gave cosy glimpses of Nottingham lace, portieres and enlarged photographs. A red flag hung black against the night sky. Mr. Benito, backed by a group of Young Ishmaelites, stood on the central balcony. A large crowd of Ishmaelites had assembled to see the lights. "What is he saying?" asked William. "He has proclaimed the abolition of Sunday and he is calling for volunteers for a ten day, ten hour, week. I do not think he has chosen the occasion with tact." The Swede had left them, pushing forward on his errand of liberation. William and Mr. Baldwin stood at the back of the crowd. The temper of the people was apathetic. They liked to see the place lit up. Oratory pleased them, whatever its subject; sermons, educational lectures, political programmes, panegyrics of the dead or living, appeals for charity � all had the same soporific effect. They liked the human voice in all its aspects, most particularly when it was exerted in sustained athletic effort. They had, from time to time, heard too many unfulfilled prophecies issue from that balcony to feel any particular apprehensions about the rigours of the new regime. Then, while Benito was well in his stride, a whisper of interest passed through them; necks were stretched. The Swede had appeared at the ground floor window. Benito, sensing the new alertness in his audience, raised his voice, rolled his eyes and flashed his white teeth. The audience stood tiptoe with expectation. They could see what he could not � the Swede in a lethargic but effective manner liquidating the front parlour. He pulled the curtains down, he swept the fourteen ornamental vases off the chimney-piece, with a loud crash he threw a pot of fern through the window. The audience clapped enthusiastically. The Young Ishmaelites behind Benito began to consult, but the speaker, oblivious to all except his own eloquence, continued to churn the night air with Marxian precepts. To the spectators at the back of the crowd, out of earshot of the minor sounds, the sequence unfolded itself with the happy inconsequence of an early comedy film. The revolutionary committee left their leader's side and disappeared from view to return almost immediately in rout, backwards, retreating before the Swede, who now came into the light of the upper drawing-room brandishing a small gilt chair over his head.
It was not a ten-foot drop from the balcony. The traditional, ineradicable awe of the white man combined with the obvious, immediate peril of the whirling chair-legs to decide the issue. With one accord they plunged over the rail onto the woolly pates below. Benito was the last to go, proclaiming class war with his last audible breath. The Swede addressed the happy people in Ishmaelite. "He says he is looking for his friend President Jackson," explained Mr. Baldwin. A cheer greeted the announcement. "Jackson" was one of the perennially exhilarating words in the Ishmaelite vocabulary