Kitabı oku: «The Male Response»

Chapter One

‘… borne aloft or sinking …’

‘Of course, if they had had any sense they’d have routed us via Cairo,’ the engineer from Birmingham said.

This is the miracle of our age: that one may be borne swiftly and smoothly along in winged luxury, constantly fed and reassured, while underneath one unrolls the great viridian mat of central Africa, that territory to be flown over but never conquered, whose mysteries deepen as the rest of the world grows shallower, whose beasts and peoples breathe a secret, greener air, whose prodigality seems to make of the continent a very planet, subject to its laws and psychologies – this, I say, is the miracle, that one may be borne over all this superbity to the tune of turbo-props and notice nothing of it because of the vacuous gossip of an engineer from Birmingham.

‘I mean, Dakar just doesn’t compare with Cairo in any way,’ he added, ‘as regards amenities or anything else.’

Soames Noyes did not remember the chatty man’s name. They had been introduced rather hurriedly by Sir Roger at the Southampton airfield. Soames never remembered names upon introduction; although his thirtieth birthday was creeping up on him as surely as a tide, he was still paralysed on all meetings with people. For an instant, he would be back at his kindergarten, Miss Munnings would be conducting the Deportment Class and saying, ‘Now, when you are introduced to somebody, you stand with your feet so, left hand resting gently on the hip so, right hand extended so, and you say “How do you do?” Now, Soames, will you come out here and give the other boys and girls a demonstration?’; and little Soames would go sacrificially before them all and stick out his rump and hand in such a way that the class burst at once into derisory laughter. And in the moment it took for this splinter of memory to flush through his brain, Soames would have missed the name of the new face, even when the new face was saying, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Noyes. Of course, managing the Midland branch of Unilateral, I’ve never come in contact with you, but we’ve all heard of you, even up in the wilds of Birmingham.’

‘How are they all in Birmingham?’ Soames asked facetiously, mainly because he guessed that this plump, grey-faced engineer would be what in the lower echelons of the firm was called ‘a good, solid Unilateral man’.

‘Fine, fine. And a lot of them a fair bit envious of your and my little trip to Darkest Africa, Mr Noyes, I don’t mind telling you.’

There were four Unilateral men on the ‘little trip’. In the seat opposite Soames and the nameless Birmingham man were two more engineers, one a cheerful type called Wally Brewer, one a quiet, wiry man called Ted Timpleton who was now white round the jaws and sat looking steadfastly away from the plane window. Soames was not a technical man; he belonged to what was spoken of as the Unilateral façade. His job was to talk charmingly and not too intelligently to Unilateral clients, to soothe away their little worries over expense-account dinners, to reassure them that Unilateral electronic computers were the best in the world, to ingratiate.

The plane contained a fifth passenger: Deal Jimpo Landor. He looked the typical African, clad in magnificent tribal costume, with one black, almost purple, arm resting nonchalantly over the back of the seat in front of him. In fact, he was an eighteen-year-old ex-public schoolboy with a manner, as Soames had already discovered, more reminiscent of a Teutonic philosopher than of the Uele warrior stock from which he came. The playing fields of Eton had made him frightfully earnest. His deep eyes were abstracted now, as if his thoughts ran ahead to his own country of Goya, which the aircraft was rapidly nearing. His father was head of Goya and would have a suitable welcome awaiting his firstborn.

The most valuable part of the pay-load lay not in the five passengers nor the pilot but in the storage compartments of the plane. There, carefully packed, crated, stencilled and numbered were the component parts of an Apostle Mk II, Unilateral’s newest, most svelte electronic computer, bound for the palace at Umbalathorp, Goya.

Six weeks had passed since Unilateral received the order for this machine. Deal Jimpo Landor had come in person to the glossy showrooms in Regent Street. To give his visit an additional touch of unreality, he was dressed in the full official regalia of a Princeling Son of the President of the Republic of Goya. Awed Regent Street assistants ushered him into the manager, Waypole’s, office, where Soames, as it happened, had dropped in for a gossip.

Having been primed for the audition by a hurried phone call from below, Waypole and Soames rose from their chairs and executed stiff bows to the gaudy new arrival.

‘You are not the owner of this firm?’ Deal Jimpo asked, when the introductions were completed and he had accepted a seat.

‘I fear not,’ Waypole said, nervously flicking a speck of pollen from his carnation. ‘I am in charge of this branch of our organisation, however, and can contact our chairman by phone, should that be necessary.’

‘I do not want to cause trouble,’ Deal Jimpo said. ‘Please do not bother the chairman yet. I am wishing to buy just one of your very best computing machines.’

‘May one ask – is it for yourself, sir?’ Waypole said.

‘No, it is for my father’s republic in Africa,’ the young negro replied. ‘In Goya, we are most progressive and have everything on Western principles without any bother from reactionaries. Perhaps you read The Times yesterday where my republic is referred to as “the black Scandinavia”. To become still more progressive we require one computer. I think my people would like best a red one.’

‘They actually are all turned out sprayed slate grey,’ Waypole said faintly, ‘but of course we can make alterations to suit customers’ requirements. Please excuse me just one moment.’ He turned to Soames, who was fighting a stubborn rearguard action to keep his face straight, and said in a low, agitated voice, ‘Soames, my dear man, for heaven’s sake go downstairs and check up if this place Goya exists. I always thought it was a painter. Unless I am mistaken, this is a practical joke being played on me by an odious fellow called Betts-Lewcombe who was on my staircase at Balliol.’

Soames returned from this quest a few minutes later and, standing behind the Princeling, made an involved gesture intended to explain to Waypole that a quick phone call to the Daily Telegraph Information Bureau had revealed Goya to exist in very fact as a small republic wedged between the Congo, the Sudan and a bit of ex-French Equatorial Africa, with a flourishing cocoa bean industry and a President called M’Grassi Landor; that it looked as if, in this instance at least, the odious Betts-Lewcombe’s name was cleared.

Enough of this signal was comprehensible to Waypole for him to gather that its opposite, the bum’s rush, had not been mimed. Casting his eye more benevolently upon Deal Jimpo, he said, ‘I have here some brochures of our various computer models; perhaps you would care to look at them at your leisure and see which you think would best suit your – er, peculiar circumstances.’

Fishing in a drawer of his desk, he produced a batch of sumptuous folders and handed them across to his visitor.

‘Thank you,’ Deal Jimpo said, opening the top folder. Inside was a colour photo of a smartly uniformed young lady pointing smilingly at the bulk of an Apostle Mk II.

‘I will take this one,’ Deal Jimpo said definitely, planting his thumb on the machine.

‘Er, that,’ said Waypole, smiling as if in the throes of gastroenteritis, and nobly giving the stranger a chance to change his mind, ‘is the star member of the entire range of our machines and is only just in full production. We have sold it to Edinburgh, Harwell and the Air Ministry, but so far our only clients overseas are the Saga Uns people in Hamburg and the Sûreté. Its basic price is £400,500.’

‘It sounds as if it should be very suitable for Umbalathorp, thank you,’ Deal Jimpo said gravely. ‘I will write you a cheque now but I shall not require the machine until tomorrow.’

The edges of Waypole’s carnation curled. He slumped slightly in his chair.

‘There may be a slight delay in delivery,’ he said, a wave of emotion rippling on his voice.

‘Of course – for the red painting,’ Deal Jimpo agreed. ‘Well, no hurry at all. I do not sail for home yet for two days.’

It was at this moment that Waypole caught sight of Soames frozen in a column of silent laughter behind the Princeling. His air of distraction relaxed, washed away by a peevish grin. Some of the rough edge which had won him the manager’s chair began to show.

‘You must allow us to make the delivery for you,’ he said, carefully choosing his tone so as to show Deal Jimpo only its silk glove and Soames only the iron hand within it. ‘We shall be delighted to fly the Apostle out to Umbalathorp (do I have it correctly?), and our liaison man here, Mr Noyes, will go with it, so that any little difficulties or misunderstandings which may arise can be dealt with on the spot.’

And that was how it had all begun.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, Mr Noyes, but I shall be glad to get out and stretch my legs,’ the Birmingham man said.

‘Same here,’ agreed Soames. It was a phrase he never used.

‘I wonder what sort of a place this Umbalathorp is?’ the Birmingham man wondered, and then – sagely guessing just how worthwhile any answer of Soames’ would be – he turned round and called to Deal Jimpo, ‘What sort of a place is this Umbalathorp we’re getting to, Prince Landor?’

His voice implied that he might have been requesting information on the nearest brothel from a street tout, but Deal Jimpo replied equably enough.

‘Umbalathorp is the capital of Goya. It is a healthy city without much sickness. Everyone is progressive in outlook and content in spirit. It has a railway which may perhaps one day connect it up to other cities. Its population is ten thousand and rising rapidly.’

‘All natives, I suppose,’ the Birmingham man said flatly.

‘All natives of Umbalathorp,’ said Deal Jimpo with equal flatness. The remark completely won over Soames, who felt a new eagerness to investigate this curious little jungle republic; he had already begun to like Deal Jimpo.

The Birmingham man was not snubbed. Giving Soames a dirty wink, he remarked, ‘I hope the native women aren’t tabu, Prince, anyhow.’

Deal Jimpo did not smile.

‘You will find our standards equal to Western standards,’ he said. ‘Which means promiscuity among the females. Morality was higher under the old tribal customs, that must be admitted.’

‘After you with the old tribal customs!’ exclaimed the Birmingham man, slapping his hands together and making succulent smacking noises in his cheek. He dug Soames in the ribs. ‘Ever tried a bit of the old tribal customs?’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I had an Arab bint once during the last war. Talk about strong! She got her legs wrapped round me and dug her heels in the small of my back like a human nutcracker. Scared me stiff at first, it did – I was only a youngster in those days.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Soames, feeling enthusiasm was required of him. The Birmingham man was goaded into fresh revelations, so that Wally Brewer and Timpleton leant over to catch what he was saying.

‘I knew a good thing when I found it,’ the engineer boasted. ‘Ah! I was back round there again next evening. “Dig your heels in again, missis,” I said. And she did. Strewth! We’ll be okay if they’re like that in this Umbalathorp, I tell you. She was a nice little bit, that Arab bint. They shave off their pubic hairs before marriage, you know.’

This anthropological detail reminded Brewer of something he had heard.

‘A lot of these African women slap goat dung on it to improve the sensation,’ he said. ‘It’s like using curry powder with meat.’

It was Timpleton’s turn to chip in.

‘You haven’t lived till you’ve had an Italian girl,’ he said.

‘Japanese,’ Brewer contradicted firmly. ‘Japanese. Nothing like a little Jap girl – up to all the tricks, they are, taught about it from the nursery. When we set up that computer in Yokohama last year …’ He guffawed to show that the sentence could not be completed in words, not even over the wilds of Africa.

‘Just let us loose in Umbalathorp, that’s all I say,’ Timpleton remarked.

Soames said nothing. He could not casually reveal his sexual experiences in this way – not that he had ever felt anything so exotic as an Arabian heel grip in the small of his back. Obviously it was time he asserted himself.

Ignoring the chatter of the other men, he fell into a reverie. Now or never, presumably, was his chance to break the bonds of his confounded reserve, to leap free from the constraints of a cold temperament and climate. On this trip he would prove himself a man or die in the attempt.

Sexual fantasies surged through his mind. Massive thighs opened up before him, pair after pair, like doors down a Versailles corridor. Soames went through them all, unruffled, laughingly denigrating his own prowess. The tenth woman, who could speak a little English, cried aloud for mercy.

‘Mercy!’ exclaimed fantasy-Soames. ‘My good woman, this is only a dress rehearsal.’

‘But I cannot exhaust you. You are a Casanova among men.’

‘Nonsense, chicken. It’s just – well, I’m a branch of a lusty family.’

‘Branch, sir? This thing, it is more like a trunk!’

‘It happens to be a prominent feature in the Noyes family, that’s all.’ And as he left, tossing a few dollars negligently to the bowing and awe-struck proprietress, he called over one shoulder. ‘Try and find some fresh girls for me tomorrow night, madame – something with a little fire in it.’

The madame was weeping, trying to give him his money back.

‘Please do not come here again, sir,’ she pleaded. ‘You wear out all my best girls.’

But the girls were protesting to her, begging to be allowed to lie with Soames just once more.

‘All a beautiful dream,’ Soames told himself, sighing heavily.

He glanced out of the window to see if there was any break in the tousled green carpet beneath them. The plane was lurching in rather an un-English manner as if investigating a new way of coping with turbulence. This might have been either because they were flying over a range of mountains or because half of one wing was trying to detach itself from the plane.

This latter phenomenon riveted Soames’ attention. He no longer felt capable of joining in the small talk about him, which had now turned to the possibilities of hunting in Goya. Instead, he gazed sickly at the wing. It was making the leisurely flapping movements of an old pterodactyl; a girder inside the leading edge must have snapped even as Soames looked, for the flapping became abruptly more pronounced. The pterodactyl had sighted food.

Soames was petrified – not by fear but by a less wholesome emotion. He was the son of a doggedly timid father and an assertive mother, and the war between his parents had been perpetuated in him. Now the urge to stand up and do something useful was quenched by a conflicting urge which said to him, ‘Think what a fool you would look if you walked through into the pilot’s cabin, tapped him on the shoulder and announced “one wing’s coming off, pilot” – and he turned round and said, “Yes, I know; mind your own business”.’

The Birmingham man and Wally Brewer were discussing the rival attractions of football and game-hunting with Deal Jimpo. Ted Timpleton stared whitely ahead like an actor whose lines had gone from him for the night – the first night. The sedate flapping of the wing had changed now, changed into an angry shaking, as if the cargo plane were an animal just waking to the hideous injustice of having to carry humans in its digestive tract.

Breaking at last from his trance, Soames stood up. As he did so, the loudspeaker in the cabin broke into life and the pilot’s voice said harshly, ‘I’m going down for an emergency landing. We’ve developed a fault. Strap on your safety belts and sit tight, all of you. No need to panic.’

‘What the hell’s the matter?’ the Birmingham man asked. ‘Do you think we ought to see if we can give him a hand, Mr Noyes?’

‘We’re going to crash!’ Timpleton said, standing up. ‘My wife warned me …’

‘Sit down at once, and do as the pilot says,’ Deal Jimpo said, loudly and firmly.

Both Timpleton and Noyes, rather to the latter’s annoyance, at once obeyed the command.

‘Bugger that, I’m going to see if I can help the pilot,’ the Birmingham man said, running forward and disappearing through the connecting door into the cabin. They were diving now, the turbulent green lurching up uninvitingly to meet them, the plane bucking as it set its nose down. A small suitcase of the Princeling’s shot out of a luggage rack and scuttled down the gangway after the Birmingham man.

‘Oh my God,’ Timpleton said. ‘Now we’re for it, Mr Noyes.’

‘N-nonsense,’ Soames replied with an attempt at a joke, ‘the pilot knows the Apostle is too valuable a cargo to damage.’

Long afterwards, he recalled with surprise how loudly Deal Jimpo and Wally Brewer laughed at his remark; and even in the face of what might conceivably be death-in-a-veil, he found himself resolving to try and make more jokes in future. Then Wally caught his eye, winked broadly to indicate that this was for the abject Timpleton’s amusement, and began to sing ‘Abide With Me’.

The noise in the cabin was so deafening that they could scarcely hear him. The earth which from the serenity of a few thousand feet up had looked as smooth and inviting as an electric blanket, now revealed itself in its true colours: a savage, Jurassic world of broken hill and valley, loaded with rivers and trees. Space in which to land was absolutely nonexistent. Uneasily, queasily, Soames tensed himself for the fatal shock. Just through the window, the wing was a giant fist shaken at him. It sounded like a madman’s banging on shutters.

Now they seemed to be clipping the tree tops. Startled giraffes broke through a tiny clearing and galloped beneath them. The suitcase was shuffling its way back up the gangway.

Four passengers with dry, open mouths sat clutching seat-backs. Their flight was so bumpy they might have been leaping from tree top to tree top. Wally Brewer’s oil-coated hair flapped up and down on his head.

‘We’re going too fast,’ Soames whispered.

Abruptly the jungle stopped. A sea of grass rushed beneath them. The plane dropped towards it. Now they staggered in for a landing, forest fringing them on either side, more rising up like a wave a mile ahead. It had to be now or never.

Their wheels touched the ground. A mighty hissing, a boiling sea of grass-noise, rose round them. And in that instant the loose wing struck the flowing earth.

With a crescendo of noise, the plane was flung round off its course, pitched back into the air, hurled on to one shoulder.

Timpleton screamed and somersaulted across the gangway. He had not buckled his safety belt properly.

A mighty mvule, outrageous, irresistible, spread out its branches to them. Foliage slashed across their windows. With a last heave, the body of the plane struck something solid. Everything in the universe rattled.

Maniac sound, maniac silence.