“O.K.” said Basil. “You know, you seem to me a good chap.”
“Look, how about you give me money now. Then I take you to my cafe. Dirty little place, not like London. But you see. I got fine brandy. Very fresh, I make him myself Sunday.”
Basil and Mr. Youkoumian took their seats in the train at two o’clock and settled down to wait for the arrival of the Imperial party. There were six other occupants of the carriage—a Greek who offered them oranges and soon fell asleep, four Indians who discussed their racial grievances in an eager undertone, and an Azanian nobleman with his wife who shared a large pie of spiced mutton, lifting the slices between pieces of newspaper and eating silently and almost continuously throughout the afternoon. Mr. Youkoumian’s personal luggage was very small but he had several crates of merchandise for his Debra-Dowa establishment: by a distribution of minute tips he had managed to get these into the mail van.
In spite of Seth’s proclamation the police were 1*9 at some difficulty in keeping the platform clear of the public; twenty or thirty of them prosecuted a vigorous defence with long bamboo staves, whacking the woolly heads as they appeared above the corrugated iron fence. Even so, large numbers of un-authorised spectators were established out of reach on the station roof. The Indian who supplied pictures of local colour to an International Press Agency was busily taking snapshots of the notables. These had not observed the Emperor’s instructions to the letter. The Nestorian Metropolitan swayed on the arm of his chaplain, unquestionably drunk; the representative of the Courier d’Azanie wore an open shirt, a battered topee, crumpled white trousers and canvas shoes; the Levantine shipping agent who acted as vice-consul for Great Britain, the Netherlands, Sweden, Portugal and Latvia had put on a light waterproof over his pyjamas and come to the function straight from bed; the Eurasian bank manager who acted as vice-consul for Soviet Russia, France, and Italy, was still asleep; the general merchant of inscrutable ancestry who represented the other great powers, was at the moment employed on the mainland making final arrangements for the trans-shipment from Alexandria of a long-awaited consignment of hashish. Some Azanian dignitaries in national costume, sat in a row on the carpets their slaves had spread for them, placidly scratching the soles of their bare feet and conversing intermittently on questions of sex. The station master’s livestock-two goats and a few small turkeys—had been ex-pelled in honour of the occasion from their normal quarters in the ladies’ waiting room, and wandered at will about the platform gobbling at fragments of refuse.
It was more than an hour after the appointed time when the drums and fifes of the Imperial guard announced the Emperor’s arrival. They had been held up by the derelict motor car which had all the morning resisted the efforts of the convicts to move it. The Civil Governor on whom rested the ultimate responsibility for this mishap, was soundly thrashed and degraded from the rank of Viscount to that of Baronet before the procession could be resumed. It was necessary for the Emperor to leave his car and complete the journey on mule back, his luggage bobbing behind him on the heads of a dozen suddenly conscripted spectators.
He arrived in a bad temper, scowled at the station master and the two vice-consuls, ignored the native nobility and the tipsy Bishop, and bestowed only the most sour of smiles on the press photographer. The guards presented arms, the interlopers on the roof set up an uncertain cheer and he strode across to the carriage prepared for him. General Connolly and the rest of the royal entourage bun-died into their places. The station master stood hat in hand waiting for orders.
“His Majesty is now ready to start.’
The station master waved his hat to the engine driver; the guards once more presented their arms. The drums and fifes struck up the national anthem. The two daughters of the director of the line scattered rose petals round the steps of the carriage. The engine whistled, Seth continued to smile… nothing happened. At the end of the verse the band music died away; the soldiers stood irresolutely at the present; the Nestorian Metropolitan continued to beat the time of some interior melody; the goats and turkeys wandered in and out among the embarrassed spectators. Then, when all seemed frozen in silence, the engine gave a great wrench, shaking the train coach by coach from the tender to the mule boxes, and suddenly, to the immense delight of the darkies on the roof, shot off by itself into the country.
“The Emperor has given no orders for a delay.’
“It is a thing I did not foresee.’
‘ said the station master, “our only engine has gone away alone. I think I shall be disgraced for this affair.’
But Seth made no comment. The other passengers came out onto the platform, smoking and making jokes. He did not look out at them. This gross incident had bruised his most vulnerable feelings.
He had been made ridiculous at a moment of dignity and triumph; he had been disappointed in plans he had made eagerly; his own superiority was compromised by contact with such service. Basil passed his window and caught a glimpse of a gloomy but very purposeful black face under a white sun helmet. And at that moment the Emperor was resolving. “My people are a worthless people. I give orders; there is none to obey me. I am like a great musician without an instrument. A wrecked car broadside across the line of my procession… a royal train without an engine… goats on the platform… I can do nothing with these people. The Metropolitan is drunk. Those old landowners giggled when the engine broke away; I must find a man of culture, a modern man… a representative of Progress and the New Age.” And Basil again passed the window; this time in conversation with General Connolly.
Presently, amid cheers, the runaway engine puffed backwards into the station.
Mechanics ran out to repair the coupling.
At last they started.
Basil began the journey in a cheerful temper. He had got on very well with the general and had accepted an invitation to “Pop in for a spot any time” when they reached the capital.
The train which brought the Emperor to Debra-Dowa, also brought the mail. It was a great day at the British Legation. The bags were brought into the dining-room and they all sat round dealing out the letters and parcels, identifying the hand-writings and reading over each other’s shoulders… “Peter’s heard from Flora.”
“Do let me read An-thony’s letter after you, Mabel.”
“Here’s a page to go on with.”
“Does any one want Jack’s letter from Sybil?”
“Yes, I do, but I haven’t finished Mabel’s from Agnes yet.”
“What a lot of money William owes. Here’s a bill for eighty-two pounds from his tailor.”
