Black Mischief

“Who is that?”

“Major Joab of the Imperial Infantry at your majesty’s service.”

“What was that?”

“Majesty?”

“What was that cry?”

“It was a mistake, your majesty. There is no cause for alarm.”

“What has happened?”

“The sentry made a mistake. That is all.”

“What has he done?”

“It is only the Indian, Majesty. The sentry did not understand his orders. I will see to it that he is punished.”

“What has happened to Ali? Is he hurt?”

“He is dead, your majesty. It is a mistake of the sentry’s. I am sorry your majesty was disturbed.”

Presently Major Joab, the captain of the guard, and Mr. Youkoumian accompanied by three heavily burdened corporals, left the fort by a side door and made their way out of the town along the coast path towards the disused sugar mills.

And Seth was alone.

Another dawn. With slow feet Mr. Youkoumian trudged into Matodi. There was no one about in the streets. All who could, had left the city during the darkness; those who remained lurked behind barred doors and barricaded windows; from the cracks of shutters and through keyholes a few curious eyes observed the weary little figure dragging down the lane to the Amurath Cafe and Universal Stores.

Mme. Youkoumian lay across the bedroom door-step. During the night she had bitten through her gag and rolled some yards across the floor; that far her strength had taken her. Then, too exhausted to cry out or wrestle any further with the ropes that bound her, she had lapsed into intermittent coma, disturbed by nightmares, acute spasms of cramp and the scampering of rats on the earthen floor. In the green and silver light of dawn, this bruised, swollen and dusty figure presented a spectacle radically repugnant to Mr. Youkoumian’s most sensitive feelings.

“Krikor, Krikor. Oh, praise God you’ve come… I thought I should never see you again… Blessed Mary and Joseph… Where have you been?… What has happened to you?… Oh, Krikor, my own husband, praise God and his angels who have brought you back to me.”

Mr. Youkoumian sat down heavily on the bed and pulled off his elastic-sided button boots. ‘

‘I’m tired.’

‘ he said. “God, how tired I am. I could sleep for a week.” He took a bottle from the shelf and poured out a drink. “I have had one of the most disagreeable nights of my life. First I am nearly hanged. Will you believe it. The noose was actually round my neck. Then I am made to walk out as far as the sugar mills, then the next thing I know I am alone, lying on the beach. My luggage is gone, my boat is gone, the damned soldiers are gone and I have a lump on the back of my head the size of an egg. Just you feel it.”

“I’m tied up, Krikor. Cut the string and let me help you. Oh, my poor husband.”

“How it aches. What a walk back. And my boat gone. I could have got fifteen hundred rupees for that boat yesterday. Oh, my head. Fifteen hundred rupees. My feet ache too. I must go to bed.”

“Let me loose, Krikor, and I will attend to you, my poor husband.’

“No, it doesn’t matter, my flower. Ill go to bed. I could sleep for a week.”

“Krikor, let me loose.”

“Don’t worry. I shall be all right when I have had a sleep. Why, I ache all over.” He tossed off the drink and with a little grunt of relief drew his feet up onto the bed and rolled over with his face to the wall.

“Krikor, please… you must let me loose… don’t you see. I’ve been like this all night, I’m in such pain.. ‘

“You stay where you are. I can’t attend to you now. You’re always thinking of yourself. What about me? I’m tired. Don’t you hear me?”

“But, Krikor—”

“Be quiet, you slut.”

And in less than a minute Mr. Youkoumian found consolation for the diverse fortunes of the night in profound and prolonged sleep.

He was awakened some hours later by the entry into Matodi of the victorious army. Drums banging, pipes whistling, the soldiers of Progress and the New Age passed under his window. Mr. Youkoumian rolled off the bed, rubbing his eyes, and peeped through the chink of the shutters.

“God save my soul,’

‘ he remarked. “Seth’s won after all.” Then with a chuckle. “What a pair of fools Major Joab and the captain turn out to be.”

Mme. Youkoumian looked up from the floor with piteous appeal in her dark eyes. He gave her a friendly little prod in the middle with his stockinged foot. “Stay there, that’s a good girl, and don’t make a noise. I’ll come and see to you in a minute or two.” Then he lay down on the bed, nuzzled into the bolster, and after a few preliminary grunts and wriggles, relapsed into slumber.

It was a remarkable procession. First in tattered, field grey uniforms, came the brass band of the Imperial