Browning Sahib

by Peter Corris

  'Ranu . . .' I managed to say.

  'Yes, Mr Browning sahib?'

  I caught the full force of the sarcasm and scorn in the last word and wanted to protest. I was her friend; I'd do anything for her. All my bones seemed to turn to water and I slid from the chair towards the dirt floor, but I was asleep before I got there.

  14

  Bananas were perhaps my favourite fruit before I woke up in the back of a truck, bumping along a Ceylon hill road, with a couple of hundredweight of them stacked around and on top of me. Since then, they've fallen back in favouritism behind apples and grapes, preferably in the form of cider and wine. It was incredibly hot in the back of the truck and the smell was enough to make me wish I'd stayed unconscious. The flies liked the fruit though, and so did a dozen other different kinds of insects that were taking bites out of me just to vary the diet. I was tied hand and foot and something had been strapped around my mouth, keeping my teeth apart and permitting me to breathe, but only just. I sneezed and shifted the gag a fraction.

  The truck jolted and bounced and the only thing I could determine about its progress was that it was winding about and going up. At every jolt, a rock-hard banana stalk hit me somewhere—in the ribs, the ear, the stomach. I wriggled and tried to avoid the bashing, but eventually decided it was better to lie still and try to ride with the motion of the truck. Brilliant strategy—my comfort increased by about five per cent. The flies buzzed noisily; the truck's engine was badly tuned and it whined and complained; the suspension and gearbox were shot. To say the din gave me a headache would be a lie. Pain knifed through my head and I closed my eyes, desperately trying to blank everything out—sounds, smells, pain, fear—everything.

  Of course, that didn't work, particularly in regard to the fear. I cursed myself for getting involved with Pelham-Smith and the Tamils. I've always tried to steer clear of politics for obvious reasons—for every guy who wants something done, there's another guy who doesn't want it done, and vice versa. There are no safe courses. If you go with the strength you're liable to be snuck up on by the underdog, who just might get lucky. If you side with the have-nots, the haves are likely to pound you into the ground. In politics all winners are losers sooner or later, and some people can be losers the whole way through. Philosophy—in the back of a banana truck.

  A banana leaf tickled my nose and I sneezed violently. This completely dislodged the gag, which I saw was my own necktie. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. At least I'd be able to yell out if we stopped somewhere. Terrific. I'd either be helped or someone would kill me. A bit of blood wouldn't hurt the bananas.

  I felt the air growing cooler and, quite abruptly, the shafts of light died from around the edges of the canopy that covered the truck. I deduced that I'd been travelling for seven or eight hours inland from Colombo. I hadn't mastered much of the geography of the island, but enough to suggest that I'd been taken north and possibly east, into Tamil territory. I was very frightened. Some people are terrified by black skins before the owners of those skins open their mouths. I wasn't in that category. Errol Flynn, after all, was a pure Anglo-Celt and you wouldn't ever find a more treacherous and dangerous bastard than him.

  In a longish life (even at this point) of getting in and out of scrapes, I'd found the unknown to be the most disconcerting force. If you know what the score is, who you've hurt, who hates your guts and why, you know what to expect and can get ready for it. With a bit of luck you'll be able to minimise the damage or wriggle out altogether. But when you can't for the life of you fathom why someone's holding a knife at your throat or stepping on your neck, you're in big trouble. What had I ever done to these Tamils? Then the thought struck me that Mrs Tirrundrai could be working for the other side. And what would that be? The government? But surely they'd just have rushed me off to prison or booted me out of the country if they thought I was a nuisance.

  No, it had to be the Tamils. But what could they want with me? Hadn't I come to deliver . . .? Then I remembered the scathing tone in Mrs Tirrundrai's voice. Browning, sahib. I was all adrift in a sea of confusion, doubts and fears. Now that it was dark the insects had ceased buzzing. The ants were still crawling around and taking the occasional nip, but I was getting used to that. I could wriggle and thrash sufficiently from time to time to avoid cramp but my hands and feet were starting to feel numb and I worried about the lack of blood circulation. What happened in that event? Gangrene? I started to panic and shouted several times to no avail. Eventually, the several glasses of cordial I'd drunk at breakfast in Da Silva's house and the doped tea got to me and I pissed in my pants.

  The truck stopped and I was dragged out and propped up against the back wheel. Someone cut the ropes around my hands and ankles. They needn't have worried about me running away. I tried to take a step and fell in a heap. No one laughed, but no one kicked me in the ribs either. Insect-bitten, covered in banana-stalk sap, smelling of urine and with a throbbing head and parched throat, I was half marched, half carried through some inky jungle to a small village consisting of a cluster of huts made of woven palm leaf. A few kerosene lanterns hung from posts and I could see people busy at cooking fires and drawing water from a tank under a sheet of corrugated iron. I propped when I saw the tank and made gestures that I needed a drink.

  It was only taking two or three men to control me. They were strong but I was so desperate for a drink I let them feel the full weight of me. One shouted something and a small boy came running with a half coconut shell filled with water. My arms were released and I was allowed to drink. People will tell you that a drink of water in these sorts of circumstances tastes better than French champagne, etc. All nonsense—it was just rainwater, tepid and tasting a bit of rust. It was welcome though and I was careful not to spill any. It dulled the ache in my head to a bearable throb and made me feel vaguely human again instead of like a thirteen-stone bunch of bananas.

  'Thank you.'

  The polite nod I got in return encouraged me. Who would pour water down a throat he was planning to slit? They hustled me into a hut where there was a pile of straw, a bucket and a fruit box. I was made to sit on the box and rope was produced.

  'Oh, come on,' I said, 'don't tie me up again. Where am I going to go? D'you honestly think I'm going to run away into that bloody jungle at night? I give you my word I won't budge.'

  My three escorts had a brief consultation. The one who had okayed my having a drink was now holding a lantern. He appeared to be the man in charge and I kept my eyes on him while they kicked it around. My watch was still on my wrist and I saw that it was almost nine o'clock. No wonder I felt like shit; travelling for ten hours or more in a banana truck isn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy, but right then I wished it on Aubrey Pelham-Smith. I was still wearing my suit jacket, although its tailor wouldn't have recognised it. I patted the pockets and found a crumpled, but almost full, packet of Players and my lighter. The talking stopped for a moment while I handed round the smokes.

  Encouraging. The long black fingers of each man detached several. 'That's right, boys,' I said. 'One for now and a few for later.'

  I lit us all up and smiled encouragingly, especially at the number one man. 'We are not boys,' he said.

  'Sorry.' I puffed smoke. 'I was trying to be friendly.'

  He dragged on his cigarette, sucked the smoke down and blew it out in a long stream. I was waiting for him to make a witty reply, but he merely cleared his throat and spat fulsomely through the opening that constituted the door of the hut. Not so encouraging. They resumed their talk and the only word I caught that made any sense to me was 'Ranu'. I heard that several times. I was bone-weary, light-headed and still thirsty. As well, now that my sense of smell was recovering from the banana assault, I was ravenous. The Da Silva breakfast of mango slices and hoppers was a distant memory. I had no craving for alcohol, which only goes to show that I'm not the booze-hound people have said I am. In my experience, and I've been forced into teetotalism more times than I can count, the absenc
e of booze is bearable if it's absolute. It's trying to restrict your intake when there's plenty around that's hard.

  Eventually they stopped jabbering and the rope was put away. Round one to Browning sahib, I thought. I was encouraged enough to ask the man who spoke English whether it might be possible for me to get a bite to eat and, following that, an explanation of why I had been abducted.

  He sneered at me and spoke in a tone reminiscent of that of Mrs Tirrundrai. 'Perhaps you would care for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, sir? With a jolly good claret to wash it down?'

  He was a young fellow, not more than twenty, and indistinguishable from the others except for his command of English and the red bandanna around his head. The others wore no headgear. Like them, he had on a loose white shirt and floppy trousers and heavy leather sandals. He was as thin as a whip and his skin was several shades darker than club chocolate. His dark beard was closely trimmed.

  'No,' I said. 'That won't be necessary. I'll eat what you eat.'

  'I doubt that.'

  'Try me.'

  He translated for his mates, who seemed to find the exchange hilarious. One left the hut and the other two stood by the door and watched me as I tucked in my shirt, pulled the tie from where it had slipped down around my neck, and tried to tidy myself up. It's hard to do when you're in the condition I was in, especially with the damp, smelly trousers, but I did my best. Remarkably, my wallet was still in the breast pocket of my jacket. I took it out and began ostentatiously counting the thick bundle of rupees.

  'Put it away, Mr Browning. No one is interested in your money.'

  'Just a talking point,' I said. 'What are you interested in?'

  Before he could reply the man who had left the hut returned with a plate of food and an aluminium beaker of water. The plate contained rice and several small piles of what could have been meat or vegetables. It was impossible to tell in that gloom. The plate was put in my hands and the beaker was set down on the earth floor by my feet.

  'Eat, Mr Browning. You must be hungry after your long journey.'

  'I am.'

  As I say, I've eaten hot food in Mexico and the Caribbean,24 and I know how to set about it. The trick is to eat some rice or bread or whatever else available that isn't spiced first, and begin with very small morsels. This sort of anaesthetises some of the taste buds and allows you to build up to more solid mouthfuls. You should resist drinking water for as long as you can, and then swill it straight down the back of the throat. A cooled throat is a cooled mouth—don't ask me why. I proceeded to put these techniques into practice. It was difficult because I was very hungry and I have an unhappy tendency to bolt my food (several of my wives have commented unfavourably upon it). But I had a good idea of what these lads had been up to and I wasn't wrong. The food was truly fiery and, if I hadn't gone about it the right way, I'd have been rolling on the floor in agony. As it was, I found it hard to chew slowly, swallow carefully, gulp down the water and show signs of enjoyment.

  'Good, Mr Browning?'

  My eyes were watering but I was damned if I was going to wipe them until I'd finished almost everything on the plate. There were no utensils, of course. With my fingers, I scooped up the last of the rice that I'd carefully preserved and chewed it slowly, rolling it around in my mouth, letting the saliva run and allowing the starch to coat the underside of my tongue. I finished with a long swallow of water that hit the back of my throat and worked its magic forward. I pushed the plate aside and let out a long, satisfied belch.

  'Capital,' I said. 'Anything for dessert?'

  15

  They left me alone after that little display, taking the lantern with them. When I say alone, I mean that one man, armed with an ancient-looking Lee Enfield, sat outside the hut near a small fire with his eyes firmly fixed on the opening. Nothing wrong with an old .303—it'll blow a hole in you big enough to put a fist through. Most of the huts I'd quickly glimpsed had been constructed of panels of woven palm-leaf, but this one was of mudbrick. I kicked at a wall in a desultory way (I meant what I'd said about not bolting into the jungle at night), and it was extremely solid. I remembered that the thatched roof was several feet above my head and there was no way to get up to it, even if I'd wanted to. Fumbling in the dark, I used the bucket as I assumed it was intended to be used and lay down on the bed of straw. I was itchy from all the bites I'd suffered and would have been cold but for my jacket. At least there were no mosquitos. Someone once said that genius was partly a matter of sleep management. Maybe I qualify; I was asleep within seconds of my head hitting the straw.

  One thing you can be sure of in a native village, and I don't care if it's in Mexico or Ceylon or Tanganyika—you'll be awake with everyone else at first light or earlier. The roosters start crowing, the kids start running about, the women yell at the kids, the men yell at the women. I'd slept soundly and, just for a few seconds, I lay comfortably, easing my way out of a dream wherein I was dancing with Vivien Leigh while Peter Finch was leading the orchestra and fuming. Then I remembered where I was and I jerked awake. A hard piece of straw jabbed me just below the eye. I yelled something and saw a movement outside the hut. My guard, who appeared not to have moved for the whole night, pointed his rifle at me.

  I jumped up and blundered out of the hut. 'I want to see the man in charge here. I demand to know why I've been abducted.'

  The guard stood and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. His black face was impassive; he closed one eye and his finger curled around the trigger.

  'Okay, okay. What about some food?' I mimed the action of eating and backed off.

  He waited until I was sitting on the box before he lowered the rifle and shouted something over his shoulder. I lit a cigarette and looked out at what I could see of the village—huts, dark-skinned, white-clad figures plodding, carrying bundles or flitting about in and out of the jungle shadows. Young and old, male and female. I was up in the hills somewhere. The early morning air was cooler than it had been in Colombo and there were a lot of birds screeching in the trees. If I'd been knowledgable about the birds of Ceylon I might have been able to place where I was. As things stood, I knew I was a nine-hour truck ride from the capital.

  After a while, a woman brought some food and a sarong. She gestured for me to take off my clothes and drop them outside the hut. I wolfed down some fruit and one hopper and then climbed out of the stinking shirt and trousers, underwear and socks. I threw the lot, along with the wrinkled jacket, through the doorway after slipping into the cool and comfortable sarong. Then I finished the breakfast, passing on the tea and sipping the fruit cordial carefully before deciding that it was undoped. The food tray was collected and the dirty clothes were taken away. I came to the opening and poked my head out of the door but a different man toting the same .303 gestured threateningly and I withdrew.

  It was hot and boring inside the hut. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, scratched at my bites and longed for shaving tackle, a comb and a toothbrush. After a couple of hours a woman arrived to take away the bucket. She returned after emptying it and handed me my clothes, cleaned and neatly folded. My belt and tie were missing and the jacket was still slightly damp. I indicated that I wanted to shave and wash, but if she understood she gave no sign of it. Her face was almost completely covered by a headcloth so it was difficult to communicate. I put my clothes back on and counted my cigarettes. Six left. Rationing time.

  More waiting. Next, the young man who'd run the show the night before entered with the rifleman and one other. The third man was carrying a camera.

  'Sit on the box, Mr Browning, please.'

  'Why?'

  'We wish to take your photograph.'

  'Why?'

  The .303 was jabbed into my spine and I sat on the box. The photographer busied himself with the camera's attachments and I lit a cigarette. This time I didn't offer them around.

  'That's good. The cigarette is very good.'

  'To hell with you.'

  'Head up, please. Face the came
ra.'

  'Fuck you.'

  The photographer got off a couple of quick shots as I scowled at him. He left the hut and the other two backed away.

  'Please,' I said. 'Please tell me what this is all about. I'm going nuts just sitting here not knowing what's going on.'

  The young man indicated that the guy with the rifle should stand by the doorway. Then he squatted down a few feet away from me and stared into my eyes.

  'You are English, American?'

  'Australian originally. What . . .'

  'I am Ranu Pelham-Smith.'

  'Jesus. You're the man I wanted to see.'

  'Yes, to persuade me to desert my comrades and our struggle and go to England. To attend the Oxford University and become . . . what do you imagine I might become, Mr Browning?'

  'Well, I don't know. Anything, I suppose—doctor, lawyer, businessman. Oxford and all that—the sky's the limit.'

  He shook his head. 'No, to be a white black man is not to be a man at all. "Look," people would say. "There goes Ranu Pelham-Smith, the smartest nigger in the Inner Temple. He's the chap for your coon cases. The first black silk at the bar." '

  He was getting himself worked up, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. Best to say nothing when someone's in a state like that, especially if he's got a trigger man with him. Very briefly, I considered belting Ranu a hard one and going for the rifle. The place didn't look like an armed camp. Chances were the .303 was the only weapon around. But I rejected the idea. Although I had the weight and possibly the experience on them, both were young and looked quick. I knew that these skinny little Tamils were strong. With Ranu getting into a lather, it was the wrong time for a move that might make my predicament worse. Calm was what was wanted. I offered the agitated young man a cigarette and he took it. Say what you like about the unhealthiness of tobacco, it's diffused many a sticky situation.