by Tom Powers
When the prince spoke it was quiet but firm as a rock. He said a long sentence. Then he stopped. The king’s son looked down at him and explained something back. Then the horsemen eased their horses a step closer.
I was still on the running board of the king’s car, and he, like all the rest of us, was listening and watching.
Of course I couldn’t understand a word, but I knew it was mighty important stuff, whatever it was.
Well, the king’s son said his last word and anybody could see and hear, too, that it was a pretty dangerous word. But the prince walked over to him and said a plain, “No.”
Then the men on their horses drew up their bridles and shifted their guns, and this was IT, and everybody knew it.
Then suddenly, there was Aunt Mary stepping out of the door of the plane onto the top step. “Wait a minute,” she says, and was I glad of three words that I could understand. But those was the only ones I could, for what she said next was to the prince and it was in French and at the end she pointed at the king.
The prince listened with his back nearly to her, still facing the king’s son.
When she stopped, he turned to the king and asked him a question in his language.
The king said something that meant yes.
Now Aunt Mary had a kind of smile on her lips and she told the prince in French what to say.
Then he took a short step toward the car and in a louder voice he said a short quick thing, just a flat statement, and everybody took a short quick breath and they all waited for what the king would say.
Well, they didn’t have to wait long. The old boy barked out an order that would have made that statue of General Grant in the town square at home jump to attention to obey it, and believe me, those men on their horses dropped their guns and backed their horses away and did just like their old king ordered them to do.
The king got out of the car and then he barked out another order, and they all jumped off of their horses, and some of ’em held all the bridles, and the rest of ’em fell to and began clearing away that pile of money bags and carried ’em back double-quick and hung ’em back across the saddles.
The king’s oldest son pleaded with his old father, but his pop said, “Nothing doing.” And the king took me by the hand and led me like we was dancing the lancers over to the steps and we all said goodbye. The other sons that had just been watching everything that had happened came up, crowding and yelling, and we got in the plane. Our steps were pulled up, the motors roared and we beat it for India.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE PLANE I DIDN’T think I had better ask any questions till we got settled down some.
Aunt Mary sat by me, thinking, but still with that little smile around her mouth.
“Hi, water lily,” she says.
“Hi, wise old fish,” I says right back.
“Well,” she says, “you ought to feel pretty flattered.”
“How?” I says.
“He was trying to buy you,” she says, “for a wife.”
“What was in those bags?” I says.
“Gold,” she says. “It was like an auction. You see when the prince said no, the king’s son offered more and more till he thought he had offered enough.”
“Then what happened?”
“The prince still said no.”
“What happened then?” I says.
“Then the king’s son said what in Soodanese meant ‘Okay, prince, I’ll take her anyhow. Try and stop me.’”
“Was that when you butted in?” I says.
“I thought I had better,” she says and she patted my hand. “I didn’t feel like I wanted to lose you, you being the nicest niece I ever had.”
“Thanks,” I says, and I got her to tell me just what she had said to the prince and what he had said to the old king and how we had got away.
Well, what she had told the prince was to ask the king: if this son did take me by force or bought me, wasn’t it one of their customs for the king to give his new daughter-in-law whatever she asked for as a wedding present? So the prince asked him and the king said yes.
Well, after Aunt Mary had tricked the king into saying it like that, she told the prince to tell the boys that there was just one thing I would ask for, and that was the last thing in the world that old boy would part with.
For she knew that before he would have given up that Singer sewing machine, he would have seen that son and all his other sons turned into camel boys, and he’d have seen all his wives and dancing girls go to someone else.
“So, what could he do,” said Aunt Mary, chuckling, “but lead you to the plane and say goodbye quick. But oh, my dear,” says Aunt Mary, “wouldn’t you trade everything you own, including sixteen strings of pearls and your emerald anklet and even your B.V.D.’s for that picture of that old king riding up in all those ruffles like a circus clown on a mule.”
I had some problems to think out and thinking things out is something you’ve got to get quiet to do, so I did. Up to now, I didn’t think much about us being at war, except Jeff was getting in it to be a soldier.
I don’t know much about wars, not having been there at the last one, or the Spanish American one—which Pop was in—or the Civil War that my Swede grandfather came over from the other side to be at.
So now here was another one, and me about to go to where some of it was to be at. For it seemed like the Japanese were right by India, which I didn’t know—I thought it was nearer to California, which goes to show that I never ought to have left that geography book behind the Girls’ john.
I had to get what thoughts I could together and I hoped when I did, they’d fit. But when I did, they didn’t. Well, I had to think it out, so I kept thinking.
The prince wouldn’t sell me for a pile of gold. Also he had sure risked his life to save me, and that always makes the girl in the movie turn her eyelashes towards the hero and say “I didn’t dream you cared,” just before the fadeout.
Aunt Mary was quite a woman, which I had already guessed, but I’d never seen her do her stuff before. How had she known the king’s oldest son had been up to something?
Then there was Mr. Bosco. What about him?
And was the prince only getting money for his brother to give to the Japanese, or was there more to that oath of being blood brothers than I knew about?
And that was all I could think out right now, but it sure made me pretty tired.
Well, we flew over Ethiopia where that man with the beard and the umbrella used to live, but didn’t now anymore on account of Mussolini.
Then, with some stops, we flew along beside a lot of water. Land on the left, water on the right. It was all too mixed up for me, so Mr. Bosco quit trying to teach me where we was at, and was I glad.
I thought it was better just to learn about things that could do me some good, and what use were all those names of people and places that nobody I know were hardly going to believe, even if I were foolish enough to try to make ’em believe, that I had ever been there.
Then the prince came and sat with me, and I was afraid this was it. And it was, but not like I was afraid it was. Because all I had to do was listen mostly.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, “about everything back there.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I says, “and thank you for not selling me.”
“What?” he says. “Oh, never, never.”
“Thank you, all the same,” I says. “I know how you must need money. If you go around like this from door to door selling your jewelry, you must need it bad. So when you could have got such a big pile of gold for just selling me, it might have been a temptation.”
“No, no,” he says, “I would never do that.”
“Well, anyway,” I says, “if it hadn’t have been for your kindness, I might be spending tonight rubbing henna leaves in that black beard and so I’m much obliged,” I says.
“Now we come soon to Bombay,” he says. “Bombay is in India,” he says. “And after Bombay we go to
Calcutta,” he says. “And after Calcutta we go to my house.”
“That’s fine,” I says, “and then you’ll see your brother. And then you and him can do what you both planned with all the money. Share and share alike.”
“No,” he says, “no share for me. It is all for him if I can make him take it. But if I cannot make my brother take this money it will break my father’s heart.”
“Why?” I says.
“Because if I cannot, then it will be too late for me to save my brother, and what he does, I will do.” And he touched the little lotus flower button in his lapel.
“Listen,” I says, “that button is a part of your oath with your brother.”
“It is,” he says.
“And do you really believe that if your brother does something bad—that you don’t want to be mixed up in—you ought to let your father think you are just as deep in it as him?”
“You do not understand,” he says.
“Answer me just one question,” I says, “and for one minute, forget about the oath.”
“Ask,” he says.
“Do you love the Japanese?” I says.
“No,” he says.
“But if your brother is up to something…?”
“Maybe he is not,” he says, “or even if he is, maybe I give him more money.”
“You mean more than the Japanese give him?”
“My brother was always a good boy when we were young.”
“Is that when you began wearing the same buttonhole?” I says.
“Yes,” he says, “in the temple, in front of priests, we swear.”
“Now listen, you poor kid,” I says. “You made your bargain in good faith, but what’s bad in your bargain is that your podner let you down. And now you’re going to try to buy him back from being bad.”
“I must try,” he says.
“All right,” I says. “Try your best, and then if you fail, break the oath. Break it so you will feel free.”
“Maybe he will listen,” he says. “Maybe a friend will help me.”
“Mr. Bosco?” I says.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Tell me,” I says, “what has Mr. Bosco got to do with all this business?”
“How do you mean?” he says.
“Well, your family,” I says, “seems to be pretty well-to-do. And,” I says, “it seems funny, him being such a poor little man with only one shiny suit, even if he does seem pretty educated in a good many languages. Does he mean to get a cut-in with your brother?”
“A cut?” he says.
“Does Mr. Bosco get a share of this money or does he want your brother to help his country, or what?”
He smiled.
“Mr. Bosco,” he says (only he didn’t call him that), “Mr. Bosco is one of the richest men in Burma—like Rockefeller.”
Well, that stopped me I can tell you.
Pretty soon Mr. Bosco himself came back from up where they run the plane, and he took off his little hat.
“Excuse me please,” he says, “the pilot asks humbly to speak with the prince.”
So the prince excused himself and went up there and Mr. Bosco sat down.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hello,” I says. “Tell me this,” I says. “Was you going to stand there on that desert like at a cattle auction,” I says, “and let the king’s son buy me right before your eyes?”
“I was waiting,” he says, with a little bow, “till the bidding got up to what you were worth, then I would have bid. No use bidding chicken feed,” he says.
“Listen, Mr. Bosco,” I says, “where is Burma at?”
“India there,” he says and he put his left forefinger on one knee, “Burma right next door.” He put his right forefinger on the other knee.
“Is it in Japan?”
“Not yet,” he says, “not yet. Some bad men in my country, they think it is so, but not yet.”
We stopped next at some place very foreign looking, I forget where. There were boats for hire (because it was on the water) and they were very pretty. The tassels and seat covers were nice but not too clean. There was a very ugly man with one eye that sailed one and I didn’t think the sweets liked him.
But I got Aunt Mary to come along for the boat ride on this gulf—Persian Gulf I think somebody said—so the three of us could talk instead of just the prince and me. But Aunt Mary made friends with the one-eyed gorilla and he taught her how to sail, so that left him and me together and he started right in.
“I had a very sad childhood,” he says. “I was not happy. I ran away from the English school. My brother is better educated. He is tall, my brother, and very handsome. I am short and not handsome. I love my brother. You see what I do for him. To old king in Soodan I sell a diamond he’s wanted for fifteen years. So I take it and sell to him, and now I am afraid to come home.”
“Why?” I says. “Are you afraid of him?”
“Yes,” he says, “but if you like my state, I will be glad. I want my father to see you, you are so beautiful. My father wants very much for me to have a wife,” he says. “I want very much that you like my father, that you like me. I know the many difference between us.”
I thought he meant language so I says, “Don’t worry about that.” He went on.
“Your religion, it is not my religion. How do you feel about that? Your religion is sacred to you, as mine is to me.”
“Religion ain’t so sacred to me,” I says, “whether it’s one kind or another. I guess it’s a good thing to have some, but one kind or another, I can’t see much difference. I was confirmed in Saint Stephens, but the incense made me sick. I got kind of a weak stomach, see? So then I went to the Lutherans, and I guess you can be good there same as in a cathedral—it sure ain’t as pretty, but the air is better. I guess your church ain’t no more different from Lutherans than Lutherans are from the Jewish church. I knew a girl who went to that church, or synagogue as they call it. And she was as nice a girl as I ever met. I guess God don’t go around saving just one little bunch from all the kinds. One is as good as another if it makes you nice and keeps you from hurting people that can’t defend themselves. That’s the important thing. Does your church teach you that?”
“You don’t seem to realize,” he says, “you would call my church heathen.”
“Listen,” I says, “I’ve seen a lot of heathens setting up in churches in new Easter hats, don’t think I haven’t. You’re no heathen. You’re kind and polite and good,” I says.
“I am glad you do not mind,” he says.
“Excuse me,” I says, “but if I ain’t mistaken you was kind of proposing to me just now.”
“Proposing?” he says.
“Asking me to marry you, if your pop thinks I’m Okay.”
“Asking you that, yes, but I do not know how in English.”
“Oh, you’re doing all right,” I says, “but we’ve got to talk about that. You can’t do that,” I says. “You don’t know nothing about me.”
“You are good,” he says.
“Lots of girls are good that ain’t good girls,” I says. “You can’t go halfway around the world and pick up a girl selling cigarettes in Butch’s Café on the West Side of the Loop in Chicago and say, ‘Hi, Toots, how’d you like to be a princess?’”
“I did not say that,” he says.
“Listen,” I says. “I know darn well that in your country, you haven’t got any little friends selling cigarettes that you’d ask your pop to pass on. I look nice now,” I says, “in what Aunt Mary bought me, but if you’d seen me in what I’ve got back in my room in Chicago, you wouldn’t have gotten fooled into forgetting that you’re a prince,” I says, “and that I’m a girl that’s worked for her living and will have to go on doing it when she gets back. Which mustn’t be too long,” I says, “or I’ll have to start all over again. And if you knew what the smell of a beauty parlor does to my insides, you sure wouldn’t want me to have to go back to that,” I says.
�
��You are good,” was all he said, and big tears came up into his eyes.
I couldn’t say more then but when I was back in the plane I tried to think some more, but nothing much came of it.
Like I always do when I can’t seem to think, I started planning. Only I couldn’t do that very well because I didn’t know where I was, how far it was from home or how I was going to get back there. So I did what I do when I can’t either think or plan: I started remembering. That was something I didn’t much like to do, but it couldn’t be helped sometimes.
I remembered Pop and me sitting in the kitchen, him drinking a cup of coffee. Sunday night, it was, after he had worked all day on that scabbing job for Uncle Ulrich. Then he’d had to work all Sunday night nearly to get it done because we had to interrupt it to get him to the coroner’s inquest on Dr. Harwood.
And there was Uncle Ulrich’s gun at the inquest but Willie’s fingerprints. Uncle Ulrich said, yes, it had been Willie’s doing, that he just came into the shop while Dr. Harwood had been buying something. Uncle Ulrich testified that the boy just seemed to have a grudge, he guessed that’s what it was, on account of the doctor giving evidence that was sure to go against Willie at his trial about the McComber girl.
So this night Pop had to stay late to finish building the killing pen for Uncle Ulrich, and I sat up in the kitchen to wait for him and keep the coffee hot. And I could hear Aunt Helga rocking in her room and Uncle Ulrich snoring in his room.
And then Pop come in the back way, so thin and pale under his eyes.
I made him drink his coffee and then we just sat there in the kitchen together, and there wasn’t much we could say. But I was thinking, there was my brother hiding out somewhere, and every radio on every motorcycle in the state saying his name and age and what he had on. And Pop thinking the same. Then all of a sudden there Willie was at the window. He came inside the door and moved to the corner. I pulled the blind down just like I’d seen sisters or wives or mothers or sweethearts do in a thousand second features.
Willie wanted to talk to us, that’s why he’d taken the chance and come back. He told us he went to the shop Saturday, going in the back way, to beg Uncle Ulrich to tell the truth about Darlene when his trial came up. And while he was begging Uncle Ulrich, somebody came past the window, and Uncle Ulrich said, “Get out of sight, quick.” Willie got behind the end of the big refrigerator room. Dr. Harwood came in, but the doctor started thanking Uncle Ulrich for the help he’d been to him getting off. Uncle Ulrich tried to stop him so Willie wouldn’t hear. But Willie heard all right.
