by Ross Thomas
“Shartelle seems to be taken with her,” I said.
“If I weren’t of the Christian faith, I might try to take another wife,” Jenaro said. “As a Chief, I’m entitled to three, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, I figure with her and Mamma in the same house, I’d have just about all I could take care of. But I don’t think Mamma would stand for it.”
“Where is Mamma?” Anne asked.
“Home with the kids,” Jenaro said. “Where else? Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”
Most of the guests had arrived. Approximately half of them were English or European. The rest were Albertians. Jenaro’s failure to bring his wife proved to be the exception. I met—or met again—some of the political leaders who had been at Chief Akomolo’s luncheon. Their wives stood by their sides, dressed in brightly-colored cloth that seemed to be wrapped around them in a series of intricate and symbolic folds. Their head-dressings, usually of matching material, were even more intricately shaped.
Following Jenaro we met what must have passed for the cream of Ubondo society. There was a Supreme Court judge; a trio of lawyers—or solicitors, I suppose; two doctors, one white, one black; an automobile dealer; a Light-Colonel in the Albertian Army; an Albertian Airways pilot; four English Permanent Secretaries of various ministries including William Hardcastle; an Italian contractor; four or five Lebanese businessmen including the gambler who owned the Sahara South; Jack Woodring of the USIS and his wife who wanted to know if I’d heard that the Dodgers had won thirteen straight; two representatives from the British Council, the UK counterpart to USIS, one of whom insisted he was half American; another automobile dealer; four associate professors and instructors from the university; an Army Lieutenant; another young Lieutenant in the Albertian police; two crewcuts from the Peace Corps who didn’t seem bothered by their lack of black ties; a representative of the Ford Foundation who wanted to know if I knew that the Dodgers had won thirteen straight; and a lot of other people whose names I didn’t get, but whose eyes lighted up when they heard that I was Mr. Shartelle’s associate.
We made the circuit, towed by Jenaro, moving to the left, then around, and back to the table where the drinks were being served. Shartelle was standing there, his eyes fixed on Madame Duquesne who was in deep conference with an Albertian whom I took to be the Major’s chief steward.
“‘Soon as she gets the serving straightened out, she’s going to join us,” Shartelle said. “Hello, Jimmy.”
“Clint.”
“How’d the telegrams go?”
“They’re gone.”
“How about our two defectors?”
“Diokadu’s got them lined up. He says they each need a statement outlining their reasons for defecting.”
Shartelle nodded. “Pete?”
“It would be wise. They can’t switch parties quietly. Their value to the opposition would be lost.”
“Can you fix them up with some statements?”
“I’ll do it tonight when I get home.”
“You can pick them up in the morning, Jimmy.”
“Good. By the way, both Dekko and the Leader have gone nuts over their speeches. Dekko says Pete must be a mind- reader. The Leader said his is a highly-polished, powerful document of truth.”
“They’re both right good speeches,” Shartelle said. “Diokadu getting them translated?”
“Right.”
“How about the shorter ones Pete wrote? The ones on the major points?”
“Those, too.”
“Good. When do they change parties?”
“Sunday night,” Jenaro said. “Or afternoon. In plenty of time to make the Monday papers. We settled on a thousand quid each.”
“Treachery is the last refuge of patriots,” Shartelle said.
“Did you make that up?” I asked.
“I think so, boy. Sometimes it just comes out.”
Jenaro took the last sip of his champagne and put the glass down on a table. “I think I’ll make the circuit again. if I pick up anything interesting, I’ll let you know. By the way,” he added, “there’s nothing new on Cheatwood’s death.”
Shartelle nodded. His eyes followed Jenaro. He shook his head slightly. “He’s sure a natural, ain’t he, Pete?”
“He thrives on it.”
“You were talking pure skulduggery,” Anne said. “It makes me homesick.”
“It’s sure the same all over, ain’t it, Miss Anne,” Shartelle said. His eyes sought out Madame Duquesne again. “She’s a widow woman, I understand. Husband was the sole importer of a high-class French brandy and some good wines over in Dahomey before he dropped dead of a heart attack about two years ago. She inherited the license and moved on over here to Albertia. Now that’s just about every man’s dream.”
“What?”
“A rich widow with a liquor store, boy. And French at that.” He shook his head in deep appreciation.
The widow joined us and said that Major Chuku would like us to sit at his table during dinner. We accepted and Shartelle turned it on. This time he was on full make and the onslaught was undeniable. The widow’s defenses began to crumble. Shartelle was witty in English and complimentary in French. He had the widow giggling over the naughty stories he told in Cajun French which he interpreted for us in Cajun English. He made up tales of adventure and conquest, and started Madame Duquesne talking about herself. He listened with deep interest and then got her to agree to join us for drinks at the wide-eaved house after the party was over.
It was a buffet affair and I took advantage of it. There was baked ham glazed with sugared brandy, breast of turkey, and tiny meatballs of pork and veal that swam in rich, brown sauce. There were peas, large and tender, that must have been fresh, a salad of endive and three kinds of lettuce with vinegar and oil dressing that was nothing less than superb. There was cauliflower with a magic cheese sauce and French bread still slightly warm from the oven. There was more, but it had to wait for the second plate that I carefully planned in advance.
“Are you starving?” Anne asked.
“I’ve been starving for ten years,” I said. “For love and food both. I don’t know which has been scarcer.”
“Well, now that you have the love, it looks as if you’re trying to make up for the food. In one night.”
Shartelle was following Madame Duquesne down the line. piling his plate high with everything, and chortling with delight. “Pete, would you just look what this little old French gal did for the Major. She supervised this entire spread. My, it looks tasty!”
“I notice that you’re not exactly on a hunger strike,” I told Anne.
“You bet,” she said happily. “When I get a chance to get off that Koolaid and peanut butter kick, I take it.”
The Major was waiting for us at one of the round tables that were placed about the lawn. They were covered with fresh white linen. Ice buckets holding several bottles of wine were placed at each table and by them stood white-jacketed stewards.
The Major started to announce the seating pattern which would have had Madame Duquesne on his right and Anne on his left. Shartelle pretended not to understand his French and sat on the Major’s right with Madame Duquesne next to him. I let Anne sit next to the Major as a consolation prize. A steward poured the wine, which the Major tasted and approved with an airy wave of his hand.
I ate. I ate the ham and the turkey and the little meatballs swimming in the rich, brown sauce. I ate all the peas and the salad and half a loaf of French bread. I finished up with the cauliflower and then asked Anne if I could get her some more of anything.
“I would like some more salad,” she said sweetly and I thanked her with my big gray eyes. Back at the feeding trough, I speared some fish that I had overlooked before, some more meatballs, ham, turkey and some salad for Anne. This time I tried the wine with the meal and found it to be surprisingly good. I complimented the Major.
“It is all Madame Duquesne’s doing,” he said. “
A bachelor such as I has no knowledge of arranging such a wonderful party. She was kind enough to rescue me.”
Dessert was a light French pastry which we washed down with a demi-tasse of coffee and some brandy which I supposed was the brand that the Widow Claude held the license to import. It was excellent.
Shartelle refused a cigar from the Major and got one of his own black, twisty ones going. The Widow Claude’s hand kept accidentally touching Shartelle’s arm.
“How goes the politics, Mr. Shartelle?” the Major asked.
Shartelle puffed on his black cigar and blew some smoke up in the air. “About like any place else, I’d say, Major. There are some folks who want to get in, and there are some folks who want to keep them out so that they can get in themselves.”
“It was unfortunate what happened to Cheatwood.”
“Yes, wasn’t it? In our driveway, too.”
“There is something that I am exceedingly curious about. By the way, do you mind if I ask these questions?”
“Not at all, sir. I’m right flattered.”
“What I’m curious about is this: when you direct a campaign such as this, do you become personally involved? I should say emotionally involved, perhaps. In other words, if you were to lose, would you be as sorely disappointed as the candidate himself?”
“That’s a mighty good question, Major. I’d say no, I don’t get as emotionally involved as the candidate does. Emotion destroys perspective, and the candidate has employed me, among other reasons, to keep the perspective straight. But if he were to lose, I’d say I’d be quite disappointed, but not crushed. I’ve only lost one campaign and I know I’m bound to lose another some day, so it’s always in the back of my mind.”
“And you do it purely for monetary gain? I mean, it is your profession?”
“I make a living at it and I do it because I like it. I like the hours and I like the action. I like the involvement of people with people. It’s a damn sight more fun than running an insurance agency, I think.”
“Your profession, its need or usefulness, I should say, is based on the existence of a popular democracy?”
“It doesn’t have to be popular,” Shartelle said, staring at the Major. “It just has to be some kind of democracy where folks can vote for whomever they want to pay their taxes to.”
“You must believe deeply then in the value of a democratic form of government?”
Shartelle smiled his wicked smile. “Why, no, sir, I don’t necessarily. I’ve often thought that in the United States we could use a benevolent dictator. Trouble is, there’s never anybody around who’s benevolent enough except me—and I don’t have the votes. Don’t you ever get that feeling, Major?”
The Major smiled a graceful retreat. “Sometimes perhaps, Mr. Shartelle, but only in the very small hours of the morning. It’s not a thought that would be politic for me to give voice to very often.”
“I bet it’s not,” Shartelle said.
The Major turned his attention to Anne, and Shartelle turned on Shartelle again for the benefit of Madame Duquesne. I relaxed and mentally re-ate the meal while helping myself to more of the brandy.
Madame Duquesne leaned over to touch the Major on the arm. “It has been such a long day. I have developed a terrible headache. M. Shartelle has consented to see me home—would you mind terribly if you said goodbye to the guests?”
She lied well, I thought. The Major didn’t even twitch. He was all concern. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Shartelle. I can never thank you enough, Claude, for the wonders you worked here today. It was a splendid party. It will be the talk of Ubondo for days to come.” I decided he was still right out of the pages of an old issue of Cosmopolitan.
She put her hand to her head. “I was most happy to help. I have given full instructions to the stewards. They know exactly what to do.”
Major Chuku was on his feet. He helped Madame Duquesne to rise. I didn’t think she needed much help.
“Mr. Shartelle, I am obligated to you for your kind offer to see Madame Duquesne home.”
“It is my pleasure, sir.”
The Major smiled wryly. “I am sure it is.”
Anne gave me the signal and we rose, too. We thanked the Major for the party, complimented him again on the food, told him it was a delightful evening, and started for the car. Shartelle and Madame Duquesne were right behind us. She had her own car, an old, topless TR-3 which Shartelle gallantly offered to drive. He helped her in and she wound some gossamer or spider web around her head to keep her hair from blowing. Shartelle started the car, grinned at us, and said: “See you folks in a few minutes.” He gave it too much gas and the back tires threw gravel at the Major’s house.
I helped Anne into the Humber and we drove sedately home. By the time we got there the TR-3 was parked in front of the porch, the USIA transmitter in Monrovia was playing some American jazz over the radio, and Shartelle and Madame Duquesne were dancing close together on the front porch. Her headache seemed to have gone.
“Petey,” Shartelle said, “after you write those two statements, would you mind leaving a note for old Samuel? I think we’re going to be four for breakfast.” We were.
Chapter
20
The next morning Anne lent Madame Duquesne a wraparound denim skirt and one of my shirts. The skirt had been providently stored away in the bottom drawer of the bureau two nights before along with a pair of bermuda shorts, some loafers and a blouse.
“If I’m going to be leaving here at eight in the morning, I don’t have to look as if the party went on all night,” Anne had said when she stored the clothing away.
Shartelle looked inordinately pleased with himself and the Widow Claude was glowing and almost purring when I came into the living room. They were drinking coffee and Anne was having her second cup of tea. Shartelle was also reading the two statements I had written the previous night—my price of admission to the revels that had followed.
He put the statements on the small desk, looked at me, and shook his head slowly from side to side. “You’re a writing fool, Petey. In one of them you have the lawyer fellow quitting old Chief Akomolo’s outfit because the Chief is a threat to—what did you call it—‘the discipline that democracy entails.’ And in the other one you got that guy quitting the party because the Chief is ‘symbolic of the neo-Fascism that threatens to engulf Africa.’”
“Is it not true, Clint?” the Widow Claude asked.
“What?”
“That the Fascists are on their way back?”
“They may be, honey, but they’re not hiding behind old Chief Akomolo’s skirts. You don’t think you gave the opposition too much ammunition, do you, boy? I almost got clean mad at the Chief myself reading that stuff.”
“He’ll be called worse than that before it’s over.”
“You called him everything but a white man.”
“Even I wouldn’t go that far, Shartelle.”
During breakfast, which was served in relays by Samuel, Charles, and Small Boy—who was a little nervous—the telephone rang. It was Shartelle’s telephone pal, Mr. Ojara, informing him that a long distance telephone call was in the making and that he, Mr. Ojara, was personally supervising its completion.
“Well, I certainly do appreciate that, Mr. Ojara. Now how’s your family? That youngest doing all right now? That’s good. Yes, my family’s fine. All right. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Ten minutes later the call came through. It was from Duffy and he was mad. I could hear him squawking as Shartelle held the instrument a good foot from his ear.
“Now you just calm down, Pig, and tell it to me slow. That’s right … we asked you to get us some skywriters…. You tried, huh … hold on, Pig…. He tried to get us some skywriters, Pete.”
“He figured out the code after all.”
“Well, when they coming down, Pig? Not coming, huh? That is a shame…. Yessir, I would be interested in knowing who got ’em sewed up—hold on, Pig, let me tell Pete. He
says that all the skywriters in England are sewed up. Somebody got to them first and he’s going to tell me who it is in a minute.”
“Tell him I think it’s a shame.”
“Pete says he thinks it’s a shame, Pig. Who got them? They didn’t! Hold on, let me tell Pete. He says Renesslaer has got them all sewed up.”
“Tell him I said that’s a shame.”
“Pete said that’s a shame, Pig.” There was some more squawking. Shartelle sighed and held the telephone an additional six inches from his ear. “Well, I don’t know how that telegram could have been delayed, Pig. Jimmy Jenaro handled it himself. It sure is a pity though. Reckon we’ll have to depend on the Bonne Annee cigar, huh? Well, now, that’s bad news. Let me tell Pete. He says that Goodyear gave him a lot of doubletalk about a helium shortage and also claimed that the blimps were all booked up for county fairs or something.”
“You know what to tell him,” I said.
“Pete says that sure is a shame, Pig. I reckon we’ll just have to make do. How you doing on the buttons and the credit card cases?” There was some more squawking. Shartelle smiled. “I know it’s a lot of work, Pig, but that’s your end of the shooting match.” He beckoned to the Widow Claude to bring him his coffee and she hurried over with it. Shartelle gave her a small pat on the butt. “Well, we’re just working our fool heads off down here, Pig. Old Pete’s writing and I’m politicking. The only trouble is that it gets awful lonely for both of us.”
Anne giggled.
“I agree, Pig. The skywriting and the blimps were good ideas. I’m sorry we didn’t move fast enough. But you can give Pete credit for those ideas. The boy’s just full of them.”
“Lying bastard,” I said.
“We’ll try not to mess anything else up, Pig. It’s looking better all the time…. I’ll do that … goodbye.” Shartelle cradled the phone and grinned his happy grin.
“They bought it on the telegrams, Pete. They must be running scared. Renesslaer’s got every skywriter in England tied up and on the continent, too. Pig tried for the States but the planes won’t make the hop across the Atlantic because the pilots don’t want to play Lindbergh. As for Goodyear, I figure that’s sewed up through official government channels. Wonder how they’re going to get that goddamned blimp over here?”
