The Seersucker Whipsaw

by Ross Thomas

  Anne and I decided to sit under a palm tree and look at the bay while we drank the brandy. I carried the bottle; she carried the glasses. There was, I decided, nobody else in the world but Anne and me. I took off my shirt and she took off her blouse. I poured us a glass of brandy each and we sipped it as she lay in my arms while we looked at the bay. I moved my hands to her breasts and she shrugged out of her brassiere. Her hands starred to explore me and she giggled. “Doesn’t that get in your way?”

  “Well, it would be difficult to walk around with it like that all day. Fortunately, there’s a cure.”

  “Are there many cures?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “Are there any we haven’t tried?”

  “A couple of dozen, I understand.”

  “Can we try them this afternoon, right now?”

  “A couple of dozen?”

  “As many as we can. I want to try everything with you.”

  “We can make a start.”

  “Can we do it the French way?”

  “The French call it the German way. Or the Spanish way.”

  “Can we do it?”

  “If you want.”

  She giggled again. It was a nice giggle. “Let’s do it the French way and the German way and the Spanish way and the American way and the English way. What’s the Russian way?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they invent it?”

  “No. But we’ll invent the Russian way. We’ll think up something.”

  Anne turned towards me and I kissed her and tasted the wine, the brandy, and the sweetness that was her tongue as it moved around my mouth. Her hands were exploring me now in earnest. She unzipped me and said “Oh, let’s go cure it.” I helped her up quickly, picked her up in my arms, and carried her into our cabin. We cured it all right, and if there were other national brands, they would have to wait for another day.

  Later, I sat under the palm trees with a glass of brandy and watched Anne while she swam in the bay. I decided that I was going to spend the rest of my life at Le Holiday Inn, loving Anne, swimming in the bay, drinking M. Arceneaux’s excellent liquor, and eating his unsurpassable food. It was paradise regained.

  She came running up the beach, just a little pigeontoed, but not too much, her long blond hair darkened by water but still lovely. She wore a real bikini and I studied her body and the way she moved it as she dried herself with a towel.

  “Will it always be like this, Pete? Will we ever quit loving each other so much?”

  “No. We’ll never quit. We’ll live on a beach someplace. I’ll drink fine brandy and watch you swim. We’ll paint shells and sell them to the tourists. We’ll sell Shartelle some.”

  Anne knelt down and took a sip of my brandy. She looked at me over the rim of the glass. “I feel so good. I feel as if everything were turning out the way it was always supposed to, but never did. Can we make love again tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was thinking about it while I was swimming and I got all excited again. Are you really the world’s greatest lover?”

  “There is none to compare.”

  “I think you are. I think you are the greatest everything.”

  “I have no peer. But then you are not at all bad—in bed or out. In fact, you are probably the most delightful person in the world and I love you.”

  Anne stretched out on the grass and watched as I took another sip of the brandy. “Will we ever fight?”

  “Never.”

  “And we’ll always love each other?”

  “Always.”

  She sat up quickly and hugged her knees to her. If a smile can be radiant, hers was. “I’m so happy, Peter.”

  “We’ll be happy. We’ve got everything going for us. Everything in the world.”

  The horn honked twice. It was the mellow tone of the LaSalle. Anne and I got up. I seemed to have a little trouble making it. It was Shartelle, a hundred feet away, bringing the car to a stop with a display of flashy driving. Claude was next to him. Shartelle got up in the car and sat on the back of the front seat. He waved a bottle at me. I waved back my glass, sloshing a little of the brandy. Anne picked up our bottle and poured me some more.

  “How’re you, Pete, Miss Anne?” Shartelle shouted and took a swig from his bottle. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m fine, just fine, thank you kindly.” Claude got out of the car, shook her head in mock disgust, and started towards us. She had an interesting walk. Shartelle stood up in the seat of the car, tossed the bottle away, and then jumped flatfooted over the convertible’s door to the ground. It was a mighty leap.

  “My, but I’m spry for a man of my years!” he shouted.

  “He’s also had almost a full bottle of brandy,” Claude called.

  He was wearing one of the seersucker suits-with-vest. It looked as if he had just put it on. His shirt gleamed whitely and he sported a bright, solid red tie. The black slouch hat was cocked over one eye. He paused, took out a black cigar, put it in his mouth, and lighted it. He looked at the bay, up at the sky, stretched hugely, and let out a whoop. He jumped up and clicked his heels together. Then he started it—a cakewalk down the one-hundred-foot path to us. I could hear him humming as he came, a tall, graceful man in a black slouch hat, cakewalking his way down the African path. It was a humorous, mocking dance, with trick little pauses, circlings, shuffles and mocking bows. I had seen that funeral procession coming back from a graveyard in New Orleans, and some of them danced the way Shartelle danced. It was part New Orleans, part Africa, and all Shartelle. He kept singing, almost to himself, as he strutted and spun. It was, I suppose, his victory dance.

  I finished my brandy, handed the glass to Anne, walked over to a garbage pail and picked up the lid. I started to pound the lid with a stick. It made a fine banging sound.

  Then I began to chant: “People of this land bow down….” I banged the lid again, this time in cadence to the words, “The mightiest one of all doth come….” Some more banging. “He walks with greatness in his stride….” Shartelle acknowledged my litany with a wave of his cigar and a spin around. “This master of the sacred vote … this son of lightning, sought by kings….” Shartelle’s steps got fancier. He kept on humming, and I kept on chanting: “By Shartelle, the earthmen know him….” I chanted, and banged the lid again. “Know his name from Og to Kush….” Shartelle pranced and I pounded. “Now he comes, this son of thunder … bow yourself before his presence … shield your eyes lest his brilliance blind you … quickly now, he comes this way … mightiest of the ballot warriors … the Seersucker Whipsaw comes thy way.”

  Shartelle took his cigar from his mouth and nodded gravely to his imaginary audience, first to his left and then to his right. “I Am the One!” he shouted happily and gave the benediction with a wave of his cigar. “I Am the One!” He took a final leap into the air, stumbled just a bit, and wrapped his arm around the trunk of a convenient palm tree. He threw his head back, let out another whoop, and looked up at the coconuts. “I’m going to sing you a fine old American folk song,” he told them:

  Hey! Trotsky! Make a revolution!

  Hey! Trotsky! Make a fine revolt!

  Chicken à la King in every potsky,

  Everything will be all hotsky, totsky!

  Hey! Trotsky! make a revolution!

  Hey! Trotsky! make a fine revolt!

  He looked at us and grinned happily. He took off his hat and held it out, crown down, moving it as if seeking contributions. “Remember the Scottsboro boys, folks. Remember Tom Mooney.” Anne and Claude applauded.

  “Shartelle,” I said, “you’re drunk.” Anne handed me the brandy bottle and a glass. I poured a drink and handed it to him. He accepted it with his courtly bow.

  “I am not drunk, Pete, but I intend to get that way.”

  “He sang all the way from Ubondo,” Claude said “He taught me words to some very naughty songs.”

  Shartelle looked around. “How’s this place, Miss Anne? My, but you ar
e a fetching sight in that skimpy little bathing suit.”

  “Why, thank you, Mistah Clint,” Anne said and curtsied, which I thought she did very well considering that she was almost naked. “This is a wonderful place. Pete and I are going to stay here for the rest of our lives.”

  “How is M. Arceneaux?” Claude asked. “A little tiddled?”

  “Just a little,” Anne said. “But it doesn’t seem to interfere with his cooking.”

  Shartelle went back to the LaSalle and fetched the bags. “Boy,” he said, “there’s a case of some very fine brandy in the rear seat if you feel like getting it.”

  I brought the brandy and deposited it in my cabin. Shartelle and Claude disappeared into theirs, emerging a few minutes later in bathing suits. Shartelle slapped Claude on her rear. “Ain’t she a fine figure of a woman, Pete!”

  She was indeed. Dressed fully, Claude exuded sex. In a bikini, what the imagination had promised was completely delivered. She kissed Shartelle quickly on the cheek and ran towards the water. It was a delight to watch her run. Anne followed and they swam while Shartelle and I sat under the shade of a coconut tree and drank some more of the brandy.

  “I reckon I’m going to marry that little old gal, Petey.”

  “You asked her?”

  “Sort of. Man of my age gets mighty cautious.”

  “You’re old, all right.”

  “Reckon I’m just purely in love.”

  “An old shit like you. She say yes?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Lot of woman for an old man.”

  “Now, I ain’t that old, boy.”

  I took another sip of brandy and watched the two girls swim.

  “How about you and Miss Anne?”

  “I’m just purely in love,” I said.

  “Gonna marry her?”

  “Might.”

  “Might?”

  “Will.”

  “None of my business, but Miss Anne sure seems like the right one.”

  Shartelle was wearing trunks, but he retained his hat. He tipped it over his eyes, took a final sip of his brandy, and leaned back against the tree trunk. “Never been more content, Pete. Just sitting here watching two pretty, half-naked women cavorting in the water, drinking fine brandy, and knowing that you’ve just helped win another one. I do feel good.”

  “No trouble?”

  “When I left, it looked better’n ever.”

  We drank, ate, swam, told stories and made love the rest of that day, all of Saturday, and part of Sunday. Then we sobered M. Arceneaux up enough to make out our bill. We had a final glass of brandy with him and headed back for Ubondo. I followed the big white LaSalle. Anne sat close to me with her head on my shoulder.

  “It was so wonderful, Pete,” she said sleepily.

  “It was perfect.”

  “And we can really live in the house by the sea?”

  “For the rest of our lives,” I said.

  Chapter

  26

  The guards at the gate of Chief Akomolo’s high-walled compound recognized the white LaSalle and waved us through on Monday night as Shartelle, Anne and I called to pay our respects to the man who looked to be the next Premier of the Federation of Albertia. Jenaro had been in touch with us throughout the day, as had Dr. Diokadu. The bellwether districts had come in early, and they pointed towards a bare majority for Akomolo’s party on the federal level, a sweep for Chief Dekko on the regional level.

  We had given William and the rest of the staff the day off to vote and to round up all friends who could drop a ballot into boxes marked with the party’s crossed rake and hoe, a convenient symbol for those who couldn’t read. The other parties had symbols equally convenient. After our protocol visit with Chief Akomolo, we planned to have dinner at Claude’s and then we were all due at Jimmy Jenaro’s to wait for the final results.

  Akomolo’s courtyard was filled with cars, people, and noise. Most of the crowd were market women dressed up in their best blue finery. They stood or squatted in the packed courtyard, giggled, gossiped, and sent up shrill cries of ap proval whenever a prominent Albertian entered the compound to pay his respects to Akomolo. They even cheered for us. Shartelle gave them the benediction of his cigar. The notables, as well as a raft of hangers-on, were gathered in a large downstairs room, gulping the Chief’s liquor and telling each other that they had known all along that he was destined to win. Whenever they could get Akomolo’s ear, they told him the same thing. The almost-Premier-elect was standing on the left side of the room as we entered. He was surrounded by a knot of well-wishers who all talked at once. He seemed to be half-listening, politely nodding his head from time to time. He looked tired and the tribal markings on his face appeared more deeply etched than ever.

  The Chief smiled when he caught sight of Shartelle. It seemed to be his first smile of the evening and it was one of relief and delight. He moved towards us, both hands extended in greeting. “I’m so very pleased that you could come,” he said. “The reports are most encouraging.”

  “It looks good, Chief,” Shartelle said. “Real good. I see you’ve got the usual bunch of courthouse grifters.”

  Akomolo lowered his voice. “Jackals.”

  “I bet they all knew from the beginning that you couldn’t possibly lose.”

  Akomolo nodded. “To a man. But the market women in the courtyard are the best indication. They somehow sense the winner and flock to his house It is traditional. I am not at all sorry that they are here.”

  By then the party had well-lubricated its collective vocal cords with Akomolo’s endless supply of liquor and was beginning to babble at a new and higher pitch. “Let’s go up to my study,” the Chief said. “We can’t possibly chat here.”

  He turned to one of his aides to tell him that he would be available upstairs. We followed him up the one flight and arranged ourselves on the low couches. Chief Akomolo sat behind the desk, his hands already busy shuffling the pa pers that covered it. The ceiling fan still turned uselessly. I started to sweat.

  “I wanted to take this occasion to thank you, Mr. Shartelle and Mr. Upshaw, for what you have done. I am not so naïve that I do not realize that you employed some—strategems, shall we say—that I might not have approved of had my approval been sought.”

  Shartelle grinned his wicked grin. “Well, now, Chief, me and Pete just didn’t want to bother you with all the little details of the campaign. You had enough on your mind the way it was.”

  Akomolo made a wry face. “I thought I knew something about the way politics works, Mr. Shartelle. But this campaign has broadened my education immensely. Some day I plan to do a paper on it—perhaps for your Foreign Affairs quarterly. Do you think they would be interested?”

  “You’ll have to ask Pete about that, Chief.”

  “They would jump at the chance to publish it,” I said.

  “Well, I suppose it will have to wait a few months, but I think if it were well-done it might stand as a classic portrayal of the use of semi-sophisticated American political techniques in a newly-independent African nation. Perhaps Dr. Diokadu could help me with the research.”

  “The only thing missing was television and radio,” Shartelle said.

  The Chief smiled broadly. “Next time, friend Shartelle, I think I will have a bit more to say about the proper use of those two media.”

  He quit smiling when they came in. There were seven of them, a Corporal in the Albertian Army and six Privates. They filled the small room. The Privates carried rifles—old Enfields. The Corporal held a sidearm—a .45 caliber Colt automatic. He aimed it at Akomolo.

  “You are under arrest,” the Corporal said. His voice held little conviction. He was a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and a forehead that sloped sharply backward and he seemed old for a corporal. His steel-rimmed glasses threatened to mist over in the heat.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Akomolo said. He continued to shuffle the papers on his desk.

  “You are under arrest;
the military has taken over the government.”

  “You are a fool.”

  “You are under arrest!” This time the Corporal screamed it.

  Akomolo picked up a pile of papers, opened the top right- hand drawer of his desk, and put them in carefully as if he wanted to remember exactly where they would be next Thursday morning.

  They shot Chief Sunday Akomolo six times while he was going for his gun.

  Akomolo had the revolver halfway out of the drawer when the bullets rammed him back into his chair and the chair, with him in it, was slammed against the wall and stopped there only because it couldn’t go any farther. The Corporal had fired his automatic three times. Three of the Privates had fired once. The other three held their Enfields on us.

  Akomolo’s eyes were open and there was wonder in them, but he was already dead. The body slumped forward, rested briefly on the desk where it bled over some of the papers that it never got the chance to shuffle and tuck away, and then it fell to the floor. Anne gasped a little. It was the only sound the white folks made.

  The Corporal jerked a thumb at one of the Privates who had fired a shot. The Private took a machete from his belt, went behind the desk, and leaned his rifle against the wall. He knelt down behind the desk and the machete flashed up and down several times. I didn’t count how many. It made a wet, smacking sound. He got up with a big grin on his face. His eyes were shining brightly, too brightly. He held Chief Akomolo’s head up and turned it this way and that so we could see it plainly. The Chief’s gold-rimmed glasses were still in place. Outside, we could hear the market women shouting and screaming because of the shots.

  The Corporal gestured. “Outside,” he said. “All of you.”

  We stood at the ledge of the balcony that ran around three sides of the courtyard. The market women shrieked at each other, pushed and shoved. A few fights broke out. The Corporal took Akomolo’s head from the Private and held it up high, moving it from side to side. Some blood dripped on his uniform. One drop smeared an eye-glass. He didn’t seem to notice.