Leila

by Robin Jenkins

Through an inner door came His Highness’s secretary, a small bespectacled man dressed like an undertaker. He gazed gloomily at Sandilands. There had been a hitch: the coffin had been put in the wrong grave. Sandilands should not have been there.

  ‘The appointment was for yourself alone, madam,’ said the secretary.

  He had what in Scotland would have been called a posh English accent. There it would never have been taken seriously.

  ‘Mr Sandilands,’ he added, ‘the servant will show you to another room, where you may wait.’

  ‘Mr Sandilands will stay,’ said Leila. ‘He is Vice-Principal of the College. He knows the students well. He is to testify to their good character.’

  The secretary’s gloom deepened. He was not interested in the students. He had almost forgotten that they were supposed to be the reason for this meeting.

  ‘Mr Sandilands will be given an opportunity to testify at a later time,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind, Mr Sandilands, as to withdraw?’

  ‘No, Mr Sandilands will not withdraw,’ said Leila. ‘He is not only Vice-Principal of the College, he is also my fiancé.’

  It would have been hard to say whose amazement and incredulity were the greater, the secretary’s or Sandilands’.

  There was bafflement and horror also behind the secretary’s big spectacles. The coffin lid had fallen off and there was the leering corpse.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, and hurried back through the inner door, no doubt to pass on the startling news to His Highness.

  No one could have been more startled than Sandilands. He supposed that she had told the lie so that he would have a right to remain as her chaperone, but it had taken the coolest of impudence on her part. Where was the fabled modesty of Eastern women? Nor could her extraordinary brazenness be attributed to her Scottish blood. Women in Edinburgh never announced their engagements in this way.

  He should keep in mind she was a lawyer, skilled in ruses and devices.

  He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think he’s reporting to His Highness?’

  ‘Of course.’

  In the old days, thought Sandilands, into the room would have rushed half a dozen diminutive Savuese warriors with ’their curved swords and razor-sharp parangs. In a minute he would have been a truncated corpse; the walls would have been splashed with his blood. Eunuchs too would have appeared, to drag Leila off to their master’s seraglio. Would she have gone screaming and kicking? No, she would have gone silently and scornfully, determined to bide her time and make the Sultan pay.

  The inner door opened and in slipped His Highness, dressed not in flowing Sultanic robes but in white slacks and a dark-blue blazer with, on its breast pocket, the crest of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews.

  He sat and stared at them.

  It was hard to believe that this chubby little man with the scarce hair and Errol Flynn moustache could, by lifting a telephone and giving a few instructions, throw the world’s financial markets into chaos.

  It was even harder to believe that, in that blazer, he had come with ravishment in his mind.

  ‘So, Andrew,’ he said, as one golfer to another, ‘I am to congratulate you.’

  Sandilands’ smile was like that of a golfer who had just missed a fifteen-inch putt.

  ‘And you too of course, Madam Azaharri.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ she said, coolly.

  ‘Why did you not mention it last time we played golf, Andrew? You led me to believe that you had never met the beautiful Madam Azaharri.’

  ‘We became engaged very recently,’ said Leila.

  ‘I see. Is the wedding to take place soon?’

  Not in the least nonplussed she smiled at Sandilands: ‘Would you say soon, Andrew?’

  Sandilands was dumb.

  ‘Here, in Savu Town?’ asked His Highness. He was enjoying himself.

  ‘Yes. In the Anglican Church.’

  This was impudence indeed. Sandilands did not believe in God and would never agree to be married in a church. Jean had teased him: ‘Should we get married in St Giles, Andrew? I’m told it can be hired for the occasion.’

  His Highness laughed. ‘And would you like me to give you as a wedding present a bagful of rubies or pardons for the students?’

  ‘The pardons, Your Highness,’ said Leila. ‘Though we do not think they have done anything wrong.’

  His Highness was watching Sandilands closely. ‘Do you think they have done nothing wrong, Andrew?’

  Sandilands was in a quandary. He had to back up Leila and the students but he had also to tell the truth. Since talking to Albert Lo in Leila’s house he had wondered just how innocent those book-readings and discussions in Cheng’s back room had been. There had been a fanatical eagerness in Lo’s eyes: he was the kind of young visionary who, to further his cause, would set himself on fire. Had it, in Cheng’s back room, ever been discussed what was to be done if elections continued to be denied them? Had violence been advocated?

  ‘The books they read and discussed were harmless, Your Highness.’

  ‘Don’t you think they might have discussed also how to get rid of the tyrant?’

  ‘The people of Savu are the most peaceful in the world,’ said Leila. ‘Violence is not in their nature.’

  Sandilands remembered those cheerful and unresentful men in the bars and cafes.

  ‘That is true, thank God,’ said His Highness.

  But even so, thought Sandilands, there were the palace guards, the armed police, the Gurkhas, and the British soldiers ready to be flown in.

  ‘Will the students be reinstated, Your Highness?’ asked Leila.

  ‘Why not? Perhaps Mr Maitland acted too hastily.’

  On whose orders, wondered Sandilands. Evidently not the Sultan’s. The British Resident’s? How ironic if the tyrant was more liberal in his outlook and less obsessed by fears of revolt than the representative of the freedom-loving democracy.

  ‘I look forward to reading an account of the wedding in the Savu Times,’ said His Highness.

  ‘Why not come and see for yourself, Your Highness?’ said Leila. ‘We would be proud to send you an invitation.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ He then left, laughing.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Sandilands.

  He was thinking that if there had been a Parliament and an opposition there would have been angry questions and evasive answers. An enquiry would have been ordered and in the end some fudged compromise would have been reached. It would have taken weeks, perhaps months. Here it had been done in minutes.

  Thirteen

  GOING DOWN the majestic staircase, Leila, proud as a princess, took his arm, not this time in a humorous teasing of him but possessively, like a bride, or so it seemed to him. She looked very pleased, as she was entitled to, as a lawyer who had won her clients’ case, but it was more than that, she was pleased with herself as a person, no, as a woman, who had a man in her possession. He had seen the same thing in other women. He had escaped from them, though in Jean Hislop’s case it was still doubtful. But those had been Western women the workings of whose minds he had more or less understood. Not only was it Leila’s ancestry that made her incalculable, it was also her own peculiar qualities. What other woman, for instance, Oriental or Occidental, going down these marble stairs, all fifty or so of them, would still at the bottom have made no mention of the astonishing lie that he and she were engaged and were to be married soon? It was as if she had forgotten all about it, or rather as if, since it was a settled thing, there was no need to mention it.

  Out on the street, while he was fishing in his own mind for a pretext to bring it up, a white Rolls Royce purred past them. It was the Sultan’s. He gave them a wave, thus adding to the unreality of the scene. Where else in the world would a Scottish teacher, with Calvinist forebears, walking arm-in-arm with a beautiful coloured woman in a blue sari, be waved at by a Sultan in a white Rolls Royce?

  ‘I think we deserve a celebration,’ she said. ‘Would
you like to take me to dinner this evening, in the Gardenia?’

  But in the Gardenia any evening in the week there were bound to be friends of Jean’s who, the minute they got home, would telephone her to say that they had seen Andrew Sandilands dining with – guess who? – the notorious Mrs Azaharri, widowed daughter of old Abad. Those friends might not even wait till they got home but would telephone from the restaurant. In which case it was not at all unlikely that Jean might turn up, in a rage not so very unreasonable. He could imagine her yelling: ‘Would you believe that this big bastard, last night, was fucking me in his bed and talking about us getting married?’

  If that happened it would be more dignified for him to bow his head and say nothing, though he could point out that dining in public with a woman hardly amounted to a serious commitment. Most fair-minded people would agree with him.

  But what would Leila do or say?

  ‘Well?’ she asked, smiling.

  It occurred to him that perhaps she meant to include the three students in the celebration. After all they were the ones with most to celebrate. If they were present he would have a plausible explanation.

  ‘No, just you and I. They will have to return to the College.’

  She was well aware that being seen with her in the Gardenia would be something of a travail for him. Her attitude seemed to be that if he loved her he would gladly endure it. But he had never said that he loved her. He had kissed her, but that was all; well, almost all. He did keep giving her looks of admiration. But then didn’t every man in Savu Town, from street-sweeper to Sultan, give her such looks?

  But, yes, he did love her. She melted his heart. Did she love him? Did he melt her heart? He found it hard to believe. What was her game? What was she up to?

  He would have liked to ask her point-blank if she had meant what she had said about their being engaged, but he lacked the courage. Besides, he was afraid that she might say yes, she had meant it; and even more afraid that she would say no, she hadn’t meant it.

  Outside the Chuu-Chuu tailors they parted, she to go up to her office, and he to drive to her house and take the students back to the College.

  She patted his cheek, not caring who saw her. ‘Where shall we go for our honeymoon, Andrew?’ she asked, smiling.

  Without waiting for an answer she disappeared into the close.

  Seconds later she was back. ‘What would you like me to wear tonight?’ she asked, and again did not wait for an answer.

  He heard her laughing as she went into the close.

  His heart, though melted, was still capable of sinking. Was she going to be too much for him?

  On his way to her house there was no need to go anywhere near the hospital, but he found himself driving towards it, right into the grounds, and sitting in his car outside the entrance, among other cars, one of them Jean’s red Mini.

  A woman came out, weeping.

  He did not know what he was doing there.

  If Jean had come out, in her blue red-lined cloak, he would have run to her, embraced her, and told her yes, they would go home together to Edinburgh; but of course she did not come out, she was too busy inside, perhaps attending to the patient who was dying.

  The students were waiting on the terrace. They came running down the steps; at least Chia and Lo did. Salim stayed up on the terrace. He did not seem to be as anxious as they to hear the news.

  ‘Well, you’ve been reprieved,’ said Sandilands, as he got out of the car. ‘Thanks to Mrs Azaharri. It was His Highness himself we saw. If you get your bags ready I’ll take you to the College. Mrs Azaharri had to go to her office.’

  They were silent. He hadn’t expected them to shout with relief and joy, but this grim silence surprised him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It is Salim,’ said Chia. ‘He is a spy.’

  ‘A spy?’ Sandilands looked up and saw Salim looking down at them cheerfully.

  ‘What do you mean, a spy?’

  ‘His brother is a policeman,’ said Chia.

  ‘That hardly makes him a spy.’

  ‘We could not understand why he wished to attend our meetings,’ said Chia. ‘His English is not good.’

  ‘We could not understand why he became a student at the College,’ said Lo. ‘He does not want to be a teacher.’

  Sandilands had wondered about that too. The standards at the College were judiciously lowered so that students of native origin might graduate, but even so Salim would probably fail.

  ‘He reports to his brother who reports to his superiors,’ said Chia.

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘He did not mean to but he told us. He is very stupid.’

  Too stupid surely to be used as a spy.

  ‘He should be punished,’ said Chia. ‘He should have his tongue cut out.’

  ‘That was the punishment in the old days for spies,’ said Lo.

  No doubt it had been in Scotland too, if you went back far enough.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Sandilands.

  They were as solemn as executioners.

  ‘I would think he’s more of a sneak than a spy,’ he said.

  Then, like a conscientious teacher, he had to explain the difference.

  They were not convinced.

  ‘We will take care of him,’ said Chia.

  That sounded ominous. There were many places in the College grounds and in the jungle that encroached on them where a sneak’s body, with or without its tongue cut out, could be safely disposed of.

  Would Leila, he wondered, with a shudder, approve of such a disposal?

  Fourteen

  LEILA HAD telephoned the news to the Principal. He had passed it on to the staff who had told their classes. Therefore when Sandilands’ car arrived it was mobbed by cheering students. Even timid little girls who had been taught by their parents that ladies never raised their voices screamed with the rest. Everyone looked on this reinstatement of their colleagues as a triumph for right and justice, whereas Sandilands himself saw it simply as a case of authority having the sense to remedy a blunder. All the same, if they could show such enthusiasm for what after all was a fairly small matter how would they react to a matter of importance? Could he imagine them marching with banners through the Old Town? A day or two ago he could not; now he was not so sure.

  He noticed that Salim was included in the congratulations and showed no shame. It would be interesting, if an opportunity arose, to try and discover his motives, though probably he did not know himself what they were. This was a country where, not so long ago, the aborigines cut off human heads and decorated their longhouses with them, for religious reasons. The spirits who haunted the jungle would be pleased not only with those who offered them the heads but also with those who, as it were, contributed their heads. Thus propitiation was shared.

  Sandilands and the Principal had once made a journey, by river-boat and along leech-infested trails, to visit a kampong where it was said there was a display of heads of Japanese soldiers. The Principal had wanted to see them. It had amazed and perturbed Sandilands that the Principal, so humane a man, should show such persistence to get there and then, when there, exhausted and drenched with sweat, should squint with such satisfaction at the shrunken heads that still, after forty years, were recognisable as Japanese. ‘You can still see the arrogance.’

  Margaret Leithbridge and Mr Srinavasan were in the Principal’s office, drinking coffee. A holiday had been declared. There were to be no more classes that day. The rejoicing of the students could be heard in the distance.

  ‘Well done, Andrew,’ said the Principal.

  ‘It’s Mrs Azaharri who should get the credit.’

  Miss Leithbridge sniffed. ‘You didn’t by any chance see His Highness?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  The sniff became a sarcastic snort. ‘What was she wearing? A sari? Showing her bare midriff? I thought so. She’s cunning, that one, and dangerous.’

  Mr Sr
inavasan liked to agree with everyone but he could not help pointing out other people’s illogicalities. ‘In what way is the lady dangerous because she wears the dress of my country? My dear wife also wears a sari. Is she also dangerous?’

  Mrs Srinavasan was small, fat, and pock-marked, therefore not likely to entice His Highness or any other man.

  Miss Leithbridge could not very well say so. ‘I merely meant,’ she said, ‘that Mrs Azaharri should mind her own business and not meddle in politics.’

  ‘But is not the welfare of Savu the lady’s business? She was born here, as was her father, and his father before him. She has distant kinship with His Highness, I have been told.’

  ‘Orang-utans are born here, Mr Srinavasan. Would you say the welfare of Savu is their business too?’

  He got to his feet, with dignity. ‘May I say, dear lady, that I consider that an offensive remark.’ He walked out, very upright, so as not to be mistaken for an ape. He was as black as ebony.

  ‘They’re so stupidly sensitive,’ said Miss Leithbridge, with a sigh of impatience. ‘I wasn’t calling him an orang-utan. He does say silly things, though. Do you remember, Andrew, when he reprimanded you because the Scots had helped the English to colonise India? When I said, teasing him really, that he should have said civilise, not colonise, he got up and walked out of the staffroom, just as he did now. Oh dear. I suppose I’d better go after him and make my peace. I’m always having to do that. I’m invited to his place for lunch. Curry so hot it scorches your tongue. But they’re really a pair of dears.’

  When she was gone Sandilands told the Principal about Salim, the suspected spy.

  The Principal sighed. ‘What’s happening, Andrew? This was such a peaceful and friendly country just a short time ago.’

  ‘There are changes all over Asia. Savu was bound to be affected.’

  ‘Are they to be welcomed, these changes?’

  ‘Depends on what they are.’

  ‘This clamour for democracy, I mean. I’ve heard you express doubts.’

  ‘Because I don’t trust politicians. They’re in it for their own good, though they pretend otherwise. Take Mr Srinavasan’s country. Ruling India must be the most difficult and thankless task on earth. Yet there never seems to be a dearth of contenders. It must be a love of power.’