That evening of the barbecue dance at the Club the house was again full, with people coming and going. Tom Parry put in an appearance, chaperoned by his mother Annie; Jean and Bill Lawson; Paula and Alan Wint; John Langford and Howard Winfield; Josh Bolton and several other Americans, among them Helga Larsen, with one breast Swede and the other Yankee, as she put it herself; an elegant, bearded Frenchman and his petite wife; the Japanese First Secretary and his wife, to both of whom Moffatt taught English; the Mossaours; the Sattis, she in a brilliant yellow sari, he in a purple turban; Captain Mabie and three other Indians, air crew of the A.A.L., the Afghan Air Line; and various others, all of them dropping in to pay their respects to Harold Moffatt, thanks to whom the swimming pool was ready in time, or at least only three months late, considered marvellous for Afghanistan where even the new mosque had been under construction for two years and still wasn’t finished. For weeks Moffatt had come every day to supervise and encourage the workmen and bully the contractor. It would be a good idea, wonderfully appropriate, cried Captain Mabie, in his shrill happy voice, if everyone would take along a bottle of whisky and pour it into the pool as a kind of libation. Then Harold should be heaved in for the first swim, in an element much more congenial to him than water. Normally that would have been taken as a passable joke, at which most of them, including those biased against happy, drunk Indians; indeed, some did take it as such and laughed; but others, such as the Wints for example, and the Lawsons, and the Mossaours, frowned instead and found plausible reasons for slipping off earlier than they had intended.
What caused their uneasiness was their host’s unprecedented drunkenness. It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen him drunk before (he had once slept all night on the Wints’ lawn, and on another occasion had come begging to the Lawsons’ door disguised in a shaddry) or that he was this evening drunk to an uncontrollable degree. No, it was simply that he was not merely rude to his wife, which any drunken man might on occasion be, but rather viciously antagonistic to her. What made it all the more embarrassing was that Lan, aware of every insult, remained uncannily calm, and in her Chinese dress of black and gold so exquisitely beautiful that any man’s hostility toward her seemed inconceivable. Some of the guests of course, advanced in their own drinking or impregnably happy, remained unaware that there was anything strange between host and hostess.
John Langford had come from a particularly arid scene with Helen, whom he’d left dandling, as if it were a dead baby, a gin bottle he’d emptied that day. He not only quickly noticed Moffatt’s attitude but was also so shocked by it that he took the first opportunity to grab Moffatt by the arm and pull him protesting through the kitchen to the bathroom, where he locked the door.
‘Now Harold, what the hell’s wrong?’
Moffatt answered by using the pissoir. ‘Might as well, seeing I’m here.’
‘I asked you what’s wrong.’
‘Nothing. There’s damn all wrong, old man. Did you know there’s going to be the biggest barbecue seen in Kabul for donkeys’ years? A dozen sheep going to be roasted.’
‘I’m a lot more concerned about the way you were roasting Lan out there, for the delectation of those bastards.’
‘You’re talking about my friends, not to mention my guests. Besides, Mr Commercial Secretary, what bloody business is it of yours anyway?’
Langford knew his own eyes were bloodshot, which made him all the sadder when he looked into Moffatt’s. The rest of the pink, plump, sulky face was hardly recognizable.
‘What are you trying to do, for Christ’s sake?’ he demanded. ‘Yes, I’ve got a right to talk. You know what a hell of a stupid life Helen and I lead. If one of us were to die, it’d be no relief to the other; that’s how bad it is. Granted there are others all over Kabul not much better. But you and Lan, my God, you’ve always been there to show what could be done. I’m not joking either, when I tell you that meant a hell of a lot to me. So why this public crucifying of her?’
Moffatt scowled. ‘If you came to piss, go ahead, otherwise, let’s get out of here.’
There was a hearty thumping on the door. ‘Don’t hog the can, you in there, whoever the hell you are. I’m drinking cold English beer.’
Moffatt drew the bolt. Outside stood Dean Moriss, crew-cut Cultural Adviser to the U.S.I.S. in Kabul. He recoiled in mock horror. ‘What’s this, gentlemen? Or am I getting the sex wrong?’
‘It’s all yours, Dean,’ said Moffatt.
‘You say amen to that?’ asked Moriss, looking at Langford. ‘You seemed embittered.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘No, no, merely to leak. But I may also shed a tear or two at the moral depravity of English gentlemen of the twentieth century. I was warned about this when I left home, but I laughed it to scorn. Pity the poor American marine on Hampstead Heath.’ He went into the bathroom and could be heard joking lewdly to himself about his inability to slide the bolt home.
Going through the kitchen Langford tried again. ‘If you want to be sadistic,’ he said, ‘why not try giving that bitch Larsen a kick in the tail? She’s got that drag-you-to-bed look in her eyes, and you’re her bone tonight. Must Lan watch that too?’
‘Mind your own bloody business, John. I know what I’m doing. Isn’t there a lot to mend between you and Helen?’
‘There is.’
‘Then for Christ’s sake go and mend it, and leave me to do my own mending.’
‘If that means you and Lan have quarrelled, all right. Any man and his wife can quarrel. Look, Harold. Let’s leave the whole shower of them and go for a walk in the park.’
Moriss appeared, on his way back. ‘So it’s a walk in the park now? What has Mom’s innocent boy from Chicago wandered into? And two such virile specimens of manhood too!’ Chuckling, he pushed past to join the throng.
‘There’s nothing like a walk in the fresh air for restoring things to their right proportions.’
‘They tell me you’ve worn a moonlight track round the Embassy compound.’
‘They’re right. So I should know what I’m talking about. Let’s go over to the café among the Afghans; that’s another way of seeing things straight.’
‘John, you’re reputed to have corkscrew vision. Don’t forget I’m host here, with duties to perform.’
‘But one of your duties, you miserable sod, surely isn’t to humiliate your wife.’
Moffatt had moved away and didn’t hear that. He stood in the centre of the sitting room and clapped his hands.
‘Here’s one you’ve heard before,’ he shouted.
‘That’s right, Hal boy. Nothing like the old ones.’
Langford saw Lan, apprehensive but still resolutely self-contained, too much so and obviously in love with her husband. Whatever the cause of the quarrel he felt sure she was in the right; but what difference did that make, once the pair of you were lost in the labyrinth?
They had gathered round him to listen. Helga Larsen was at the front. Glass in hand, large bosom thrusting up out of her low-cut green silk dress, and red lips glistening with whisky, she once turned and gave the small demure faintly smiling Lan a sneer of contempt that dared to have pity in it. Langford felt like shouting: ‘You brazen bitch, keep your pity for yourself.’ Then, in horror, he began to listen to Moffatt.
It was a silly, unwitty, and grossly offensive story about two American sailors, visiting Shanghai, who had been told in their boyhoods that Chinese women were different from all other women in the world, in one anatomical respect.
Even those prepared, in whiskied good humour, to find laughter in anything found it difficult to laugh then. There were some embarrassed titters, and one shriek of appreciation, from Helga Larsen, that shocked everyone. Some slipped away, during the telling of the joke, and others as soon as it had been told; but most remained, fascinated by the sight of the fat unhappy clown in the centre with sweat like vitriol on his brow, yelling out his stupid filthy joke as if he were a priest haranguing a mob of unbelievers. What in Christ’s
name, wondered Langford, is he trying to convert us to? Not surely to a contempt for Lan, because the more repuslive he, the more marvellously unsullied she. Perhaps she was flushed a little more than usual, and she seemed not quite able to control a slight restlessness in her fingers. Langford thought, and some others thought it too, judging by the curious glances they gave her, that she was just too composed, too ready with her defences, and too resourceful with that smile. They wondered if the trouble could be that she was too icy in her affection, in her love-making more like a temple priestess than a wife full of faults and warmth; and more than one remembered that their feelings towards her had always been of respect and admiration, rather than of liking. Having a Chinese wife might perplex any man; but, telling that hideous joke, Moffatt had been anguished too.
People soon began to take their leave to go to the Club. Among them were Langford and Winfield who travelled round to the Club in the latter’s Land Rover.
‘Remember Gillie at the policy meeting?’ asked Langford.
‘I’ll never forget it.’
‘Do you think there was something in it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the big bugger did sound inspired. I thought his eyes were going to pop out and land in H.E.’s pipe bowl. But good God, Gillie as prophet!’
‘Why not? The Lord never chooses as we would choose.’
Langford shuddered. ‘That’s true enough. There was sweat on Gillie’s brow too. What do you think’s behind it, Howard?’
‘You mean, our Consul’s being chosen?’
‘No, dammit. That shocking performance of Harold’s. Is their marriage breaking up?’
‘I would say it looks like it.’
‘Don’t be so bloody smug, Howard.’
‘I’m not being smug. I like Harold.’
‘And Lan?’
‘I’m not sure. Does she want to be liked?’
‘Yes. I know what you mean. But, God Almighty, I thought they were the perfect married pair. What’s gone wrong?’
‘I think we’d better wait till the mantle falls on Bob again.’
‘It’s not a joke, Howard.’
Winfield did not answer. The whole of life was a joke; otherwise what was its point? But of course only a fool tried to explain a joke, and he had vowed never to be a fool.
About half a dozen guests remained when Prince Naim arrived, accompanied by Abdul Wahab, smelling strongly of gasoline. They had met outside the gate, the Prince stepping out of his chauffeured Daimler, Wahab jumping off his bike. Naim, like most of the other men, was in evening dress. Wahab wore the suit in which he went to school, since it was his best; it had been at the dry-cleaner’s, hence the smell of gasoline.
Moffatt, talking to Helga Larsen, noticed the two latecomers. He did not hurry forward to greet them; instead, with his free hand gently bumping against her soft rump, he whispered: ‘Do you see these two Afghan gentlemen who have just arrived?’
‘One’s the Prince, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. But look at the other.’
‘Why? What’s special about him? Is he the Prime Minister’s son? Looks to me like any ten-a-penny Afghan.’
‘If you think that, you must be lacking in percipience.’
She giggled. ‘I’m sure I am, whatever it is. What you’re lacking in, Hal boy, is sobriety; but don’t get sober too soon.’
‘That dusky gentleman, I would like you to know, is Mr Abdul Wahab.’
‘Is he now? And who the hell is Mr Abdul Wahab? Lan seems to have a fancy for him.’
‘Look closely, dear Helga. This is a matter in which I value your judgment. Look closely.’
‘For God’s sake, at him?’
‘At him. At the soul of Afghanistan.’
‘Is that what he is? I must say he looks it.’ Then Lan came across with Naim and Wahab.
If I stink of gasoline, thought Wahab, he stinks of whisky, and this woman beside him, with her arm through his, is a drunken whore. My poverty has been making me squirm with shame, despite the friendliness of the Prince; but surely poverty becomes honourable in the face of all this squandering of money on drink which makes a man boorish and pugnacious, and a woman undignified and salacious? The whisky which has depraved this man, my self-appointed enemy, and this woman, rubbing herself against him in front of his wife, cost money that would have kept an Afghan peasant and his family in what they would have called comfort for a month. No doubt our mullahs are too strict, with their many out-of-date taboos; but it is equally certain that these degenerates from the West represent a licence that is even more harmful.
I shall not of course attempt to retaliate, no matter how he insults me; not for his wife’s sake, or Laura’s, or my own, but for Afghanistan’s. They would all laugh if they were to know that three times I had to visit the dry cleaner’s to make sure he would have my suit ready in time, and the third time had to sit and wait while the work was done. They would laugh still louder if they knew that the dry cleaner, a man with a misshapen foot and eleven children, was a remote cousin of mine. Nevertheless, it is still possible for me to achieve a superiority over them all simply by showing the kind of humility which they call Christian; but I must take care it is not interpreted as servility. Therefore I shall accept this glass of whisky, and drink it as manfully as Moffatt himself does, not in timid sips, but bold gulps, even though it burns my throat and turns my guts instantly sour. I shall smile too, indomitably, and though this fair-haired woman with the large bosom keeps winking at me in an incomprehensible way, and asking me if I am conversant with Afghan history, I shall remain cool and courteous. See, she is not really interested in our history, for as soon as I begin to talk about it she laughs and struts off on her very high-heeled shoes. I notice – it is impossible to avoid noticing, so tight is her dress – that she has plump buttocks; and I reflect again how strange it is that though I am naturally attracted to women with big breasts and plump buttocks, I have promised to marry one plump nowhere. Laura is skinny.
But really I had better stop drinking this whisky. As the Prince has just whispered, it is not like orange juice. Yet I feel courageous. I am certainly not afraid of Mr Moffatt, glaring at me all the time like an enemy. Shall I tell him what I, the meek and subservient Wahab, have been thinking here, on his own carpet, in his own house? Would he put it all down in a letter and send it to Laura? Well, what if he did? Better that she find out in time she is going to marry a man who, though not claiming to be a lion, passionately denies he is a mouse.
‘No, Harold,’ said Lan. ‘Mr Wahab doesn’t want any more.’
‘Let him speak for himself. What do you say, Mr Wahab? Your glass is empty, like mine. Shall we fill them both up?’
‘By all means, Mr Moffatt.’
‘That’s right. You and I have lots of sorrows to drown.’
‘No, I assure you, I have no sorrows; no personal ones, that is. For my poor country, yes, I weep for her.’
‘So you do. These are noble tears. Lan, go and attend to our other guests. Mr Wahab and I are going into the gul-khana for a little chat.’
Wahab found himself laughing, in an excess of confidence. He felt so like one of the warriors of old he half looked for the proud horse under him. As he followed Moffatt into the flower room he did not know yet what he was going to say, but he knew he had in his mind a vast treasury, with jewels of wisdom for any subject the Englishman might choose.
‘I understand, Wahab, you’ve met Mohebzada?’
So the ‘Mr’ was already dropped! ‘Yes, Mr Moffatt, I have had that privilege.’
‘I wouldn’t call it that myself. A nasty spiteful whining little runt with a mouthful of rotten teeth.’
‘It is possible his wife has a different view of him.’
‘I doubt it. You knew their child was ill?’
‘Yes. I also know it is now recovered.’
‘But it will get ill again.’
‘It is mortal.’
‘Have you seen it?’<
br />
‘No.’
‘You should go and have a look at it.’
‘For what particular reason, Mr Moffatt?’
‘So that you can see for yourself what a miserable unlucky little bastard it is.’
Wahab felt exalted, rather than angry. For poor Moffatt, so angry, with specks of foam on his lips, he had not only sympathy, but love. Even when he put out his hand to pat him and had it savagely knocked away, he still loved him.
‘You have no children yourself, Mr Moffatt,’ he said, with a sad, loving smile.
He continued to smile when Moffatt with a vicious oath flung what was left in his glass about his face.
‘Why did you do that?’ he asked, groping for his handkerchief. In spite of his spectacles some of the whisky had got into his eyes and blinded him.
The incident had been seen. There were cries and titters. Someone shouted: ‘For God’s sake!’ It sounded like Naim.
His eyes were now on fire. He kept them tightly closed. A cool hand touched his, and a voice, calm but sympathetic, murmured: ‘Please come with me, Mr Wahab.’
It was of course Mrs Moffatt. She held his hand and led him.
‘This is ridiculous, I am afraid,’ he said, as he stumbled into a small table and knocked over a glass. ‘I hope I have not broken it?’
‘Never mind it.’
‘I also hope this pain is temporary.’
‘Is it very painful?’
‘I must confess it is.’
She led him into what certain noises informed him was the bathroom and made him sit down on a stool.
‘You must bathe your eyes.’
‘Of course.’
She took off his spectacles for him. ‘Here is a piece of cotton wool.’
He stooped over the basin and tried to bathe his eyes. The pain was still intense.
She whispered something, but he could not make out what it was. After a long pause she said it again: ‘Why did he do it?’
‘I really do not know. I merely remarked that he had no children. You see, we were discussing Mr Mohebzada’s unfortunate child, which was ill a few days ago. Perhaps, madam, you did once have a child that died? If so, I am very sorry.’
Dust on the Paw Page 17
