Dust on the Paw

by Robin Jenkins

  He felt it was foolhardy of him to go in and be among so many antagonistic people; but he had in a way promised Laura to make the effort for her sake.

  They went through the gate together and down the fairy-lit path toward the dancers on the terrace. Among these Lan saw Alan and Paula Wint, he debonair in evening clothes, she voluptuous in a blue dress that showed off her fair skin and blonde hair. Heads close, they were laughing, oblivious of everyone else. People called them self-centred, and certainly they had spent much time in cultivating their natural inclinations to ignore or casually notice others; but now it struck Lan that perhaps they had been wise in fashioning a nest out of their cosy selfishness. The Mossaours were dancing too, Maud stately and stern, Pierre compensatingly charming. John Langford had as his partner the little wife of the Japanese First Secretary; they danced sedately, but Howard Winfield, partnered by a pony-tailed American teenager, now and then broke into steps like a Red Indian war dance, with whoops to match. Spectators, with glasses in their hands, sat or stood around, chatting and laughing.

  It was obvious it was going to be a successful party. In another hour or two dozens of them would be war-dancing and whooping. Griefs would be forgotten for the time being. There was one woman for instance, fat-faced and Dutch, whose child, Lan knew, had been quite ill a week ago; she shrieked as merrily as any.

  Wahab had seen, among the spectators, Mojedaji and another important Afghan, the Chief of Protocol at the Foreign Office. The latter, tall, silver-haired, and the handsomest man present, was smiling and sometimes clapping his hands; but the mullah’s grins were sour. Wahab, his eyes guilty, tried to slink by unseen.

  Josh Bolton, dressed as usual in rumpled clothes, was talking excitedly to the burly Russian Consul, whose evening suit was as immaculate as his politeness.

  Josh saw Lan and hurried over: ‘Harold’s inside somewheres,’ he said. ‘Say, you oughtn’t to have brought this guy with you. Harold’s liable to throw him into the pool. He insulted Helga.’

  ‘And you are all her champions?’

  ‘Hell, I know she’s a bit of a tramp, but we’ve got to draw the line at letting Dagos insult her.’

  ‘Dagos?’

  ‘You know what I mean. He’s coloured, isn’t he?’

  ‘So am I.’ She walked on.

  ‘That’s right, you are,’ he muttered as he stared after her. ‘And that’s just the trouble. For I guess of all the colours yours is the one we could best do without at this present time. That, lady, is the inescapable truth.’

  Wahab had heard the short conversation. ‘An American gentleman?’ he asked, with a little smile.

  ‘Yes.’

  Again he had the feeling that she was tired of his company. Already she had gone beyond the call of duty. Well, from his point of view, her presence beside him was like a light shining on him; and of course what he wanted was obscurity.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I see a friend of mine, Mrs Moffatt. Do you mind if I join him? There are many of your friends here, whom you will wish to speak to.’

  He had seen no friend and when he hurried away he did not know where to go. Behind a tree, turning, he saw her where he had left her, in a loneliness that only her husband could relieve. Just as only Laura can relieve mine, he thought, as he went on toward the bonfire where the kebab was being roasted. People there were standing about eating the hot mutton off the long iron skewers. Their manners were sufficiently Afghan to make him feel more at home near them than near the dancers. Among them was someone he had met: Mr Gillie, the British Consul. He did not think Gillie would remember him, or at any rate would want to talk to him, so he was slipping past when Gillie shouted cheerfully: ‘Ah, Mr Wahab. Come and meet my wife.’

  As Wahab went over he tried to keep in mind every lesson Laura had taught him, but he was so grateful to Gillie for noticing him that he found it impossible to prevent his eagerness from overflowing into what he knew was typical Afghan obsequiousness.

  He shook hands with Mrs Gillie. He liked her; with her gray hair and ordinary, worried look she reminded him of his own mother.

  ‘Get yourself some kebab, Mr Wahab,’ said Gillie. ‘It’s good. Only an afghani per lump.’

  That was fantastically expensive. ‘I am not hungry,’ said Wahab. ‘Everyone looks like cannibals.’

  ‘Cannibals!’ Startled, Gillie stared round, and began to laugh. ‘You’re not far wrong at that. Look at old Weitzler there, chewing somebody’s knee-bone.’

  ‘Bob, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘And there’s Dave Lipton, head of I.C.A., gnawing his way through an ankle.’

  Wahab apologized to Mrs Gillie. ‘I meant it really as a joke.’

  ‘Many a true word spoken in jest,’ said Gillie. ‘Pardon me if I speak rather greasily.’

  ‘Use your handkerchief, Bob, please.’

  ‘See how I’m bullied, Mr Wahab. Do Afghan women bully their men like this?’

  ‘I’m afraid they do, Mr Gillie.’

  ‘But I forgot. You’re not going to marry one of them. Maybe you’re going to do worse. I mean, these ex-school-ma’ams are usually martinets.’

  ‘Laura is really a civil servant.’

  ‘But she used to be a teacher? And that’s what she’s coming here to be. As well as of course to get married.’

  ‘Pardon me for asking this, Mr Wahab,’ said Mrs Gillie. ‘But is the lady still coming? I mean, there has been no change of decision?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘It’s a very big decision for a girl in her position to take.’

  ‘Now, Muriel, Miss Johnstone’s no impulsive little girl. She’s thirty-five.’

  ‘Thirty-three,’ murmured Wahab.

  He was astonished how even more like his mother Mrs Gillie had become: face sharp and intense with interference.

  ‘I wouldn’t feel honest talking to you, Mr Wahab, if I didn’t tell you straight to your face that in my opinion Miss Johnstone is making the wrong decision.’

  ‘Muriel, that’s not being honest; that’s being downright impertinent.’

  ‘No, no. As Laura’s countrywoman, Mrs Gillie has a right to speak.’

  ‘Well, if I were you, Wahab, I wouldn’t be so broadminded about it. I’d be telling them to mind their own business.’

  ‘But, Bob, think of poor Mrs Mohebzada.’

  ‘Always,’ sighed Wahab, ‘I am having Mrs Mohebzada flung in my face.’

  ‘She was happy to begin with, Mr Wahab. Now she talks about suicide.’

  ‘This is hearsay, Muriel; and unpleasant hearsay at that.’

  ‘I have not met Mrs Mohebzada,’ said Wahab, ‘but I understand she is very young. Perhaps she was too young to face up to so drastic a change?’

  ‘If that is your reasoning, Mr Wahab, I am afraid you are wrong. The younger a woman is the more adaptable. At thirty-five Miss Johnstone will be set in her ways.’

  ‘Thirty-three, please. Do not forget that she is not making the same mistake as Mrs Mohebzada. She is coming here unmarried. If she does not like it she will go away again unmarried. Unless of course—’ and Wahab, with a bitter little laugh, looked round at the carefree well-off foreigners—‘she meets someone else not doomed to remain in Afghanistan all his days.’

  Mrs Gillie nodded, as if she’d already thought of that.

  ‘There’s just one more thing I’d like to ask, Mr Wahab, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘If you do mind, Wahab, don’t hesitate to say so.’

  ‘I do not mind.’

  ‘Suppose you and Miss Johnstone were to get married, who would perform the ceremony? There is a Christian clergyman here, an American of somewhat evangelistic views, but properly qualified. But would not the law of the land demand that a Moslem mullah perform it?’

  ‘Really, Wahab, I cannot allow you to answer that. Muriel dear, this is a party, a dance, a celebration, not an inquisition.’

  Among cannibals, as among other people, thought Wahab, were differences of out
look and opinion. Staring at Mrs Gillie’s not unfriendly but greedy little face, he had another grimmer vision of cannibalism where not flesh was eaten but souls. Here, in this pretty garden hung with coloured lanterns, was surely a debauch of it. As he gazed round, at the bald German Weitzler and the big-paunched American Lipton, at Mr and Mrs Wint dancing, at Mojedaji and the Chief of Protocol, at Mrs Mossaour and her very dark-skinned husband, and at all these others whom he did not know but who no doubt by this time had heard of him, he felt his self-esteem grow less within him, as all these devourers gnashed at it. On the grass were already dozens of bones flung away; he saw what was left of him tossed aside also, an enticement only to stray hungry curs and flies.

  Gillie heard him sighing. ‘What you need is a drink, Mr Wahab.’ And he clapped his hands for a waiter.

  He could not, thought Wahab, have heard of the incident at Moffatt’s house; or perhaps he had and this was either his British way of letting bygones be bygones, or his merely human way of helping humiliation to develop.

  ‘What d’you like?’ asked Gillie, when the waiter, who turned out to be Sofi, Moffatt’s servant, stood grinning beside them. ‘Whisky?’

  ‘No, thank you. I find whisky is bad for my eyes.’

  Gillie guffawed. ‘D’you mean after a few glasses you don’t see so well? It’s bad for everybody’s eyes in that way, I assure you.’

  ‘If you do not mind, I would much rather have orange juice.’

  ‘My God! But just as you wish.’

  ‘You are forgetting, Bob dear, that it is against Mr Wahab’s faith to drink whisky.’

  In Mrs Gillie’s eyes, despite the kindness of her voice, was an accusation that also in his faith were many other things, equally unnatural to a Christian.

  He could not tell her that he had no faith, Christian or Moslem; he could not, amid that spree of soul-eaters, remind himself he had no God to pray to. In the sky shone Orion, which could also be seen from England. But for the fact that it would still be daylight there, Laura could at that moment have been watching her favourite constellation too. That she was not, that the sky over Manchester was still light while the sky here was dark, seemed to increase the distance between them so immensely that had she been dead and he still alive they could not have been farther apart.

  ‘Still sighing?’ said Gillie, laughing. ‘Well, I don’t think orange juice is going to do much about that.’

  When the orange juice arrived, and their whiskies, they soon made excuses and went off to join some friends, leaving him with Orion for company.

  The Wints had seen Lan and Wahab arrive. Unlike the Gillies, they had heard about the joke and the whisky-throwing. Heads close, sometimes with his lips against her cheek, they danced and with the compassion and condescension of happy lovers discussed Lan, who was standing by herself under one of the Japanese lanterns.

  ‘As cute a little showwoman as you could find,’ said Paula. ‘First she brings that fellow along, and then she stands pensively under the lantern. All the same, if you had told me that she could ever have looked lonely I wouldn’t have believed you.’

  ‘Darling, you surprise me. I think she always looks lonely.’

  ‘Self-sufficient, darling, not lonely.’

  ‘Lonely, dear, and never quite as self-sufficient as she likes to pretend.’

  ‘Is this masculine intuition, darling? Or just chivalry? She’s dainty, I admit, but take a woman’s word for it, she’s a little nugget of purest self-sufficiency. Why are you all looking for an explanation of Harold’s admittedly beastly behaviour? She’s driven him to it, simply by her Oriental self-sufficiency. Not only does everyone else – with one exception at least, as you’ll gather – think the little lady’s well-nigh perfect, she’s got into the habit of thinking it herself. Really she must be pretty unbearable to live with. I mean to say, darling, that filthy joke, after all it did have a point. I mean, what else could it possibly mean but a revolt against this presumption of perfection? I know I’m a bundle of faults myself, but at least, as you know, darling, I’m normal in that respect.’

  ‘As I most deliriously know, and as I hope to know again.’

  ‘But not quite here, darling. Though from the look of him last time seen I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Harold attempted it in our midst with the abominable Miss Larsen.’

  ‘In the pool, perhaps, like seals?’

  ‘Seals? Do seals, darling? How do seals?’

  They laughed together.

  ‘Seals do,’ he murmured.

  Again they laughed.

  ‘All the same, darling,’ said Paula, ‘in the interests of a world with variety, it’s a pity it isn’t true.’

  ‘ “In the interests of a world with variety.” Darling, how delightful!’

  That had been a favourite expression of an Ambassador Alan had served under as a raw Third Secretary.

  ‘All the same,’ said Paula, ‘throwing whisky in the fellow’s face was a bit thick.’

  ‘To save the honour of the egregious Miss Larsen.’

  ‘How does one insult the uninsultable?’

  ‘Shush. Maud Mossaour is glaring at us.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Didn’t you know, whenever she’s with Pierre she suspects all public laughter?’

  ‘I knew she was sensitive, but not as much as all that.’

  ‘Darling, it isn’t sensitiveness; in fact, it’s the very opposite; it’s the lioness’ instinct.’

  ‘But I thought the lioness’ instinct was for protecting her cubs, not her mate.’

  ‘This lioness wishes to protect her mate also, as well as her cubs.’

  For a few seconds then they danced in silence, smiling, and thinking of their own pale cubs far off in England, in no need of protection by fang and claw.

  ‘Cat,’ he murmured, affectionately.

  ‘I see she’s got company at last.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Little Lan.’

  He turned and looked. ‘Mojedaji! Now that would be an interesting conversation to listen to. What has the wily mullah got to say to her? He’ll have heard what happened at the house.’

  ‘She certainly doesn’t look very pleased.’

  Then the music stopped and hand in hand they went in for a drink, to find that their neighbours at the bar were Harold Moffatt, and Helga Larsen, he morose and she perseveringly hilarious.

  Lan had been finding her loneliness more and more intolerable, but she wanted only Harold’s company, anyone else’s would be worse even than being alone. Outcast and strangely afraid, she appreciated how Wahab must be feeling; but she did not wish now to take his and his Laura’s part. Before, she had not realized Harold’s opposition would be so bitter as to endanger his love for her. Now, realizing it, she felt for the first time that she could remember a desire to strike back, to hate, to hurt if necessary, and not be too particular about her victims. There, under that other tree, watching the dancers, among whom were the Wints obviously talking about her, she experienced again the finding of her sister’s body with its many bloody wounds; but this time she felt sick with hatred of those who had done it.

  When she saw Mojedaji step off the path, clumsily, for his fat thighs gave each other little room, and waddle across the grass towards her, her heart, cold and angry, was glad too. She could practise her new-found hatred upon him. He, rather than the foolish Wahab, represented what in this country was causing Mrs Mohebzada so much sorrow, and Harold so much complicated disgust. With his white turban, black evening suit, gold tooth, and scented moustache, he revolted many European and American women because he emanated a kind of lust that they could not understand and so take measures against. His holy man’s eyes, they said, stripped off your clothes, garment by garment, and then at their contemptuous leisure ravished you.

  ‘You are not enjoying the festivities, Mrs Moffatt?’ he asked.

  ‘I like to watch.’

  ‘Yes, I think you are like myself, by temperament a watcher
rather than a participator. It has its advantages, but we also lose much, I fear.’

  He pressed close to her. Turning, she searched for Wahab, and found him talking to the Gillies. Her purpose seemed to be to set Mojedaji upon him. If so, it wasn’t successful. Mojedaji looked in that direction too, and no doubt saw Wahab, but merely smiled.

  ‘You did not come with your husband, Mrs Moffatt?’

  ‘I think you saw me arrive.’

  ‘Yes. I was a little surprised. You came with Mr Wahab, a countryman of mine.’

  She said nothing, though he waited.

  At last he sighed. ‘I was very sorry indeed to hear of the distasteful occurrence at your house this evening.’

  She could not help shivering.

  ‘You are cold, Mrs Moffatt? Perhaps you should go inside.’

  ‘I am not cold. What was it you heard?’

  ‘It is really a beautiful evening, quite warm. Yet see how bright the stars are. I think our stars are the brightest in the world. We have a saying that we are nearest to heaven. One could believe on such a night as this.’

  ‘What was it you heard that happened at my house, Mr Mojedaji? People distort and exaggerate.’

  ‘That is true. Still, it is never safe to give these young Afghans whisky. They are not used to it. Little wonder they turn pugnacious. When sober their fault is perhaps the very opposite; then they are too humble.’

  He took a gold cigarette case out of his pocket, snapped it open, and offered it. She shook her head. He took one himself and lit it with a lighter, itself of gold.

  ‘You will pardon me if I take a very serious view of this, Mrs Moffatt. You see, Wahab in a way represents his country. He is young, eager, educated, patriotic. It may not be too fanciful to say that if he fails, Afghanistan fails too. So I am very anxious to find out the truth about this incident. According to your husband’s version, Wahab grossly insulted Miss Larsen, an American. I have not yet heard Wahab’s. But we all have a high regard for you, Mrs Moffatt. We know you are completely without prejudice against us, and I believe you have shown friendship for Wahab personally. If you confirm what your husband has said, I shall accept it, without further question.’