JEAN HAD to be on duty at the hospital early next morning. She got up and had her shower while he was still in bed. She prattled happily to Saidee, saying that Tuan and she were soon returning to Edinburgh where they would get married, but Saidee wasn’t to worry, they would see to it that she got a good job before they left.
In the bedroom Sandilands overheard and groaned. He was in love with Leila, he would remember her till he died, but he would have to marry Jean. He just wasn’t heroic enough or caddish enough to do otherwise.
After Jean was gone he thought of telephoning Leila to say that he was sorry but he wouldn’t be able to go with her to Government House. As far as he knew he hadn’t been included in the invitation. His presence might be resented, especially if, as Leila suspected, the appointment was really with His Highness and not with his secretary.
He had the telephone in his hand to make the call but put it down again. There were the students to consider. If his testimony could help them he ought to be prepared to give it. What he should do, therefore, was accompany her to Government House and then, whether or not their mission succeeded, let her know, as discreetly as he could, that their relationship was ended. He owed it to Jean but also, in greater measure, to Leila herself, who might well become an important person in her country, helping to bring about a democracy of sorts. Involvement with a foreigner like himself could be a handicap to her. Savu Town being a small place it was probable they would see each other again but only from a distance, and in any case were not Jean and he going to resign soon and return home to Edinburgh?
These were his thoughts as he shaved that morning, gazing into the mirror. Those were his eyes staring at him, but he did not trust them. They were assuring him that it would be easy enough to give up Leila, for wouldn’t he at the same time be giving up the probability of grievous trouble for himself? They were lying, those eyes. He would give her up but it would be the hardest and most painful thing he had ever done. When he was an old man, with grown-up grandchildren, he would remember it with anguish.
As he got dressed, jacket, trousers, and tie, and as he drove into town, he kept telling himself that he had made the right decision.
The Chinese girl looked up from her desk and smiled at him. Was her smile different from those she had given him yesterday? Did it show a more intimate interest in him? Had her employer spoken of him in affectionate terms?
The moment he saw Leila joy vanquished all doubts and scruples. Jean was forgotten. It was like the end of a race, with his boat first past the last buoy. There was the same transcendent sense of triumph, of white sails, blue sky, sunlit sea, and rainbow spray. Her sari was blue as the sky. Her earrings were blobs of white coral. Her teeth were white as shells.
‘You’re early,’ she said.
It was as if she had said, ‘I love you.’
He replied, ‘I didn’t want to be late,’ but what he was really saying was that he loved her.
Was the sari to impress His Highness?
One of her shoulders was fully exposed. It seemed a shade or two darker than he had remembered.
This was strange, this was abominable. He loved her, he wanted her, he needed her, and yet here he was ready to find fault with her. Was there something wrong with him, or did all lovers behave like this?
She picked up a black briefcase from the desk. He took it from her. Their hands touched. They smiled at each other. They were giving promises, the kind that could not be spoken, the kind that he had never given to Jean Hislop.
Going down the stairs he was aware of the stink from the drains, in spite of his companion’s perfume. Why had he not noticed it on his way up?
Jean would have cried, ‘My God, what a guff!’ and held her nose.
Leila might have been walking through a garden of roses.
‘Do you never think of moving to the New Town?’ he asked.
That was where other lawyers had their offices.
‘My clients couldn’t afford a lawyer who had an office in the New Town.’
Her father’s surgery was in the Old Town; his patients too were poor.
Sandilands’ own sympathy for the poor had always been theoretical and distant. He sent cheques to charities.
They walked along the crowded narrow street to where her car was parked. Almost everyone they passed greeted her warmly. This was a popularity that Sandilands was sure she had deserved but somehow it made him uneasy.
‘Have you ever met His Highness?’ he asked.
‘Once.’
‘At the palace?’
‘At the British Residency.’
‘Oh.’
They were then at her car, a white Saab.
‘Why don’t we walk?’ she asked. ‘It’s not far and we’ve got plenty of time.’
‘All right.’
But he wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or embarrassed when she took his arm. The way to Government House lay through wide streets with not many people in them and those people were professional men not likely to gawk but it was still an ordeal – no, that was ridiculous, how could it be an ordeal to be seen in public arm-in-arm with the woman he loved?
Leila looked happy and carefree.
He despised himself. He was a worthless, humourless, treacherous, hypocritical bugger: how could admirable women like Jean and Leila love him? His only distinction was that he could play golf well, but what did that amount to? The ability to hit a small ball further and straighter than most other men. He was also competent and bold in sailing a small boat, but there were members of the Yacht Club more competent and bolder, and some of them were boozers and lechers.
Government House was a magnificent building, mostly of marble. A city with a population of millions would have been proud of it. For a country with fewer than half a million citizens it was pretentious and grandiose, but nonetheless impressive, with its enormous air-conditioned entrance hall that contained several fountains and real trees, its marble staircase, and its many sparkling chandeliers.
There were armed guards, in red-and-white uniforms and tall turbans. Even so they looked small. Leila was inches taller.
The chief receptionist, to whom they had to report, was dressed in morning coat and striped trousers, as if for a wedding. He was very deferential to Leila, but seemed upset by Sandilands’ presence. It indicated that the meeting was indeed with His Highness and Sandilands had not been invited.
A servant was summoned to conduct them to Room 138.
‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ said Sandilands, as he and Leila went up the grand staircase.
‘But you’ll stay with me, Andrew.’
‘Of course.’
But how could he if half a dozen of those turbaned midgets were ordered to throw him out?
Upstairs Leila stopped at a large imposing door, of mahogany, brass, and leather, evidently the entrance to an important chamber. ‘This is where the National Council meets,’ she said, scornfully, and pushed it open.
Sandilands followed her in and was astonished, although he had heard that this room was one of the wonders of Savu. He was reminded of the interior of the Taj Mahal; the walls here, too, glittered with semi-precious stones. It was indeed more like a tomb than a debating chamber. No voices would ever be raised here in angry debate. There was a chair like a throne, higher than all the others. It was cushioned in royal purple, the others in red. A large portrait of His Highness in resplendent military uniform – where had he got all those medals? – looked down, like a god.
Leila’s eyes were glittering too.
‘This is where our Parliament will meet one day,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it a bit grandiose?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a show-place. Can you imagine any serious debates taking place here?’
‘Yes, I can: when we have an elected Parliament.’
That was to say, when pigs could fly.
‘A Parliament, properly elected, represents the people,’ she said. ‘It is right therefore that it should conduct its business in appropriate surroundings.’
It was like a bit out of a political speech, pompous and not very convincing.
This was a Leila he had not seen before. He should have known that she existed. He got a glimpse of her as she would be in, say, ten years’ time: dominating, self-righteous, ruthless, always on the side of what was right.
She saw the dismay on his face. Smiling, she patted his cheek. ‘Don’t forget I’m also a good cook.’
So she was able so easily to read his mind. She had more humour than he. She could laugh at herself. All his life he had found that difficult. What had his mother once said to him? ‘You’re getting more like your grandfather every day.’
They went out into the corridor where the servant was waiting glumly. He led them along what seemed half a mile of corridor that got more and more narrow, into a part of the building, remote and silent.
They came to Room 138. The servant knocked and entered. They followed. It was a small room but expensively furnished. There was no bed but a couch that could have been used as one.
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.