IN THE staffroom the conversation was about the proposed elections, but only Mr Srinavasan was enthusiastic. Savu, he announced, would be the smallest democracy in the world, while his own country was the largest. Sandilands did not have the heart to remind him that the world’s largest democracy had the world’s worst corruption, poverty, and violence. Mr Srinavasan was now saying that it would be a matter for congratulation when Savu had its own Parliament, provided, of course, it did not too officiously reduce the salaries of expatriates or get rid of these altogether. It was true that those salaries were the most generous in all Asia, but surely that was something the country should be proud of, since it meant that it was able to call upon the services of the most qualified and efficient people. ‘Such as ourselves, dear colleagues,’ he said, beaming round at them all, without a trace of irony.
Baker, the Australian, rubbed his hands together. He would not mind being kicked out, he said, if he was laden with bags of gold.
‘You’re all being ridiculous,’ said Miss Leithbridge. ‘There will be no Parliament to speak of. His Highness knows what he’s doing. He knows the people are behind him.’
There were nods of agreement. Their servants, they said, assured them that very few supported the People’s Party. There were large crowds at their meetings but most people went out of curiosity and also, especially in the case of the men, to see Dr Abad’s daughter, the beautiful Mrs Azaharri.
‘Beautiful!’ cried Miss Leithbridge. ‘Shameless, if you ask me. That naked midriff!’
Mr Srinavasan wagged his finger. ‘You are being naughty again, dear lady. Are Indian ladies shameless?’
‘A sari is a traditional Indian dress, Mr Srinavasan, and therefore quite proper when worn by Indian ladies. Mrs Azaharri is not Indian. She has no right to wear a sari. She does it because she is conceited as well as shameless.’
Sandilands had to say something. ‘A sari is a beautiful garment. That is why Indian ladies wear it. That is why Mrs Azaharri wears it.’
‘Well spoken, Mr Sandilands,’ said Mr Srinavasan. ‘I would be obliged, however, if this subject was closed. Please let us discuss arrangements for the forthcoming examinations.’
In the classroom block the students were excited and gleeful. Girls, usually so demure, danced and shouted in the corridors. Everywhere students were shaking hands with each other. It was as if the elections had been held and victory won. Sandilands was amused to see Salim, the spy, as triumphant as the rest.
He noticed Chia and Lo by themselves in an empty classroom, talking earnestly. When he went in they stood up, respectful but wary.
‘Well, so far so good,’ he said.
They smiled and at the same time frowned.
‘I mean, elections are fine but they’re only one step forward. There’s a long road ahead of you.’
‘We are patient,’ said Lo.
‘If you lose will you still be patient?’
‘If the elections are free and fair,’ said Chia, ‘we shall not lose.’
Sandilands remembered that when the elections took place, if they ever did, Chia and Lo might be in exile in the interior, far removed from the centre of things. They would be among ex-headhunters, whose grandchildren were their pupils. It was amusing to imagine these dedicated young Chinese haranguing, in not very persuasive Malay, antediluvian old men about the advantages of democracy, and going from longhouse to longhouse canvassing for votes, with shrunken heads grinning down at them.
‘Well, good luck anyway,’ he said.
‘We do not need luck,’ said Chia, ‘because we have justice and right on our side.’
‘Still, a little luck is always useful.’
He would need more than a little himself.