The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 12

We met them all — from the Minister of Home Affairs to the Premier’s assistant administrative aide. There were forty of them in the big room with the long table, take away or add a couple, and they moved around in a brilliant display of best-day robes and a babble of shrill conversation, not much of which Shartelle and I could get. We were the only whites in the room.

Chief Akomolo welcomed us warmly. “After this is over, I was hoping that we could get together. Can you stay?” We told him we could. He instructed Jimmy Jenaro to keep us in tow. Jimmy said: “Just stand still. They’ll all drift by before we sit down to chop.”

Each of the forty-odd men in the room made his way to the end of the room where the Ile sat on a foot-high dais in a chair fashioned from some kind of animal horn. When each got there he prostrated himself before the Ile, murmured a few words, and moved away. The Ile sipped on a bottle of orange squash and smiled blandly at the gathering. He looked a little bored.

They passed then — those who had not yet done so — to Chief Akomolo, shook hands, made their greetings, and then moved on to the drinks table. A number of stewards squirmed through the crowd bearing bottles of Ballantine’s Scotch which they pressed on anyone who would hold out his hand. I noticed that a few of the guests tucked a bottle or so away in the folds of their robes.

“You want a drink?” Jenaro asked.

“Scotch and water, if you can get it without trouble,” Shartelle said. I asked for the same. Jenaro stopped a passing waiter and told him to bring us three Scotches with water. He brought back three fifths and three glasses of water. Jenaro sighed, put two bottles down by a baseboard, uncapped one and poured us all a drink.

“For someone who never touches the stuff, the Leader runs up a hell of a monthly booze bill,” he said. “But it’s what they expect — the squeeze, the dash, the tip, the bribe. They all expect it and feel insulted if they don’t get it.”

First we met the Minister of Agriculture, and then the Minister of Public Works, and then the Minister of Transport, followed by the Minister of Trade and Commerce, who came just before the Minister of Internal Affairs and Labor, and after the Minister of Health. They all had a rough jest for Jenaro and a kind word of greeting for Shartelle and me. They were polite, a little shy perhaps, or maybe it was just suspicion. They moved on to talk among themselves.

“Some of them run their Ministries, some don’t,” Jenaro said in a low voice. “All of us — even I — depend on our Permanent Secretaries who are, with just a couple of exceptions, all British. They’re damned good, too, but after independence, they’ll be on their way out. Some immediately — some in a couple of months — a few longer. It’s the Albertization process.”

Some of the lesser chiefs and notables came by to be introduced. Shartelle was gracious and charming. I was warmly polite. These were the hangers-on, the toadies, the go-fors who surround any political activity and sometimes, surprisingly enough, prove useful. They’ll do anything at anytime for anyone in power. In the States, they would be hanging around the county courthouse.

“What happens when the British leave?” Shartelle asked.

“They’re training some good chaps to take their places, and they’re training them well. Of course, the British will get their lumpers.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a lump sum compensation for having their careers interrupted.” Jenaro paused to make a couple of more introductions. “For instance, suppose you were a bright young guy of twenty or twenty-one or twenty-two, just out of service after World War II with a fair education, and you hoped to come to Albertia in the colonial service. You go into a ministry in a rather low position, or for bush as assistant district officer, and you stick with it. You work yourself up by the time you’re thirty-five or thirty-six or thirty-seven to Under-Permanent Secretary or Assistant Permanent Secretary — and then you have the rug yanked out from under you. Or perhaps you’re forty or forty-five or fifty or older — but not old enough for full retirement. So what do you do, go back to London and sign up at the Labour Exchange?”

“Sounds like a reduction-in-force,” I said.

“Something like that. So we made a deal with them. They get out and depending upon their years of service, they get a lump sum payment. If a guy has been here for say, fifteen years, he gets about three-thousand quid. That’s the lump. But in addition to that he gets about a thousand quid a year for the rest of his life. No strings attached.”

“You wanted them out bad, didn’t you?” Shartelle said.

Jenaro nodded. “Bad enough. And, of course, they can take their lumpers now and get the hell out — and a lot of them are. But a lot more of them are staying for as long as they can. Funny, but I could never see the Amis staying under similar circumstances.”

“If we ever dreamed we weren’t desperately wanted and liked and loved by all, we’d be on the first plane out,” I said.

Jenaro introduced us to a straggler, an old man who frowned at us, scolded Jenaro in the tribal dialect, and then hurried off to see the Ile. “God knows who invited him,” Jenaro said. “Probably the Leader.”

The tall broad Albertian who had been with Chief Akomolo at Duffy’s office luncheon in London came through the door. In London, he had worn a suit. In Albertia, he wore his robes and he moved on sandaled feet across the room with grace and dignity and a peculiar aura of power. He went immediately to the Ile and the little man’s round face beamed as the younger man knelt before him in — my romantic notions told me — respect, not awe, as a returning, successful Roland would kneel to Charlemagne.

Shartelle poked me in the ribs. “There’s old Bristol Cream. My, he cuts a fine figure in those white flowing robes and that saucy little cap perched up on that goodlooking head.”

After exchanging a few words with the Ile, the big man made his way to Chief Akomolo. The same look of genuine pleasure appeared on the Chief’s face as the pair shook hands. He gestured towards us and the man in the white robes turned and moved our way.

“His last name’s Dekko, in case you forgot,” Shartelle said.

“Chief Dekko, call him,” Jimmy Jenaro said.

“Mr. Shartelle, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again.” He put his big hand out and Shartelle took it.

“I’ve been looking forward to it, Chief Dekko.”

“Really?” the big man said. “Why?”

It would have stopped some people momentarily, I guess. Me, for example. Even Duffy. Not Shartelle. “Because I wanted to get to know you better, and we didn’t get much of a chance to talk in London.”

“That’s true. Why don’t we sit together at chop?”

“I’d be happy to, sir,” Shartelle said.

“And Mr. Upshaw, is it not?” He put out his hand and I took it.

“Chief Dekko,” I said.

“Hello, Jimmy,” he said to Jenaro. “I am very angry with you.”

“Why?”

“You told me you’d teach me to play golf — that was last month. You haven’t called, you haven’t stopped by.”

“You’ve been in London.”

“For a week — it’s been a month. You must keep your promises.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Nine — make it nine-thirty.”

“Do not forget, Jimmy. It is good to see you gentlemen. I have anticipated this meeting. Now I must greet some others, but Mr. Shartelle, you and Mr. Upshaw must sit with me at table.”

“That’s kind of you,” Shartelle said.

“I will be back.”

We watched him move among the men in the room, a foot taller than most, a hundred pounds heavier than some. A big, tough, young man with all the natural poise and grace of a half-tamed panther.

Jenaro watched him and shook his head. “Well, that’s the boy.”

Shartelle watched him and nodded his head. “He’s got the smiles. I’d also say he had the inside track.”

“He does indeed,” Jenaro said. “When the Leader goes to the center, Dekko becomes Premier of the Western Region.”

“Young,” I said.

“Thirty-one,” Jenaro replied. “He’s got it all — brains, looks, ability, and the most naïve, trusting manner that you could hope for.”

“Must go over real nice with the folks,” Shartelle said. “He could move amongst them.”

“Could and does. Never forgets a name, never forgets a face. That golf thing. He just mentioned once that he’d like to get more exercise and I suggested that he learn golf. I offered to teach him — some time. But he remembered and now you’d think I didn’t come through with the Buick dealership.”

“I’d say that boy will do all right in politics,” Shartelle murmured. “Unless, of course, the Colts are looking for a new fullback.”

“Soccer’s his game,” Jenaro said. “And cricket.”

“Might even turn him into a roll-out halfback if he’s got the speed,” I said.

“Might,” Shartelle agreed.

Chief Akomolo made his way to the head of the long table that had five places at its T. He picked up a knife and rapped sharply on his bottle of squash. The babble died and he looked at the dais where the Ile sat smiling benignly. The Ile looked around the room and then nodded his head. Jenaro caught Shartelle and me by the arm. “This is a political meeting, so the Leader, Dekko and Diokadu and I sit at the head table. You guys sit across from each other in the next seats down.”

Chief Dekko was gesturing to Shartelle and pointing to the seat that Jenaro had mentioned. We sat down, Dekko on Chief Akomolo’s right, Dr. Diokadu on his left, Jenaro next to Dekko.

After we were seated, one of the white-clad men who had borne the kola nuts for the Ile brought in a table that fitted cleverly across the arms of the throne of horns. Another brought in a plate of what, from where I sat, looked like chicken and goop. The old man with the gold staff thumped his way over from a corner, took a dirty-looking spoon out of his pocket, and dipped into the food. He shoveled the spoonful into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and thumped the staff three times. It was time to eat.

In my time I have eaten in army mess halls with apes who thought that Emily Post was the name of a hooker, and I’ve been the prison route, eating at the mess with no-forehead felons on either side. I have dined at smokers with members of the American Legion who catapulted butter from the blades of knives. And I have sat down to break bread with the rest of the bums and winos at the Harbor Lights and Last Hope Havens. Nothing bothered me. I’m not too particular. But the dinner at Chief Akomolo’s was a memorable experience.

The stewards brought the food — an entire broiled or roasted chicken for every man. There were forks and knives to eat them with but they were largely ignored. Plates of hot curry were passed down the table, each man scooping off a double handful or so — with his hand. I took a handful and then looked around for the napkins. There weren’t any. I used the table cloth like everybody else. I tried this’ curry and the fou-fou and the palm wine and the French wine that was passed from the head table down. Anyone thirsty took a drink from the bottle and the bottles kept coming. When a chicken was done with, the bones were thrown over the shoulder — just like Charles Laughton in The Private Life of Henry VIII. I looked around for some Great Danes. There weren’t any.

Then came the plates of sardines fresh from the can — apparently still a lingering delicacy flavored by British rule. There were a couple of cans to the diner. I tore off a leg of chicken, gnawed it, and tossed the bone over my shoulder. Nobody noticed. Nobody minded. I tried the curry again and it was no worse than Border chili. I sampled a lump of gray paste and it reminded me of the tamales in Denver, only twice as hot. The bottles of wine had gone around until now everyone had two or three sitting before him — partly full. I snatched one, a nice Moselle that I remembered, and gulped it down to chase the burn. The wine wasn’t chilled, but it helped.

I looked at Shartelle as he scooped up three fingers’ worth of curry and popped it into his mouth. His face was streaming with grease and he wiped it off with the back of his hand and then wiped his hands on the table cloth, talking all the while. He winked at me. Jimmy Jenaro saw the wink and grinned.

Chief Akomolo sat at the head of the table, talking first to Dr. Diokadu, who ate sparingly and with a knife and fork, and then to Chief Dekko who looked to be the mightiest trencherman of them all. He put down three chickens and, like Father William, polished them off all but the bones and the beak.

The noise at the table was just below one long shout. Shartelle leaned across to me and said: “Boy, I haven’t been to a feed like this since the last time I was at a Cajun barbecue at the Opelousas yam festival.”

Jimmy Jenaro leaned across the table and said, “This is just a quiet businessman’s fellowship lunch. Wait ’til we have a feast day.” I nodded and kept on chewing and poking more in before I’d swallowed that.

“Do you like our Albertian food, Mr. Shartelle?” Chief Dekko shouted above the shouting.

“Mighty tasty, Chief,” Shartelle said, tore off a piece of chicken breast, sopped up some sauce made of pure Cayenne and water, and popped the morsel into his mouth. “It’s what I call nicely flavored.”

“I thought it might be too hot for you,” Dekko said. “If it is—”

“No, sir,” Shartelle said. “I’d just call it passable warm; spicy you might say,” and the tears of pain glistened in the brave man’s eyes for only a moment.

At the end of the hall the Ile sat in lonely majesty and ate a tropical chocolate bar and drank another bottle of orange squash. He smiled his golden smile and then yawned a couple of times. When he yawned, the eating stopped; lunch was over. It had lasted a little over an hour. There were a few polite belches which were greeted with appreciative grunts from neighbors. The chief steward hurried to take away the tray containing the candy bar wrapper and the bottle of pop. The Ile arose, nodded, and the procession left the way it had come — the herald singing the Ile’s praises, the drummers beating their litany, the long horn squawking its message to the waiting populace.

Everyone sat stone-still at the table as the procession made its way out the door. Nobody looked at the Ile, except Shartelle and me. The Ile looked straight ahead until he got to Chief Akomolo and then said something to him in the dialect, indicating Shartelle and me with a wave of his hand. The Chief nodded but remained mute. The procession passed on, bound for the 1939 LaSalle.

Chief Akomolo leaned towards Shartelle. “The Ile has invited you to attend him at his palace on Wednesday next. I believe it is important that you should go.”

“We would be honored, sir,” Shartelle said.

“Good. Chief Jenaro will call for you.”

Chief Akomolo rose and rapped his squash bottle for attention. The noise subsided, chairs were scraped back, some lighted cigarettes. It was speech time at Rotary after the Thursday lunch, or at the board meeting of the quarterly get-together of vice-presidents, regional directors, and staff of the International Union of Widget Makers. The speeches began. First came Chief Akomolo. He talked gravely, using a minimum of gestures. His eyes sought out the individual faces of his audience and he drove home points to them — sometimes gently pounding a fist into the palm of his hand. He was the chairman of the board, telling of the progress that had been made — but also pointing to the major challenges that lay ahead and must be met, could be met, and would be met. He sat down.

He was followed by Chief Dekko who looked to be the executive vice-president, the comer, the go-a-long-wayer. He looked down at the table and he started talking to it in a deep, low voice. Then he put his hands on his hips and rocked back and forth a few times, looking straight ahead over the heads of his audience to that far distant point, that source of personal strength. He drew from it. It warmed him, and his voice rose and it got almost to a shout — and he had them then and he played with them. He teased them with his voice and his face and with his eyes and the amen corner shouted his praises. And finally the voice rose slowly to the peak again — almost to that shout that never came, and then it dropped, and his head dropped, and he talked to the table once more. A last simple, slowly uttered phrase, and he sat down.

There was quiet, then clapping, then pounding of the table, and cries of approval. The young chief sat there, head bowed, himself overcome by the strength of his belief in what he had said.

Then Dr. Diokadu, the statistician, the bearer of facts, got up and read from the number report. He consulted a ledger as the chairs scraped and shifted, a few more drinks were drunk, coughs were coughed, and cigarettes lighted. Nobody listened carefully and Dr. Diokadu didn’t seem to be interested in the report either. When he sat down there was polite applause which he acknowledged with a sardonic nod.

And finally from the head table, Jimmy Jenaro — the public relations man, the fixer, the hotel-room-getter, the young brash joker who could tell a story well and did — even if it was a bit dirty. He told a few to get started, and they laughed and slapped each other on the back and grinned knowingly into each other’s faces. Then Jimmy got serious and talked gravely and quietly for a few minutes and they nodded their heads in equally grave agreement. Then he left them laughing with a couple of quick ones and they gave him twice as much applause as they gave Dr. Diokadu.

Then each of them got up and gave his appraisal of the situation and how the new moves and proposals would affect his territory. There were the mumblers, the precise and crisp, the ramblers, the droners, the would-be comedians, and those who were too shy to say much of anything.

It was quite a talk session. It lasted two hours and Shartelle and I sat through all of it. It couldn’t have been nicer if someone had spoken in English.