The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 15

I picked up Anne Kidd that night around 8:30 after bribing William five shillings to drive for me. She lived in a so-so apartment near the school where she taught. Two other Peace Corps girls shared the place with her. The furniture was nothing special, but they had decorated the living room with bits and pieces of carved calabashes, native statuary, some Albertian-woven cloth, and a few good pieces of brass work. It looked fine — like a cross between Barkandu and Grand Rapids.

She kissed me lightly on the cheek in front of her roommates, who were from the West Coast. One was from Los Angeles, the other from Berkeley. The one from Berkeley had a merry look about her and I put her down in mental reserve for Shartelle should the need arise. The one from Los Angeles came out of the mold that they should have broken before the eighty-four millionth copy was run off. Not plain, but not pretty. Not gay, but not sad. She seemed to be pouting a bit because Anne was going out with a fellow.

I helped Anne into the back seat of the car. “William, this is Miss Kidd,” I said.

“Hello, William.”

“Madam,” William said and gave her a big grin and threw an appreciative look at me. In town one day and already a date. His estimation of me was soaring.

“Where we go, Mastah?” William asked.

I turned to Anne. “Is there a nice, quiet air-conditioned bar in Ubondo?”

“Sure,” she said. “One is in the Cocoa Marketing building. They keep it around sixty-five degrees, I think.”

“Fine. Cocoa Marketing building.”

I held her hand as William drove the car though the ill- lighted streets. The petty traders were still looking for a final sale, and their stands were illuminated with pressure lamps that gave off yellowish-orange flickering lights.

“How’re your teeth?” I asked.

“Wonderful,” she said. “He just had to clean them. See?” She smiled and showed them all. They were white and very straight.

“Are you thinking about them much?”

“Not as much as I am about you.”

“Good clean thoughts?”

“Nope. Some are nice and dirty. I think I had an orgasm this afternoon, just thinking about you.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Not with that kind; I just started thinking and thinking and the first thing I knew I wanted to be with you and then it happened; or something did. Whatever happened, I liked it. I like thinking about you.”

I kissed her then in the back seat of the Humber driving through the streets of Ubondo. It was a long, deep kiss and we both were a little excited when we came up for air. William kept his eyes straight ahead.

We drove into the parking lot of the Cocoa Marketing building and took a slow elevator up to the third floor. The place was called the Sahara South and it was leased by a Lebanese gambler who — Anne told me — served the second-best dinner in town. I told her I’d take her only to where they served the best dinner and she said that it wasn’t air-conditioned. I told her we would sit and sweat and eat well.

It wasn’t cool in the Sahara South; it was plain cold. As far as I could see it was just another dimly-lighted cocktail lounge with a restaurant attached and a bar. We sat at the bar.

“You come here often?” I asked her.

“I can’t afford it on $82.50 a month. Don’t forget I’m living on that plus my supply of motivation, dedication and commitment.”

“I’ll buy then,” I said.

We ordered gin and tonic. Anne shivered slightly in her white cotton dress. It had dark blue or black piping on it here and there and looked what I suppose is still called smart. She knew how to wear clothes.

“You didn’t buy that dress on $82.50 a month,” I said.

“You like it?”

“Very much.”

“That’s daddy’s contribution to the Peace Corps — keeping me well-dressed. He was against the whole idea in the first place.”

“You joining up?”

“No. The Peace Corps.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he wasn’t against the idea of helping. He just thought Americans should be paid more. He couldn’t see sending them all over the world for what he calls ‘pissant pay.’ He’s funny. He said if the people were needed, America ought to hire real pros — teachers, doctors, carpenters, bricklayers — what have you — and hire them at the going scale and send them out to do what he said those kids will only make a stab at. I think I got my structure a little twisted there.”

“I follow you,” I said.

“When the Peace Corps did as well as it did, he wouldn’t change his mind. He said if they want to be martyrs, it’s probably good for them. But we ought to have the other thing — the pro corps, he calls it — going, too. He kept talking to the AID people in Washington about it, but it never got anywhere.”

“What’s he do? Maybe you told me, but I’ve forgotten.”

She took a sip of her drink. “That’s cold. He does something with shopping centers. Builds them, I think. I asked him once and he said it was too complicated; that sometimes he didn’t understand it himself. It’s all something to do with selling land and then leasing it back. He just says he deals in land as quickly as he can because they’re not making it any more.”

We listened to the piped-in music for a while and watched the people. About half were Albertians, some dressed in robes, some in European-styled clothes. The rest were white or tan or pink or olive. There were the businessmen, the British, the car dealers, the insurance salesmen, and the boys just passing through Africa on hopes of turning a quick dollar. A tall young man with a surfer’s haircut came into the bar and looked around. He smiled when he saw Anne and came over.

“Hello, Anne,” he said.

She introduced him as Jack Woodring, head of the United States Information Service in Ubondo. I offered to buy him a drink and he accepted.

“I heard you were coming up,” he said. “They called from the Consulate yesterday — or maybe it was today. Drop by anytime. After 2 P.M., the office is officially off duty and I have a refrigerator. It usually has a pitcher of martinis.”

“We’ll do that,” I said.

“How goes the Peace Corps?”

“Fine,” she said. “How’s Betty?”

He shook his head. “She came down with something today and I had to go to this thing at Karl’s by myself. Those boys are a little far out.”

Anne turned to me. “Karl Haunhorst is a German who’s gone native and specializes in Albertian art and culture. He gives a soirée once in a while. I went to one about four months ago.”

“I’m the walking-talking example of U.S. culture in Ubondo, so I have to go,” Woodring said. “That reminds me, I’m supposed to lodge an official complaint with you.”

“Lodge away.”

“Kramer sent me a rocket asking if you couldn’t get the programming changed on the TV station.”

“What’s that got to do with Pete?”

“He’s the official representative of DDT and DDT got the Western Region the second commercial television station in all of Africa. Or is it the third?”

“Second, I think.”

“You mean you brought ‘My Little Margie’ to Albertia?”

“Not me — Duffy. He found a European syndicate that put up half the money to build the station.”

“They’ve only got seventy-five sets in the whole damned country,” Anne said.

“They’re improving; there used to be only thirty-five.”

“I don’t get as excited about it as they do down in Barkandu,” Woodring said. “Kramer’s worried about the violence. I just worry over getting a travelogue about the Grand Canyon shown on what might be called prime time, if you stretched a point. But Kramer said couldn’t something be done about the programming. For instance, on Monday there’s ‘Highway Patrol,’ ‘The Great Gildersleeve,’ ‘Richard Diamond,’ and ‘Meet McGraw.’ On Tuesday, there’s ‘Father Knows Best,’ ‘The Man Called X,’ ‘Dragnet,’ and ‘The Lone Ranger.’ On Wednesday, there’s—”

“Duffy just bought them a package deal,” I interrupted. “All the crap. Maybe next year will be better.”

“They’ve ordered two thousand transistor sets, I hear,” Woodring said.

“I wonder who’ll repair them when they break down.”

“I refuse to let it bother me,” he said. “In another year or so they’ll develop local programming and then it might serve some useful purpose. Although, damn it, I find myself leaving Wednesday nights free so I can watch ‘Gunsmoke.’”

“It’s on tonight,” Anne said.

“You’re right. I’ve got to go.” He turned to me. “I’ll tell Kramer I lodged the complaint with the proper authority.”

“I’ll carry it through to London.”

“Be sure to drop by with your partner soon and we’ll have a few. They told me his name, but I’ve forgotten it.”

“Shartelle.”

“Right.” He spread his hands in a free and open gesture. “Drop by any time. If they’re throwing rocks at us, just duck.”

“We’ll do it,” I said and we shook hands. He said goodbye to Anne and left.

“He’s a nice boy,” she said. “They like him here.”

“Who?”

“Funny. Both the British and the Albertians. He makes speeches all over the region, shows motion pictures, and when something nasty happens in the U.S., he calls a briefing session for the press.”

“That ought to keep him hopping,” I said.

“What’s Mr. Shartelle like?”

I shook my head. “It has to be seen to be believed. Would you like to?”

She smiled quickly. “Sure. I want to see where you live.”

I paid for the drinks and we took the elevator down to the parking lot where I found William asleep. “We’ll go home and you can go to bed there,” I told him.

“No drive Madam home?” he asked.

“I’ll drive her home. A growing boy like you needs his rest.”

“Sah!” he said and gave me the wide grin.

William turned into the driveway of the broad-eaved house and parked the car in front of the porch. He handed me the keys, said good night, and moved off towards his quarters.

I helped Anne out of the car. As we walked around it, we could hear Shartelle’s voice: He was doing imitations and he had them down pat:

“You goin’ out after Miss Kitty, Mr. Dillon?” That was Chester Proudfoot.

“Reckon I am, Chester. Those Greeley boys sometimes turn right mean.” That was Marshal Matt Dillon.

“Gosh, Mr. Dillon, I like Miss Kitty and all, but she ain’t nothin’ but a whore lady.”

“That’s right, Chester, but she’s the only whore lady in town.”

I knocked on the folded-back door. “Marshal Dillon?” I said.

Shartelle was stretched out on the couch, a pillow tucked under his head. The television set was flickering in the corner of the room, the sound turned off. He swung his feet to the floor and rose.

“Hello there, Pete — ma’am,” he said. “I was too busy doing all the parts and didn’t hear you drive up.”

“Anne, this is Clint Shartelle. Anne Kidd.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Anne,” Shartelle said, making his slight but courtly bow.

He walked over to the television set and turned it off. “I’m certainly glad you folks decided to drop by,” he said. “I’ve just watched The Halls of Ivy,” ‘My Little Margie,’ and I was going right good on ‘Gunsmoke.’”

Anne took one of the chairs and I sat on the couch.

“You often do that?” she asked.

“You mean all the parts?”

“Yes.”

Shartelle smiled down at her. “For a lonely man of my years, Miss Anne, it’s a harmless enough pastime. And I can make the stories come out the way I want.”

“He’s forty-three,” I said.

“Well, I was just fixing to have a drink,” Shartelle said. “What you care for, Miss Anne?”

“Gin and tonic,” she said.

“You need any help?” I asked.

“No. Before I sent old Samuel off to bed, I got him to show me where everything was kept. Just sit there and mind your young lady, boy.”

Shartelle came back with three drinks and sat on the couch. His eyes roamed over Anne and he turned to me and said: “Pete, you said you had met an attractive young lady down there at the beach at Barkandu. You didn’t mention the fact that you had met the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“My error,” I said.

“Miss Anne, Pete tells me you’re with the Peace Corps.”

“Yes.”

And then Shartelle turned it on and started her talking about the Peace Corps and her impressions of Albertia, her likes and dislikes, what she thought could be done to improve it, and what she thought its future would be. He was attentive, interested, and intelligent. Whenever she started to falter or hesitate, he gave her a gentle, verbal nudge and she continued.

Then Anne stopped talking and looked at him for a moment. “Mr. Shartelle, you’ve pumped me. I thought I was good at getting people to talk about themselves — to open up — but I see I could use a few lessons.”

Shartelle laughed and rose, gave his seersucker vest a tug, and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. He picked up our glasses and moved to the dining table where the liquor was. “Miss Anne, you are not only the prettiest young lady I’ve ever seen, but also one of the most intelligent. And if old Pete here weren’t such a good buddy, I just might squire you around myself.”

He handed us the fresh drinks. Anne said: “Mr. Shartelle—”

“You just call me Clint, Miss Anne.”

“Just what makes you think you and Pete can win this election for Chief Akomolo?”

Shartelle held up a hand. “No — no, you don’t, sweet and pretty as you are. You’re not going to get me started. Old Pete here’s got to get up tomorrow and write us a the speech and if you turned those big brown eyes of yours on me, and let that pretty little mouth drop open just a bit, just like you were tasting and savoring every word I said, why I’d be sitting here talking ’til daybreak. Two expert listeners in one house, honey, is plenty. You listen to Pete, here, if you want to put your listening cap on. Now there’s a boy who needs some listening.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Well, Pete, if you insist, I will start,” he said.

“No — no, it’s not really necessary. I could do with some listening.”

“What’s a the speech?” Anne asked.

“You tell her, Pete.”

“A the speech — you can pronounce it ‘thee’ or ‘thuh’, it doesn’t matter — is simply the major basic speech of a campaign. It sets the mood, the tempo, the tone. The candidate repeats it or parts of it with variations, throughout the campaign. But it is the speech. All candidates have one, and after they use it a few times, it becomes part of their personality. It fits them — because it’s been tailored for them. They have to have it because if you make five to ten speeches a day, you can’t have something new to say each time.”

“And you’re going to write this?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How do you know what to say?”

“That’s Pete’s specialty, Miss Anne. It’s a gift — like being able to play a piano by ear. Pete, I figure, hears the speech as he writes it. But at the same time, he’s plotting its course, remembering how the candidate talks, what the major points are, when the peroration begins, and how to end it so that they still want more. Especially how to end it — right, Pete?”

“It’s a gift. Like playing a piano by ear. In a whorehouse.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Anne said.

We talked a little more. Shartelle told Anne some of the latest political gossip from America and said he thought he’d met her daddy once at a national convention. After the drinks were finished, he rose.

“It’s been a pure pleasure, Miss Anne, but I think I’ll turn in. I’ve had a long day. I wouldn’t leave now, unless I knew I could count upon the pleasure of your presence at breakfast.” He bowed his slight, courtly bow and left as we said good night.

“You’re officially invited,” I said.

She laughed and shook her head slightly. “I’ve never heard it put so politely.”

“Then you’ll stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

“God, yes.”

“It will be all right, won’t it?”

“It will be fine.”

I called Silex to lock up and we went out the front door and down the side of the house to the entrance that led to my room. We went to bed and made love for a long, sweet time. When I awoke early in the morning she was still there and I could never recall a day that had held such promise.