The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 19

To Shartelle, she was always the Widow Claude. Her name was Madame Claude Duquesne and she stood at Major Chuku’s side, welcoming guests as Anne, Shartelle and I arrived for the Friday night party. We had picked up Anne at her apartment earlier where Shartelle had inspected the roommates without displaying much interest, not even in the merry one from Berkeley. We had gone on to the Sahara South for a drink and from there to the Major’s home.

It was a garden party. The Major lived, somewhat beyond his means, I assumed, in a large two-story house with fake beams poking through the stucco exterior. His lawns were as neatly kept as ours and his shrubbery, flowers and plants even better. Japanese lanterns, the special kind they now have that keep mosquitoes away, were strung about the garden. It was a black-tie affair and Shartelle wore his madras dinner jacket with a certain flair, I thought. I wore a white one with a shawl collar and Anne said I looked keen. We arrived after about half the guests were there. The Major, in white dress uniform, stood by a table loaded with iced champagne. Madame Duquesne stood at his left.

When Shartelle saw her as we came around the corner of the house, following the path that led to the garden, he stopped still and stared for a full half-minute. “Petey,” he said in a reverent voice, “that’s the prettiest little old Creole I’ve ever laid eyes on and that takes in New Orleans and Baton Rouge, too.”

“How do you know she’s Creole?” I said.

He looked at me and sniffed. “Boy, us Creoles can spot each other a country mile away.”

“She makes me feel dowdy,” Anne said. “She’s wearing a Balenciaga. I thought I was going to show off with Neiman-Marcus.”

“You’re prettier,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing. Madame Duquesne was a brunette and her hair was cut short. It framed a face that was almost perfectly oval and seemed to have been delicately carved out of new ivory. Her mouth may have been a little wide, but a slightly pouting lower lip looked as if it demanded to be bitten. A straight, barely turned-up nose revealed nostrils that seemed to flare in passion. Her eyes, I rhapsodized, were flashing black promises of a thousand nights of exquisite variations. That was her face — if your eyes ever got above her legs — which were the long, slim kind with knees that seemed faultless, perfectly curving calves, ankles that your hand would fit around so that your thumb and fingers would overlap, and that slight, somehow provocative, curve on the lower shin that a lot of dancers have. Her dress clung to thighs and hips that called for a pat, and just managed to cover a part of her breasts. I kept staring at her breasts, waiting for the dress to slip.

“Heel, Prince,” Anne said.

“No offense, Miss Anne, but that little old girl just makes a man’s mouth water,” Shartelle said. He forgot his manners for once and moved quickly over to Major Chuku.

“Major, I’m Clint Shartelle.”

The Major smiled at him and extended his hand. “Mr. Shartelle, I’m so glad that you could come. Allow me to present Madame Duquesne who is doing me the honor of serving as hostess for my little party. The Major switched to rapid, fluent French and said to Madame Duquesne: “Permit me to introduce M. Clinton Shartelle. He is the American political expert whom I mentioned earlier this evening.”

Madame Duquesne smiled at Shartelle and extended her hand. “I have been looking forward to meeting you, Monsieur.” Her English had a faint accent.

Shartelle gracefully bent his snow-white head over her hand and replied in smooth, liquid French: “Madame, the pleasure must be entirely mine. I now know why I came to Africa. Perhaps you will join me in a glass of champagne later?”

She nodded and smiled again. “I will be looking forward to it.”

The Major had a bleak look about him when he heard Shartelle rattle off his French. He recovered enough to greet Anne warmly and to give me his firm handshake. He introduced Anne to Madame Duquesne, again in French. He was not only a slick article, I decided, he was also a show-off.

“That is a most striking gown, Madame Duquesne,” Anne said as they exchanged handclasps. “Paris, isn’t it?” She also spoke French.

Madame’s eyes roved over Anne’s dress. “Yes — and thank you, my dear. Major Chuku has told me that you are with the American Peace Corps. I admire you for it and I must say that you look lovely tonight.”

There are advantages to having a degree in letters, even from the University of Minnesota. The six months I spent at the University of Quebec as part of my minor in French were finally going to pay off. Once more, the Major made the introduction in French. Madame Duquesne gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave hers a little squeeze back. If I knew Shartelle, it was as close as I would ever get.

“The Major has told me of you, M. Upshaw.” She spoke in French this time. “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Unfortunately, Madame, the Major has not been advertising your existence. I cannot say that I blame him, but I am delighted that you are no longer his secret.” It all came out in French, with a Quebec-North Dakota accent perhaps, but still French.

I moved on to Shartelle and Anne who stood by the table where the white-jacketed stewards served champagne and Scotch and brandy. “What were you doing, taking her pulse?” Anne asked.

“Ain’t she something, Petey? I’m sure glad you’re spoke for, boy, because that leaves the field wide-open for old Clint.”

“Where’d you learn to speak French, Shartelle?”

“Why, New Orleans, boy. I didn’t speak nothing but French till I was six, seven years old. I noticed you and Miss Anne were talking it pretty good. Where you all pick it up?”

“I started in the eighth grade and took it all through high school and college,” Anne said. “Pete picked his up in a Marseille cathouse.”

“University of Quebec,” I said. “It was a special program.”

“Miss Anne, you don’t have to be jealous about old Pete here. I’m going to look after that little old Creole just fine. Ain’t she got the damnedest eyes you ever did see?”

“He didn’t look at her eyes,” Anne said.

I finished my champagne and helped myself to another glass. There seemed to be an endless supply. “If you’re going to move in, Clint, you’re going to have to move the Major out. He seems to have a certain proprietary interest.”

Shartelle took Anne’s glass and got her a fresh drink and one for himself. “Boy, true love will find a way. It always has.”

“You’re gone, huh?”

“I am smitten, I will confess. Ain’t she something, though?”

Anne looked up at Clint and smiled. “She’s nice, Clint. I like her very much even though I’ve just met her.”

“I have an idea we might all be seeing a good deal more of her,” he said and drank his champagne down. He gave his black tie a careful tug. “I think I’m going to move around a bit and talk to some folks.”

“Going to check her out, huh?”

Shartelle grinned. “Well, sir, I just might mention her name in passing.”

We watched him wander through the guests, a tall man with close-cropped white hair who moved with a strange, rough grace. If he saw someone who looked interesting, he would stick out his hand and say: “I’m Clint Shartelle from the United States. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I think half the people here are going to think he’s the real host,” Anne said.

“He likes it. He honestly likes it and he doesn’t know the meaning of a phrase such as ‘his kind of people.’ If they breathe, they’re Shartelle’s kind.”

“He likes you, Pete. And it’s a special kind of liking.”

” I smiled at her. “He’s all right.”

“You almost said something nice.”

“It’s getting easier.”

Jimmy Jenaro suddenly appeared at my elbow and I introduced him to Anne. “Just call me Jimmy,” he said. “Ohio State. Class of ’55.”

“You’ll be able to live that down some day,” Anne said and Jimmy laughed delightedly.

“How do you like the threads, Pete?”

“Nice,” I said. “But they must interfere with your back- swing.”

Jenaro was wearing the Albertian ordona and it looked as if it contained five or six pounds of hand-embroidered gold thread. It was pure white, loosely woven, and hung in gracefully careless folds that must have taken the tailor hours to get just right. On his head, Jenaro wore a blue cap that looked something like a medieval jester’s hat. His eyes were covered by his Miami shades.

I gestured with my head at the party. “The Albertian Army must pay its Majors pretty well, Jimmy.”

Jenaro shook his head. “He’s got so much loot, he can’t count it. His grandmother was the uncrowned queen of the mammy traders. She made a fortune from importing cement. For about ten years, she had the only import license for it. His mother took over then and sent him to the Sorbonne. He finally wound up at Sandhurst. The Army’s given him something to do and an excuse to throw parties.”

“You know him rather well?”

“I know him. We were kids together.”

“You know Madame Duquesne?”

Jenaro grinned. “Not as well as I’d like.”

“Shartelle seems to be taken with her,” I said.

“If I weren’t of the Christian faith, I might try to take another wife,” Jenaro said. “As a Chief, I’m entitled to three, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, I figure with her and Mamma in the same house, I’d have just about all I could take care of. But I don’t think Mamma would stand for it.”

“Where is Mamma?” Anne asked.

“Home with the kids,” Jenaro said. “Where else? Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

Most of the guests had arrived. Approximately half of them were English or European. The rest were Albertians. Jenaro’s failure to bring his wife proved to be the exception. I met — or met again — some of the political leaders who had been at Chief Akomolo’s luncheon. Their wives stood by their sides, dressed in brightly-colored cloth that seemed to be wrapped around them in a series of intricate and symbolic folds. Their head-dressings, usually of matching material, were even more intricately shaped.

Following Jenaro we met what must have passed for the cream of Ubondo society. There was a Supreme Court judge; a trio of lawyers — or solicitors, I suppose; two doctors, one white, one black; an automobile dealer; a Light-Colonel in the Albertian Army; an Albertian Airways pilot; four English Permanent Secretaries of various ministries including William Hardcastle; an Italian contractor; four or five Lebanese businessmen including the gambler who owned the Sahara South; Jack Woodring of the USIS and his wife who wanted to know if I’d heard that the Dodgers had won thirteen straight; two representatives from the British Council, the UK counterpart to USIS, one of whom insisted he was half American; another automobile dealer; four associate professors and instructors from the university; an Army Lieutenant; another young Lieutenant in the Albertian police; two crewcuts from the Peace Corps who didn’t seem bothered by their lack of black ties; a representative of the Ford Foundation who wanted to know if I knew that the Dodgers had won thirteen straight; and a lot of other people whose names I didn’t get, but whose eyes lighted up when they heard that I was Mr. Shartelle’s associate.

We made the circuit, towed by Jenaro, moving to the left, then around, and back to the table where the drinks were being served. Shartelle was standing there, his eyes fixed on Madame Duquesne who was in deep conference with an Albertian whom I took to be the Major’s chief steward.

“‘Soon as she gets the serving straightened out, she’s going to join us,” Shartelle said. “Hello, Jimmy.”

“Clint.”

“How’d the telegrams go?”

“They’re gone.”

“How about our two defectors?”

“Diokadu’s got them lined up. He says they each need a statement outlining their reasons for defecting.”

Shartelle nodded. “Pete?”

“It would be wise. They can’t switch parties quietly. Their value to the opposition would be lost.”

“Can you fix them up with some statements?”

“I’ll do it tonight when I get home.”

“You can pick them up in the morning, Jimmy.”

“Good. By the way, both Dekko and the Leader have gone nuts over their speeches. Dekko says Pete must be a mind- reader. The Leader said his is a highly-polished, powerful document of truth.”

“They’re both right good speeches,” Shartelle said. “Diokadu getting them translated?”

“Right.”

“How about the shorter ones Pete wrote? The ones on the major points?”

“Those, too.”

“Good. When do they change parties?”

“Sunday night,” Jenaro said. “Or afternoon. In plenty of time to make the Monday papers. We settled on a thousand quid each.”

“Treachery is the last refuge of patriots,” Shartelle said.

“Did you make that up?” I asked.

“I think so, boy. Sometimes it just comes out.”

Jenaro took the last sip of his champagne and put the glass down on a table. “I think I’ll make the circuit again. if I pick up anything interesting, I’ll let you know. By the way,” he added, “there’s nothing new on Cheatwood’s death.”

Shartelle nodded. His eyes followed Jenaro. He shook his head slightly. “He’s sure a natural, ain’t he, Pete?”

“He thrives on it.”

“You were talking pure skulduggery,” Anne said. “It makes me homesick.”

“It’s sure the same all over, ain’t it, Miss Anne,” Shartelle said. His eyes sought out Madame Duquesne again. “She’s a widow woman, I understand. Husband was the sole importer of a high-class French brandy and some good wines over in Dahomey before he dropped dead of a heart attack about two years ago. She inherited the license and moved on over here to Albertia. Now that’s just about every man’s dream.”

“What?”

“A rich widow with a liquor store, boy. And French at that.” He shook his head in deep appreciation.

The widow joined us and said that Major Chuku would like us to sit at his table during dinner. We accepted and Shartelle turned it on. This time he was on full make and the onslaught was undeniable. The widow’s defenses began to crumble. Shartelle was witty in English and complimentary in French. He had the widow giggling over the naughty stories he told in Cajun French which he interpreted for us in Cajun English. He made up tales of adventure and conquest, and started Madame Duquesne talking about herself. He listened with deep interest and then got her to agree to join us for drinks at the wide-eaved house after the party was over.

It was a buffet affair and I took advantage of it. There was baked ham glazed with sugared brandy, breast of turkey, and tiny meatballs of pork and veal that swam in rich, brown sauce. There were peas, large and tender, that must have been fresh, a salad of endive and three kinds of lettuce with vinegar and oil dressing that was nothing less than superb. There was cauliflower with a magic cheese sauce and French bread still slightly warm from the oven. There was more, but it had to wait for the second plate that I carefully planned in advance.

“Are you starving?” Anne asked.

“I’ve been starving for ten years,” I said. “For love and food both. I don’t know which has been scarcer.”

“Well, now that you have the love, it looks as if you’re trying to make up for the food. In one night.”

Shartelle was following Madame Duquesne down the line. piling his plate high with everything, and chortling with delight. “Pete, would you just look what this little old French gal did for the Major. She supervised this entire spread. My, it looks tasty!”

“I notice that you’re not exactly on a hunger strike,” I told Anne.

“You bet,” she said happily. “When I get a chance to get off that Koolaid and peanut butter kick, I take it.”

The Major was waiting for us at one of the round tables that were placed about the lawn. They were covered with fresh white linen. Ice buckets holding several bottles of wine were placed at each table and by them stood white-jacketed stewards.

The Major started to announce the seating pattern which would have had Madame Duquesne on his right and Anne on his left. Shartelle pretended not to understand his French and sat on the Major’s right with Madame Duquesne next to him. I let Anne sit next to the Major as a consolation prize. A steward poured the wine, which the Major tasted and approved with an airy wave of his hand.

I ate. I ate the ham and the turkey and the little meatballs swimming in the rich, brown sauce. I ate all the peas and the salad and half a loaf of French bread. I finished up with the cauliflower and then asked Anne if I could get her some more of anything.

“I would like some more salad,” she said sweetly and I thanked her with my big gray eyes. Back at the feeding trough, I speared some fish that I had overlooked before, some more meatballs, ham, turkey and some salad for Anne. This time I tried the wine with the meal and found it to be surprisingly good. I complimented the Major.

“It is all Madame Duquesne’s doing,” he said. “A bachelor such as I has no knowledge of arranging such a wonderful party. She was kind enough to rescue me.”

Dessert was a light French pastry which we washed down with a demitasse of coffee and some brandy which I supposed was the brand that the Widow Claude held the license to import. It was excellent.

Shartelle refused a cigar from the Major and got one of his own black, twisty ones going. The Widow Claude’s hand kept accidentally touching Shartelle’s arm.

“How goes the politics, Mr. Shartelle?” the Major asked.

Shartelle puffed on his black cigar and blew some smoke up in the air. “About like any place else, I’d say, Major. There are some folks who want to get in, and there are some folks who want to keep them out so that they can get in themselves.”

“It was unfortunate what happened to Cheatwood.”

“Yes, wasn’t it? In our driveway, too.”

“There is something that I am exceedingly curious about. By the way, do you mind if I ask these questions?”

“Not at all, sir. I’m right flattered.”

“What I’m curious about is this: when you direct a campaign such as this, do you become personally involved? I should say emotionally involved, perhaps. In other words, if you were to lose, would you be as sorely disappointed as the candidate himself?”

“That’s a mighty good question, Major. I’d say no, I don’t get as emotionally involved as the candidate does. Emotion destroys perspective, and the candidate has employed me, among other reasons, to keep the perspective straight. But if he were to lose, I’d say I’d be quite disappointed, but not crushed. I’ve only lost one campaign and I know I’m bound to lose another some day, so it’s always in the back of my mind.”

“And you do it purely for monetary gain? I mean, it is your profession?”

“I make a living at it and I do it because I like it. I like the hours and I like the action. I like the involvement of people with people. It’s a damn sight more fun than running an insurance agency, I think.”

“Your profession, its need or usefulness, I should say, is based on the existence of a popular democracy?”

“It doesn’t have to be popular,” Shartelle said, staring at the Major. “It just has to be some kind of democracy where folks can vote for whomever they want to pay their taxes to.”

“You must believe deeply then in the value of a democratic form of government?”

Shartelle smiled his wicked smile. “Why, no, sir, I don’t necessarily. I’ve often thought that in the United States we could use a benevolent dictator. Trouble is, there’s never anybody around who’s benevolent enough except me — and I don’t have the votes. Don’t you ever get that feeling, Major?”

The Major smiled a graceful retreat. “Sometimes perhaps, Mr. Shartelle, but only in the very small hours of the morning. It’s not a thought that would be politic for me to give voice to very often.”

“I bet it’s not,” Shartelle said.

The Major turned his attention to Anne, and Shartelle turned on Shartelle again for the benefit of Madame Duquesne. I relaxed and mentally re-ate the meal while helping myself to more of the brandy.

Madame Duquesne leaned over to touch the Major on the arm. “It has been such a long day. I have developed a terrible headache. M. Shartelle has consented to see me home — would you mind terribly if you said goodbye to the guests?”

She lied well, I thought. The Major didn’t even twitch. He was all concern. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Shartelle. I can never thank you enough, Claude, for the wonders you worked here today. It was a splendid party. It will be the talk of Ubondo for days to come.” I decided he was still right out of the pages of an old issue of Cosmopolitan.

She put her hand to her head. “I was most happy to help. I have given full instructions to the stewards. They know exactly what to do.”

Major Chuku was on his feet. He helped Madame Duquesne to rise. I didn’t think she needed much help.

“Mr. Shartelle, I am obligated to you for your kind offer to see Madame Duquesne home.”

“It is my pleasure, sir.”

The Major smiled wryly. “I am sure it is.”

Anne gave me the signal and we rose, too. We thanked the Major for the party, complimented him again on the food, told him it was a delightful evening, and started for the car. Shartelle and Madame Duquesne were right behind us. She had her own car, an old, topless TR-3 which Shartelle gallantly offered to drive. He helped her in and she wound some gossamer or spider web around her head to keep her hair from blowing. Shartelle started the car, grinned at us, and said: “See you folks in a few minutes.” He gave it too much gas and the back tires threw gravel at the Major’s house.

I helped Anne into the Humber and we drove sedately home. By the time we got there the TR-3 was parked in front of the porch, the USIA transmitter in Monrovia was playing some American jazz over the radio, and Shartelle and Madame Duquesne were dancing close together on the front porch. Her headache seemed to have gone.

“Petey,” Shartelle said, “after you write those two statements, would you mind leaving a note for old Samuel? I think we’re going to be four for breakfast.” We were.