The Condition of Muzak (17 page)

“Jolly good.” Major Nye moved his head. “Mind coming inside for a moment, Cornelius?”

Major Nye retired into his gloomy office. It was almost cold. On the wall hung the photograph Major Nye usually referred to as his ‘personal touch’: a picture of Sarah Bernhardt as she appeared in her white costume in Richepin’s
Pierrot Assassin
at the Trocadero in Paris on 28 April, 1883, just before her marriage to M. Damala broke up. She had married Damala in London the previous year and Major Nye had been on leave at the time and witnessed it, almost by accident. Overhead the punkah swept back and forth, disturbing some of the dust on the piles of papers stacked everywhere. Major Nye rarely replied to communications but he did not have the heart to file anything before it had been officially answered. “Sit down, old chap.”

Cornelius sat in the rattan armchair on the other side of the desk. Major Nye removed something from his own chair before seating himself. “Had that fellow of yours in yesterday, Cornelius. What’s his name? Hashim?”

“Really, sir? Did he tell you anything worthwhile?”

“Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t talk to Subadar Bisht. Wouldn’t talk to Risaldar S’arnt Major. Would only talk to you. Trusts you, I suppose. Couldn’t blame him. But he seemed to have an urgent message for you. Worried me a bit. Could mean trouble coming, eh?”

“Quite likely, sir. He was riding with the Chinese until they stopped to recoup at Srinagar. He reported their position and then returned to their camp. I’d guess that the horde’s on the move again.”

Major Nye frowned. “It means that Secundra Dass and his men have joined them now.”

“That’s the report we had while I was in Simla, sir.”

“We’re going to need some Lancers, Cornelius.”

“Yes, sir. And a bit of artillery too, sir, I’d have thought.”

“Artillery would help. Still, I feel sorry for the Chinese if our Ghoorkas get at them. They’re not a fighting people, the Chinese.”

“No, sir.”

“Like the Americans. No good at it. They should leave fighting to the British, eh? And the Ghoorkas and the Sikhs, hm? And the Dogras and Mahrattas, what?”

“Who would we fight, sir?” Cornelius was amused, but Major Nye didn’t find the question sensible.

“Why, the bloody Afridis, of course. Who else? He’ll always give you a good scrap, your Afridi.”

“True, sir.”

“Damned true, Cornelius.” Major Nye became nostalgic and querulous. “Why’d the blasted Chinese want to interfere? Waste of time. Waste of everybody’s time.”

“They’ve conquered Tibet and Nepal and Kashmir and Iskandastan so far, sir.”

“Certainly they have. But they haven’t crossed the border yet, have they?”

“They must be about to, sir.”

“Then they’re blasted fools. And Secundra Dass is a blasted fool to tie himself down with a lot of Chinese.”

“They outnumber us by about a thousand to one, I should think, sir.” Cornelius spoke mildly. He was trying to read a partially exposed report on the major’s desk. The report was yellow, several months old at least. “If they attack while we’re at our present strength, we should have quite a hard time of it.”

“Certainly. It won’t be easy, Cornelius. But with the Cavalry here we should do it, what?”

“It could be the largest army on the march since the time of Genghis Khan.” Cornelius got up and looked through the blinds at the glinting hills.

Major Nye lit his pipe. “But Genghis Khan was a Mongol, not a Chinaman. Besides, he didn’t have the British to deal with—or the Ghoorkas, or the Jats or Baluchis, or Madrassis, or the Ranghars or Gorwalis or Pathans or Punjabis or Rajputs—or, for that matter, the 3rd Punjab Irregular Rifles. Not just the best trained soldiers in the world, not just the bravest and most spirited, but they’re the fiercest, too. Volunteers, you see. There’s nothing more terrifying, more ‘unstoppable’, than a force of British and Indian infantry supported by mixed Sikh and British lancers. That’s why we get on with them so well—they’re as civilised and no-nonsense savage as we are. It’s why we get on well with Arabs, too, you know. It’s why we
don’t
get on with Bombay brahmins…”

“The Chinese and Secundra Dass are sworn to sweep every European from Asia, sir.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Sir?”

“What? Ah!” Major Nye smiled in understanding. Dropping his voice he spoke slowly, as if he didn’t wish to startle Cornelius. “We’re not Europeans, after all. Never have been. We’re British. That’s why we’ve so much in common with India.”

“They seem to hate us just as much as any other—non-Indians—sir.”

“Of course they do. Why shouldn’t they? Good for them. But they won’t beat us.”

“It seems, sir, that the Chinese…”

“The Chinese are a peasant race, Cornelius. The British and their fighting Indian allies, do you see, are not peasant races. The Slavs, the Germans, most Latins, are natural tillers of the soil, makers of profits. They like to preserve the status quo above everything else. But we, like the Sikhs and Ghoorkas, are naturally aggressive and pretty rapacious. Not brutal, you understand—it’s peasants make brutal soldiers. Russians, Chinese, Japanese, Americans, Boers—all peasants and burghers. The infantry, at any rate, while the cavalry are full of ideas of swagger and glory—parvenu Uhlans the lot of them, Hussars-manqués, that’s what I think. Peasants—panicky butchers at best, and sometimes crueller than any Pathan—war’s an insanity for them, you see, no part of their way of life—they’d rather be at home doing whatever it is they do with the cows and pigs and shops. We’re cruel, arrogant, often ruthless, but we’ve lived by war for too long not to have become somewhat more humane in the way we wage it. We make quick decisions. We make our points hard and fast. We don’t have to hate our enemies to kill ’em, we do it decently, on the whole, with respect and economy.” Major Nye rang a bell on his desk. “Feel like some tea?”

“Thanks, sir.” Young Cornelius seemed somewhat depressed, probably because he had been up all night on the train from Simla.

“Same goes for your Arab, your Pathan, your Sikh. It’s self-interest, it’s efficiency, and sometimes it’s a sort of practical idealism, but we rarely have to work ourselves up to hatred, to find a Cause, a reason for loathing those we wish to kill. Practicality—it’s why we’re good at running an Empire. And as long as people don’t give us trouble, we look after ’em. The Dutch and the Belgians, for instance, take too much out of their colonies, and so do the French—the peasant instinct, again, a tendency to overwork the land, you might say. Also, of course, they were unfortunate enough to belong to the Continent of Europe. Then there’s the Cossacks. I’ve a lot of respect for your Cossack, by and large, though he’s inclined to get a bit carried away from time to time. Now if it was Cossacks we were dealing with I’d be looking forward to a good, professional scrap, but most Russians are tame. Most Europeans are tame. Most Americans, God bless ’em, are very tame indeed. I hope the British never become tame. It would be the end of us.”

“Well, I suppose if we ever lost a major war…”

“It’s not the winning and losing of wars that tames a nation—it’s the love of property, the acquisition of too many comforts for their own sake, the cosseting of oneself, that tames you. Thank God the bourgeoisie don’t run England yet, the way they run the Continent. Internationalism could ruin us. Stick to imperialism and you can’t go far wrong. A country should be in charge of its workers and its aristocrats. Farmers, shopkeepers and bankers have far too much regard for their cosy firesides to be trustworthy guardians of a nation’s pride or its well-being. Your aristocrat has no respect for wealth because he’s inherited it. Your common man has no respect for wealth because he’s never experienced it. See what I mean?”

“I think so, sir. But shouldn’t the army have a voice…?”

“Doesn’t need a voice if the country’s being properly run. No part of the army’s job, politics.”

An Indian orderly entered with a tray of tea. “No fresh milk today, sir. All cows gone.”

“Damn,” said Major Nye absently as he reached for the pot, “that’ll be their advance raiding parties, I shouldn’t wonder. Better lock up as soon as the Lancers arrive, Cornelius. Post extra guards and so on. And send some sort of message to Delhi, would you?”

Cornelius accepted a cup. “Should we do anything else, sir?” Looking through the window again it seemed to him that the hills were obscured by a huge cloud of white and yellow dust.

Major Nye knocked out his pipe and picked up his cup. He chuckled as he raised the tea to his cracked lips. “Write letters to our nearest and dearest, I suppose.” He lifted a white handkerchief to his sleeve and brushed away a fly. “I don’t think this will last too long, do you?”

“Bleck is bleck ent wide es wide, my dee-arr,” said Meneer Olmeijer comfortably, puffing at his large pipe. The tubby Boer, in khaki shirt and jodhpurs and wide-brimmed bush-hat, surveyed the tranquil plaas through twinkling eyes. “Airr you stell intirrested on de oostrrich, Miss Corrnelius?”

“Perhaps…” she said. She had difficulty crossing the yard in her long tropical skirt. She had chosen a drab brown so as not to show the dust. Her hat, too, was brown and its brim tended to obscure her vision. “Perhaps later?”

“Cerrtinly, cerrtinly—lader or niverr—y’ave all de tame in de woahld ’ere. Yooah ön ’oliday! Ya doo whadiver ya fill lake—Liberty Kraal, eh? Heh, heh, heh!” He displayed his stained teeth. “En corrl me Cousin Piet. Efterr all, we’rre rrelitivs, ain’t we?” He placed a tanned, red hand on her soft, wincing shoulder. “Ther woah’s övah—we’ll all be Afrikanders soon—Brridischerr oah Hollanderr—farrms oah mines.” They had halted by a white wooden fence, marking the northern limits of the plaas. On their left were the huts of the native workers’ kraal. Piet Olmeijer lifted a booted foot to the lowest rail; a mystical light had entered his eyes as he inspected the infinite veldt, most of which was his, won from the Matabele with blood and Bibles and an inspired hypocrisy which filled Catherine with admiring awe but caused her companion, currently back in the house, considerable confusion. Una had been unable to face this morning’s tour; neither, to their host’s dismay, had she breakfasted. She continued to suffer, Catherine had said when presenting Una’s excuses, from the heat—but the fact was that Una, furious and frightened not so much by the condition of the native Africans as by the peculiar attitude of the whites towards them, was almost incapable now of speech in the presence of Olmeijer or his overseers. Moreover the farmer had taken a fancy to Una and had dropped several hints concerning his need for a wife and sons who could inherit all he had created. Olmeijer had told Jerry, whom he knew from Johannesburg days, that Una Persson looked strong and healthy, the sort of help-meet an Afrikander farmer needed. Olmeijer’s first wife and most of the rest of his family had contracted typhus during internment some years previously, when the Witwatersrand dispute was at its height. However, Una’s bouts of ill-health, as she explained them, were causing him to relax his attention as time went on. The only unfortunate consequence of this was that gradually the farmer was beginning to speculate about Catherine’s capacity for filling the rôle. The introduction of Christian names was, Catherine guessed, a significant step forward and, perhaps, a bold one for a widower Boer of forty sweating, self-restraining summers. It could also explain his sudden expressions of tolerance towards someone who, while they had a name that sounded comfortingly Dutch, was still an Uitlander. He had been reassured by Una herself when they had first arrived: at that point she had been anxious to recall her pro-Boer convictions in England, to disassociate herself with the gold-diggers, critical of the foreign invasion of the Transvaal, full of the romance of the Great Trek, of the courage of the Voortrekkers and their struggles against the savage Matabele. Una had always found such mythologies attractive and, Catherine thought, always sulked in bitter disappointment when the reality contradicted her imaginings. But Catherine was determined not to be critical of her friend. Una’s idealism had dragged her up from despair more than once.

“Just think,” said Catherine positively to Meneer Olmeijer, “only seventy years ago there was nothing here but lion and wildebeeste! And now…” The veldt rolled to the horizon. “And now there’s hardly any lions or gnus at all!”

“Doan’t ya bileef et,” chuckled Piet Olmeijer. “Ger rridin’ by yerself an’ find ert!”

“Well, at least there’s no wild natives to worry about any more,” said Catherine, still doing her best, but feeling increasingly that she was somehow betraying Una.

“Det’s a fekt,” agreed Olmeijer with some satisfaction. “Neow, Ah prromist Ah’d lit her see some o’ da tebacca bein’ pecked in da feealds, ya?”

“Oh, yes,” said Catherine reluctantly. “Or the oranges, you said.”

“Certainly—oah de örrinjis.” He chose to detect in her manner an enthusiasm for his life and its loves. As they left the fence he reached a hand towards her but dropped it as, from the other side of the bungalow, there came a pounding sound which shook the ground and round the corner raced a tall black-and-white ostrich, its eyes starting, its beak enclosed in a peculiar harness, its broad feet stirring the dust, while on its back, whooping and giggling in a dirty, crumpled European suit, his white hat over his face, was Catherine’s brother, followed by upwards of twenty grinning blacks in loincloths or tattered shorts and shirts.

“Heh, heh, heh,” laughed Piet Olmeijer. “Oh, look at det berd rrun! Heh, heh, heh!” He removed his pipe from his mouth and waved it. “’Ang ern, Meneer Cornelius! Excellent!” The ostrich reached the kraal fence, stopped and then swerved, running the length of the enclosure. Jerry slipped further from the saddle, yelling with joy like a five-year-old, the loose-limbed blacks clapping and shouting, “Ride ’im, baas!”

The bird’s panic increased. It began to run in circles, its long neck undulating, attempting to free itself from the halter.

“Ride ’im!”

“Hokai!” cried Olmeijer jovially. “Hokaai!”

Jerry fell heavily on his back and was dragged a short way by one stirrup before he could free himself. His face was bruised purple and yellow, covered in dust; his suit was torn and he was limping, supported by the blacks as he came back towards Olmeijer and his sister. “That was great fun.”