Brian Aldiss - The Male Response

Having been primed for the audition by a hurried phone call from below, Waypole and Soames rose from their chairs and executed stiff bows to the gaudy new arrival.

‘You are not the owner of this firm?’ Deal Jimpo asked, when the introductions were completed and he had accepted a seat.

‘I fear not,’ Waypole said, nervously flicking a speck of pollen from his carnation. ‘I am in charge of this branch of our organisation, however, and can contact our chairman by phone, should that be necessary.’

‘I do not want to cause trouble,’ Deal Jimpo said. ‘Please do not bother the chairman yet. I am wishing to buy just one of your very best computing machines.’

‘May one ask – is it for yourself, sir?’ Waypole said.

‘No, it is for my father’s republic in Africa,’ the young negro replied. ‘In Goya, we are most progressive and have everything on Western principles without any bother from reactionaries. Perhaps you read The Times yesterday where my republic is referred to as “the black Scandinavia”. To become still more progressive we require one computer. I think my people would like best a red one.’

‘They actually are all turned out sprayed slate grey,’ Waypole said faintly, ‘but of course we can make alterations to suit customers’ requirements. Please excuse me just one moment.’ He turned to Soames, who was fighting a stubborn rearguard action to keep his face straight, and said in a low, agitated voice, ‘Soames, my dear man, for heaven’s sake go downstairs and check up if this place Goya exists. I always thought it was a painter. Unless I am mistaken, this is a practical joke being played on me by an odious fellow called Betts-Lewcombe who was on my staircase at Balliol.’

Soames returned from this quest a few minutes later and, standing behind the Princeling, made an involved gesture intended to explain to Waypole that a quick phone call to the Daily Telegraph Information Bureau had revealed Goya to exist in very fact as a small republic wedged between the Congo, the Sudan and a bit of ex-French Equatorial Africa, with a flourishing cocoa bean industry and a President called M’Grassi Landor; that it looked as if, in this instance at least, the odious Betts-Lewcombe’s name was cleared.

Enough of this signal was comprehensible to Waypole for him to gather that its opposite, the bum’s rush, had not been mimed. Casting his eye more benevolently upon Deal Jimpo, he said, ‘I have here some brochures of our various computer models; perhaps you would care to look at them at your leisure and see which you think would best suit your – er, peculiar circumstances.’

Fishing in a drawer of his desk, he produced a batch of sumptuous folders and handed them across to his visitor.

‘Thank you,’ Deal Jimpo said, opening the top folder. Inside was a colour photo of a smartly uniformed young lady pointing smilingly at the bulk of an Apostle Mk II.

‘I will take this one,’ Deal Jimpo said definitely, planting his thumb on the machine.

‘Er, that ,’ said Waypole, smiling as if in the throes of gastroenteritis, and nobly giving the stranger a chance to change his mind, ‘is the star member of the entire range of our machines and is only just in full production. We have sold it to Edinburgh, Harwell and the Air Ministry, but so far our only clients overseas are the Saga Uns people in Hamburg and the Sûreté. Its basic price is £400,500.’

‘It sounds as if it should be very suitable for Umbalathorp, thank you,’ Deal Jimpo said gravely. ‘I will write you a cheque now but I shall not require the machine until tomorrow.’

The edges of Waypole’s carnation curled. He slumped slightly in his chair.

‘There may be a slight delay in delivery,’ he said, a wave of emotion rippling on his voice.

‘Of course – for the red painting,’ Deal Jimpo agreed. ‘Well, no hurry at all. I do not sail for home yet for two days.’

It was at this moment that Waypole caught sight of Soames frozen in a column of silent laughter behind the Princeling. His air of distraction relaxed, washed away by a peevish grin. Some of the rough edge which had won him the manager’s chair began to show.

‘You must allow us to make the delivery for you,’ he said, carefully choosing his tone so as to show Deal Jimpo only its silk glove and Soames only the iron hand within it. ‘We shall be delighted to fly the Apostle out to Umbalathorp (do I have it correctly?), and our liaison man here, Mr Noyes, will go with it, so that any little difficulties or misunderstandings which may arise can be dealt with on the spot.’

And that was how it had all begun.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, Mr Noyes, but I shall be glad to get out and stretch my legs,’ the Birmingham man said.

‘Same here,’ agreed Soames. It was a phrase he never used.

‘I wonder what sort of a place this Umbalathorp is?’ the Birmingham man wondered, and then – sagely guessing just how worthwhile any answer of Soames’ would be – he turned round and called to Deal Jimpo, ‘What sort of a place is this Umbalathorp we’re getting to, Prince Landor?’

His voice implied that he might have been requesting information on the nearest brothel from a street tout, but Deal Jimpo replied equably enough.

‘Umbalathorp is the capital of Goya. It is a healthy city without much sickness. Everyone is progressive in outlook and content in spirit. It has a railway which may perhaps one day connect it up to other cities. Its population is ten thousand and rising rapidly.’

‘All natives, I suppose,’ the Birmingham man said flatly.

‘All natives of Umbalathorp,’ said Deal Jimpo with equal flatness. The remark completely won over Soames, who felt a new eagerness to investigate this curious little jungle republic; he had already begun to like Deal Jimpo.

The Birmingham man was not snubbed. Giving Soames a dirty wink, he remarked, ‘I hope the native women aren’t tabu, Prince, anyhow.’

Deal Jimpo did not smile.

‘You will find our standards equal to Western standards,’ he said. ‘Which means promiscuity among the females. Morality was higher under the old tribal customs, that must be admitted.’

‘After you with the old tribal customs!’ exclaimed the Birmingham man, slapping his hands together and making succulent smacking noises in his cheek. He dug Soames in the ribs. ‘Ever tried a bit of the old tribal customs?’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I had an Arab bint once during the last war. Talk about strong! She got her legs wrapped round me and dug her heels in the small of my back like a human nutcracker. Scared me stiff at first, it did – I was only a youngster in those days.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Soames, feeling enthusiasm was required of him. The Birmingham man was goaded into fresh revelations, so that Wally Brewer and Timpleton leant over to catch what he was saying.

‘I knew a good thing when I found it,’ the engineer boasted. ‘Ah! I was back round there again next evening. “Dig your heels in again, missis,” I said. And she did. Strewth! We’ll be okay if they’re like that in this Umbalathorp, I tell you. She was a nice little bit, that Arab bint. They shave off their pubic hairs before marriage, you know.’

This anthropological detail reminded Brewer of something he had heard.

‘A lot of these African women slap goat dung on it to improve the sensation,’ he said. ‘It’s like using curry powder with meat.’

It was Timpleton’s turn to chip in.

‘You haven’t lived till you’ve had an Italian girl,’ he said.

‘Japanese,’ Brewer contradicted firmly. ‘Japanese. Nothing like a little Jap girl – up to all the tricks, they are, taught about it from the nursery. When we set up that computer in Yokohama last year …’ He guffawed to show that the sentence could not be completed in words, not even over the wilds of Africa.