Грэм Грин - The Comedians

'I look forward,' Mr Smith continued, 'to meeting the new Secretary for Social Welfare and discussing with him the subject which readers of this paper will have long regarded as my King Charles's head — the establishment of a vegetarian centre. Unfortunately Doctor Philipot, the former Minister to whom I carried a personal introduction from a Haitian diplomat attached to the United Nations, is not at the moment in Port-au-Prince, but I can assure my readers that my enthusiasm will carry me through all obstacles, if necessary to the President himself. From him I can expect a sympathetic hearing, for before he went into politics he won golden opinions as a doctor during the great typhoid epidemic some years ago. Like Mr Kenyatta, the Prime Minister of Kenya, he has also made his mark as an anthropologist' ('mark' was an understatement — I thought of Joseph's crippled legs).

Later that morning Mr Smith came shyly in to hear what I thought of his article. 'It would please the authorities,' I said.

'They'll never read it. The paper has no circulation outside Wisconsin.'

'I wouldn't bank on their not reading it. Not many letters leave here nowadays. It's easy enough to censor them if they want to.'

'You mean they'd open it?' he asked with incredulity, but he added quickly, 'Oh well, it's been known to happen even in the U.S.A.'

'If I were you — just in case — I'd leave out all reference to Doctor Philipot.'

'But I've said nothing wrong.'

'They may be sensitive about him at the moment. You see, he's killed himself.'

'Oh the poor man, the poor man,' Mr Smith exclaimed. 'What on earth could have driven him to that?'

'Fear.'

'Had he done something wrong?'

'Who hasn't? He had spoken ill of the President.'

The old blue eyes turned away. He was determined to show no doubt to a stranger — a fellow white man, one of the slaver's race. He said, 'I would like to see his widow — there might be something I could do. At least Mrs Smith and I ought to send flowers.' However much he loved the blacks, it was in a white world he lived; he knew no other.

'I wouldn't if I were you.'

'Why not?'

I despaired of explaining, and at that moment, as bad luck would have it, Joseph entered. The body had already left Monsieur Dupont's funeral parlour; they were taking the coffin up to Pйtionville for burial and were halted now at the road block below the hotel.

'They seem in a hurry.'

'They very worried,' Joseph explained.

'There's nothing to fear now surely,' Mr Smith said.

'Except the heat,' I added.

'I shall join the cortиge,' Mr Smith said.

'Don't you dream of it.'

Suddenly I was aware of the anger those blue eyes were capable of showing. 'Mr Brown, you are not my keeper. I am going to call Mrs Smith and we shall both …'

'At least leave her behind. Don't you really understand the danger …?' And it was on that dangerous word 'danger' that Mrs Smith entered.

'What danger?' she demanded.

'My dear, that poor Doctor Philipot to whom we had an introduction has killed himself.'

'Why?'

'The reasons seem obscure. They are taking him for burial to Pйtionville. I think we should join the cortиge. Joseph please, s'il vous plaоt, taxi …'

'What danger were you talking about?' Mrs Smith demanded.

'Do neither of you realize the kind of country this is? Anything can happen.'

'Mr Brown, dear, was saying he thought I ought to go alone.'

'I don't think either of you should go,' I said. 'It would be madness.'

'But — Mr Smith told you — we had a letter of introduction to Doctor Philipot. He is a friend of a friend.'

'It will be taken as a political gesture.'

'Mr Smith and I have never been afraid of political gestures. Dear, I have a dark dress … Give me two minutes.'

'He can't give you even one,' I said. 'Listen.' Even from my office we could hear the sound of voices on the hill, but it didn't sound to me like a normal funeral. There was not the wild music of peasant pompes funиbres, nor the sobriety of a bourgeois interment. Voices didn't wail: they argued, they shouted. A woman's cry rose above the din. Before I could attempt to stop them Mr and Mrs Smith were running down the drive. The Presidential Candidate had a slight lead. Perhaps he maintained it more by protocol than effort, for Mrs Smith certainly had the better gait. I followed them more slowly, and with reluctance.

The Hotel Trianon had sheltered Doctor Philipot both alive and dead, and we were still not rid of him: at the very entrance of the drive I saw the hearse. It had apparently backed in so as to turn away from Pйtionville, in retreat towards the city. One of the hungry unowned cats which haunted that end of the drive had leapt, in fear of the intrusion, on to the top of the hearse and it stood there arched and shivering like something struck by lightning. No one attempted to drive it away — the Haitians may well have believed it to contain the soul of the ex-Minister himself.

Madame Philipot, whom I had met once at some embassy reception, stood in front of the hearse and defied the driver to turn. She was a beautiful woman — not yet forty — with an olive skin, and she stood with her arms out like a bad patriotic monument to a forgotten war. Mr Smith repeated over and over again, 'What's the matter?' The driver of the hearse, which was black and expensive and encrusted with the emblems of death, sounded his horn — I had not realized before that hearses possessed horns. Two men in black suits argued with him one on either side; they had got out of a tumbledown taxi which was also parked in my drive, and in the road stood another taxi pointing up the hill to Pйtionville. It contained a small boy whose face was pressed to the window. That was all the cortиge amounted to.

'What's going on here?' Mr Smith cried again in his distress and the cat spat at him from the glass roof.

Madame Philipot shouted 'Salaud' at the driver and 'Cochon,' then she flung her eyes like dark flowers at Mr Smith. She had understood English. 'Vous кtes amйricain?'

Mr Smith, expanding his knowledge of French nearly to its outer limit, said, 'Oui.'

'This cochon, this salaud,' Madame Philipot said, still barring the way to the hearse, 'wants to drive back into the city.'

'But why?'

'The militia at the barrier up the road will not let us pass.'

'But why, why?' Mr Smith repeated with bewilderment and the two men, leaving their taxi in the drive, began to walk down the hill towards the city with an air of purpose. They had put on top-hats.

'They murdered him,' Madame Philipot said, 'and now they will not even allow him to be buried in our own plot of ground.'

'There must be some mistake,' Mr Smith said, 'surely.'

'I told that salaud to drive on through the barrier. Let them shoot. Let them kill his wife and child.' She added with illogical contempt, 'They probably have no bullets in any case for their rifles.'

'Maman, maman,' the child cried from the taxi.

'Chйri?'

'Tu m'as promis une glace а la vanille.'

'Attends un petit peu, chйri.'

I said, 'Then you got through the first road-block without being questioned?'

'Yes, yes. You understand — with a little payment.'

'They wouldn't accept payment up the road?'

She said, 'Oh, he had orders. He was afraid.'

'There must be a mistake,' I said, repeating Mr Smith, but unlike him I was thinking of the bribe which had been refused.

'You live here. Do you really believe that?' She turned on the driver and said, 'Drive on. Up the road. Salaud,' and the cat, as though it took the insult to itself, leapt at the nearest tree: its claws scrabbled in the bark and held. It spat once more over its shoulder, at all of us, with hungry hatred and dropped into the bougainvillaea.