William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

Temple didn’t commit himself as he had no intention of getting involved in the fighting, though he wasn’t averse to being bought drinks as an inducement to join up. The fact was that the initial enthusiasm and war-fever had died away. The military had as yet no use for these volunteer forces and they were being encouraged to return to their farms and jobs. The group in the Norfolk Hotel that night represented a hard core, but one whose resolution was fast on the wane, considering that they’d been idling in Nairobi for two weeks and it was clear that it was unlikely they’d ever be deployed. Learning of the departure of the Indian Expeditionary Force ‘C’ had been the most depressing news and had fully doused their ardour.

For his part Temple spent the next few days in an increasingly frustrating attempt to find someone who would admit he was a ‘problem’. He was, he soon discovered, the only person in the whole of British East Africa who had had his land overrun and occupied. He tried to see the Governor of the colony, the national commander-in-chief, but got no further than the hall of Government House where he was politely but firmly turned away and told to go and see the Land Officer. The Land Officer informed him that it was not a civil but a military matter and that he ought to take up any complaints with the officer commanding the KAR.

“And where is he?” Temple asked.

“Somewhere in Uganda.”

As for the question of reparations, that would have to wait until the war was over, but in the meantime he could file a claim with the Registrar of Documents, Mr Pailthorpe. Mr Pailthorpe, in his turn, said he had received absolutely no official instructions about reparations (“for God’s sake, man, the war’s only been on for a fortnight”) and suggested he consult the Attorney General. Until Mr Pailthorpe had received official notification from the Attorney General’s office nothing further could be done.

Temple decided to let the question of reparations rest for a while. All the government offices he had visited were housed in a terrace of corrugated iron shacks. Over the past three days Temple had been passed from one to another and he had no desire to wait out the duration of the war in a succession of sweltering ante-rooms. In the meantime he planned to visit his insurers and see if he could extract some interim payment for his burnt sisal, his smouldering linseed fields and uprooted trolley lines.

His insurers, the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co., occupied a small office above a butcher’s shop on Sixth Avenue. Temple pushed past several sheep and antelope carcases and entered the dark interior. The close heat, the subdued murmur of sated flies and the rich gamey smell of offal made his stomach heave and saliva squirt into his mouth. He was breathing heavily — inhaling the musty but fresher air on the first floor — when an Indian clerk ushered him into the office of Gulam Hoosam Essanjee Esquire, General Manager of the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co.

Mr Essanjee stood at a single window looking down at the traffic on Sixth Avenue. He was a dapper plump Indian of about Temple’s age with black, well-oiled hair and the straightest, most clearly defined parting Temple had ever seen. He wore a washable rubber collar with his tie and coarse linen suit and was perspiring heavily. He had a very thin, neatly clipped pencil moustache. The room was oppressively hot and unusually dark. So dark that Mr Essanjee had a lit hurricane lamp fizzing quietly on his totally bare desk. The darkness was explained by the fact that the other window in the room was obscured by a thick hand-woven blanket, which was soaking wet and dripping steadily onto a mushy copy of the East African Standard placed beneath it.

Temple sat down heavily, still nauseous from negotiating the charnel house below. “Can’t we open the curtains?” he asked weakly. The stifling atmosphere was worse than the government offices.

“Not a curtain, my dear sir. Mr…?”

“Smith.”

“Mr Smith. Not, I repeat, a curtain.”

Mr Essanjee strode forward and lifted the bottom of the blanket to reveal what looked to Temple like a miniature copy of the paddle wheel of a Mississippi river boat, placed on the ledge of the open window.

Mr Essanjee let the blanket drop.

“A thermantidote. Very popular in my own country. The wind blows the rotating fan, which in turn casts a stronger breeze onto the tattie — which you will have observed has been soaked in cold water— ergo a cool moist breeze penetrates the intolerably dry and hot room. Most efficient.” Mr Essanjee wiped his damp hands on his linen jacket. “The Essanjee Thermantidote. This is my own improved version. Patent pending.” He smiled broadly at Temple. “The S. and G. Thermantidote.” He sketched an ‘S’ and a ‘G’ in the air with his finger. “You follow? I am Gulam Hoosan Essanjee. My machine is the S and G—”

“Yes, yes,” Temple said, feeling faint. “I see.”

“My brother controls the agency in Mombasa. If you’re interested?”

“But what happens if there’s no breeze to rotate the fan? Like today.”

“Ah yes. I regret an exterior breeze is essential. But the drip of the water from the tattie has, I find, a cooling effect of its own. No?” He sat down at his empty desk. “Now, my dear Mr Smith, what can I do for you?”

Temple explained about the loss of his farm, while Mr Essanjee sat nodding his oiled head. He presented von Bishop’s affidavit and said he was claiming for the loss of various goods. Mr Essanjee went to a wooden filing cabinet and extracted a copy of Temple’s policy. He hummed and hawed, tapping his fingernails on the desk.

“Yes,” Mr Essanjee said. “There seems to be no problem. We shall regard it as theft.”

Temple couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh. Well, that’s excellent.”

“‘We aim to please.’ Is this not what they say in your country? I see here it says you are a citizen of the USA.”

“Indeed it is, and indeed I am.” Temple felt full of irrational affection for this plump little man.

“Reimbursement shall be effected as soon as we receive our assessor’s report.”

“Oh,” Temple said. “An assessor’s report.” He stroked his moustache.

“Of course,” said Mr Essanjee, touching his own with the little fingers of each hand. “Simply procedure. It’s not a question of doubting you, Mr Smith. But you can hardly expect us to take the word,” he held up von Bishop’s affidavit, “of our sworn enemy.”

“You’re right, I suppose,” Temple said. “But my farm is now occupied by this same enemy. It is, as you might say, behind enemy lines.”

“Alas,” Mr Essanjee spread his damp palms. “This war; it causes endless inconveniences.”

Temple had a mad idea. “At least I think it’s behind enemy lines. Von Bishop might just have taken what he wanted and left. Supposing the enemy have withdrawn. Would your assessor be prepared to come with me? Who is your assessor, by the way?”

Mr Essanjee bowed his head. “It is I. We are very short-staffed at the moment. The international situation, you understand.”

“Would you come?” Temple asked.

“Naturally,” Mr Essanjee said suavely. “At the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. we aim to please.”

“Don’t you think you’re going a bit far?” Wheech-Browning said two days later. He was sitting in a dilapidated cane chair outside his tent in Voi. The slightest move he made set up a filthy screeching noise.

“I mean, good God, there is meant to be a war on, you know. You can’t just swan up to Heinrich Hun and say, ‘Look here, old chap, any chance of a cease-fire while we carry out an insurance assessment?’”