Peter Carey - Collected Stories

“Good morning, Gerrard. What would you make of this — Ah! A cross pug leaps across funereal stone? It is eleven letters,” he smiled apologetically, “beginning with S.”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.” He folded the delicate rice-paper pages of the airmail edition and plugged in a small electric jug which sat on the low filing cabinet beside him. “Coffee?”

“That would be pleasant, thank you,” Gerrard was trying to be pleasant, to unbend, to relax, to be patient enough to discuss all ten volumes of Recherche du Temps Perdu if it was necessary. He sat in the low visitor’s chair and they both waited for the jug to boil.

“How is Mrs Haflinger?”

“Gone, I’m afraid.”

The eyebrows raised and the tongue clucking sympathetically. “Our country is not to everybody’s taste,” he picked up The Times, weighed it, and let it fall to the desk, “as I read every day.”

“Unfortunately it isn’t.” Gerrard attempted to match the sad ironical smile on the other’s face.

“Black with two?”

“Thank you.” Gerrard watched as the minister fussed over the coffee and thought how much he hated the metallic taste of Nescafé.

“Excuse me,” said the minister, “I seem to have spilled some into the saucer. Now what is the problem? I take it the visit isn’t social.” And he allowed the merest glint of malice to enter his voice.

“I have a strike.”

“And the particular matter of the dispute? Ah,” he smiled, “if only our industrial relations laws were in a more advanced stage. But,” the smile again, “I’m sure you understand that as well as I.”

“There is no particular matter. It is a question of conditions generally. The shortage of water, the absence of power in their quarters, the quarters themselves.” Gerrard thought of the old army barracks where his men were quartered: squalid rows of huts with no partitions and a complete lack of privacy for even the most basic matters.

The minister nodded sympathetically: “Oh, I know, I know. The latrines, I imagine, are also a problem. One cannot blame them. I would be upset myself.”

“There is a list.” Gerrard was beginning to hope. Against his best sense he hoped that this man might actually have the guts to do something. He gave the minister the list of the men’s complaints. It contained ten points.

“What do they ask?”

“Either that matters be upgraded or they be paid at a special penalty rate.”

“And,” the minister blew into the steaming coffee, “if that is not possible, and I mean ‘if’?”

“They will leave, en masse.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes.”

“And you think they will carry out the threat?”

In his blind anxiety it had never occurred to Gerrard that they wouldn’t, but he said simply: “They will carry it out.”

“Oh dear.”

“Quite,” said Gerrard. “What shall we do, what can we do?”

“For me,” the minister held his pale palms upwards, “my hands are tied. I myself can do nothing.” The hands came together in an attitude of prayer and the index fingers plucked nervously at the pendulous lower lip. “My department’s funds are already over-committed. It would take the president himself to approve a special allowance.”

“And the president,” Gerrard smiled thinly, “is not likely to be sympathetic.”

“As you know,” the minister clasped his hands across his breast and leant back dolefully in his big squeaking chair, “as you know, the president is of the view that they are being paid far too much as it is. It was only after my most earnest plea …”

“For which I am most grateful.” The minister was lying. Gerrard lied in return. He had never spoken in these terms to the minister before. He was finding it repulsive. He felt vaguely ill. “But if there were anything …”

The minister snapped forward in his chair and leant across the table. “I will speak to him,” he said with the air of a man who has made a reckless decision. “I will go to him this morning. The president is most anxious that the project be finished quickly. He feels that in the absence of rain,” and here he allowed the merest trace of treasonable sarcasm to enter his voice, “the people are in need of a boost in morale. He is relying on the Kristu-Du. He will be most eager to end the dispute.”

“Which means?”

“It means,” the minister winked slyly, “that I will speak on your behalf and that finally you need not worry. Your building will go ahead without serious delay. You have my word for it. You will not be unhappy with the result.” And the wink came again. Gerrard, who wondered if he had seen the first wink, had no doubts about the second.

“And the men?” he asked.

“The men,” said the minister, “will not leave, I promise you.”

Gerrard stood, unsure of what he had done. He looked at the minister’s face and wondered if it was capable of winking. “You will be in touch?” he said.

“Most definitely. And perhaps, when this little crisis is over, you might like to join my family for a luncheon. Next Sunday perhaps — the eleventh.”

“Thank you. That would be delightful.”

The minister held out his small hand. It clung to Gerrard’s hand, spreading a damp film of secret fear around it.

6.

When the Land Rover entered the site on the following morning he understood immediately the agreement he had made with the minister. As he turned off the engine he finally admitted that he had known all along. He had understood exactly and precisely what would happen but he had not allowed himself to look at it. The minister’s wink had produced a tightening in his stomach. The sweat he had felt in the handshake had been as much his as the minister’s. Their fears had met and smudged together between their two hands.

As he walked between the big khaki trucks of Oongala’s army he felt shame and triumph, elation and despair. They mixed themselves together in the terrible porridge his emotions had become.

All around him the work continued, watched by the keen arrogant eyes of Oongala’s elite force: the notorious 101s.

The English doctor had seen the Land Rover approach and now he watched angrily as the tall man in the grey safari suit walked towards him. His walk did not belong here, amongst these harsh rocks and calloused hands. It was a city walk, the walk of a man who strolls boulevards and sips vermouth in side-walk cafés. The doctor detested the walk. “Like an evil little spider,” he thought, “who will soon proclaim his innocence.”

Now the tall man stopped. Now he ran. He sprinted towards the doctor, jumping across a pile of piping. The doctor grimaced and transferred his attention to the young Danish worker who lay on the ground before him. The injection had at last eased the pain. Soon he’d be able to shift him to town. He heard rather than saw Gerrard squat beside him. He said nothing and busied himself repacking the syringe with exaggerated care. He picked up the two ampoules from the dusty ground, tossed them in his hand, and with a sudden expression of rage threw them against the wall of the building.

“What’s up?”

The architect smelt of expensive shampoo. The doctor couldn’t bear to look at him. He took the young man’s pulse and was surprised to find his own hand shaking. “I would have thought it was obvious.”

“What may be obvious to you is not obvious to me. Kindly tell me what has happened.” There was a tremor in the architect’s voice, and the doctor, looking up, was astonished to see despair in the other’s eyes. “Kindly tell me what has happened.”

“He was shot by your friends here. He told them he was a free man and didn’t have to work. He made quite a speech. It is a shame you missed it,” he smiled nastily, “all about freedom and democracy.”