Light dawned. The woman had been talking about Joe Aldehyde’s addiction to spiritualism. He thought of those weekly séances with Mrs. Harbottle, the automatist; with Mrs. Pym, whose control was a Kiowa Indian called Bawbo; with Miss Tuke and her floating trumpet out of which a squeaky whisper uttered oracular words that were taken down in shorthand by Joe’s private secretary: “Buy Australian cement; don’t be alarmed by the fall in Breakfast Foods; unload forty percent of your rubber shares and invest the money in IBM and Westinghouse…”
“Did he ever tell you,” Will asked, “about that departed stockbroker who always knew what the market was going to do next week?”
“Sidhis,” said the Rani indulgently. “Just sidhis. What else can you expect? After all, he’s only a Beginner. And in this present life business is his karma. He was predestined to do what he’s done, what he’s doing, what he’s going to do. And what he’s going to do,” she added impressively and paused in a listening pose, her finger lifted, her head cocked, “what he’s going to do—that’s what my Little Voice is saying—includes some great and wonderful things here in Pala.”
What a spiritual way of saying, This is what I want to happen! Not as I will but as God wills—and by a happy coincidence God’s will and mine are always identical. Will chuckled inwardly, but kept the straightest of faces.
“Does your Little Voice say anything about Southeast Asia Petroleum?” he asked.
The Rani listened again, then nodded. “Distinctly.”
“But Colonel Dipa, I gather, doesn’t say anything but ‘Standard of California.’ Incidentally,” Will went on, “why does Pala have to worry about the Colonel’s taste in oil companies?”
“My government,” said Mr. Bahu sonorously, “is thinking in terms of a Five-Year Plan for Interisland Economic Co-ordination and Co-operation.”
“Does Interisland Co-ordination and Co-operation mean that Standard has to be granted a monopoly?”
“Only if Standard’s terms were more advantageous than those of its competitors.”
“In other words,” said the Rani, “only if there’s nobody who will pay us more.”
“Before you came,” Will told her, “I was discussing this subject with Murugan. Southeast Asia Petroleum, I said, will give Pala whatever Standard gives Rendang plus a little more.”
“Fifteen percent more?”
“Let’s say ten.”
“Make it twelve and a half.”
Will looked at her admiringly. For someone who had taken the Fourth Initiation she was doing pretty well.
“Joe Aldehyde will scream with agony,” he said. “But in the end, I feel certain, you’ll get your twelve and a half.”
“It would certainly be a most attractive proposition,” said Mr. Bahu.
“The only trouble is that the Palanese government won’t accept it.”
“The Palanese government,” said the Rani, “will soon be changing its policy.”
“You think so?”
“I KNOW it,” the Rani answered in a tone that made it quite clear that the information had come straight from the Master’s mouth.
“When the change of policy comes, would it help,” Will asked, “if Colonel Dipa were to put in a good word for Southeast Asia Petroleum?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Will turned to Mr. Bahu. “And would you be prepared, Mr. Ambassador, to put in a good word with Colonel Dipa?”
In polysyllables, as though he were addressing a plenary session of some international organization, Mr. Bahu hedged diplomatically. On the one hand, yes; but on the other hand, no. From one point of view, white; but from a different angle, distinctly black.
Will listened in polite silence. Behind the mask of Savonarola, behind the aristocratic monocle, behind the ambassadorial verbiage he could see and hear the Levantine broker in quest of his commission, the petty official cadging for a gratuity. And for her enthusiastic sponsorship of Southeast Asia Petroleum, how much had the royal initiate been promised? Something, he was prepared to bet, pretty substantial. Not for herself, of course, no no! For the Crusade of the Spirit, needless to say, for the greater glory of Koot Hoomi.
Mr. Bahu had reached the peroration of his speech to the international organization. “It must therefore be understood,” he was saying, “that any positive action on my part must remain contingent upon circumstances as, when, and if these circumstances arise. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” Will assured him. “And now,” he went on with deliberately indecent frankness, “let me explain my position in this matter. All I’m interested in is money. Two thousand pounds without having to do a hand’s turn of work. A year of freedom just for helping Joe Aldehyde to get his hands on Pala.”
“Lord Aldehyde,” said the Rani, “is remarkably generous.”
“Remarkably,” Will agreed, “considering how little I can do in this matter. Needless to say, he’d be still more generous to anyone who could be of greater help.”
There was a long silence. In the distance a mynah bird was calling monotonously for attention. Attention to avarice, attention to hypocrisy, attention to vulgar cynicism…There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Will called out and, turning to Mr. Bahu, “Let’s continue this conversation some other time,” he said.
Mr. Bahu nodded.
“Come in,” Will repeated.
Dressed in a blue skirt and a short buttonless jacket that left her midriff bare and only sometimes covered a pair of apple-round breasts, a girl in her late teens walked briskly into the room. On her smooth brown face a smile of friendliest greeting was punctuated at either end by dimples. “I’m Nurse Appu,” she began. “Radhu Appu.” Then, catching sight of Will’s visitors, she broke off. “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t know…”
She made a perfunctory knicks to the Rani.
Mr. Bahu, meanwhile, had courteously risen to his feet. “Nurse Appu,” he cried enthusiastically. “My little ministering angel from the Shivapuram hospital. What a delightful surprise!”
For the girl, it was evident to Will, the surprise was far from delightful.
“How do you do, Mr. Bahu,” she said without a smile and, quickly turning away, started to busy herself with the straps of the canvas bag she was carrying.
“Your Highness has probably forgotten,” said Mr. Bahu; “but I had to have an operation last summer. For hernia,” he specified. “Well, this young lady used to come and wash me every morning. Punctually at eight-forty-five. And now, after having vanished for all these months, here she is again!”
“Synchronicity,” said the Rani oracularly. “It’s all part of the Plan.”
“I’m supposed to give Mr. Farnaby an injection,” said the little nurse, looking up, still unsmiling, from her professional bag.
“Doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders,” cried the Rani, overacting the role of royal personage deigning to be playfully gracious. “To hear is to obey. But where’s my chauffeur?”
“Your chauffeur’s here,” called a familiar voice.
Beautiful as a vision of Ganymede, Murugan was standing in the doorway. A look of amusement appeared on the little nurse’s face.
“Hullo, Murugan—I mean, Your Highness.” She bobbed another curtsy, which he was free to take as a mark of respect or of ironic mockery.
“Oh, hullo, Radha,” said the boy in a tone that was meant to be distantly casual. He walked past her to where his mother was sitting. “The car,” he said, “is at the door. Or rather the so-called car.” With a sarcastic laugh, “It’s a Baby Austin, 1954 vintage,” he explained to Will. “The best that this highly civilized country can provide for its royal family. Rendang gives its ambassador a Bentley,” he added bitterly.
“Which will be calling for me at this address in about ten minutes,” said Mr. Bahu, looking at his watch. “So may I be permitted to take leave of you here, Your Highness?”
The Rani extended her hand. With all the piety of a good Catholic kissing a cardinal’s ring, he bent over it; then, straightening himself up, he turned to Will.
“I’m assuming—perhaps unjustifiably—that Mr. Farnaby can put up with me for a little longer. May I stay?”
Will assured the Ambassador that he would be delighted.
“And I hope,” said Mr. Bahu to the little nurse, “that there will be no objections on medical grounds?”
“Not on medical grounds,” said the girl in a tone that implied the existence of the most cogent nonmedical objections.
Assisted by Murugan, the Rani hoisted herself out of her chair. “Au revoir, mon cher Farnaby,” she said as she gave him her jeweled hand. Her smile was charged with a sweetness that Will found positively menacing.
“Good-bye, ma’am.”
She turned, patted the little nurse’s cheek, and sailed out of the room. Like a pinnace in the wake of a full-rigged ship of the line, Murugan trailed after her.
6
“GOLLY!” THE LITTLE NURSE EXPLODED, WHEN THE DOOR WAS safely closed behind them.
“I entirely agree with you,” said Will.
The Voltairean light twinkled for a moment on Mr. Bahu’s evangelical face. “Golly,” he repeated. “It was what I heard an English schoolboy saying when he first saw the Great Pyramid. The Rani makes the same kind of impression. Monumental. She’s what the Germans call eine grosse Seele.” The twinkle had faded, the face was unequivocally Savonarola’s, the words, it was obvious, were for publication.
The little nurse suddenly started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Will asked.
“I suddenly saw the Great Pyramid all dressed up in white muslin,” she gasped. “Dr. Robert calls it the mystic’s uniform.”
“Witty, very witty!” said Mr. Bahu. “And yet,” he added diplomatically, “I don’t know why mystics shouldn’t wear uniforms, if they feel like it.”
The little nurse drew a
