Part 4 (2/2)
”Any of that junk actually work, Spider?” Maxie demanded, raising his voice to carry across the width of the fuselage.
The gnome, no sooner addressed, vaulted to his feet acrobat-style, and stood comically to attention before us.
”Shouldn't think so, Skip. Load of old rubbish, by the looks of it,” he replied cheerfully, in what my top interpreter's ear instantly identified as a Welsh intonation. ”With twelve hours to cobble it together, what do you expect for your money?”
”What have we got to eat?”
”Well now, Skip, since you ask, an anonymous donor has very kindly sent this Fortnum's hamper, you see. Or I think he's anonymous, because search where you will regardless, there's not a sender's name to be found anywhere, not so much as a card.”
”Anything inside it?”
”Not a lot, frankly, no. A whole York ham, I suppose. About a kilo of foie gras. A couple of sides of smoked salmon, a fillet of cold roast beef, cheesy Cheddar biscuits, magnum of champagne. Nothing to whet the appet.i.te, not really. I thought of sending it back.”
”Have it on the way home,” Maxie ordered, cutting him short. ”What else is on the menu?”
”Chow mein. Luton's best. Should be nice and cold by now.”
”Dish it up, Spider. And say h.e.l.lo to the languages here. Name of Brian. On loan from the Chat Room.”
”The Chat Room, eh? Well, that takes me back, I will say. Mr. Anderson's sweat shop. He's still a baritone, is he? Not castrated or anything?”
Spider, as I now knew him, smiled down on me with his boot-b.u.t.ton eyes and I smiled back at him in the confidence of having another friend in our great enterprise.
”And you can do military,” Maxie announced, extracting from his gas mask case an old tin flask clad in khaki cloth and a packet of Bath Oliver biscuits. The flask, I later learned, contained Malvern water.
”What military were we thinking of, Skipper?” I countered.
My chow mein was cold and gluey, but I was determined to make a good fist of it.
”Weaponry, ordnance, firepower, calibre, all that c.r.a.p' taking a bite of his Bath Oliver biscuit.
I a.s.sured him that, thanks to my experience of the Chat Room, I was familiar with a range of technical and military terms. ”But basically what happens, where there's no vernacular equivalent, is they filch it from the nearest colonial language,” I added, getting into my stride. ”Which, in the case of a Congolese, would naturally mean French.” And, unable to restrain myself, ”Unless of course they've been Rwandan or Ugandan trained, in which case you'll get some purloined English, such as Mag, or Ambush, or RPG.”
Maxie appeared no more than politely interested. ”So a Munyamulenge rabbi ting away to a Bembe would talk about a semi-automatique so to speak?”
”Well, a.s.suming they could talk to each other at all,” I replied, keen to show off my expertise.
”Meaning what, old boy?”
”Well, for instance, a Bembe might speak Kinyarwanda, but not be able to make the total bridge to Kinyamulenge.”
”So what do they do?” wiping his wrist across his mouth.
”Well, basically, they'd have to muddle through on whatever they had in common. Each would understand the other to a point, but not necessarily all the way.”
”So after that?”
”They might do a bit of Swahili, a bit of French. It depends what they've got, really.”
”Unless they happen to have you around, that it? You speak 'em all.”
”Well, in this case, yes,” I replied modestly. ”I wouldn't impose, naturally. I'd wait to see what was needed.”
”So whatever they speak, we speak it better. Right? Well done us,” he mused. But it was clear from his tone that he wasn't as satisfied as his words suggested. ”Question is, do we need to tell 'em all that? Maybe we should play it canny. Keep our hardware under wraps.”
Hardware? What hardware? Or was he still talking about my proficiency in military matters? I cautiously voiced my confusion.
”Tour hardware, for Christ's sake. Your a.r.s.enal of languages. Every child knows a good soldier doesn't advertise his strength to the enemy. Same with your languages. Dig 'em in and keep the tarps over 'em till you need to wheel 'em out. Common sense.”
Maxie, I was beginning to discover, possessed a dangerous and beguiling magic. Part of this magic was making you feel that his most outlandish plan was the normal one, even if you had yet to discover what his plan entailed.
”Try this one for size,” he suggested, as if offering me a compromise that would satisfy my over-exacting standards. ”Suppose we put it out that you speak English, French and Swahili and call it a day? That's more than enough for anybody. And we keep your little ones to ourselves. How would that grab you? Different kind of challenge for you. New.”
If I had understood him correctly, it wouldn't grab me in the least, but that wasn't quite what I replied.
”In what context exactly, Skipper in what circ.u.mstances might we be saying that? Or not saying it,” I added, affecting what I hoped was a wise smile. ”I don't mean to be pedantic, but who would we be saying it to?”
”To everyone. Whole room. In the interests of the op. To help the conference along. Look.” He made one of those pauses that professionals make when they're trying to explain something to a simpleton. In my time, I'll admit, I have been guilty of the same presumption. ”We have two Sinclairs' holding out his bulletproof palms, one for each of me ”Sinclair above the waterline' raising the left palm 'and Sinclair below the waterline' dropping the right palm into his lap. ”Above the line, tip of the iceberg, you speak French and variations of Swahili only. Plus English to your chums, obviously. Which is normal rations for any middle-of-the-list interpreter. With me?”
”With you thus far, Skipper,” I affirmed, striving to evince enthusiasm.
”And below it' - I was now staring downward at his right palm 'the remaining nine-tenths of the iceberg, which is all the other stuff you speak. You could play that one out, couldn't you? Not all that difficult, once you've got a grip on yourself.” Taking back his hands, he treated himself to another biscuit while he waited for me to see the light.
”I still don't think I'm completely there, all the same, Skipper,” I said.
”Don't be a tart, Sinclair, of course you are! It's dead simple. I walk into the conference room. I introduce you.” He did so, in excruciating French, while he masticated his biscuit: ”Je vous pres ente Monsieur Sinclair, notre interprete distingue. II park anglais, frangais et Swahili.” And Bob's your uncle. Anyone who looses off in another language within your hearing, you don't understand 'em.” My facial expression, despite my best efforts, was still not to his liking. ”For Christ's sake, man. It's not such a big deal, acting dumb. Chaps do it every day without even trying. That's because they are dumb. Well, you're not. You're f.u.c.king brilliant. Well, be brilliant. Young strong chap like you, it's a doddle.”
”So when do I get to use my other languages, Skipper? The ones you call below the waterline,” I persisted.
The languages I'm proudest of, I was thinking. The languages that separate me from the pack. The languages that in my book are not submerged at all, but triumphantly salvaged. The languages, if you're me, that should be paraded for all to hear.
”When you're told to and not before. You're under sealed orders. Part one today, part two in the morning, soon as we get final confirmation that the show's on the road.” Then to my relief his rare smile came up, the one you'd cross deserts for. ”You're our secret weapon, Sinclair. Star of the show and don't forget it. How many times in life does a fellow get a chance to give a shove to history?”
”Once if he's lucky,” I rejoined loyally.
”Luck's just another word for destiny,” Maxie corrected me, his Bogey-like eyes gleaming mystically. ”Either you make your own or you're screwed. This isn't some candy-a.r.s.ed training caper. It's delivering democracy at the end of a gun barrel to the Eastern Congo. Get the right groundswell going, give 'em the right leaders.h.i.+p, and the whole of Kivu will come running.”
My head was swirling from this first glimpse of his great vision and his next words spoke straight into my heart and Hannah's.
”Greatest sin committed by the big players in the Congo till now has been indifference, right?”
”Right,” I replied heartily.
”Intervene if you can make a fast buck, get the f.u.c.k out ahead of the next crisis. Right?”
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