waited for disgust or incredulity to be expressed. But the audience might have been watching a travelogue. The Indians and Orientals slipped away, without emotion, accepting without question whatever was fed to them on the small silver screen. The remaining men went to the bar.
A marine fed kopeks into a juke box and pressed half a dozen buttons. He took a big nanny on to the floor and began to dance. In one corner of the bar a drunken American wearing a tartan bow-tie said in a loud voice that he thought the film had been a lot of horse-shit. It was the only positive reaction to the film Mortimer had heard. No one responded. ‘Goddam horse-shit,’ repeated the American. ‘Isn’t that right, Mac?’ He banged an empty glass in front of the barman. ‘Scotch on the rocks?’ asked the barman. ‘A large one,’ said the American. ‘A stinking great large one. Why do they show horse-shit like that?’
Mortimer tried to avoid his gaze; drunks had a way of picking on him. He eased his way back through the crowd to Mr. and Mrs. Ansell. They had been joined by a neat bespectacled man in a sports jacket.
‘Dick,’ Ansell said, ‘I want you to meet Harry Green. You’ll be seeing a lot of him. Harry this is Dick. Dick Mortimer. He’s just joined us.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Green said. ‘What was the weather like in London?’
‘Not bad,’ Mortimer said. ‘Something of an Indian summer really. Are you on business out here?’
‘You could call it that,’ Ansell said. ‘Harry’s one of the scavengers they’ve been warning you about. He’s a bloody Pressman.’
One hour later the bow-tied American had progressed to the colour problem in the States. Alcohol had uncorked vapours of madness and his eyes were wild. ‘The only reason this Goddam country hasn’t got a colour problem is because it hasn’t got any niggers.’ He rounded on a British businessman fortifying a glass of lager with Scotch. ‘Do you know something?’ The Englishman shook his head. ‘I hate niggers. I’m an honest man and I’m telling you I hate niggers. I don’t screw-up the issue with any face-saving horse-shit. I just tell you straight I hate niggers. What do you think of that?’
The Englishman looked at him vaguely. ‘I’m sure you’re entitled to your opinion,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if you could keep your voice down a bit. I’ve got the most awful headache.’
The American glowered at him and said: ‘Goddam nigger-lover.’
On the other side of the bar an African giggled into his beer.
The barman said: ‘Please keep your voice down or you’ll have to go.’
‘Who’s going to make me?’
The barman shrugged, his eyes looking beyond the drunk.
Elmer said: ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ He was chewing gum slowly. Even this action gave the impression of latent power.
The drunk’s voice became quieter. ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ he said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’ He pushed his glass over to the barman. ‘On the rocks,’ he said.
‘I reckon you’ve had just about enough,’ Elmer said.
‘Just one more,’ the drunk said.
‘I reckon you’ve had just about enough.’
‘Make it a beer then.’
The barman looked at Elmer who shook his head.
‘I don’t have to take that from you,’ the drunk said.
‘You sure do,’ Elmer said, chewing rhythmically.
‘We’ll see about that,’ said the drunk. He blundered through the dancers.
‘They usually say they know the Ambassador,’ Elmer said.
Couples were smooching now. A Swedish secretary and an Italian journalist with long sideburns, a Frenchman with his hand on a German blonde’s backside. Chest to chest, hands squeezing, loins testing, feet scarcely moving, lips nuzzling.
Ansell whose wife had left with a woman who lived in the same block watched the couples wistfully. ‘Plenty of crumpet here, you know. Why don’t you chance your arm?’
‘I don’t really fancy any of them,’ Mortimer said.
‘You will. It’s like Africa. They get whiter every day. Are you engaged or anything?’
‘I’ve got a girl friend back in the UK. We’re not engaged or anything though.’
Or were they? There had been a certain proprietary manner about Valerie when he left as if the purchase of a ring would be a mere formality. And she and his mother had chosen his winter clothes as if the two of them were already in-laws.
‘It’s impossible for me,’ Ansell said. ‘This place is like a village.’
They were drinking gin and tonics at the bar. Mortimer found he had to pick his words with care. Ansell’s face was flushed.
‘You’re lucky to have your wife with you,’ Mortimer said.
Ansell nodded dismally. ‘I suppose you’re right. Excuse me while I go and have a pee.’
‘Two more gin and tonics,’ Mortimer said to the barman. He took a pound note from his wallet.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the barman. ‘Roubles only.’
Mortimer felt through his pockets. ‘I haven’t got any roubles,’ he said. He was hot with embarrassment.
The barman sucked on his unlit cigar stub. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Your friend’s got plenty.’
Harry Green came up to the bar. ‘Allow me,’ he said; and put a ten-rouble note on the bar.
Mortimer protested. ‘No, really, Giles Ansell’s got plenty of roubles. I somehow thought they’d want hard currency here. Silly of me.’
But the barman had changed the ten roubles. ‘Not to worry, Green said. ‘It’s only Mickey Mouse money. You’ll find you don’t mind spending roubles but you resent spending dollars or sterling. It’s ridiculous really because it’s all lovely money whether it’s roubles or yen.’
‘Thank you,’ Mortimer said. ‘But you really shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘Forget it. I hear you had a bit of trouble at the embassy today.’
Mortimer sipped at his drink, relieved that the money crisis was over. ‘Quite a drama,’ he said. ‘Some Russian tried to defect.’
Green nodded casually. ‘I suppose he tried to chat up the Ambassador’s wife or something.’
Mortimer said: ‘No, it was someone else’s wife. She was in her car.’
Ansell returned from the toilet. ‘Hallo, Green,’ he said, ‘haven’t you got a home to go to?’
‘We were just discussing this
