Island - Aldous Huxley [19]
“What do you mean?”
“I happen to be the Raja of Pala.”
“The Raja of Pala?”
“Since ’fifty-four. That was when my father died.”
“And your mother, I take it, is the Rani?”
“My mother is the Rani.”
Make a beeline for the palace. But here was the palace making a beeline for him. Providence, evidently, was on the side of Joe Aldehyde and working overtime.
“Were you the eldest son?” he asked.
“The only son,” Murugan replied. And then, stressing his uniqueness still more emphatically, “The only child,” he added.
“So there’s no possible doubt,” said Will. “My goodness! I ought to be calling you Your Majesty. Or at least Sir.” The words were spoken laughingly; but it was with the most perfect seriousness and a sudden assumption of regal dignity that Murugan responded to them.
“You’ll have to call me that at the end of next week,” he said. “After my birthday. I shall be eighteen. That’s when a Raja of Pala comes of age. Till then I’m just Murugan Mailendra. Just a student learning a little bit about everything—including plant breeding,” he added contemptuously—“so that, when the time comes, I shall know what I’m doing.”
“And when the time comes, what will you be doing?” Between this pretty Antinoüs and his portentous office there was a contrast which Will found richly comic. “How do you propose to act?” he continued on a bantering note. “Off with their heads? L’état c’est moi?”
Seriousness and regal dignity hardened into rebuke. “Don’t be stupid.”
Amused, Will went through the motions of apology. “I just wanted to find out how absolute you were going to be.”
“Pala is a constitutional monarchy,” Murugan answered gravely.
“In other words, you’re just going to be a symbolic figurehead—to reign, like the Queen of England, but not rule.”
Forgetting his regal dignity, “No, no,” Murugan almost screamed. “Not like the Queen of England. The Raja of Pala doesn’t just reign; he rules.” Too much agitated to sit still, Murugan jumped up and began to walk about the room. “He rules constitutionally; but, by God, he rules, he rules!” Murugan walked to the window and looked out. Turning back after a moment of silence, he confronted Will with a face transfigured by its new expression into an emblem, exquisitely molded and colored, of an all too familiar kind of psychological ugliness. “I’ll show them who’s the boss around here,” he said in a phrase and tone which had obviously been borrowed from the hero of some American gangster movie. “These people think they can push me around,” he went on, reciting from the dismally commonplace script, “the way they pushed my father around. But they’re making a big mistake.” He uttered a sinister snigger and wagged his beautiful, odious head. “A big mistake,” he repeated.
The words had been spoken between clenched teeth and with scarcely moving lips; the lower jaw had been thrust out so as to look like the jaw of a comic strip criminal; the eyes glared coldly between narrowed lids. At once absurd and horrible. Antinoüs had become the caricature of all the tough guys in all the B-pictures from time immemorial.
“Who’s been running the country during your minority?” he now asked.
“Three sets of old fogeys,” Murugan answered contemptuously. “The Cabinet, the House of Representatives and then, representing me, the Raja, the Privy Council.”
“Poor old fogeys!” said Will. “They’ll soon be getting the shock of their lives.” Entering gaily into the spirit of delinquency, he laughed aloud. “I only hope I’ll still be around to see it happening.”
Murugan joined in the laughter—joined in it, not as the sinisterly mirthful Tough Guy, but with one of those sudden changes of mood and expression that would make it, Will foresaw, so hard for him to play the Tough Guy part, as the triumphant urchin of a few minutes earlier. “The shock of their lives,” he repeated happily.
“Have you made any specific plans?