Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [83]
not stand by in the face of an egregious crime if one could do something to help; this, though, was hardly that. The real bar to her intervention lay in the fact that if she now gave money to the boy, Ling would lose face. Her act would imply that he had acted meanly (which he had) and reveal her as the one who was really in charge (which she was), and that could amount to an unforgivable loss of face.
Domenica looked at the boy. He was still staring at Ling and it seemed to her that he was on the brink of tears. She turned to Ling. “Such a helpful boy,” she said. “And he has such a charming smile.”
Ling glanced at the boy. “He is just riff-raff,” he said. “The son of an assistant pirate.”
“But such appealing riff-raff,” persisted Domenica. “In fact, I really must photograph him – for my records.”
She had been carrying a small camera in her rucksack, and she now rummaged in the bag to retrieve it.
“I do not think you should photograph him,” said Ling, shooing the boy away with a gesture of his hand. “He must go away now.”
“But I must!” exclaimed Domenica. “I must have a complete record.”
Ignoring Ling, she moved towards the boy and led him gently away from the side of the veranda. At first he was perplexed, but when he realised what was happening his face broke into a grin and he stood co-operatively in front of a tree while Domenica took the photograph.
The picture taken, Domenica reached into her pocket and thrust a few banknotes into the boy’s hand.
“Why are you giving him money?” Ling called out. “I have paid him. Take the money back.”
“I’m not paying him for carrying the case,” Domenica said lightly, indicating to the now delighted boy that he should leave.
“That was for his photograph.” She glanced at Ling and smiled. She felt pleased with herself. She had repaired the injustice without causing a loss of face to her guide. The natural order of things had not been disturbed, and the amount of happiness 174 By the Light of the Tilley Lamp
in the world had been discreetly augmented. It was a solution of which Mr Jeremy Bentham himself could only have approved. The young man who was to be Domenica’s house-servant now picked up her suitcase and walked into the house. He moved, Domenica noticed, with that fluidity of motion that Malaysians seemed to manage so effortlessly. We walk so clumsily, she thought; they glide.
She followed him into the living room of the house. It was cool inside, and dark. Such light as there was filtered through a window which was largely screened by a broad-leafed plant of some sort. She suddenly thought of the Belgian anthropologist. Had he lived here? She looked about her. On one wall, secured by a couple of drawing pins, was a faded picture of le petit Julien, le Manneken Pis, symbol of everything that Brussels stood for, culturally and politically, or so the Belgians themselves claimed. I detect, she thought, a Belgian hand.
56. By the Light of the Tilley Lamp
There was no electricity in the village, of course, and when night descended – suddenly, as it does in the tropics – Domenica found herself fumbling with a small Tilley lamp which the house servant had set out on the kitchen table. It was a long time since she had used such a lamp, but the knack of adjusting it came back to her quickly – an old skill, deeply-ingrained, like riding a bicycle or doing an eightsome reel, the skills of childhood which never left one. As she pumped up the pressure and applied a match to the mantle, Domenica found herself wondering what scraps of the old knowledge would be known to the modern child. Would that curious little boy downstairs, Bertie, know how to operate an