Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [153]
‘Excuse me, please.’ One of the Scandinavians had come to sudden and unexpected life. He laid down knife and fork and looked with large vague eyes at the eloquent chaplain. ‘A new word we have now, and a new mission. Our mission now is to learn from Africa.’
His colleague nodded. ‘Your efforts, excuse me, they are going in a wrong direction; it is from Africa to Europe that the spirit is flowing and we must open ourselves to receive it. The Church of the West is corrupted, God has declared a last judgement on it. Now is the time of the Fourth Church. We are forerunners, we go in advance to found his Celestial City.’
‘Open ourselves to receive it?’ A broad smile had overspread Kalabanda’s face. ‘The Celestial City?’ he said. ‘Out there in the bush? Excuse me if I laugh. Haw-haw. Have I been ordained into the Anglican Rite and subscribed after much self-questioning to the Thirty-Nine Articles only to come back here and open myself to receive the spirit flowing from people living in mud huts and talking in obscure languages?’
With the mildness of the utterly convinced, the first of the two missionaries began again to speak of God’s plans for Africa. God had promised that the New Jerusalem would be founded among the heathen, and the Africans of the interior had been chosen because they, among the heathen peoples, were the most spiritual …
Under cover of this, Delblanc leaned forward and said in low tones to Paris, ‘I don’t know which is the madder, do you? What are you doing in this Bedlam, may I ask?’
‘I believe it was mentioned to you that I am the ship’s surgeon?’ Paris spoke rather coldly. It was clear to him that Delblanc was a man of birth and education; but his own provincial and rather narrow upbringing had accustomed him to more circumspect modes of address and the lack of ceremony jarred a little on him, his pride suspected there might be some disparagement in it. But the expression of the other’s face was humorous and friendly and his brown eyes were alert with the interest of his question.
‘Well, of course I know that,’ Delblanc said, with a hint of impatience – he was quick and open in all expression of feeling, as Paris was to learn. ‘That doesn’t explain anything. You do not seem to me to be typical, that is why I asked.’
Something extremely youthful, innocent almost, in the confidence of this pronouncement amused Paris suddenly and took the stiffness out of him. Delblanc, who like many enthusiastic persons often amused without intending to, saw the long, patient face opposite him break into a smile of singular sweetness.
‘I have not had time to become typical,’ the surgeon said. ‘I suppose it takes time, doesn’t it? This is my first voyage.’
‘Ah, that is it then.’
The note of disappointment in this, as at some promising line of enquiry frustrated, made Paris smile again. ‘What are you doing here, for that matter?’ he asked, borrowing the other’s directness. ‘I believe you are an artist?’
‘I do not know if I would so dignify it,’ Delblanc said. ‘I can paint a good likeness. Or so I thought.’ A shadow had come to his face. He appeared to reflect a moment or two, then said, half to himself, ‘It occurs to me … I wonder if your captain would agree to take me as a passenger.’
Before Paris had time to answer this, the Governor had risen to his feet, a signal for everyone else at the table to do the same, and remain so until he had left the room, the major by this time relying heavily on the back of his chair for support, and the treasurer, who had said nothing during the meal, also visibly befuddled.
‘Mr Paris,’ Delblanc said quickly, ‘I know we have not been long acquainted, but there is a matter I would dearly like your advice on. I suppose you are staying here tonight? I would be most grateful … I have some rather good brandy in my room.’
Paris hesitated briefly. He had been looking forward to the solitude