Singapore Grip - J. G. Farrell [142]
‘You blighters don’t know how lucky you are, Mohammed,’ growled Walter to the syce as the door beside him opened to the streaming blackness. The syce, who was used to having cryptic fragments of Walter’s inner debates addressed to him, nodded and smiled politely, holding out the umbrella for Walter to step under and ignoring the rain that hammered on his own unprotected shoulders.
‘Why don’t they oil that damn thing?’ Walter wondered a few moments later, standing in almost total darkness just inside the verandah door. There were distant sounds of movement and a scampering near the floor in the obscurity. He became aware than an animal of some sort was leaning forward to sniff him cautiously. A few seconds passed during which neither Walter nor this creature cared to make a move. Then an electric light was switched on, revealing a large Dalmatian. It wagged its tail briefly and then whisked away into the jungle of rattan furniture. Presently it returned followed by the Major.
‘Ah, Major, I see you have a dog.’
The Major, who appeared to have just awoken, stared somewhat dubiously at the Dalmatian and said: ‘Actually, it’s not mine. It goes home tomorrow with luck.’ After a moment he added: ‘Watch out, there’s another one behind you,’ causing Walter to give a violent start; it was true: another shadowy animal had crept out of the furniture and with its head tilted on one side was running its nose over his ankle. It uttered a yelp as Walter aimed a kick at it; then promptly waddled away to take shelter behind the Major. As far as Walter could make out in the dim light it was an elderly and decrepit King Charles spaniel: its coat, which had plainly come under attack from some worm, was in some patches bald, in others matted and filthy; its tail hung out at a drunken angle and was liberally coated in some dark and viscous substance resembling axlegrease.
‘I found it here when I got in this evening. Someone had left it tethered to the gatepost, with five dollars and a note. Probably someone who had heard of my lectures. Here, have a look.’
The note, typed with a great number of mistakes and unsigned, declared that the writer had been recalled to Europe at such short notice that he had had no time to settle his affairs. He urged the Major ‘as a lover of dogs’ to be so kind as to have this one destroyed. The money was enclosed to cover mortuary expenses. A harrowing postscript asserted: ‘He was a faithful friend.’ As if this were not enough the dog, perhaps divining that its fate was under discussion, set up a doleful whine and turned its bulging, bleary eyes up at the Major.
‘It’s a bit thick, frankly. I have enough on my plate already without having to deal with this poor little brute,’ said the Major gloomily, stooping to tickle the animal behind one cankerous ear.
‘Does it have a name?’ asked Walter, retreating as the repulsive creature, reassured, made to approach him.
‘The note doesn’t say. Francois has taken to calling it ‘The Human Condition” for some reason. I think he means it as a joke.’
‘Well, you’d better have it done away with before it gives us all rabies,’ said Walter. He became brisk again: ‘I just came to enquire after young Webb. How is he?’
The two men set off down the corridor towards Matthew’s room, the Major explaining that since the fever still had not abated they were continuing to give him large quantities of liquid. Dr Brownley was optimistic that the patient would soon be over the worst. The Dalmatian loped cheerfully after them, followed, groaning and gasping, at some distance by The Human Condition.
After a brief look at Matthew, who appeared to be still too busy thrashing and sweating beneath his mosquito net to recognize him, Walter took the Major by the arm for, as it happened, visiting the sick had only been part of his purpose in coming to the Mayfair. He also wanted to discuss Blackett and Webb’s jubilee parade with the Major and, if possible, to conscript him to