The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [552]
‘What would you suggest, Jack?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘This young man wants a closer view of the action.’
‘I should think a spell on Heath’s staff in KL would be the place for a ringside seat,’ came the amiable reply.
‘Good idea! Clear it with Percival and Heath, will you? I take it,’ he went on, this time to Ehrendorf, ‘that your own chaps have no objection. After all, now that we’ve got allies we don’t want to get off on the wrong footing with them, do we?’ And the Commander-in-Chief strolled on, still with a paternal hand on Ehrendorf’s shoulder but with a wary eye open lest one of the Resident Minister’s minions should choose this moment to pounce on him. ‘By the way, Jack,’ he said over his shoulder again. ‘Have you come across a fellow called Simson? No? Obsessed with tank-traps. Says Japanese tanks could be through Malaya like Carter’s Little Liver Pills and we’d have no way of stopping ’m. Still, one never knows, he could be right. One must be fair, after all. What d’you think? All I can say is, thank heaven that’s Percival’s pidgin! Nothing to do with me. Quite a presentable looking fellow, actually. Says he’s an Engineer. No reason to doubt it, of course …’
Seeing that the Commander-in-Chief’s attention had moved on to another problem, Ehrendorf seized the opportunity to escape, though not before having made swift arrangements with another member of Brooke-Popham’s train for the necessary documents. Then he hastened out to where his car was waiting … but on the way, something rather curious happened. He had been aware for some days of a growing strain running in a line down the centre of his body. This strain, since his last meeting with Joan, had become steadily stronger. Suddenly now on his way to the staff-car (it was most unexpected) he split into two Ehrendorfs. While one Ehrendorf gave brisk instructions to the driver, who seemed not to have noticed anything unusual, the other took his seat in the back, shaking his head sadly, as if to say: ‘It doesn’t matter in the least where you tell him to drive you, because one place is exactly like another.’ And while the first Ehrendorf, ignoring this, tried to decide whether to send a last ‘final letter’ to Joan (there had already been one or two), perhaps mentioning that he was ‘off to the Front’ (a slight exaggeration since the HQ of 111 Indian Corps, where he was going, though the centre of operational command for northern Malaya, was actually situated in reasonable comfort and security in Kuala Lumpur, but never mind) and wishing her well for the future with Matthew or the guy with the stammer, the second Ehrendorf continued to watch him with detachment and contempt, as if to suggest that the writing of such a letter was quite as useless as any other course of action he could take and a sign of weakness into the bargain, the aping of noble sentiments which he did not feel in the least.
Passing across Anderson Bridge the car’s progress was slowed by a convoy of armoured troop-carriers; glancing down at the river, Ehrendorf saw the cluster of sampans and tongkangs riding the slime: here entire families of Chinese were fated to spend their lives. For a moment the misery of this waterborne population caused the two Ehrendorfs to merge into one again. But they separated once more on the other side of the bridge. One can hardly be expected constantly, day in and day out, to measure one’s own slender but personal misery against the collective misery of the world! That is asking too much. And about that letter, would it really be self-pitying to send Joan a note wishing her future happiness with Kate’s Human Bean, who was also his own best friend, after all? Yet the truth was (was it not?) that under the guise of these silken good wishes he would really have liked to send Joan a rasping sarcasm. Admit it! Thus brooded the two Ehrendorfs sitting in the back of the car.
When he had returned to his apartment in Market Street, he packed his kit and left it by the door; then he wandered aimlessly from sitting-room