The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [628]
A faint, enigmatic chortle greeted this last observation, followed by silence.
‘Well, Solomon,’ Walter ventured presently. ‘What would you think of such an arrangement if the interested parties liked the sound of it? There need be no great changes on the business side during our lifetime, of course. Frankly, I think we could both do a lot worse. What d’you think?’
Now at last, after being immobile for so long that it might have been taken merely for a piece of furniture, the passive silhouette beside Walter began to move, to struggle to its feet with a creaking and shrieking of bamboo, accompanied by a most peculiar gasping sound which it took him a little time to recognize as laughter. At length, however, the wheezing and gasping died away. By now Langfield was on his feet in front of Walter and bobbing up and down. Again it took Walter a few moments before he realized what the dimly perceived figure was doing. Then it was suddenly clear: the old codger was executing an insulting little caper in front of him.
‘So you’re having trouble getting rid of her, are you, Blackett?’ he crowed. ‘Well, no son of mine would look at her in a hundred years. Never! Not if you gave him half Singapore with her! Ah, that’s a good one … That’s the best I’ve heard for years … Ha! ha! … Your daughter and my son! He wouldn’t look at her! Ha!’ Solomon had paused in the half-open door which led back into the house and his old monkey’s face, illuminated by a glow from within, was twisted with hideous glee. ‘Good night, Blackett. Why, that’s the best I’ve heard for years! You’ve made my day.’
The door slammed. Walter was left alone on the verandah but he could still hear Langfield’s footsteps departing down the corridor. Then, from somewhere deep inside the house, faintly, a querulous voice cried out: ‘He wouldn’t touch the bitch! Never! Never!’ A burst of frenzied laughter and all was quiet.
Not far away, in another and less elegant part of the city, Matthew was sitting on Vera’s bed, apparently about to begin his second meal of the evening. For the past week Vera had issued repeated promises that she would one day cook him a meal, ignoring his protests that he was managing perfectly well for food already. Now here was the promised meal, balanced on his lap, and there seemed to be no option but to go ahead and eat it. He peered at what lay on the plate which was by no means easy to identify in the dim light of the oil-lamp. He proded it suspiciously. ‘What is it?’
‘Baked beans.’
‘I can see they’re baked beans. But what are these two lumps of slippery stuff?’
‘Chicken blood … a Chinese delicacy. Taste. You’ll like it very much, Matthew, I know.’
‘And these two other lumps covered in sauce?’
‘They are other Chinese delicacy … They are white mice, poached Chinese-style. Taste. They are very good.’
‘I’m not frightfully hungry, as a matter of fact. I’ve had one meal already this evening … But I’m really looking forward to tasting all this,’ he added hastily as Vera looked hurt, ‘even if I don’t quite manage to finish it all.’ He captured a baked bean with his chopsticks and nibbled it cautiously.
‘Oh, Matthew, you don’t think I am a good cook, do you?’
‘Of course I do,’ protested Matthew, and in a fit of bravado lifted one of the white mice to his lips and began to gnaw at it, making appreciative sounds. He found that it did not taste too bad, but would have liked to have known which end of the mouse he was eating.
‘You think Miss Blackett is better cook than I,’ Vera said accusingly. ‘I don’t know how you can touch a European woman like Miss Blackett, they sweat so much. It is something horrible!’
‘But…’
‘Yes, you prefer making love-making to Miss Blackett even though she sweats something horrible.’
‘Don’t be silly. You say