The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [72]
‘Hullo, Wilson,’ Scobie said, ‘I didn’t know you lived up here.’
‘I’m sharing with Harris,’ Wilson said, watching the man who had watched his tears.
‘I’ve been taking a walk,’ Scobie said unconvincingly, ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ It seemed to Wilson that Scobie was still a novice in the world of deceit: he hadn’t lived in it since childhood, and he felt an odd elderly envy for Scobie, much as an old lag might envy the young crook serving his first sentence, to whom all this was new.
3
Wilson sat in his little stuffy room in the U.A.C. office. Several of the firm’s journals and day books bound in quarter pigskin formed a barrier between him and the door. Surreptitiously, like a schoolboy using a crib, Wilson behind the barrier worked at his code books, translating a cable. A commercial calendar showed a week old date - June 20, and a motto: The best investments are honesty and enterprise. William P. Cornforth. A clerk knocked and said, ‘There’s a nigger for you, Wilson, with a note.’
‘Who from?’
‘He says Brown.’
‘Keep him a couple of minutes, there’s a good chap, and then boot him in.’ However diligently Wilson practised, the slang phrase sounded unnaturally on his lips. He folded up the cable and stuck it in the code book to keep his place: then he put the cable and the code book in the safe and pulled the door to. Pouring himself out a glass of water he looked out on the street; the mammies, their heads tied up in bright cotton cloths, passed under their coloured umbrellas. Their shapeless cotton gowns fell to the ankle: one with a design of matchboxes: another with kerosene lamps: the third - the latest from Manchester - covered with mauve cigarette-lighters on a yellow ground. Naked to the waist a young girl passed gleaming through the rain and Wilson watched her out of sight with melancholy lust. He swallowed and turned as the door opened.
‘Shut the door.’
The boy obeyed. He had apparently put on his best clothes for this morning call: a white cotton shirt fell outside his white shorts. His gym shoes were immaculate in spite of the rain, except that his toes protruded.
‘You small boy at Yusef’s?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘You got a message,’ Wilson said, ‘from my boy. He tell you what I want, eh? He’s your young brother, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, sah,’
‘Same father?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘He says you good boy, honest. You want to be a steward, eh?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Can you read?’
‘No, sah.’
‘Write?’
‘No, sah.’
‘You got eyes in your head? Good ears? You see everything? You hear everything?’ The boy grinned - a gash of white in the smooth grey elephant hide of his face: he had a look of sleek intelligence. Intelligence, to Wilson, was more valuable than honesty. Honesty was a double-edged weapon, but intelligence looked after number one. Intelligence realized that a Syrian might one day go home to his own land, but the English stayed. Intelligence knew that it was a good thing to work for Government, whatever the Government. ‘How much you get as small boy?’
‘Ten shillings.’
‘I pay you five shillings more. If Yusef sack you I pay you ten shillings. If you stay with Yusef one year and give me good information - true information - no lies, I give you job as steward with white man. Understand?’ ‘Yes, sah.’
‘If you give me lies, then you go to prison. Maybe they shoot you. I don’t know. I don’t care. Understand?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Every day you see your brother at meat market. You tell him who comes to Yusef s house. Tell him where Yusef goes. You tell him any strange boys who come to Yusef’s house. You no tell lies, you tell truth. No humbug. If no one comes to Yusef’s house you say no one. You no make big lie. If you tell lie, I know it and you go to prison straight away.’ The wearisome recital went on. He was never quite sure how much was understood. The sweat ran off Wilson’s forehead and the cool contained grey face of the boy aggravated him like an accusation he couldn’t answer. ‘You go to prison and you stay in prison plenty long time.