The Sunbird Page 29

  Every few minutes Wilfred would heave himself around in his seat to address a remark to either Rogers or De Vallos in the row behind him. He used a stage whisper, covering his mouth with his programme. I ignored the distraction and ploughed through my introduction. It was a resume of all the previously known evidence, and the various theories that had been applied to them. I made it purposely dull, pedestrian, letting Wilfred and his party believe that I had nothing further to support my views.

  ‘Then in March of last year a photograph was shown to me by Mr Louren Sturvesant.’ Now I changed my delivery, let a little electricity come into my tone. I saw a flare of interest in faces which had taken on glazed expressions. I fanned it steadily. Suddenly, I was telling them a detective story. There were longer intervals between Wilfred’s pompous asides. The snickers from his admirers died away. I had the audience by the throat now, they were there with Sally and me in the moonlight looking down on the ghostly outlines of a long-dead city. They shared our thrill as we exposed the first blocks of dressed stone.

  At the moment when I needed it, the lights were turned down into darkness and the first image was flashed upon the screen behind me.

  It was the white king, proud and aloof, regal in his rampant maleness and golden armour. Out of the darkness the images flashed upon the screen. The audience sat in rapt silence, their fascinated faces lit by the reflected glow of the screen, the only movement was the frantic scribbling of the Pressmen in the front row as my voice went on weaving spells about them.

  I carried the story to the point where we had investigated the plain and cavern, but had not yet discovered the walled-up tunnel beyond the portrait of the white king.

  At my signal the lights went up, and the audience stirred back to the present, all except His Grace who had succumbed to the port and was sleeping like a dead man. He was the only one of two hundred who I had not captivated by my tale. Even Wilfred looked groggy and shaken, like a badly beaten prize fighter trying to rouse himself to meet the gong. I had to accord him a grudging admiration, the man was game to the core. He heaved himself around towards De Vallos and in a penetrating whisper told him:

  ‘Typical Bantu stonework of the thirteenth century AD, of course. But very interesting. Reinforces my theories about the dating of the immigrations.’

  I waited silently, clenched fists on the lectern, my head bowed over it. Sometimes I believe I could have been a truly great motion picture actor. I lifted my head slowly and stared at Wilfred, my expression was desolate. He took heart from it.

  ‘The painting means nothing, of course. To tell you the truth it’s probably a Bantu initiation candidate, similar to the White Lady of the Brandberg.’

  I maintained my silence, letting him take out line as though he were a marlin. I wanted him to swallow it down deep, before I set the hook.

  ‘There is no new evidence here, I’m afraid.’

  He looked around him with a satisfied smirk, and his followers’ heads started nodding and grinning like puppets.

  I addressed him directly then.

  ‘As Professor Wilfred Snell has just remarked, fascinating as all of this was, it presented no new evidence.’ They all nodded more vigorously. ‘And so, I determined to look deeper.’

  And I was away again into a description of the discovery of the blocked tunnel, the decision to preserve the white king and cut through living rock, the hole through into the tunnel and again I paused, and looked at Wilfred Snell. Suddenly I felt sorry for him; where before he had been my implacable enemy, an open running canker in my professional life, now he was just a fat and rather ridiculous figure.

  Like the poet Huy, Axeman of all the Gods, I hacked into him then. Cutting him to pieces with my account of the scrolls, the vulture axe, and the five golden books.

  As I spoke one of the attendants wheeled in a barrow covered with a green velvet cloth. It pulled all their eyes, and at my signal he drew aside the cloth and there lay the great gleaming battle-axe and one of the scrolls.

  Wilfred Snell slumped in his seat with his gut in his lap and his purple mouth hanging open slackly while I read the opening words of the first golden book of Huy.

  ‘ “Let men read his words and rejoice as I have rejoiced, let men hear his songs and weep as I have wept.”’

  I ended and looked around at them. They were gripped by the heart strings, every one of them. Even Louren, Hilary and Sally who knew it all were leaning forward in their seats, shiny-eyed and intent.

  It was after seven-thirty, I noticed with surprise. I had overrun my time by an hour and there had been no rebuke from the President beside me.

  ‘Our time is finished, but not the story. Tomorrow morning Professor Eldridge Hamilton will read his paper on the scrolls and their contents. I hope you will be able to attend. Your Grace, President, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you.’

  The silence was complete, nobody moved nor spoke for a full ten seconds, then suddenly they were on their feet applauding wildly. It was the first time since the formation of the Society in 1830 that a paper had been applauded as though it were a stage performance. They came out of their seats, crowding around me to shake my hand and ask their questions which I could not hope to answer. From my vantage-point on the dais I saw Wilfred Snell rise from his seat and lumber ponderously towards the door. He walked alone, his band of followers had left him to join the crowd around me. I wanted to call out to him, to tell that I felt sorry for him, that I wished I could have spared him, but there was nothing to say. He had said it all a hundred times before.

  Every single national paper had it the following morning, and even The Times had allowed itself a touch of the dramatic, ‘Discovery of Carthaginian Treasure,’ it stated, ‘one of archaeology’s most significant finds since the tomb of Tutankhamen.’

  Louren had sent out for them all, and we sat in a sea of newsprint as we ate another of those gargantuan breakfasts. I was touched by Louren’s pride in my achievements. He read each article aloud, interspersing his own comments:

  ‘You rocked them, partner.’

  ‘Ben, you murdered the bums.’

  ‘The way you told it, you even had me wetting my pants, and, hell! I was there!’

  He picked one of the left-wing tabloids from the pile and opened it. His expression changed immediately. Suddenly he was scowling furiously, a look of such concentrated venom that I asked quickly, ‘What is it, Lo?’

  ‘Here.’ He almost flung the sheet at me. ‘Read it yourself, while I finish changing.’ He went through into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  I found it almost immediately. A full-page of photographs under a big banner ‘The forces of freedom’. Black men with guns, with tanks. Black men marching, rank upon endless rank. Eggshell helmets like evil toadstools of hatred, modern automatic weapons slung on camouflaged shoulders, booted feet swinging. It was not these that held me. In the centre of the page was a picture of a tall man with shoulders wide as the crosstree of a gallows, and a bald cannon-ball head that shone in the bright African sunshine. He walked unsmiling between two grinning Chinamen in those shabby rumpled uniforms that look like pyjamas.

  The caption was in bold lettering: ‘The Black Crusader, Major-General Timothy Mageba, the newly appointed commander of the people’s Liberation Army with two of his military advisers.’

  I felt a sinking sensation of dread as I looked at the brooding hatred in that face, the power and terrible purpose in those set shoulders and thrusting gait.

  In some inexplicable fashion it seemed to detract from my own personal triumph. What had happened 2,000 years ago seemed of lessened importance when I looked at the picture of this man, and I thought of the dark forces in movement through the length of my land.

  Yet it came to me then that this man was not unique, Africa had bred many like him. The dark destroyers who had strewn her plains with the white bones of men, Chaka, Mzilikazi, Mamatee, Mutesa, and hundreds of others that history had forgotten. Timothy Mageba was only the latest in a
long line of warriors which stretched back beyond the shadowy, impenetrable veils of time.

  Louren came out of the bedroom, and with him was Hilary. She came to kiss me and congratulate me again, and I dropped the sheet of newspaper from my hand, but not my mind.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be with you to hear your friend Eldridge this morning, Ben. I can’t get out of this meeting. Please look after Hil for me. Give her a good lunch, will you?’ Louren told me as the three of us went down in the lift.

  Eldridge, in his tweeds and elbow patches, massacred his subject. For three and a half hours he mumbled about ‘hangs’ and ’abridgements‘, occasionally letting fly with that laugh of his, a sound which woke the sleepers. I was grateful to him as I looked around the slowly emptying hall, and the doodling yawning members of the Press. He certainly wasn’t stealing my glory from me.

  An hour before lunch Sally slipped me a note from her seat behind me. ‘I can’t take any more. Going out to do some shopping. See you. S.’

  And I smiled as I watched her slide gracefully out of the side exit. Hilary turned and winked at me, and we both smiled.

  Eldridge ground to a slow, inconclusive halt and beamed around at his depleted audience.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think that covers just about everything.’ And there followed a relieved scramble for the doors.

  In the lobby of the Society I was once more surrounded by an enthusiastic mob, and we made slow progress towards the door and our lunch.

  When at last we reached the taxi, with Eldridge and myself flanking Hilary on the seat, I was just about to give the driver the address of the Trattoria Terrazza when Hilary looked down at her hands in her lap and gave a little stricken cry.

  ‘My ring!’ And for the first time we noticed that the great jewel was no longer flaming upon her hand. I stared aghast at the naked finger, a fortune beyond my dreams was missing. That diamond must certainly be worth £30,000.

  ‘When did you last have it?’ I demanded of her, and after a second’s thought a look of relief replaced her worried frown.

  ‘Oh, I remember now. At the hotel, I was painting my nails. I put it in the alabaster cigarette box beside my chair.’

  ‘Which room? Which chair?’

  ‘The lounge, the tapestry chair beside the television set.’

  ‘Eldridge, will you take Mrs Sturvesant on to the restaurant, please. I’d better take another cab and dash back to the hotel before one of the cleaning staff discovers it. Have you your key with you, Hil?’

  She dug into her handbag and came out with the key.

  ‘Ben, you are an old sweetheart. I’m so sorry about this.’ And she handed it to me.

  ‘Damsels in distress are my speciality.’ I stepped out onto the pavement. They pulled away and for five minutes I behaved like a berserk semaphorist towards the passing stream of taxis. I can never tell it those little yellow lights on top are burning or not, so I flag them all.

  I let myself into the Oliver Messel suite with Hilary’s key and hurried down that long passage past the bedrooms. With a little grunt of relief I found the ring amongst the cigarettes in the alabaster box. With it in my hand I moved across to the light from the window to admire it for a moment. It was a thing of such brilliant beauty that my stomach turned within me. I felt a fleeting envy, a twinge of unhappiness that I should never own an object of such pure enchantment, Then I pushed the feeling aside and quickly tied the ring into the corner of my handkerchief, and I started back down the passage.

  As I came level with the bedroom door I noticed that it was slightly ajar, and I paused with my hand going out towards the handle to draw it closed.

  From the room beyond came a woman’s voice, a voice husky with emotion, a voice broken by the panting of breath aroused and tremulous.

  ‘Yes, oh God, yes. Do it! Do it!’ And a man’s voice blended with it, a voice rising in a hoarse cry like a wounded animal.

  ‘Darling! My Darling!’ The voices washed, and swirled and broke together, the high surf of passion driven by the storm winds of love. With it was another sound, rhythmic, urgent, pounding out the pulse of creation, a sound as old as man, as unchanging as the courses of the stars. As I stood frozen, my hand still outstretched towards the door handle, the thudding heartbeat of love was arrested and then there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the small sighs and moans of emotions spent and exhausted.

  I turned away like a sleepwalker. Silently I went to the front door and silently I closed it behind me.

  I sat quietly through a lunch I do not remember eating, through conversations I do not remember hearing, for the voices I had heard beyond that door were those of Sally Senator and Louren Sturvesant.

  I do not remember the return to the Royal Society, and only vague snatches of the concluding papers and ceremonial remain with me

  I sat in my seat in the front row, hunched down in my chair and stared at a crack in the polished wooden floor. My mind cast back, working over the past like a gun-dog hunting a hidden bird.

  I remembered a night at the City of the Moon when I had gone drunk to bed, drunk on whisky poured for me by Sally’s own hand. I remembered waking when Louren came into the tent, and seeing the pale flush of dawn in the sky beyond the tent-flap.

  I remembered my visit to the cavern in the night, when Louren had dazzled me with the torch beam and sent me away.

  I remembered that conversation overheard between Ral and Leslie. I remembered Sally’s friends from Brighton, her violent unreasonable attacks on Hilary, her moods and silences, her sudden gaiety and even more sudden depressions, the half-statements, the hovering upon the verge of revelation, the midnight visit to my bedside, and a hundred other clues and hints - and I marvelled at my own blindness. How could I not have seen it, nor sensed it?

  My name had been spoken, and I struggled to rouse myself, to try and listen to what was said. It was Graham Hobson, the President of the Society, speaking and looking down at me. smiling. Around me heads were craning, smiling also, friendly kind faces.

  ‘Awarded the Society’s Patron’s and Founder’s Medal,’ said Hobson. ‘In addition, my Council has instructed me to announce that a sum has been set aside from the fund provided, and that a commission will be awarded to a leading artist to paint a portrait of Dr Kazin. At an appropriate ceremony the portrait will be hung—’

  I shook my head to clear it. I felt fuzzy and stupid. Hobson’s voice kept fading and I tried to concentrate. Then gentle but insistent hands were pulling me to my feet, pushing me towards the stage.

  ‘Speech!’ they called, laughing, applauding.

  I stood before them. I felt dizzy, the room turned and steadied again, blurred and refocused.

  ‘Your Grace,’ I began and choked, my throat felt flannelly, the words came out thickly. ‘I am honoured.’ I stopped and groped for words, they were silent, expectant. I looked desperately about the hall, seeking deliverance or inspiration.

  Sally Senator was standing beside the side entrance. I did not know how long she had been there. She was smiling, white teeth in her sun-brown and lovely face, dark hair hanging in shining rings to her shoulders, her cheeks aflame and eyes sparkling, a girl freshly arisen from the bed of her lover.

  I stared at her. ‘I am thankful,’ I mumbled, and she nodded and smiled encouragement at me - and my heart broke; it was a physical thing, a sharp pain, tissue tearing in my chest, so intense that I caught my breath. I had lost her, my love, my only love, and all these honours, all this acclaim was meaningless.

  I stared across at her, desolate and bereft of purpose. I felt the tears flood and burn my eyes. I did not want them all to see it, and I stumbled from the stage towards the door. The applause swelled again, and I heard voices in the tumult.

  ‘Poor fellow, he’s completely overcome.’

  ‘How touching.’

  ‘He’s overwhelmed.’

  And I ran out into the street. It was raining a soft drizzle and I ran wildly. Like a wounded animal I w
anted to be alone to recover from this hurt. The cold rain soothed my burning eyes.

  I craved solitude and surcease from pain, and both I found at the City of the Moon. Eldridge had a month’s lecturing commitments to meet in England, and Sally had disappeared. I had not spoken to her since that night, but Louren told me casually that she had taken two weeks of her accumulated vacation time and had joined a tour to Italy and the Greek Islands. At the City of the Moon an airmail letter from Sally reached me, postmarked Padua, confirming this and regretting that her efforts to see me before I left London had failed. This was not surprising, for I had not returned to the Dorchester, but had my luggage sent to Blue Bird House and flown out on the early morning flight tor Africa. Sally sent her congratulations, and ended by saying she would return to Johannesburg at the end of the month and take advantage of the first flight to the City of the Moon.

  Reading her letter gave me a feeling of unreality, like receiving a message from beyond the grave. For she was dead to me, gone beyond my reach for ever. I burned the letter.

  Louren visited the site for one day. I found that I had nothing to say to him. It was as though we were strangers, his features once so well remembered and beloved, were unfamiliar to me now.

  He sensed the gap that separated us, and tried to reach across it. I could not respond, and he cut short his visit and left. I knew his puzzlement, and vaguely I regretted it. I could not find it in myself to blame or hate him.

  Ral and Leslie were shadowy figures on the borders of my solitude. They did not intrude in the private world in which I now lived.

  This was the world of Huy Ben-Amon, a place beyond pain and sorrow. During the time that Eldridge worked upon the scrolls, 1 had followed daily each detail of his translation. Language is my greatest talent, it comes to me without effort. Lawrence of Arabia learned to speak Arabic in four days - in ten I had taught myself Punic, and in so doing had gained the key to the fairyland of the golden books of Huy.