Stand on Zanzibar

context (19)

A FREE RENDERING OF TWO NATIONAL ANTHEMS

It is expected as a matter of course that every household in Yatakang should have the audivid recording of this, as prepared live during a mass rally in Gongilung on the Leader’s birthday, 2006:

“We are the descendants of Grandfather Loa.

Blood runs in our veins as hot as lava.

Our united voice shakes the world.

We can build mountains and take them away.

Together with our beloved Leader

We will shape a new destiny for our country.

“There are a hundred beautiful islands.

There are millions of powerful people.

There is one right path for all of us.

Praise the Leader who expresses our common will.

Together with our beloved Leader

We will shape a new destiny for our country.”

On the other hand, even though somebody pointed out to Zadkiel Obomi during his first term of office that Beninia had no anthem and he told the officious busybody to go and write one, the only time the Beninians were thoroughly exposed to it was when Jacob Fikeli and his Black Star Marimba Orchestra took a fancy to the tune and put it on the West African pop-parade:

“Land of peace and brotherhood

To thee we pledge our love.

We value thee all other good,

All earthly wealth, above.

“Freedom came within a year

We never shall forget.

Our love for thee, Beninia,

Shall grow still greater yet.”

(Fikeli’s version was in Shinka. It went approximately:

“You ask why I’m in Port Mey

When my home is up-country.

Listen and I will tell you

The whole ridiculous story.

“I went to visit my uncle.

My uncle had a lot of palm-wine.

Everybody was helplessly drunk.

I met a girl relieving herself in the bush.

“My uncle had got married a third time.

I didn’t know the girl was my aunt.

She wants to divorce him and come to me.

I can’t afford to pay compensation!”)

continuity (24)

THIS SCENE NOT SHIFTED

When Bronwen said in a matter-of-fact tone that she believed she had been one of the temple girls at Khajuraho in a previous incarnation, Donald was not at all surprised.

* * *

The centre of Gongilung had gradually been redeveloped from its original higgledy-piggledy layout until it approximated an H, the verticals and crossbar being the main avenues (Dedication, on which their hotel was located, National and Solukarta, respectively), the spaces between the legs being parks and recreation areas. Closing off the inland end were the government buildings and the university; closing off the other end was the port. On either side the city straggled for miles in an irregular arc paralleling the shore, a fringe of resorts and expensive villas shading back into the shabby overcrowded slums fledging the hillside.

* * *

The rain having ceased, the clouds having drawn aside, the cone of Grandfather Loa could be seen brooding over the Shongao Strait with a wreath of mist around his head like a halo.

* * *

When they dressed and went out to see what stores were open they at once picked up a gaggle of followers. Bronwen seemed able literally to ignore them, and Donald reasoned that perhaps, coming from a country as grossly overcrowded as India, she would not have expected anything else. But he himself found that he hated the sensation of being watched and followed, no matter how openly.

* * *

Moreover, though the curious bystanders confined themselves to staring and whispering, he fancied he could detect hostility in their manner. It might be illusion. If their interest was due to no more than fascination at his strange white-skinned appearance, though, why were there so few smiles among those sallow Asian faces?

* * *

At every intersection there were collapsible booths almost buried under the load of goods they offered for sale: papers and journals, records, reefers, cigarettes made of a strain of tobacco alleged to lack all carcinogenic compounds—Donald didn’t feel inclined to put the claim to the test—telescopic umbrellas, sun-glasses in cheap Japanese photo-reactive plastic, busts of Marshal Solukarta, sweetmeats, sandals, brooches, knives …

One of them, facing a wall-mounted shrine, made a speciality of devotional objects and displayed a more-than-ecumenical tolerance: from luminous St. Christophers through miniaturised Korans sealed into bracelet charms and guaranteed to contain the entire authentic text to traditional Yatakangi incense volcanoes. At this one Bronwen insisted on stopping for a thorough inspection, while Donald fretted and fumed because their halting allowed their followers to close in and surround them. Most of them were teenagers, with a sprinkling of older folk: some pushing bicycles, some carrying packages, interrupting their shopping or delaying an errand to gaze at the foreigners.

And yet … their presence wasn’t the only thing that made hm uncomfortable. He looked up, over their heads, and there was the volcano looming.

The impulse was ridiculous; nonetheless, he made an effort of will and gave in to it. He pushed his way to the window of the booth and bought one of the incense cones. The seller naturally assumed he wanted it for a souvenir, and tried to persuade him to take a Solukarta bust as well. Only slapping down a two-tala coin, the exact price of the cone, made him shrug and desist.

“What do you want that for?” Bronwen asked, putting back a pair of bright yellow sun-glasses which were far too big for her.

“Tell you later,” Donald said curtly, and shoved the Yatakangis aside so that he could get at the wall shrine.

As they realised what he was doing, they exchanged looks of surprise and their chatter died away. Embarrassed by their intent scrutiny but determined to go through with what he had started, he placed the cone on the shrine’s brass tray, crusted with the ashy traces of a thousand such. Having lit it, he made the proper ritual gesture—a bow and hand-movements akin to the Indian namasthi—and wafted a wisp of the smoke towards Bronwen.

The reaction of the natives was all Donald could have hoped for. Puzzled, but not wishing to fail in the proper procedure, members of the crowd moved towards the shrine, each placing his or her right hand in the smoke for a moment and muttering a short conventional prayer. More courageous than the rest, a boy of fifteen or so thanked Donald for buying the cone, and the remainder copied his example. After that, they dispersed with many backward glances.

“What was all that about?” Bronwen demanded.

“I couldn’t explain without giving you a course in Yatakangi sociology,” Donald grunted. “It merely proved that something I read about nine years ago hasn’t been changed by the current government.”

“Governments don’t change things,” she said. “Only time does that.” The statement had the glibness of a proverb. “I know the pig is a cleanlier animal than the sheep, but try telling that to a yelling mob … There’s a dress-store, on the next block. Perhaps I’ll get what I need there.”

* * *

With maximum patience, Donald sat through forty minutes of trial and error while she paraded before him in a succession of Yatakangi clothes to ask if this one or that one suited her better. He began to grow annoyed. Honesty compelled him to wonder if it was at her or at himself. For years he had enjoyed the comfortable, no-questions attitudes of the prosperous modern bachelor working the New York shiggy circuit, but something—contact with Gennice, maybe, or simply the disruptive intrusion of real life into his placid existence—had made him discontented. Ordinarily it would not have bothered him that Bronwen was clearly very vain. He had had an astonishing amount of pleasure from her slender brown body; moreover, someone suffering from leukaemia was to be pitied and allowances ought to be made.

Yet, when the choice was made and her gorgeous evening sari had been packaged in a plastic satchel and she herself in a shareng of peacock brilliance and she asked him whether it wasn’t time for lunch because she was hungry, he hesitated over his response.

He said finally, “You’re taking a lot for granted.”

“What?”

“I am here on business, you know, I have other obligations besides helping you to find your way around Gongilung.”

She flushed. Her pale brown skin mottled with the darkening effect of the underlying blood.

“So am I,” she said after a pause. “Though mine, of course, is the kind of business where it’s pleasanter to pretend that one is merely amusing oneself. Do you not have to eat, though?”

He didn’t answer. After a moment, she put out her hand and took the bag containing her sari, which the saleswoman in the store had given to Donald automatically.

“In bed,” she said, “your American crudity has a certain exciting quality. Out of it, it’s merely bad manners. Thank you for giving me so much of your valuable time!”

She tucked the package under her arm and spun on her heel.

Donald watched her go, wondering just how much of a fool he had been.

With a little trouble, he found his way to the press club, a State-run organisation which was inevitably plastered with testimonials to the beneficence and unalloyed Asiatic thinking of the Solukarta régime, but which, he decided after wandering around its facilities, was going to prove very useful. As well as a restaurant, recreation-rooms and a bar—with a special section for Muslims offering only coffee, soft drinks and huqahs—there were phone and telefax rooms, a large library with a selection of a hundred or so prominent Asian journals, and a series of TV sets tuned to all the most important services covering the area, including the satellite relays in English, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic and the major European languages.

On a California time-base it was about time for his evening meal. Served by waiters as obsequious as if the colonial period had never ended, he ploughed his way through a huge dish of ristafl, the Yatakangi counterpart of paella but bearing a corrupted Dutch name cognate with the Indonesian rijstaafel. There were not many other people in the restaurant, but literally everyone else stared at him for the same reason that had drawn a crowd around him in the street: he and a mannish woman with Slavonic features, whom he assumed to be a Russian, were the only white people among Asiatics and Africans.

Having an hour to kill before his three o’clock appointment, he went to the library to digest his food. While he was patiently reading the day’s issues of the three major Yatakangi papers—here, the impact of TV’s instant news had not yet abolished the ancient influence of the printed press—he grew aware of someone looming over him.

He glanced up to discover a tall, dark-skinned woman of early middle age, her hair drawn tightly back on the crown of her head and lending her a severe expression. Guessing at once that this must be the Gongilung representative of Engrelay Satelserv, the one Delahanty had warned him to be tactful with, he rose to his feet.

“Donald Hogan,” the woman said, with the typical slight Afrikaner accent of the modern South African. “My name is Deirdre Kwa-Loop. I found your message at my office when I called back an hour ago, and guessed you’d be here since you weren’t at your hotel.”

She offered him a blunt-fingered hand which he shook as cordially as he could.

“I gathered from some of the things they said over the past few days that Engrelay wasn’t exactly overjoyed with what I’d been doing for them on the optimisation story,” she went on, dropping into a chair that faced him. “I’m sorry they took it quite as far as sending out a biology specialist, though. That’s what you are, correct?”

Donald, settling himself back in his own seat, gave a wary nod.

“Why sorry?”

“Putting it simply, friend, you’ve been sent after a non-story. I’ve seen a few in my time, but this is the baas of them all.”

Donald looked blank. During the pause, a waiter passed and inquired if they wanted anything; Deirdre ordered coffee.

“Come off it!” she continued as the man moved away. “You must know what the set-up’s like in this country—it positively breeds non-stories!”

“I don’t really,” Donald said. “I’ve never been here before.”

“But they said something about you speaking the lingo.”

“I do—just a little. But this is my first visit.”

“Why, those blockbottomed…! No, that’s unfair. I guess there can’t be too many people around who know genetics and Yatakangi both—it’s the son and daughter of a bitch of a language.” Deirdre sighed, leaning back in her chair and putting her fingers together.

“Better fill you in on the scene, then—clear away some of the crazy ideas they seem to keep at Engrelay HQ. Let’s begin with me, since they probably didn’t advertise the full details of my status. I’m here primarily for the Cape Broadcasting Commission. Since Cape doesn’t yet stretch its funds to satellite relay stations they don’t object if I act as stringer for one—maximum one—beam agency that does have satellites. I used to represent the Common Europe Satelserv, but a year or two ago I managed to change horses in midstream. Didn’t expect much to come of the new status. Like any other country where the government keeps a tight rein, most of what you pipe through is handouts and your own stuff has to be carefully tailored to avoid offending the censors.

“Then suddenly the only big story in five years breaks, and here I am. For a bit I thought wow. But what have I had since the first day? Official propaganda and official brushoffs. For a reason I cannot figure out but can make some educated guesses about, the lid is on and the pressure is rising.”

“What sort of guesses?” Donald demanded. “Do you mean Sugaiguntung can’t do what—?”

“Sugaiguntung’s tinkered with genetics here before. Moving him over to people instead of rubber-trees is a change of quantity, not quality. But if rumour’s to be trusted this place is going to be turned over and shaken.” Deirdre let her voice drop almost to a whisper after a quick survey of their neighbours in the library.

“I hear Jogajong is back.”

Donald stared.

“Do I have to tell you what that means? If it’s true, Yatakang is going to go up in a fashion that makes the Singhalese Revolution look like the Wars of the Roses!”

There was a pause. Eventually Deirdre said, “Okay. Before you ask why I told you that, I’ll explain. Don’t kid yourself you can stick to your brief and cover nothing but the Sugaiguntung story. Scientific expert or not, if anything does blow, you’ll be Engrelay’s man on the spot and I’ll be what I’ve always been—a local stringer. I want to strike a bargain with you.”

“Such as…?”

“Share leads. A four-hour beat on any genuine new story either of us picks up solo.”

Donald thought that over. He said at length, “I can’t think of any reason why not, except I don’t see that I’m likely to pick up much that you can use.”

“I’m no expert. I may be wrong about the optimisation programme. What I have to go on is political, not scientific.”

The waiter delivered her coffee, and she poured a cup before resuming what she was saying.

“You see, I’ve been here long enough to recognise the typical official smokescreen. Solukarta is generating window for all he’s worth. This genetic programme is supposed to be developed from Sugaiguntung’s work on apes, right? In every country people are clamouring for the process because they’ve been forbidden to become parents, right? Yet no foreign correspondent, not even the Chinese and Japanese, has managed to get at Sugaiguntung without some ‘interpreter’ or other. I speak Yatakangi—what’s more Sugaiguntung studied in your country and wrote his scientific papers in English before the government hinted that it was—ah—‘unpatriotic’. For me he needs an interpreter?”

“Editing,” Donald said.

“You’re on the orbit.” Deirdre poured the first of her coffee over her large lower lip and set the cup down with a chinking noise. “Right—your turn to do some talking. I want to know about the scientific side. Far as I can figure out, the only part of the optimisation process which has been properly discussed is a cloning technique—that the right word? Thought so. But as I understand it … Well, Sugaiguntung’s a genius and nobody says otherwise, but for this you’d need not geniuses but assembly-line technicians.”

“That’s pretty well right,” Donald agreed. “But how about all these doctors and nurses from outlying islands, coming to Gongilung to be taught the method?”

Deirdre gave a coarse laugh. “They came, all right. But they haven’t been sent up to the university for instruction. They’ve been told to go home and await receipt of a printed manual.”

“It sounds as though I’m chasing shadows,” Donald said.

“We think so. Of course, the people don’t, and that’s where trouble may arise. If they decide they’ve been deceived—boom!”

Donald pondered. He had no doubt that this was exactly what the people who had sent him wanted to hear: that the optimisation programme was a fraud mounted for political reasons. But surely a man with an international reputation like Sugaiguntung’s wouldn’t allow his government to let itself be caught out in a flagrant lie? Sugaiguntung was at least as much of a patriot as any member of the world-wide confraternity of science could be. Besides, he’d be blamed along with Solukarta if the calamity occurred.

“Come on!” Deirdre said. “I want to hear your view. There isn’t an expert on genetics in this country who’ll talk freely to a foreign reporter—they just roll their eyes as though Sugaiguntung was Grandfather Loa incarnate.”

Donald drew a deep breath. What he was going to say could have been found as easily through an encyclopedia connection over the phone, but laymen possibly wouldn’t have known the right questions to ask.

“Well, there are three main ways of optimising your gene-pool without diminishing your population. Solukarta seems to be trying to keep it steady—I recall seeing that his planners were assuming a plus two per cent value for the year 2050—so we can disregard culling.”

“What’s that?”

“Selective eugenic extermination of bad hereditary lines.”

Deirdre shuddered. “They were talking about that in my country before the War of Independence—but never mind. Go on.”

“One way is what’s now generally adopted in countries with a suitable enforcement agency: eugenic legislation. Without actually killing off the bad heredities, you make it difficult or impossible for them to reproduce. That’s not much more than a directed version of natural selection, and people have grown used to it.

“Another technique is the one you mentioned—cloning. You implant a sound cell-nucleus in an ovum in place of the faulty one which results naturally from conventional fertilisation. This has drawbacks—it costs a fortune because it takes skilled tectogeneticists to do the job, and it’s susceptible to unforeseen side-effects. Even if you make the transplant with apparent success you may induce recessive mutations that crop up in a future generation. The child is necessarily of the parent’s sex. It takes anything up to twenty attempts before you get a viable ovum. And so on.

“The third way is the easiest. You deliberately breed from sound lines only, as you do with domestic cattle. This can be simple—you merely send the mother to bed with a healthy partner—or it can have luxy elaborations, up to and including external fertilisation by AID and reimplantation in the mother.”

“I’ve been wondering,” Deirdre said, “whether the outcome of all this is going to be no more than a national sperm bank, so people can have cubs by Solukarta and other prominent figures.”

Donald hesitated. But what he had in mind to say was far from restricted knowledge, and would at least give the impression that he was keeping the bargain he’d struck.

“I think not,” he said.

“Why?”

“Solukarta daren’t have prodgies. He’s carrying the gene of a rare disease called porphyria—the one that sent King George III of England out of his skull.”

“I didn’t know that!”

“He doesn’t like it noised around. And being recessive it’s easy to cover up. But if you check on the relatives he’s managed to—ah—lose since coming to power, you’ll find clues.”

Deirdre gave a thoughtful nod. “Well, anyhow,” she resumed. “My guess is that with the available resources—no matter how many pupils Sugaiguntung has trained at the university—Yatakang can’t afford anything better than some sort of selective breeding.”

“If they try it,” Donald said, “they’re headed for trouble.”

“Why?”

“It limits the gene-pool. If we have any claim to be boss species on this ball of mud, it’s founded on the fact that we have the largest available gene-pool of any animal or plant whatever. We can cross-fertilise from one pole to the other. And the ability to cross our lines out is the thing that really entitles us to vaunt our supremacy over creatures that vastly outnumber us, like ants and nematodes.”

He noticed that Deirdre stiffened a trifle at that. Small wonder. Just as Israel had become almost fascist in its racialism during the last century, black South Africans had become fanatical on the subject during this one. He thought of Norman and hurried on.

“Well, take it as read that we don’t possess enough information to optimise our genetic endowment on a simple breeding basis. We’re more likely to run into the kind of trouble which turned the Afrikaners paranoid.” That relaxed Deirdre again, he noticed with amusement.

“But in the second part of the programme Solukarta’s proposing a fourth method, and this is where the crunch comes. Actually tailoring the genes in a fertilised human ovum so that the resulting baby will have specified talents, some of them—by implication—unprecedented in human history. That’s what’s excited the public’s imagination in my country. How about you?”

Deirdre sighed. “Same is true in Asia. Most of the people around here are still conditioned by ancestor-worship, in spite of the propaganda against it. They like the idea of having two or three healthy, long-lived children instead of a crowd of sickly ones, because they’re more likely to survive and take care of their old helpless parents, so they’re amenable to eugenic legislation. But the promise of having children with brand-new talents fascinates them. It would mean—by implication, as you just said—that those children would be exceptionally grateful to the ancestors who endowed them with their special abilities.”

“How about back home, among your own people?” Donald ventured.

“I’ll be frank, as much as I can,” Deirdre said after a moment’s hesitation. “Despite having taken our country back from the white baas, despite having run it far more efficiently, we tend to nurse a suspicion of our own inferiority. To be able to prove scientifically that our children would be not only the equal of anyone else’s but actually ahead of them…”

She let the words die away and gave a shrug.

Graft on to that the European reaction, especially in countries as densely populated as Holland and Flanders which lack the spillage zone enjoyed by the French-speaking Walloons …

Donald sighed. Somehow, the entire human race seemed momentarily united in a single entrancing dream—the hope that the next generation they would bequeath to Mother Earth would be whole, healthy, sane, capable of making amends for the rape they had inflicted in olden days.

The tantalising promise had been made. And it looked as though the promise was a lie.

Abruptly, awareness of the time shattered his musing, and he jumped to his feet.

“I shouldn’t worry about being punctual for appointments here,” Deirdre said sourly. “They’ve kept me hanging around often enough—they deserve some of their own medicine for a change.”