Two stewards came bearing a spatula as long as a dragon-boat oar and a deep-bowled spoon to match. Leaning out over the pit, and propping the spoon on the spatula, they scooped the fatty heart out of the largest slab of protein and held it up before the King. After a moment he stirred and then he slumped forward with his face in the bowl. By the squirming of his shoulders I could tell he was feeding.
There was a murmur around the room. Turning to the man on my left, I greeted him in the first of the languages and then the second, but my servitor took my head firmly in his soft hands and twisted it to face the front.
We sat in silence again with the fragrance of the protein in our nostrils.
At last, the King raised his hand and the spoon was withdrawn. Figures slipped from the shadows, propped his glazed head against some pillows, and wheeled him swiftly away.
It was our turn to feast. Portions were scooped and carved for us by the stewards and laid in platters on our knees. It was indeed a meal fit for a King and we set upon it like famished beggars, tearing off chunks with our fingers and stuffing our mouths until the juices ran down our chins. A tastier food never crossed my lips. We chewed and snuffled and swooned.
When we had eaten our fill, the servitors mopped our faces with hot scented towels. The familiar digestif was served. Then music and magic tricks — I cannot remember clearly. Then the first of my companions was wheeled away for his audience with the King. Five or six others followed at intervals. The shrinking band left in the hall dozed in the heat from the pit and sipped the liquor. From time to time, a servitor would take a goblet gently from a sleeping hand.
At last, only I remained. Was it an omen? I reminded myself that I had been the last to arrive. Presumably protocols were being observed and I was the least important guest. Or the most? Surely not.
I’m going on, I know. Forgive me. This is the last part.
My turn came. I was wheeled from the banqueting hall. I expected to be brought before the King in an adjoining room, but found myself instead beneath the stars. Yes, my servitor said in a kindly voice, the sparkles I saw above were actual stars. It was refreshingly cool outdoors and the air seemed perfectly breathable. We set off down a path.
The Royal Palace is a vast complex of circular buildings, large and small, linked by catwalks and cowpaths, and serving as bedrooms, nurseries, larders, armouries and refrigeration rooms (my servitor said). It does not have the grandeur of the Palace of the People — how could it! — but it is impressive in its own way. The thatched roofs seem crude to my eye, but are much admired by the locals. As we passed among them in the starlight, I had to admit that they lent a rustic charm to the scene.
We entered one of the smaller huts, my servitor stooping so deeply through the doorway that his chin pressed on my shoulder.
Who should be waiting there under a knuckle-bone chandelier but Bhuti Khuzwayo.
Let’s get straight down to business, he said, hooking a stool closer with his toe and laying his feverish hands on mine. At our first meeting his manner had been jovial, but now he was solemn.
He began by acknowledging our long, loyal business association. He thanked me for our ongoing efforts to preserve Papa’s legacy, extending his gratitude explicitly to you, Fei, and to all our comrades in the factory, managers and workers alike. Your likenesses, and I quote, are unsurpassed. Instantly recognisable but never literal, always capturing the essence of the man.
We are committed to keeping Papa’s memory alive, Bhuti Khuzwayo said (and by ‘we’ I understood him to mean the government). Every standing order will be filled, no lines will be discontinued without proper consultation. But new values demand new symbols. We have therefore decided to launch a new range of official merchandise in the image of the King.
This was the moment to ask about the monarchy, but Bhuti Khuzwayo’s earnestness defied interruption. The fresh air had cleared the fog from my brain and the last few wisps of it now melted away.
When the time is right, we will talk numbers, he said. We have the usual lines in mind — plastic figurines, bronze sentinels, at least one stone colossus. For now, we are simply concerned to establish a likeness. Our experts tell us — and by ‘us’ I understood him again to mean the government — that there is no substitute for empirical observation, for the eye, Bhuti Wu. Your eye.
Bhuti Khuzwayo raised a finger and the servitor, who had been waiting unremarked, bent over me. I expected him to untie my ankles, but with a few quick movements he strapped my wrists to the arms of the chair. The next moment he was hovering with a bridle. I cried out in panic, but Bhuti Khuzwayo smoothed my hands with his hot palms and brought his lips close to my ear. A small precaution, he said. It won’t hurt.
The bridle fitted snugly over my skull. It was not especially uncomfortable, as Bhuti Khuzwayo had promised. I gagged when the bit pressed down my tongue, but the mouthparts were finely wrought and the straps as supple as kid. The earplugs dangling from the headpiece were pushed into my ears. The blinkers lay as soft as petals against my temples.
The servitor squeezed my shoulder and left. Bhuti Khuzwayo pushed me down a cowpath into the audience chamber.
I felt rather than saw the space, since most of it was in shadow and I could scarcely move my head. A round, thatched room even larger than the banqueting hall, unfurnished, with grass mats underfoot.
The King was in the middle on his divan, propped up on brightly coloured cushions, with an amber light sifting down from above. I thought he was wearing a nightcap, but as I rolled closer I saw that it was a golden beret, many sizes too big for him, drooping over his ears like a failed soufflé. Bhuti Khuzwayo parked me beside the divan. Had I been able to move a limb, I might have reached out and poked the King’s belly. I gazed at his face, at the bulbous nose, the lemon-peel folds of his cheeks, the melted crescent of his chin, and tried to etch every lump and fissure on my memory. I noted the sleep in the corners of his eyes and the impress of a buckle in the flesh of his jowls. After a while, Bhuti Khuzwayo moved the chair to change my perspective, and by slow degrees, shifting from one vantage point to another, I saw every aspect of the King’s head, front, back and sides, and found myself staring once again at his face. My gaze had the weight of a fingertip: three times he opened his heavy-lidded eyes and blinked as if I had prodded him, but gave no sign that he saw me sitting before him.
There is not much more to tell. When Bhuti Khuzwayo judged that I had seen enough, he wheeled me to the reception area and unbound me, and the limousine brought me back to my hotel. Here I am now, wide awake in the small hours. An hour ago, when I sat down to make this report, I was dead on my feet. Now it feels as if I will never shut my eyes again.
DAY 4
06:10
I say I learn my lessons, Fei, but I never do. I have done a foolish thing.
After my report last night, I couldn’t sleep. My poor head was swimming with everything that had happened. I decided to go out. Remember the square I saw on my first night here, the tavern with the lanterns and the orchestra? You know me: I wanted to hear the music. I summoned the taximan from the airport, the one who said he knew the destination like the back of his hand, and he agreed to take me there.
We drove through one catchment area after another, avoiding the developments. The streets were even quieter at that late hour, empty but for shadows around a brazier or a man walking quickly with his head down. The colour had drained from everything. I asked the driver to open the window for me, and had to pay him to do it. The smell of cinnamon and standing water came into the cab. A bird call. Or an alarm? I leant my head out in the musty air and watched the dull faces of the houses slip by. Here and there a light burned dimly behind an iron grille. I could not smell the sea.