The Last Samurai

He would spread soft dirt on the ground outside his hut and work on mathematical problems, because there was nothing else to do.

One day a boy from the tribe stood by him and seemed interested.

Sorabji thought: But how terrible! Suppose he is a natural mathematician, born into a society without mathematics! He had not bothered to learn the language but he had a sneaking suspicion you couldn’t count in it much past four. Imagine a mathematical genius born to a language where you went one fried ant, two fried ants, three fried ants, four fried ants, lots of fried ants, lots and lots of fried ants, lots and lots and lots of— The prospect was too frightful to contemplate.

Smoothing out the dirt he gritted his teeth and addressed himself to the basics. He put a stone on the dirt, and below it he wrote: 1. He put two stones in the dirt, and he wrote: 2. He put three stones in the dirt, and he wrote: 3. Four stones: 4. Iki-go-e (or Pete, as Sorabji called him) squatted down beside him; Sorabji couldn’t tell if 5 came as a surprise.

Six months later Pete and Sorabji were in jail.

A group of loggers had turned up in the jungle. A couple of members of the tribe had been killed, others had scattered in different directions, and Sorabji had set off on the tracks of the trucks for civilisation. Pete had followed. They had come to a small town deep in the jungle, and Sorabji had tried to find a telephone. There was only one in town, at a building marked Polícia; Sorabji had walked in the door and at once been arrested.

Five days later the British consul in Belem flew up the Amazon to Manaus, then headed inland in a borrowed Land Rover.

The British consul in Belem loved Brazil. He loved the language; he loved the music; he loved the wild, savage country; he loved the people. The fly in the ointment was the fact that this marvellous country had not closed its borders to all Britons not travelling on official business. The British were not, in his opinion, actually more intrepid than other nations; they merely had a boundless belief in the powers of their consul, a belief which would have been justified had the F.O. placed at his disposition, for example, a small private army and a slush fund of several millions, but which went well beyond what could be achieved on a small emergency fund and modest entertainment allowance. What do they imagine I can do? he would fume, and What on earth do they imagine I can do? was the refrain as the Land Rover bounced and jolted over the potholes.

He arrived at the logging town in late afternoon. He went at once to the Polícia, was shown into the jail, and nearly threw up.

It was close to 100 degrees outside; worse in the jail. Twenty men were crammed into a room in which ten could have breathed.

The jailer crunched over the cockroaches and pointed at Sorabji.

Sorabji’s hair was long and matted, as was his beard. He’d spent six months in a tropical sun, and was now dark brown. His clothes had been disgusting after the first week; following local custom he had taken to wearing his shirt as a loincloth. Sorabji always liked to say that the unfortunate consul had travelled hundreds of miles into the interior to rescue a British citizen, only to find Gunga Din. It was true that the loincloth had come from Gieves & Hawkes, but this was not something you’d notice on a casual inspection.

Good of you to come, Gunga Din said suavely. So glad you could make it.

And then, because the question had been tormenting him for months, You wouldn’t happen to know if they’ve got anywhere with binary X-ray emissions?

The consul said not to his knowledge. He introduced himself.

And you are?

The name’s Sorabji, said Gunga Din. George Sorabji.

The consul explained that he would need some proof of his nationality.

Gunga Din explained that he had been on a plane that had crashed in the jungle and that his passport had gone up in flames. He suggested that the consul telephone his supervisor at Cambridge, verify his identity and determine the state of play on binary X-ray emissions. He demanded immediate release and repatriation.

And we’ll have to get Pete out of here too, he added.

Who’s Pete? asked his rescuer.

Gunga Din gestured to the corner.

Do you mean one of the Indians? asked the consul.

I don’t think he’d get much joy at the Indian Embassy, Din replied haughtily. He is an Amazonian.

I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for a Brazilian national. I can tell you the procedure if you’d like to lodge a complaint—

Sorabji looked at Pete. His head had fallen back, and the whites of his eyes were showing. He would die soon but that was not good enough. He could probably get a decent mark at O-level; it was a miracle of sorts but not good enough.

Sorabji said: He is a mathematical genius. I shall take him back to Cambridge.