The Last Samurai

We reached the dining room. There was a telephone on a table by the door. He lifted the receiver and spoke into it, asking someone for another place setting.

At any rate, he resumed, leading the way to the table, after that I became much more circumspect. I made it my policy to behave with perfect courtesy throughout—nothing is more infuriating to someone who is doing something quite outrageous. Goaded by frustration, they betray themselves sooner or later. There is really no need, I find, to be crude or offensive.

Practice makes perfect, I said.

Very kind of you. As you see, it’s merely a by-product of a rather chequered career. I daresay your first couple of attempts were much worthier types who hadn’t been involved with more than a few women. Naturally they took the whole thing much more au sérieux.

He began putting food on his plate and gestured for me to do the same. I’d never seen so much food at a single meal. About three dozen eggs had been scrambled, boiled, poached, fried, Benedicted, omeletted and whatever else you can do with an egg & then placed on silver chafing dishes to keep warm. Twenty or thirty pastries had been arranged in a tasteful mountain in a basket. Three pale green melons had been hollowed out, the edges scalloped, and the halves filled with fruit carved into crescent moons and stars. There was another big basket of fruit au naturel, most of it the kinds we never bought at Tesco’s because they were 99p a shot. There was a revolving silver stand with two kinds of mustard, three kinds of chutney, five kinds of honey and twelve kinds of jam. There were crêpes with seven different fillings. There was smoked salmon, and something that I thought might be a kipper. There were glass pitchers with freshly squeezed orange, pineapple, tomato, guava and mango juice. There was silver pots of coffee, tea and hot chocolate, and a silver bowl of whipped cream for the hot chocolate.

I decided to start with a melon, a cheese omelette, three pastries, guava juice and hot chocolate.

I said: You thought she wouldn’t believe twenty at a time?

He said: Why should one be less comfortable in one’s home than in a decent hotel?

I said: Why should five in a bed be thought particularly immoral? Is it because a non-adulterous act is possible for at most one of the women? Or because the women might engage in homosexual practices and this is thought to be contrary to the will of a divine being?

He said: 9 times out of 10 a woman would prefer not to be told something she would rather not know.

He said: 99 times out of 100 it’s more useful to know what people think is wrong. You’ve got to be able to read your opponent’s mind in a tight spot; it’s no use thinking how he ought to play his hand.

I poured out some more hot chocolate and took another pastry.

How did you take up a diplomatic career? I asked with exquisite tact.

He laughed.

Oh, it was sheer accident. I was on a cruise with some friends. The ship developed engine problems, and we ended up stranded in a smallish town in Guatemala. Now obviously we could have got home—the company would have paid airfare out of Guatemala City—but in fact there were some really delightful people in the town. One of the big guns there was a keen bridge player, and of course rather cut off—he really couldn’t do enough for us. Parties were thrown, there was a dance—better than the ship in a lot of ways. Of course a lot of the passengers cleared off, but Jeremy and I hung around.

Our host was British, but he’d married a local woman. He grew bananas—everyone did, pretty much—and he’d also been made British consul. No one else spoke much English, and we didn’t speak a word of Spanish, but it didn’t matter, of course, for bridge.

Well, when we’d been there a couple of weeks I got the idea of riding out into the countryside—the roads were bad to non-existent and he did a fair bit of overseeing the estate on horseback. I borrowed a horse—a big strong thing with no breeding to speak of but plenty of stamina. The saddle was a big square leather box with an enormous silver-studded pommel—not very elegant, but comfortable. Off I rode with a boy from the plantation as guide. We headed for the mountains. The boy began to get nervous after a while and made gestures that we should go back—remember I knew scarcely a word of Spanish. I ignored him—we were just getting to higher ground, and I was determined to get above the plain.

We got up into the hills at last, and got to a small village. There was no one about. I was rather thirsty, so I dismounted and began looking for a place with water. A woman came running out of a house, tears pouring down her face—she said something I did not understand and pointed up the road.