|
Before long I was sitting in a foam of white bubbles in a hot, solid gold bathtub, having my body massaged by expert hands. Enough to put the average anthropologist off his stride, you might think. Not Watkinson-Gilkes. Not me. I found my soirée with the Queen extremely fascinating. She proved a most interesting talker and furnished me readily with the details of Bumoni society I was seeking. What's more, she agreed to have me shown the principal sights of the country in order to further assist me in my researches. I was already rehearsing in my mind the speech I would give to the Royal Anthropological Society upon my return to Britain. The meal was accompanied by cups of an indiscernible honeyed drink, which I, as a confirmed teetotaller, waved away politely but firmly on several occasions. The Queen herself did not share my temperate disposition, and as the evening wore on, for we sat together for several hours, she became direct. “Andrew, I find you, how shall I say, most attractive.” Without an unnecessary attempt to be modest at this point in the narrative, I must confess that the Queen of Bumoni was not the first of her sex to opinionate thus on my Adonis-like merits, so I was able to brush aside such and similar compliments with relative suavity. However, that was not the end of the matter, and the conversation, from that point on, turned increasingly to the merits of my pink physique and the Queen's preferences for the white blond-haired body over the swarthy, which, as the first visitor of the former tint for a hundred years in Bumoni, put me in the way of being something of a speciality item. Finally, as we were sampling a concoction of snake stew and raspberries, the Queen, her eyes swivelling somewhat in their sockets under the influence, no doubt, of the strong beverage, issued the first of many romantic invitations “Come to my bed, Andrew. You and me we can make passionate love.” She was usually stroking my thigh when she said things of that sort . But what about Semnimbe?” was my instinctive reply. “We could have a threesome?” came the suggestion. I would be lying if I did not glance up nervously at the fifteen spear-carrying guards who stood in the shadows before enunciating my reply. “Queen Arsolina, I am most graciously flattered by the terms of your invitation, but I am regrettably in no position to accept it, due to a raving attack of the haemorrhoids.” “I will have my back passage specialist treat you immediately,” retorted the Queen curtly, as if she'd heard that one before. Despite the embarrassment engendered by these interchanges, which might have caused lasting rifts at a vicarage tea-party, I never once felt obliged to submit. And, though the Queen was unable entirely to conceal her disappointment– the moment when she threw an entire plate of grilled monkey across the room being a telling clue – she yielded to a hostess's instincts and pressed me no further. And so it was that I was able to retire to my own room and make a few brief notes in my logbook before falling into a deep sleep, interrupted only occasionally by loud cries from the royal suite, and later, the nocturnal bellowing of a gnu. I dined in similar fashion with the Queen for -several days, during which she showed no dimming of fascination in either my conversation or my bodily charms. And, despite the occasional awkwardness of the situation, I was able to take advantage of her interest by arranging several tours of the area surrounding the town and finding out a little more of life in the Bumoni Crater. The country was also served by an excessive number of brothels stocked with Pujimbi eunuchs, who worked at the large army encampments that seemed to be everywhere. Several times I passed giggling crowds of naked Pujimbi girly-boys, their faces covered in garish make-up, displaying themselves outside their quarters, the lack of genitalia between their legs being the tell-tale sign of their condition. (A hawk-eyed anthropologist picks that sort of thing up, you know.) But perhaps their fate was preferable to that of their colleagues in the yam plantations. As the time wore on I began to sense within myself a heated compassion towards these dignified Pujimbi people, with their elegant beauty and bravery in suffering. Their manner contrasted with the brutality of the Bumoni, who seemed, by contrast, a crude and unfeeling race, whatever the sophistication of their ruler. I quickly resolved to see these people for myself, in their own country. After all, Pujimbo was every bit as unknown to European record as Bumoni. No, I was not willing to finish my task of exploration until I had explored the second of those mysterious twin craters of central Africa. However, when I announced my intention to set out for Pujimbo forthwith, Queen Arsolina was openly aghast. At first I imagined this was merely an expression of her grief at losing such a dazzling table companion, but I soon saw that she took personally the impropriety of a personal guest visiting the nation she considered the deadly enemy of Bumoni. I argued my case with spirit, tossing off some choice phrases from my debating days at Cambridge, but the Queen was adamant she would not allow me to enact my plan. I explained that, of course, Bumoni would always be first in my affections and that my interest in Pujimbo was merely that of an anthropologist with a book up his sleeve – but to no avail. Without Queen Arsolina's assistance the next stage of my journey was in danger of strangulation at birth at birth. I was compelled therefore to improvise an alternative plan for reaching Pujimbo, for the Watkinson-Gilkes are not easily deflected, even by Queens with buttocks like Magdeburg Hemispheres. Her majesty made no secret of her regret at my departure. I had no doubt that her obsession with my body, married with her addiction to my scintillating British conversation, comprised the key factors behind her demonstrations of grief. As my bearers heaved me slowly up into the mountains I could still see her figure in the distanc, waving first a handkerchief, then a sheet, from her solitary balcony above the parade yard. When at last we reached the borders of Bomoni on top of misty Mount Makebi, I exchanged gifts with my bearers and set off on my own with nothing but a backpack, rejecting the offers of the men to escort me through lower Katanga. After a night sleeping in a cave, and a thorough shatting upon by bats, I rose with determination, and, instead of continuing my journey north, set out along the isolated mountain ridges towards the Pujimbo Crater. Such was the inhospitality of the terrain that it was a full day before I came within sight of human habitation, my boots lacerated by sharp flints on the descent. I detected a plume of smoke in the distance and then the outlines of a large village. An hour later I was exchanging gifts with local Pujimbi elders and being treated to a feast of boiled gazelle and various mashed stuff. Compared to the Bumoni these Pujimbi were clearly much poorer, but their hospitality was just as sincere. I was assigned a hut of my own on a small bluff a few hundred yards outside the village and a personal maid to see to my needs, though, as a Presbyterian, I didn't allow her to do as much for me as she intended. The following morning I was awoken by a herd of stampeding giraffes a short distance away, and the terrified screaming of my maid, who had been sleeping on a mat on the far side of my hut. “The Bumoni! The Bumoni!” she was crying. “The Bumoni are here!” I picked up my revolver and rushed to the doorway stark naked. The whole village seemed to have been swallowed up by a cloud of smoke, and several of the huts were on fire. “You must hide!” cried the girl, and she pushed me under a large elephant skin to the side of the hut. I crouched in the darkness with my gun at the ready. Which was rather pointless because it wasn't loaded. Peeping through an aperture in the elephant hide's ear I could discern fighting going on down in the village, and the Pujimbi were having much the worst of it. Unlike the Bomoni they did not have guns, and, after a brief resistance, they were rounded up into cages. I was calculating the chances of making a break for it when the decision was made for me by a sudden gust of wind that lifted the elephant hide up into the air like a flattened balloon, leaving me rather embarrassingly exposed to view as it sailed away over a clump of trees. A loud whoop went up from a group of Bumoni when they saw me, who then charged up the hill and captured me. Ignoring my protestations that I was a British anthropologist, personally acquainted with Queen Arsolina - in retrospect my use of the King's English probably didn't add much to the situation either - they shoved me into a cage full of Pujimbi. Well, I had wanted to study the Pujimbi at close quarters, and now was my chance. As we rumbled off in the direction of Bumoni, leaving the flaming village behind us, the prospect lost its appeal when they all started farting, and the boiled gazelle came back to haunt us. Four days later we arrived in the Bomoni capital and our cage was carried into the court. I must say that, despite the discomfort of the journey, and what must have seemed to the casual onlooker as my serious plight, I had no doubts in my mind that as soon as Queen Arsolina clapped eyes on me I would be released instantly, with a great deal of apologising all round. My presence as an honoured guest at her court would resume on its previous footing and all would be just as before. How wrong can a man be?
|