Fans set high in the roof of the Chin Chin Cinema cooled, despite their frantic many revolutions a minute, only the bats' nests and the holes of polecats. Polecats, at intervals, came out to walk the tight-rope girders and sneer down at the packed audience. Occasionally they would dislodge a little of their own accumulated excrement, and this would fall as dry dust. In great heat the audience listened patiently to Patu. Patu, his hands resting on the blanket-covered table, outlined the party's programme as he had outlined it so often before, sometimes emphasising a point with a thump of his fist that made the Thermos jug of water dance. Patience, he said, they would be patient. They wanted little for the moment-only a franchise with few qualifications (ten years in the State, less than an eighth of foreign blood, qualifying minimal age of eighteen established by statutory declaration), the creation of a lower house with party government but no opposition, the existing hereditary State Council to be given the status of upper house with no legislative powers, the Caliph to reign as a constitutional monarch on salary, the Europeans to begin their exodus twelve months after the establishment of the new regime, nationalisation of uranium, secondary education in the National Language, free social services. At one point an ape in worker's denims stood up, roared gently, and displayed a mauled picture of Lydgate in New Guinea. "And jobs," said Patu, "jobs for all."
Mr. Bastians gave a speech in English. He apologised for his ignorance of their noble language, he said, but they would forgive the linguistic shortcomings of one who, brought up on the tongue of the oppressor and exploiter, had had to spend most of his political life fighting tyranny with its own terms and its own weapons. Mr. Patu had kindly consented to translate the few humble words of encouragement he would address to them.
Mr. Bastians used the colourful generalities of the skilled demagogue, the gestures, the rhythms, the controlled crescendi, the teeth-baring climaxes, now working his fingers delicately into the mudra of exposition, now thrusting his arms out in crucified agony, at one point smashing the drinking-glass, at another kneeling and praying to a sort of ectoplasmal wraith –– Liberty, Progress, the Zeitgeist — that he conjured high among the fans and polecats. The ape and others looked up in wonder. Mr. Bastians ended fortissimo, suit sweat-soaked, hair raked by agonised claws, teeth and the heaven of his mouth on view, to languid claps and and calls of "Aaaaah", Translation was not merely supererogatory, it was impossible. There was nothing to translate. Mr. Bastians had said nothing and everything. He was a great politician, one whom Patu, with his niggling insistence on a clear programme and a cool plan of action, could never in a hundred years even approach. Mr. Bastians was good value. No wonder the U.N. Adviser had forbidden him entry to the State.
Paolo was charmed by this one-man opera. He called "Bravo," and stamped his canvas shoes on the concrete. "Your time is coming," said the Indian with glasses. "They will soon be asking for questions."
Patu thanked Mr. Bastians for his inspiring performance. He said that the meeting was now open and would speakers please limit their utterances to two minutes. Sweat dripped, Mr. Bishopspawn chewed his lip, the fans spun, the polecats sneered and tight-rope-walked, the huge audience shifted its damp haunches. Patrick Ong, the Hibernico-Chinese, stood up and said, "Speaking as a member of the most downtrodden race in the world —" ("Take his name," said Mr. Bishopspawn. "O.N.G.")
"It's a Chinese," called somebody in National Language. "Who let him in?" "I am not a Chinese, then," said Patrick Ong in heat. His accent was, if not quite Abbey Theatre, at least a good-provincial-amateur-festival-winning John Bull's Other Island. "Ong is an Irish name, name of one of the ancient kings of Ireland."
"I knew his dad," said somebody. "Beachcomber, always dead-drunk. Half-caste from Liverpool."
"You can say that to my face," said Patrick Ong. "Come outside and say that."
"Order, order."
"I wanted to make a civil comment," said Patrick Ong. "And all I get from this fair-minded audience is a lot of insults."
"Throw him out. He's a Chinese."
"My father fought for liberty," said Patrick Ong. "He was a sniper outside the Dublin Post Office in 1916." He wiped sweat off his long upper lip, the upper lip of an ape. The ape in denims looked at him, nodding. "And he bequeathed to me, out of his great soul, that passion for the rights of the downtrodden minorities which has been one of Ireland's great gifts to the world."
"Look here," said a workman, standing up, speaking thick and glottal National Language, "if he's not a Chinese he's a white man. If he's a white man he's got no right to speak at this meeting. He's got no right either way. If he's a Chinese and a white man, that's twice he's got no right to speak at this meeting. There's too many spies here," he said, looking round. "Who let him in, eh?"
"Order, order."
"Now," said the subtle Indian to Paolo, "is your chance. Stand up. Catch the chairman's eye."
"All right," shouted furious Patrick Ong. "Who has any rights? Just you bloody hypocrites with your four wives and your ten thousand houris in heaven? It's not Christian, whichever way you look at it."
"Order, order."
"Four wives? I haven't got four wives."
"I suppose you'll be saying next that this ape here has more rights than a Christian soul? And that's your idea of democracy, is it?"
"The ape is a worker. And I don't like what you said then about houris."
Paolo stood up, pushed by the sweaty hands of his workmates. "My fader," he said loudly.
"Another white man. Throw him out."
"Order, order," said Patu. "He is a worker. He has no Chinese blood."
"How do we know that?"
"It's the white man we're fighting against."
"My fader," said Paolo, "is a very bad man. But I am a good boy." There were roars.
"What's he talking about?"
"What's his father got to do with it?"
"Order, order," called Patu. "He uses the term 'father' to signify the oppression of paternal white rule. Let him continue."
"I am a good boy," repeated Paolo. "But I not eat. I not drink. All day I work. He give me no money."
These words, delivered in a voice trained to be audible above a marble-cutting machine, above a father's loud tyranny, were heard and understood by many. This was good English, clear, direct.
"All right," called Patrick Ong, "you let him speak, and he's no better than a bloody foreigner. I claim the right to finish what I started to say."
"Shut up."
"Throw him out."
"Take his name," said Mr. Bishopspawn. "It's a subversive speech. Just write down 'Eyetie'."
"Who?" said Lydia Lydgate. "Young Tony Spaghetti? But he's sweet." The ape, excited by loud words, began to dance. It lifted the picture of Lydgate in New Guinea high above its head and brought it down on the head of the man in front.
"Order, order!"
There was a tiny tinkle of glass; the man in front rose, framed. "Which of you did that?" he cried in anger. The ape leapt on to a seat-back and, with balancing arms held out at shoulder height, began to walk rapidly along the seat-backs of the row.
"Grab him!”
"Watch out there!"
"Throw him out!"
"Order, order," called Patu. The ape began to climb up one of the structural pillars. Patrick Ong struck the man next to him. The man's mate jumped on Patrick Ong. The ape had reached one of the girders. It clung tight, gibbering. A shower of dust of polecat excrement came down, blinding somebody. There was now a sort of quiet fight. "Order, order," called Patu. "I shall have to declare the meeting closed."
"Right," said Forbes of Marmion. ''There he is." Standing at the back of the hall with five of his roadmen, he gave, with a white man's calm, the order to attack. There was a rush to get out, a blockage in the vestibule. Lydia Lydgate screamed.
"Go on," said Bishopspawn. "Get out, quick." The police were nowhere to be seen. In the bright stage-light stood Mr. Bastians, smiling, nodding. He had become the audience. Patu tore his beard and his hair, calling endlessly for order. The ape on its girder forgot, in an atavistic uprush, its proletarian status. It had torn off its denims and these it now hurled at Bishopspawn. Bishopspawn, blinded and surprised, flailed vigorously. Patu's jackbooted storm troopers fought for order with floating hair, great cries like red grottoes in a dense tangle of beard. Paolo and his workmates fought gamely against Forbes's roadmen. Forbes grinned beerily, seeing it all, and made his getaway, while he could. The fight was on outside the cinema. Lydia Lydgate screamed, trying to pass the arms and the cries. In the street, at the dark corner opposite, Forbes saw his wife in frock and lipstick, saw with surprise her being struck pettishly by Frankie the Sudu, also in frock and lipstick.
"You dirty little thing," said Frankie. "This is my beat and you know it. Get away, you treacherous little bitch."
The Christian Brothers had taught him good English, emphasising particularly in their courses the importance of stress.
"Here," said Forbes of Marmion. "You let her alone."
He gave Frankie a back-hander.
"Strike a lady, would you," said Frankie. "Tell this little whore of yours to keep to her own part of the town. And take that." Frankie had the muscularity of the Sudu: she swiped Forbes's nose forcefully and bright blood looked out, surprised.
"Why you — " said Forbes. But he remembered his Marmion honour: Frankie was, for the moment, a lady. "Come on," he said to Eileen. "Poor little kiddy, what were they trying to do to you, eh?" His Land-Rover was round the corner. Leading Eileen off, he was prevented by a brown man in a suit. "Excuse me," said the man, “I had arranged to meet her. Fair is fair. You can have her in an hour's time."
"Loonies," said Forbes. “A bloody mad-house. Come on, my poor little kid, I'm going to tike you home."
Drinkers were leaving the Kool Kaffi, Lydgate among them. There were still no police to be seen. Those detailed for duty outside the cinema had scuttled off, seeking cyclists without rear-lights, seeking Moslem drinkers in beer-shops. Duty was duty, whatever it was. Crawshay-Davies said, "I have my P.T. whistle. Supposing I blow that?" Paolo was to be seen, one of the fighting wave that pushed its way out of the cinema. He fought bravely, a good boy. The Indian had lost his glasses, but he kicked and swung with the best. The cleft-palate fetcher and carrier butted low, snorting “Hn” in occasional triumph. Then Lydgate saw Lydia Lydgate. She was crushed in the emerging tide of black working arms, the shoulder of her dress torn. Lydgate ran, dived in, thinking he was doing this for a woman, any woman. He pulled her out, near to a faint, done screaming. Mrs. Crawshay-Davies was suddenly among the fighters, high and formidable, a Mongol terror, cracking down on skulls with her stuffed handbag. Crawshay-Davies, encouraged, blew his whistle from the touchline.
The whistle had some effect. Memories of unseemly scuffles on football pitches, of the rebuking referee. Memories of playing the game, of not hitting a man when he was down. Also tropical weariness, the loss of too much sweat, thirst. These led men to slink off, nursing their cuts and bruises. "Come on," said Lydgate. "My car's here. I'll get you home."
"Oh, Frank, Frank, it was horrible."
"Yes, yes, I know. You'll soon be all right." The tear in her dress was a deep one: white shoulder shone, the white pectoral swell was visible. Lydgate found difficulty in swallowing.
At last a police van came. But the fighting was as good as finished. Only Patrick Ong flailed still at the air. Bishopspawn came out of the manager's office. "There you are," he said to the police inspector, a wide-eyed Indian. "I've been on that phone for hours. The man at the desk is a fool. He said he couldn't come to the cinema because he was on duty. There's going to be trouble over this, I promise you. Sheer rank inefficiency."
Paolo lay on the ground, a lump already forming over his eye. His mates were trying to lift him. An ape, tranquil, chattering, came out of the cinema. It was trying to climb into its denim suit, trying to re-enter the ranks of the workers. It was very unhandy, whimpering as it fingered the buttons. After all, it was only an ape.
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