But, of course, a blasted public holiday. All offices closed, including his own. Lydgate woke up early to the fact — at nacreous dawn in his woven sweltering shelter of a house. He couldn't get the air ticket today. Tomorrow morning, yes. Everything would be all right. But he would have felt happier with that ticket paid for and in his pocket. The Caliph's Birthday Parade? He would not go to see it. He would finish his packing. He would wait and sweat, listening for the big boots of Interpol outside his window, nail-biting, starting at the cheep of a house-lizard, a day of purgatory, that the prophecy of Carruthers Chung might be fulfilled. And then freedom. Free as the air, as the birds.
High in air, among birds and bats sleeping upside down, Paolo thought piously that only God and himself were seeing the Birthday Parade like this. He looked down on the town medan — crowds in open square, police with rifles, police band, Sea Scouts, Girl Guides, St. John Ambulance Brigade, the shining cars sailing on to the dry green. Royal salutes, anthems of many nations, outriders on motorcycles, old men waving ancient spears and blunderbusses. No acting U.N. Adviser appeared, but the British representative was given, in its original Elizabethan galliard tempo, "God Save the Queen". Then the tuba-player fainted, not long out of the jungle, unused to this naked brassy sun.
The Caliph came at last, high on an ornate litter, dispensing a sort of Papal blessing. Ox-bellows and goat-bleats of native pipes and bassoons, horrible drum-thumps and tormented gongs. The crowd chewed and smoked, not unduly impressed. The Caliph slow-marched through the open orders, inspecting everybody, and the tubaless band played "See the Conquering Hero Comes". Then rifles were loaded, muzzles pointed straight at Paolo, and a treble feu de joie made the sky crackle like a giant bowl of rice crispies.
Nando Tasca, like Lydgate, was also absent from the parade, also concerned, like Lydgate, with the problems of travel but, unlike Lydgate, only vicariously. Podmore and Company had alrleady told him of a Lloyd-Triestino ship that was due in Aden in a week's time. Three days stay, a turnaround, then back to Genoa. He bought a ticket, and to payout so much money did not break his heart. He would get it all back: Novella should be extremely grateful that his innubile daughter was being taken off his hands by a Tasca. He now had to ensure that Paolo got safely to Aden, there to be closely guarded till his sailing day by reliable members of the Aden Italian community. He could not yet send any cables — either to Aden or to Italy — because the Post Office was closed. Unfortunately also the Dunia Airways office was closed, and Nando Tasca had to spend a thirsty morning going round the drinking shops, searching for a clerk with a mole on his left cheek, on the mole a tuft of fine black hairs.
It was not till near noon that he found him. The cilia of the mole wagged in speech, vibratile in the ceiling fan of the drinking shop. Speech quacked among three friends indifferent to the Caliph's parade. Nando Tasca sat down comfortably and said:
"One a ticket Aden. Tomorrow."
"This is a holiday," said the negro. "No work today."
"This a very urgent," said Nando Tasca. "My son e must a fly a Aden tomorrow."
"Perhaps," said one of the clerk's witty friends, a radio mechanic from a trading company, "he could take off from the minaret."
"I not a want a anyone be a funny," said Nando Tasca, his face beef-red. "Tonight he come a down. His work," he added, aware of foreign smiles, "a finish."
"Teaching the birds to sing?" suggested the witty friend. Nando Tasca showed muscle under the fat. "You not a be a funny," he said. "I speak a serioso. Ave you," he asked the clerk, "one a ticket a Aden?"
"None," said the clerk. "Mr. Lydgate took the last one. He has not yet paid for it, but it is waiting for him to collect. Nothing now available till the visitors have gone back."
"Mr. Lydgate?" said Nando Tasca. "You make a mistake. Mr. Lydgate not a want a go. E stay ere for the festivita. E not a want to go a Aden."
"But he does. Very urgent business, he says."
"My business more a urgent. You tell a im you a make a mistake. You have a drink a with me," said Nando Tasca. "Everybody ave a drink. And you," he said to the witty friend, "not a be a so bloody funny."
Beer was brought, business was starting. "Salute," said Nando Tasca through the froth.
"It is possible," said the clerk, "it is just possible that the Government might want to book an official passage, and then, of course, Mr. Lydgate would have to surrender his seat."
"Possibile,” said Nando Tasca. "Molto possibile. And a Government a pay a little bit a more. Ten a bucks."
"Oh, no. The Government has to pay much more than that. In cash, too. The Government has to pay another hundred bucks."
"Fifty, you a say?"
"One hundred. The Government can afford it, you see."
"Bloody robber," said Nando Tasca calmly. "Where a gabinetto?" The negro clerk said he would take him there. In the wet yard, noisy with poultry and tinsmiths, Nando Tasca paid over a hundred bucks in notes. He would get it back. A business in Siena, eh?
"Call in tomorrow morning," said the clerk. "The ticket will be ready. The plane takes off at 1405 hours. I will go round and tell Mr. Lydgate about the Government priority."
Nando Tasca looked at the waving hairs of the mole. A breeze was stirring; would it bring rain? "Perhaps," said Nando Tasca, "e a offer you a more. I not a trust a you," he said frankly.
"Well," said the negro clerk, in no wise insulted, "there is that possibility. But for fifty more bucks I could take you over to the office now and you could buy the ticket. The fifty bucks would be payment for working on a holiday. This is, after all," he reminded Nando Tasca, "the Caliph's birthday."
"Bloody robber," said Nando Tasca. But he paid up. The ticket safe in his pocket, Nando Tasca went to drink a lonely beer and work out a plan for removing his son from the minaret. It would have to be done quietly. He no longer wanted the police to attempt another perilous ascent. He no longer wanted Paolo dragged down, all filth and hair, crying, to be imprisoned at ground level and await trial for trespass, blasphemy, desecration, or whatever the charge would be. It seemed unlikely now that the police would try again: there had been too much muttering in the ranks. Moreover, the police now were very busy with guards of honour and royal salutes. Orders seemed to have filtered down from the Astana that, if Paolo could not be removed quietly, he had best be left alone till after the ceremonies were over. He had already been passed off as an eccentric watchman to some of the distinguished visitors. Things were never so bad as they seemed. Moreover, the master switch had at last been located, and the prisoner in the tower was no longer vocal. Nando Tasca suddenly came face to face with the horrid reality of the fact that he himself would have to climb those endless stairs, he, an old man. "Oh, my son, my son," he groaned. Then he remembered the rest of David's lament. No, that was far from pertinent. Never, never would he, Nando Tasca, regret that he had not died for Paolo. Dying was Paolo's job. He would die, by God he would. No longer among leeches and headhunters, but slowly, lingeringly in the care of Novello's daughter. It was just. Marriage was the answer to all problems.
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