Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur (книги бесплатно без онлайн txt) 📗
They both knew that Tug was fully aware that the bowl was priceless.
It was of no value, I assure you, Sir Peter. A mere trifle.
Think no more of it, the old man insisted, but Tug saw that he had got to him. There was a man of passion lurking behind that dried-out mask with the tasselled cheek piece. However, the old man was exhibiting class and style and control. A worthy adversary, Tug decided, for he had no illusion as to any fiduciary relationship between them merely on account of the mutually convenient and probably transient partnership of BOSS and the Lucky Dragon.
With the breaking of the bowl he had achieved a momentary advantage over the patriarch. He had thrown him off balance.
The old man sipped the last of the pale tea from his own bowl which was identical to the one which Tug had broken, and then held out his hand with a quiet word of command.
One of the servants knelt and placed a square of silk in his wrinkled paw. Heng H'Sui wiped out the bowl carefully and then wrapped it in the silk and handed it to Tug. A gift for you, Sir Peter. I hope that our friendship will not be as frail as this little bauble.
Tug conceded that Heng had snatched back the advantage.
Tug was left with no option but to accept the extravagant gift and the loss of face that the subtle rebuke entailed.
I will treasure it for the generosity of the giver, he said. My son, Heng indicated him with a flick of his blue-yeincd hand, tells me that you have expressed a desire to see my collection of ivory. Do you also collect ivory, Sir Peter? I don't, but I'm interested in all things African. I flatter myself that I know more than the average man about the African elephant. I know how much value your people place on ivory.
Indeed, Sir Peter, never dispute the efficacy of charms with a Chinese, especially those of ivory. Our entire existence is ruled by astrology and the courting of fortune. The Lucky Dragon? Tug suggested. The Lucky Dragon, certainly. Heng's parchment dry cheeks seemed about to tear as he smiled. And the Dragon at my gate has fangs of pure ivory. I have been caught up in the spell of ivory all my life. I started my career as an ivory-carver in my father's shop.
Yes, I know that the netsuke that bears your personal chop fetches prices equivalent to those of the great master carvers of antiquity, Tug told him. Ah, those were made when my eye was sharp and my hand steady. Heng shook his head modestly, but did not deny the value of his own creations. I would dearly love to see some examples of your work, Tug suggested, and Heng gestured to his youngest son to help him rise. So you shall, Sir Peter.
So you shall.
The ivory museum was at a distance from the main house.
They went slowly along the covered walkway through the gardens, holding back for Heng H'Sui's short laboured pace.
He stopped to feed the khoi in one of the ornamental pools, and as the fish roiled the water in a feeding frenzy, the old man smiled at their antics. Greed, Sir Peter; without greed where would you and I be?
Healthy greed is the fuel of the capitalist system, Tug agreed. And the stupid unthinking greed of other men makes you and me rich, does it not?
Tug inclined his head in agreement and they went on.
There were more paramilitary guards in silver helmets at the door of the museum. Tug knew without being told that their vigil was perpetual.
Picked men. Heng noticed his glance. I trust them more than all these modern electronic devices. Cheng relinquished his father's arm for a moment to punch the entry code into the control box of the alarm system and the massive carved doors swung open automatically. He ushered them through.
The museum was without windows. There was no natural light, and the artificial lighting had been skilfully arranged. The air-conditioning was set to the correct humidity to preserve and protect the ivory. The carved doors closed with a pneumatic hiss behind them.
Tug took three paces into the spacious antechamber and then halted abruptly. He stared at the display in the centre of the marble floor.
You recognize them? Heng H'Sui asked. Yes, of course. Tug nodded.
I saw them once, long ago, at the Sultan of Zanzibar's palace before the revolution. There has been speculation ever since as to what happened to them. Yes. I acquired them after the revolution in 1964
when the Sultan was exiled, Heng H'Sui agreed. Very few people know that I own them.
The walls of the room were painted blue, that particular milky blue of an African noon sky. The colour was chosen to show off the exhibits to best effect and the dimensions of the antechamber had obviously been designed for the same purpose, to complement the pair of ivory tusks.
Each tusk was over ten feet long, and its diameter at the lip was larger than a virgin's waist. The legend inked on each tusk was in Arabic script written a hundred years ago by a clerk of the Sultan Barghash recording the weight when it arrived in Zanzibar. Tug deciphered the writing: the heaviest tusk had weighed 235 pounds, the other only a few pounds less.
They are lighter now, Heng H'Sui anticipated his question. Between them they have dried out by twenty-two pounds, but still it takes four men to carry one of them. Think of the mighty animal who originally bore them.
They were the most famous tusks in existence. As a student of African history, Tug knew the story of these extraordinary objects.
They had been taken a hundred years ago on the southern slopes of Kilimanjaro, by a slave named Senoussi. The slave's master was a villain named Shundi.
He was one of the cruellest and most unscrupulous slavers and ivory-traders on the African cast coast, an area notorious for the depredations of the slave-masters. When he had first come upon it, Senoussi had in awe delayed killing the old bull. He had crouched over his flintlock musket and studied this extraordinary creature with respect for several hours before he had summoned the courage to creep forward and send a lead ball through its heart.
According to Senoussi's later account to his master, the bull ran off only a hundred yards before collapsing. He was an extremely old elephant with his fourth and last molars almost worn away, on the verge of the slow starvation of great age.
Although not particularly big-bodied, his neck and forequarters were overdeveloped to carry that great weight of ivory. Senoussi observed the bull had been forced to raise his head and lift the tips of his tusks free of the earth before he could move.
When Shundi displayed the tusks in the ivory market in Zanzibar they caused a sensation amongst traders accustomed to dealing with massive tusks. The Sultan had purchased the pair from Shundi for a thousand pounds sterling, which was a huge sum of money in those days. Tug had first seen them in the palace of the Sultan's successors overlooking the Zanzibar waterfront.
Now he approached them with awe and stroked one of them, staring up at the massive ivory arches that almost met high above his head. This was legendary treasure. To Tug, somehow, these tusks seemed to embody the history and the soul of the entire African continent. Now let me show you the rest of my poor little collection, Ning Heng H'Sui suggested at last, and led the way past the towering ivory columns to the archway artfully concealed in the rear wall of the antechamber.
The interior of the building was a labyrinth of dimly lit passages.
The floor was carpeted with midnight-blue Wilton, soft and soundless to the tread. The walls were the same colour, but set flush into them on each side of the passage were the showcases.
