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Authors: Ross Thomas
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either your proposed negotiations or the theft itself. It is simply that we have our source within the Jandolaean Embassy which, of course, has been kept apprised of the entire affair.”
“I see.”
Mbwato leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. Even seated he seemed to loom over me. “Do you know much about the shield of Komporeen, Mr. St. Ives, other than that you have been authorized to offer $250,000 for its return?”
“Not really,” I said. “I know it’s about a yard in diameter, that it weighs sixty-eight pounds, that it is regarded as something of a symbol, a vital one, I suppose, by both your people and those whom you’re fighting, and that one man has been killed because of it.”
“One man in the United States,” Mbwato said, “and more than a million in my country. I’m afraid that it has a most bloody history. If we were able to trace that history back for centuries to its origin, the death toll might even reach high into the millions. You seem to understand that the shield of Komporeen is the symbol of authority in my country. It can be compared, but not very closely, with the Crown of England. Or nearer to home and perhaps from a more sentimental viewpoint, at least, it occupies much the same place in the hearts of my countrymen as your original Declaration of Independence does in yours. But even that is not a proper comparison because the shield is more than an historical document. It is the physical embodiment of a legend that exists amongst a people who give very high credence to their legends. But not only do the Komporeeneans value it, so also do the Jandolaeans, and many, many terrible wars have been fought for its possession. In sum, if one were to combine the sentimental, symbolic, and emotional values of the Crown of England, the Cross of Christianity, and your own Declaration of Independence, then one would have some inkling of how the shield is regarded by my people. And, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “by the Jandolaeans.”
Mbwato stopped talking and the silence crept back into the room. He sat there, dwarfing his chair, staring at the carpet. Then he began to talk or rumble again. His voice went with his size, a deep bass that seemed to escape from far down in his chest.
“The war for us has been going badly,” he said, still gazing at the carpet. “We are short of everything, of ammunition, of weapons, of petrol, and of food. Especially food. The government of Komporeen (and I assure you, Mr. St. Ives, we do have a government) has been recognized by only a handful of countries, mostly African, and almost as poor as we. But there is a good chance, an excellent chance, I should say, that two major European powers will soon grant us recognition and along with it, much-needed aid in the form of food and weaponry.”
“What countries?” I said.
“Strangely enough, France and Germany.”
“That is strange.”
“Yes, I agree. Britain, of course, is siding with Jandola and your own country has adopted what some have referred to as a ‘hands-off’ policy. In effect, this means that they’re following Britain’s lead. As for Russia—well, Russia is supplying both sides, clandestinely to us, openly to Jandola.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You do not believe it?” he said, and stared at me in a reproachful manner.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe it; I said I didn’t know it.”
“I’m sorry,” Mbwato said. “I believe I’m becoming hypersensitive. It’s something I’ll have to watch. But to continue, Mr. St. Ives, the support from and recognition by France and Germany seems to hinge on our ability to continue our battle for independence. If we can hold out another month, two at the most, then we are confident that the recognition—and the aid—will be granted forthwith. If we can hold out.”
“Don’t you think you can?”
Mbwato shook his head. “There is food enough for another month, perhaps even two. Some
“I see.”
Mbwato leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. Even seated he seemed to loom over me. “Do you know much about the shield of Komporeen, Mr. St. Ives, other than that you have been authorized to offer $250,000 for its return?”
“Not really,” I said. “I know it’s about a yard in diameter, that it weighs sixty-eight pounds, that it is regarded as something of a symbol, a vital one, I suppose, by both your people and those whom you’re fighting, and that one man has been killed because of it.”
“One man in the United States,” Mbwato said, “and more than a million in my country. I’m afraid that it has a most bloody history. If we were able to trace that history back for centuries to its origin, the death toll might even reach high into the millions. You seem to understand that the shield of Komporeen is the symbol of authority in my country. It can be compared, but not very closely, with the Crown of England. Or nearer to home and perhaps from a more sentimental viewpoint, at least, it occupies much the same place in the hearts of my countrymen as your original Declaration of Independence does in yours. But even that is not a proper comparison because the shield is more than an historical document. It is the physical embodiment of a legend that exists amongst a people who give very high credence to their legends. But not only do the Komporeeneans value it, so also do the Jandolaeans, and many, many terrible wars have been fought for its possession. In sum, if one were to combine the sentimental, symbolic, and emotional values of the Crown of England, the Cross of Christianity, and your own Declaration of Independence, then one would have some inkling of how the shield is regarded by my people. And, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “by the Jandolaeans.”
Mbwato stopped talking and the silence crept back into the room. He sat there, dwarfing his chair, staring at the carpet. Then he began to talk or rumble again. His voice went with his size, a deep bass that seemed to escape from far down in his chest.
“The war for us has been going badly,” he said, still gazing at the carpet. “We are short of everything, of ammunition, of weapons, of petrol, and of food. Especially food. The government of Komporeen (and I assure you, Mr. St. Ives, we do have a government) has been recognized by only a handful of countries, mostly African, and almost as poor as we. But there is a good chance, an excellent chance, I should say, that two major European powers will soon grant us recognition and along with it, much-needed aid in the form of food and weaponry.”
“What countries?” I said.
“Strangely enough, France and Germany.”
“That is strange.”
“Yes, I agree. Britain, of course, is siding with Jandola and your own country has adopted what some have referred to as a ‘hands-off’ policy. In effect, this means that they’re following Britain’s lead. As for Russia—well, Russia is supplying both sides, clandestinely to us, openly to Jandola.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You do not believe it?” he said, and stared at me in a reproachful manner.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe it; I said I didn’t know it.”
“I’m sorry,” Mbwato said. “I believe I’m becoming hypersensitive. It’s something I’ll have to watch. But to continue, Mr. St. Ives, the support from and recognition by France and Germany seems to hinge on our ability to continue our battle for independence. If we can hold out another month, two at the most, then we are confident that the recognition—and the aid—will be granted forthwith. If we can hold out.”
“Don’t you think you can?”
Mbwato shook his head. “There is food enough for another month, perhaps even two. Some
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