latter with a little bow. I said my how-do-you-do and shook his cold hand.
Funny how formal everybody was here. I have never been mistered so much in my life. Why were we all starting to sound like we were characters in Somerset Maugham or that other novelist who writes about people going to pieces in the tropics?
For a small hand, Savitt had a mighty grip. I rescued my fingers, smiled, and tuned in to what the priest was saying. “Billy, Mr Cooperman is from Canada. This is his first excursion into this part of the world. You might win a gold star in heaven if you’ll take him under your wing until he gets the hang of the place.”
“Royt you are. Well. I’ll troy to be useful,” Savitt said, sounding like London’s East End—at least, the way television and the movies represent East Enders. “Oy’ll show you where to get a salt beef sandwich on good rye bread. Best in this part of Asia. Can’t tell it from the Nosh Bar in Piccadilly, near the dear old Windmill.” I won’t try to reproduce Savitt’s accent further. He was easy enough to understand, once I’d bent my ear to the sound of his vowels. “You know London, Mr Cooperman?”
“Sorry. I’ve been there only in the movies. I’ve been a stay-at-home until this trip came up.”
“Business?” The question was direct, but he was smiling.
“Pleasure. Sun, surf, and sky, mostly, with a little sightseeing and gallery-hopping. I’ve put it off too long.”
“Nonsense, Cooperman! Have yourself a Bunbury.”
“A what?” I asked the priest.
“Never mind. It’s never too late,” said O’Mahannay.
“I’ll show you around a bit, if you like, Mr Cooperman. I’ve attended to most of my business; now I can easily spare the time before getting back to my kip.” Savitt was, I hate to say it, a ratty-looking little man with a sloping jaw and washed-out complexion. He was wearing a loose-fitting single-breasted suit made from lightweight tan polyester, his shirt was dripdry—and I was wool-gathering.
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, rather more formally than I intended.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said O’Mahannay, clapping his small chubby hands together, like a bridge player picking up the last trick.
“You know, there’s a synagogue off Ex-Charles de Gaulle Avenue, not far from the fish market, just up the hill,” Savitt said, pointing over my shoulder.
“This whole city seems to be built on a hill.”
“The mountains are pushing us into the sea, my friend,” observed the priest. I was delighted to find that I’d had a similar thought. At the hotel, maybe. I was a quicker study than I’d ever suspected. “That’s why property in Takot is so dear. There’s not enough of it.”
“And what’s all this about Ex-Charles de Gaulle and Exwhat-was-it? The main street?”
“Ex-Charpentier Avenue? Ah, yes, you don’t know about the checkered history of this place, Mr Cooperman. The French clawed it away from both of its neighbors on the peninsula as soon as copper was discovered in the 1850s. It was a French colony until just after the Second World War. That was when the Glorious November Revolution happened, which restored the country to the locals. They renamed all of the streets after the fallen heroes of the War of Independence. Charpentier Avenue became Thong Suksun Street. And so on. But, with time, people relaxed and had to admit to themselves that as far as tourism is concerned, Charpentier is more easily remembered than Thong Suksun. ‘Ex-’ was the compromise that made it work. You’ll find that this is a great town for compromises, Mr Cooperman. Compromise makes the sun rise in the morning and compromise brings out the stars at night.”
“Who was Thong Suksun?”
“Hero of the Glorious Revolution, dear boy. Songs have been written about his great deeds. A Robin Hood figure. Rebel raids on the government, then back to the hills. All of that.”
“Fascinating.” I ordered a beer and it turned
Funny how formal everybody was here. I have never been mistered so much in my life. Why were we all starting to sound like we were characters in Somerset Maugham or that other novelist who writes about people going to pieces in the tropics?
For a small hand, Savitt had a mighty grip. I rescued my fingers, smiled, and tuned in to what the priest was saying. “Billy, Mr Cooperman is from Canada. This is his first excursion into this part of the world. You might win a gold star in heaven if you’ll take him under your wing until he gets the hang of the place.”
“Royt you are. Well. I’ll troy to be useful,” Savitt said, sounding like London’s East End—at least, the way television and the movies represent East Enders. “Oy’ll show you where to get a salt beef sandwich on good rye bread. Best in this part of Asia. Can’t tell it from the Nosh Bar in Piccadilly, near the dear old Windmill.” I won’t try to reproduce Savitt’s accent further. He was easy enough to understand, once I’d bent my ear to the sound of his vowels. “You know London, Mr Cooperman?”
“Sorry. I’ve been there only in the movies. I’ve been a stay-at-home until this trip came up.”
“Business?” The question was direct, but he was smiling.
“Pleasure. Sun, surf, and sky, mostly, with a little sightseeing and gallery-hopping. I’ve put it off too long.”
“Nonsense, Cooperman! Have yourself a Bunbury.”
“A what?” I asked the priest.
“Never mind. It’s never too late,” said O’Mahannay.
“I’ll show you around a bit, if you like, Mr Cooperman. I’ve attended to most of my business; now I can easily spare the time before getting back to my kip.” Savitt was, I hate to say it, a ratty-looking little man with a sloping jaw and washed-out complexion. He was wearing a loose-fitting single-breasted suit made from lightweight tan polyester, his shirt was dripdry—and I was wool-gathering.
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, rather more formally than I intended.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said O’Mahannay, clapping his small chubby hands together, like a bridge player picking up the last trick.
“You know, there’s a synagogue off Ex-Charles de Gaulle Avenue, not far from the fish market, just up the hill,” Savitt said, pointing over my shoulder.
“This whole city seems to be built on a hill.”
“The mountains are pushing us into the sea, my friend,” observed the priest. I was delighted to find that I’d had a similar thought. At the hotel, maybe. I was a quicker study than I’d ever suspected. “That’s why property in Takot is so dear. There’s not enough of it.”
“And what’s all this about Ex-Charles de Gaulle and Exwhat-was-it? The main street?”
“Ex-Charpentier Avenue? Ah, yes, you don’t know about the checkered history of this place, Mr Cooperman. The French clawed it away from both of its neighbors on the peninsula as soon as copper was discovered in the 1850s. It was a French colony until just after the Second World War. That was when the Glorious November Revolution happened, which restored the country to the locals. They renamed all of the streets after the fallen heroes of the War of Independence. Charpentier Avenue became Thong Suksun Street. And so on. But, with time, people relaxed and had to admit to themselves that as far as tourism is concerned, Charpentier is more easily remembered than Thong Suksun. ‘Ex-’ was the compromise that made it work. You’ll find that this is a great town for compromises, Mr Cooperman. Compromise makes the sun rise in the morning and compromise brings out the stars at night.”
“Who was Thong Suksun?”
“Hero of the Glorious Revolution, dear boy. Songs have been written about his great deeds. A Robin Hood figure. Rebel raids on the government, then back to the hills. All of that.”
“Fascinating.” I ordered a beer and it turned
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