Couldn’t resist opening the window of my room (know you advised against) to see where I am in the full-face façade. Can you guess? In the bag under an eye! Might have wished to be ‘the pupil’…
22:45
Just back from dinner. Fascinating outing. Decided to bypass the taximan and summoned a rickshaw with the bedside beeper. ‘Rickshaw’ is just a manner of speaking. The rickshaw man was nothing like the quaintly costumed porter I expected (we must update our files on the transport sector). He was plainly but elegantly dressed in a leisure suit, silk shirt and loafers; but for some light body armour, discreetly toned to match the suit, he might have been another delegate to the Fair. The only sign of his occupation was a traditional headdress with beaded horns which he discarded as soon as he entered the cab of the buggy.
He took me to an eatery in the neighbouring mixed-use development. Neighbouring being not quite the right word as we had to traverse a dull intermediate zone to get there. I expected rusty shacks, dark alleys and muddy ditches, but instead it was drably uniform, block after block of small, unexceptional houses nestled in extravagant foliage like knick-knacks in packaging material. Almost hyperbolically mundane. Tree ferns and rubber plants with leaves the size of sails. Everything outsize and superabundant. Must be something in the water. I put my eye close to the glass to make sure I wasn’t being hoodwinked by some picture window (don’t say I haven’t learnt my lesson) but it was definitely real world. People here and there, passing quickly through cones of lamplight, but overall an air of abandonment. I wonder who lives in these catchment areas, as they call them? Then we came to a sector where the pavements were busier although still not crowded, and we passed through an archway into a small square with a tavern where people sat eating and drinking at round tables with lanterns on them, while an orchestra played on a thatched bandstand. The place looked run-down and its patrons poorly dressed, but it seemed welcoming, it had a meagre sort of cheer I found appealing. It made me homesick — so early in the trip! — and I wished the driver would stop, but we bowled straight across the square and out through another archway. I would have opened the window to hear a snatch of the music, but your advice not to breathe too much unprocessed air made me pause, and in any event the driver took no notice of my questions and remarks. I gathered that he spoke the third of the languages and that not very well.
Just as I began to think the fellow was lost, we came into a broad, well-lit avenue that marked the start of the next development. The Cockatoo Cockatoo Grillhouse was in the lobby of a hotel like my own, so much like my own that for a moment I wondered whether we hadn’t returned by a circuitous route to the Ambassador. Even the Papas flanking the doorway were the same. I might as well have eaten at my own lodgings — or so I thought until the meal came. It was exceptional. Medallions of protein with the texture of pork, a peppery lime-green rind and a berry sauce, scattered with enormous trumpet-shaped flowers and blood-red petals, the latter edible. Heavenly. (No one will say where the protein comes from. Apparently there are clandestine eateries in the catchment areas where it is served raw, a practice much frowned upon by the authorities.)
Three sightings of Papa during the course of the evening:
— Waiter who brought the protein — homburg and doublet, of course, and the characteristic Papa intonation
— Market vendor — fruit? — glimpsed from the window of the buggy
— Bandleader of the orchestra in the square
Is this average? I expected more.
My guess is that the music was martial and unmelodious. Nothing to go on but the attitudes of the musicians. Much beating of timpani and blowing of horns.
Drank the local digestif after dinner, a viscous liquid flecked with clots of fruit. Felt drowsy immediately. Actually dozed in the buggy on my way back to the hotel. Not myself — you know I like to keep my wits about me.
Hotel where I had dinner (for future reference): The Diplomat!
Another thing: my suspicions about the lobby lighting confirmed. When I arrived back from my outing, I saw that Dutch chap Van den Ende who makes the jumpsuits checking in and would you believe the whole place was bright orange.
Please check for me: scoffeasy; nozzlefruit
To bed now. Mr Booty Khuzwayo is an early riser. I mean to rise even earlier to go through the catalogues, even if the meeting is an informal one. You are quite right to remind me that I am not a tourist but a manufacturers’ representative.
Sweet dreams, my dear.
DAY 2
09:00
How much clearer things look after a night’s sleep.
When I went down to the lobby this morning there were Papas aplenty! Lounging at the refreshment station, drinking tea on the terrace, going in and out of the Parrot Parrot Room. Three Papas checking in at once.
The impersonators have arrived for the Convention in numbers. Some of them resemble Papa quite strikingly even without the regalia. I thought there must be a few stand-ins among the entertainers, but when I put this to Mr Khuzwayo, he was adamant that there are no professional doubles left. The idea seemed to upset him. He hardly needed to remind me, he said, that Papa left us twenty years ago. It stands to reason that any double who outlived him would be impossibly old by now. All the Papas I saw were no more than stage artists. The Department (of Trade or Forfeit?) was entitled to leverage the heritage product.
Mr Khuzwayo was waiting for me in a booth with two platters of breakfast protein steaming on the table. I took the liberty of ordering for you, he said. We’re famous for our protein and I believe you enjoyed your meal last night very much. (!)
And then he squeezed my hand and said: You must call me Booty. Mr is very cold and we are warm people, very warm people. Like our climate. (His hand was in fact hot to the touch — almost as if he were running a fever.)
More surprisingly, he declared his intention to call me Booty as well. Henceforth I am to be ‘Booty Wu’. There was something in your notes about familiarity and foreigners, but I cannot remember the details. Is there a protocol there on honorifics? Please take a look when you have a moment.
Naturally, I concealed my bewilderment from Booty Khuzwayo and said I was honoured by his gesture.
An even greater honour awaits you, he said, squeezing my hand again. I am here to invite you to an audience with the King.
The King? I was greatly surprised, as you can imagine, having had no inkling until then that the destination was a monarchy, but of course I said yes immediately. And concealed my further astonishment by lavishing praise on the breakfast protein, which was a little sweet for my taste (swimming in syrup) but undoubtedly tasty.
I waited until the platters had been cleared away, mine still laden despite my best efforts, his wiped clean, and we were sipping a selection of exotic fruit punches from the buffet, before asking: What is the purpose of my meeting with the King?
All in good time, Booty Wu, he said, all in good time.
Business obviously. The meeting is tomorrow evening at the Palace. The existence of which surprised me greatly. I had thought, from your thorough briefing documents, that the only palace in the destination was the Palace of Justice, but apparently we were mistaken. Our information-gathering capacities may have been outpaced by developments. Any further guidance you can offer, diligent Fei, would be welcome. Upload to my memory. I understood that Papa was the Father of the Nation i.e. Democracy. Have I missed something? Time is short, which is why I have paused in my room to file this interim report.