As though to spite him, the line he had been assigned to was moving more slowly than its neighbours. Eventually he could foresee himself envying the people around him who were accustomed to sitting on the floor, and who did not mind looking absurd if they frog-hopped forward when the line moved.
The delay seemed to be due to a Japanese in front of the Chinese family, apparently a salesman for Japind, because his open bags contained scores of samples of goods Donald recognised, including Jettiguns. The official behind the counter was checking each one off in a bulky manual. Donald added one more to the list of differences; at home, they would have a computer reading at each customs point to cost the duty.
Fretting at the delay, he noticed that the line at Post Six had reduced to one person, a very attractive Indian girl in a microsari that swathed her slender body only to mid-thigh—a fashion, so he’d heard, which the Indian government encouraged because it reduced the demand for textiles. Her slim legs tapered to tiny gold sandals, her long dark hair was piled on her head to emphasise her patrician profile, and she wore the ancient style of nose-jewel in her left nostril—a curious atavism when the rest of her was so modern.
Were Yatakangi officials so hidebound that they would refuse to transfer his bags to the next position when the shiggy had gone?
He was still wondering whether to ask, when he realised that the girl was having trouble. The customs officer dealing with her was leaning forward aggressively, and the immigration man next to him was gesticulating with her passport.
Judging by the behaviour of the Chinese family, it wasn’t bad manners to be openly inquisitive here. Donald strained his ears. At first he couldn’t make out what was being said; then he realised the customs man was skinning his language down to a kind of baby-talk, and the girl wasn’t getting his meaning even so.
Nobody else had yet joined his line. He debated whether to ask the Chinese family to keep his place, decided he’d better not risk addressing them in Yatakangi, and strode over to the girl’s side.
“You probably speak English,” he said.
She turned to him with frank relief, while the men behind the counter scowled. “Yes, I do!” she said, with the strong north-western lilt the British had nicknamed Bombay Welsh. “But I don’t speak a word of Yatakangi!”
Then she placed his own accent, and started to frown. “But—aren’t you an American?”
“That’s right.”
“Then—”
“I do speak the language. Not many of us do, but a few. Have you any idea what the trouble is?”
She shook her head, eyes wide under the small red caste-mark decorating her high forehead.
The customs man said sharply to Donald, “What do you want?”
Fishing deep in memory for the inflections to correspond with words habit made him see, rather than hear, Donald said, “The lady doesn’t understand you. I will explain to her if you tell me—slowly, please.”
The two officials exchanged glances. At length the immigration man said, “We do not allow prostitutes to enter our country.”
For an instant Donald was baffled. Then he saw what they meant, and almost laughed. He turned to the shiggy.
“They think you’re a prostitute,” he said, and grinned.
Surprise, horror, and finally matching amusement showed in her expression.
“But why?”
Donald risked the guess he had arrived at. “Are you a widow, by any chance?”
“Yes—how could you…? Oh, of course: I had someone write it on my passport in Yatakangi before I left home.”
“No, I didn’t read it off your passport. What’s happened is that you’ve run foul of a couple of local conventions. First off, the clothes you’re wearing.”
The girl glanced down at her body, self-consciously.
“Yatakangi national dress is the shareng, which is like one of your old-time saris except that it’s gathered between the legs into a sort of Turkish trouser arrangement. The only women who wear a skirt as short as yours are high-powered businesswomen and—ah—good-time girls. And second, most Yatakangi prostitutes describe themselves as widows for official purposes; it’s not considered a disgrace for a woman who’s lost her husband to get other men to support her.”
“Oh my goodness!” the girl said, eyes wider than ever.
“And to cap the lot, the written word for ‘widow’ can actually become the slang term for ‘tart’ if the writer isn’t very careful. I’ll see if I can sort it out.”
He turned back to the impatient officials and explained with a maximum of flowery phrasing. Their faces relaxed a trifle, and after some discussion they proposed a compromise.
“They say,” Donald translated, “that if you’ll change into something more becoming to a respectable woman they’ll let you go through. You may take a change of costume out of your bags and go to the ladies’ powder-room over there.” He pointed. “But they advise you to get some Yatakangi clothes as quickly as possible, or there may be some more awkward consequences.”
“I can imagine,” the girl said with a twinkle. “Thank you very much. Now let’s see if I have anything that won’t offend them.”
She rummaged in her bags. Donald, seeing that the Japanese salesman was still having trouble, stood by and watched. Finally she produced a full-length sari in green and gold and held it up for him.
“This is really for formal evening wear, but it’s all I brought with me. Will it do?”
Donald confirmed with the officials that it was passable, and she thanked him again and vanished into the ladies’ room.
And the salesman was still arguing. Donald hesitated; then he suggested to the officials, who were leaning back for a breather, that they might perhaps just this once move his bags from the adjacent post…?
With a bad grace they conceded that they might. Their surliness puzzled Donald. He wondered whether they suspected him of misleading them about the girl’s profession, or whether they expected a bribe. But he dared not offer anything; the Solukarta régime had one achievement to its credit, the elimination of venality among public employees. It was not until the bags had been fetched—to the annoyance of the Chinese family—that he suddenly realised the true reason.
I’m a round-eye. If it weren’t for my speaking a little of the language, they’d happily keep me waiting till Doomsday.
He stared at the immigration man as he flipped through the green American passport he held, and read the correctness of his guess in the downward turn of the other’s mouth. He swallowed hard. This was a new experience for him, and it was going to take getting used to.
“So now!” the official said. “You are a reporter, I see. What brings you to Yatakang?”
I’m going to have to be very polite. Donald said, “The genetic optimisation programme. It has excited great interest.”
“That is true,” the customs man said with a smirk, glancing up from his scrutiny of Donald’s belongings. “We have had reporters from all over the world coming to Yatakang since it was announced.”
“Except America,” the immigration official countered. “In fact, as I have heard, the Americans and other”—he used a word for European which corresponded approximately to the Afram term “paleass”—“are denying the honesty of the claim.” He scowled at Donald.
“You say it has excited great interest?”
“Because of it I have been sent here.”
“And took a week on the journey?” the immigration man said, curling his lip. He looked at the passport again, very thoroughly, page by page. Meantime his colleague turned over the contents of Donald’s bags, not so much searching them as stirring them about. Pride smarting, Donald stood in silence and waited for them to get bored.
Finally the immigration man slapped the passport shut and held out his other hand. He said something Donald did not understand, and he asked for a repetition.