John D. MacDonald
The Flying Elephants
Bill Drucker turned off the Galle Road into the asphalt drive of the Colombo Club and wrenched the company sedan to a vicious squealing stop. He slammed the door behind him and walked out of the fierce Ceylon sunlight into the relative coolness of the club lounge. He sank into one of the big leather chairs and ordered a gin and ginger beer from the soft-footed waiter. Then he sat, staring into space, puzzled and hurt, his teeth clamped so tight that knots of muscle showed at the corners of his square jaw.
While he was waiting for his drink, he fished in the pocket of his white mesh shirt and pulled out the folded carbon copy of die letter that old T. F. Carson had mailed to the home office of the Purtron Oil Company. Even though Carson had handed him the copy at noontime, already the edges were beginning to fray from many readings.
He unfolded it and his eyes flickered across the remembered phrases; he almost knew it by heart, “...have to admit that Mr. William Drucker is unsuited for employment with the Ceylon office of this company... during his three months he has demonstrated that he cannot effectively sell our products... vague and indifferent in his approach to his work... inferior technical knowledge and ability... unstable and hot headed... a liability to my present operations... that he be returned to the States as soon as a replacement arrives.”
It was completely damning and completely unfair. It was such a shock, when he knew that he had done well, knew that his work was good. He appreciated the company policy which made it mandatory to give a copy of any unfavorable report to the employee involved, but he didn’t see what he could do about it.
He sat in the shadowy lounge and remembered the conversation he had had with Carson immediately after he had first read the report.
“But, sir! How have I done so poorly? There are only the two of us here. You know how I got the De Soysa account and the Fernandez account, how I fixed up those specifications that Van Booten is so satisfied with. I’ve worked like a dog, Mr. Car-son, and I like it here. I don’t understand.”
And old Carson, gray, tall and distinguished, had looked calmly at him and had said, “Everything I have to say is in that report, Drucker. I’ll expect you to do as well as you can until the replacement arrives, and then you’ll be sent home. I’m sorry, but it’s the only thing I can do.”
Bill’s square face had flamed red, and his cropped blonde hair had felt as though it were bristling on the back of his neck as he had said, “Well, suppose I don’t think you are doing such a hot job here? Suppose I get some letters from the people I’ve worked with here, people I’ve sold on Purtron products, and tell the home office what I think of this whole set-up.”
“Look, my boy,” Carson had said, “You lack the ability to see yourself as others see you. How would you look, a young man with the company only six months going back to the home office and trying to convince them that I, who have been with them twenty-four years, am wrong about you? Do you think a batch of letters from a group of little Ceylonese business men would help your case? No, Drucker, you’re through, and you might as well resign yourself to it.” He had then picked up a trade paper and started to read it. There had been nothing for Bill to do but leave.
He folded the bitter letter back into a damp square and put it in his pocket. In spite of Carson’s obvious effort to shake his self-confidence, he knew that he wasn’t as bad as the letter indicated. But he felt baffled and defeated, with no way to turn. He was blocked in, and he didn’t like it. He tried to relax as he sipped the cool drink, tried to think of how he had possibly offended old Carson. He hadn’t liked his new boss from the first moment he had seen him, hadn’t liked his affected, supercilious airs, but he thought he had concealed the dislike. The biggest blow was that he liked Ceylon, enjoyed the weird contrasts of civilization and savagery on the lush little island, liked his new friends and reveled in the wide, white sweep of sandy beach outside his hotel window. He hated the thought of leaving.
After a half hour of impotent thinking, he glanced at his watch and decided to drive out to Ratmalana to meet the Sata Airlines plane. He had become friendly with the regular pilot on the Bombay-Colombo run, Casey Lal, with the idea of eventually getting him to support a specification for Purtron lubricants for the airline. He realized that he would probably have sixty days before his replacement arrived, and he might as well generate some false interest in his job to replace the genuine interest he had lost when he received the carbon of Carson’s letter. It would make the time pass more quickly. Besides that screwball Casey would help him to get his mind off his troubles.
He signed the chit and walked back out to the car. During the twenty-minute drive out the Galle Road through Bambalipitya to the Ratmalana Airport, he handle the sedan automatically, weaving around the rickshaws and ox-carts, and little fragile British cars. At one point he passed an elephant swaying ponderously along the shoulder of the road. An oncoming lorry made him swerve close to the elephant, and he unconsciously flinched as the tail of the big beast swung toward his windshield. He grinned at himself, and felt better for the rest of the ride. He turned left at a huge cocoanut plantation and rolled to a stop near the administration buildings at the airport.
He was just in time. The flimsy silhouette of the Sata plane was just entering final approach. Casey scorned the runways, landing his ancient biplane directly into the wind. That necessitated crossing the main strip diagonally and landing on the hard-baked ground. As usual, the landing was expert. He taxied the plane up close to the front of the main building, and five cramped passengers clawed their way out of the tiny cabin. Then Casey jumped out, tall and handsome in his slate-blue uniform. He saw Bill and waved at him as he went in to sign his reports. In a few minutes he was back out again and walked over to Bill.
“Salaam, Bill!” he said. “Wizard landing, what? How do you like the way I can set that bret-up kite down?” His dark eyes blazed in his sallow face, the long white scar down his cheek giving the corner of his mouth a pixie curve upwards. Casey was an intriguing mixture of Irish and Indian, an Anglo-Indian who had a lot of the best qualities of the two races. His long, curling eyelashes didn’t make him look any less masculine.
“Casey, why do you always sound like you had been bitten by the R.A.F.? You’re not flying a peashooter or a Lane, you know.”
“But, Bill, I’m trying to talk American. Do I duff it up?”
“You’re hopeless, chum. But I’ve got plans. Tonight is a night of rejoicing and of drowning sorrow. You do the rejoicing. Throw your bag in my car and we’ll start as of now. You didn’t have anything else on, did you?” Bill asked, suddenly apprehensive at losing the company of one of the few really entertaining friends he had met who could still hold his liquor.
“Not a popsie on the schedule, Bill. All the decent women are in Bombay. I’m your boy. Let’s get cracking! But wait a mo’, I’ve got to be at the Grand Hotel at ten to meet a bloke.”
“That’s easy. Let’s start at the Grand, they always have liquor and tonight they have music. We’ll just settle down there for the evening, then, even if you forget your man, you’ll be there to meet him. Okay?”
“Good gen, my boy. It’s a night.”
On the way back down to the city, Casey kept up a running description of his passengers and of how some of them requested him to fly low and slow. He described them well, and had Bill laughing so hard at times that it was hard to watch the road through his tears. Casey told about one sedate Indian lady that complained to the airline management because Casey kept smiling at her. “It was this bloody gash on my face where I got pranged, you know. It pulls up the corner of my mouth.”