Authors: Eugene Burdick,William J. Lederer
The rest of his stay in Jakarta was equally fascinating, and when he boarded another luxury Air France plane, he welcomed the chance to get some sleep. He awoke eight hours after they had taken off, and was flattered to discover that the French merchant had put a case of imported beer aboard the plane and instructed the steward to serve Tom a bottle as soon as he awoke. By the time he had consumed five bottles of beer the plane was circling for a landing outside of New Delhi in northern India. Indonesia had been lush and rich and bright. India was dusty, hot, and hard. But Tom enjoyed his stay. Again two Frenchmen met him at the airport and arranged for him to stay at a French rest home. They also had planned an elaborate itinerary. Tom visited magnificent century-old ruins, watched a troupe of Indian dancers recreate ancient ritual dances which had formerly been done with cobras, and attended a funeral burning at the river edge. Months later he could still recall the smell that rose from the pyre, compounded of ancient butter, strange perfumes, and burning flesh.
Tom also ate well while he was in New Delhi. When he left, again on a luxury flight, he was given a collection of intricate Indian silver jewelry, a gift from the French Embassy of India. And during his entire stay various people made flattering remarks about his skill in Cambodia.
On the long flight from New Delhi to Nice, Tom tried several times to write up his criticisms of the American agricultural aid program in Cambodia. Somehow he found it difficult to find the right words with which to express his indignation. In fact, he found that his indignation was very difficult to rekindle. He assured himself that once he had returned to the United States he would be able to write up his complaint accurately and soundly; he resolved to go as quickly as possible to Washington after his return.
When his plane landed in Nice he was again greeted by the inevitable Frenchmen. This time they had arranged for him to stay as long as he wanted to in a hotel just outside of Cap d'Antibes. On the rocks below the hotel were a half-dozen women wearing bathing suits smaller than Tom had ever imagined could be legal.
Tom stayed seven days at the hotel, and when he left he discovered that there was no bill to pay. The management assured him that both they and the French government were delighted to have had as a guest so distinguished an American diplomat. The Frenchmen from Nice gave him a present when he left—a suitcase made of Morocco leather, the finest piece of luggage Tom had ever seen.
In Paris Tom was met by a Cambodian who had large agricultural holdings in Cambodia. He had arranged for Tom to stay at a small hotel. He apologized for the fact that it did not have an international reputation, but assured Tom that the service and food were excellent. This recommendation was something of an understatement. Tom discovered, to his astonishment, that the hotel had no established rates. A guest was simply given whatever he asked for, and was then presented with a single unitemized bill at the end of his stay. When Tom asked for Scotch in the bar, the waiter brought him a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and a few bottles of Perrier water, and left. For so small a hotel the menu was incredible. Tom literally could order whatever he wanted— from fresh Beluga caviar to squid soup.
Meanwhile, the Cambodian land owner kept Tom busy with trips to every art gallery in Paris, an evening at the opera, tastings at famous wine cellars, small cocktail parties, carriage rides through the Bois, and a gift-buying expedition which turned out, in some mysterious way, to involve Tom in no expense whatsoever.
One evening he tried to raise the question of agricultural aid to Cambodia. The Cambodian listened courteously as Tom described his plans for increasing chicken and egg yield in that country, and Tom had the feeling that the Cambodian already knew the details of his plan. The Cambodian could not have been more honest or diplomatic.
"Mr. Knox, I'm afraid that you and I differ on this idea," he finally said with great grace. "There is only a limited amount of aid money; and before the golden goose stops laying, I think it would be wise for Cambodia to get permanent installations like roads and canals and ports. Your idea is important and good; but I do not feel that this is the time for it." Tom started to protest; but somehow to protest to so polite and generous a person seemed unreasonable.
Two days later the Cambodian told Tom that through a lucky fluke they had been able to get him a suite on the
Liberté
sailing for New York. And happily he was able to tell Tom that the suite would cost him nothing, because, for a reason which was never quite clear to Tom, the suite was free to them.
When Tom left his hotel his experience on the Riviera was repeated. The hotel was so pleased to have him as a guest that they could not think of taking payment. The manager pointed out confidentially that other people—businessmen and brokers, for instance—could well afford to pay the cost of the small services that the hotel had given Tom. He intimated that Tom was one of a group of people so valuable and important that they were above paying hotel bills.
The suite on the
Liberté
was luxurious without being ostentatious. Every morning fresh flowers were put in his cabin; there was always a note attached to them which expressed the gratitude of the Cambodian government. Also, there were several visits from a Cambodian diplomat who was traveling to the United States; this gentleman made Tom gifts of French wine and a length of the finest French silk.
When the
Liberté
was two days from New York, Tom sat down to write up his thoughts so that he could present them to congressional committees and to newspaper people in Washington. He discovered, however, that not only had his feeling of anger and outrage been blunted, but that it was very difficult to recreate it at all. To his astonishment Cambodia seemed a long, long time away, and glazed over with wonderful memories. These were not so much memories of the village life, as of the generous and courteous attentions he had been given by so many Cambodians on his trip home. The anger, which in Cambodia had seemed so sure and honest a weapon, in his suite on the
Liberté
seemed somehow almost ridiculous. After working for three hours and covering only a half a page, he resolved to wait until he had landed.
Eight months later, when Tom was back on the Knox farm in Sheldon, Iowa, he again saw the half page of paper. When he read it over, he thought for a moment that it must have been written by another person. The handwriting was his, but not the words. The anger he had felt in Cambodia, so hot and bright and curiously nourishing, now seemed childish. Tom folded the paper, and put it away.
In Haidho Ambassador MacWhite had a caller—a farmer who was head of the Midwest Poultry Association. He was making a world tour with his wife, and he came into the embassy with something on his mind.
"Look, Mister MacWhite," he said, for he had never learned diplomatic protocol, "I'm on to something hot. Listen for a second and don't say I'm crazy."
MacWhite pushed a box of cigars towards the man. He took four, lit one, and stuck the other three in his shirt pocket. He puffed up a white cloud of smoke and then talked through it.
"What this country needs, mister, are some good chickens," he said, his voice explosive with excitement.
"I thought there were plenty around," MacWhite said cautiously. There was no disapproval in his voice, for he had learned not to be either disapproving or surprised.
"Dammed right there are, but they're sickly," the visitor said. "I found out they only lay about thirty eggs a year. Why, if we could get their egg production up to 200 eggs per chicken per year, and their weight up just 20 per cent, we could save $2,000,000 on food imports a year. Look, I figured it out."
The excited man pushed a dirty piece of paper over to the ambassador. It was covered with a sprawl of figures; at the bottom, with a circle around it, was written $2,000,000.
MacWhite had the figures checked by his research staff. They were correct.
He then wrote a letter to the American Aid Mission in Phnom Penh in Cambodia, which had the largest number of American agricultural experts of any mission in the immediate area. He asked if they had a chicken expert they could lend to the Sarkhan government.
The letter he received from Phnom Penh was disappointing and it also led to MacWhite's making his second major mistake—one he never discovered.
Dear Ambassador MacWhite, (wrote the Chief of Mission in Phnom Penh)
I don't know what you're doing down there, but it sounds as if you're trying to make sure of a good eggnog supply for the Christmas holidays.
Whatever your motives, I can't help you. We had an egg expert out here, name of Thomas Elmer Knox. There's something about that profession that seems to make them a bit odd. He just didn't work out. Always out in the countryside, always popping off about things he knew nothing about, always threatening to go to Congress if we didn't import some Rhode Island Reds.
He finally left in a huff, why, I never fully understood. The French and Cambodian officials were a bit perturbed at first because they hate to have Americans go away unhappy; but they seem all right about it now. They don't want any more egg experts though. Neither do you. Give it up.
Cordially Rowe Hendy
And MacWhite did give it up—which was his second major mistake,
The Six-Foot Swami from Savannah
Playing his harmonica softly, Colonel Edwin B. Hillandale of the U. S. Air Force and Savannah, Georgia, ambled down the Street of the White Crocodile in Haidho. He was trying to learn
Nging Gho Hrignostina,
which is Sarkhan's national anthem. Every few minutes the colonel would stop a Sarkhanese and play a version of
Nging Gho Hrignostina.
Then, with gesticulations, appealing grimaces, and laughter, he would persuade the Sarkhanese to hum the anthem.
But learning the national anthem of Sarkhan wasn't the only thing the colonel was doing. He was, as he expressed it, "Seeing what makes this burg tick before MacWhite comes back from his trip." Ambassador MacWhite had gotten him on loan from Manila for two months. The colonel noticed that there were a great many pawnshops, and concluded that the city people were in bad economic straits. He observed the shops which sold betel nuts, tobacco, and native medicines. He had seen a clerk in one of them pass something from under the counter, and had guessed that opium was also being sold. He went by fruit stands piled high with red pomegranates, yellow pomolos, pink-brown bananas, and green apples, and passed walking flower vendors carrying great baskets of sweet fragrance. The thing which the colonel noticed most, however, was the large number of signs advertising palmistry and astrology establishments. These places had a clean, elegant, respectable look which made them resemble the offices of fashionable physicians in America. And the shingles which the astrologists and palmists hung outside their places of business all indicated that these practitioners had doctors' degrees.
Well, thought Colonel Hillandale, at last I've found a place where my hobbies will be welcome. I'm sure glad I brought my Ephemeris and log tables with me. And that slide rule. Oh boy, if I can find my diploma from that Chungking School of Occult Science, I'll really be in business here.
He then played
The Little Whistling Pig
on his harmonica, a tune he reserved only for special occasions such as the day he had put the donkey in the general's suite, or last March the 14th, when he had been promoted to full chicken colonel.
After he had seen enough of Haidho to get the feel of it, he returned to the American Embassy and began to read. He went through biographies of all the Sarkhanese politicians, and many different analyses of the current political situation He submerged himself in these studies for several days, and probably would have continued for longer except that he was interrupted by the Embassy Protocol Officer.
"Colonel, is your nickname 'The Ragtime Kid'?"
"That's what they call me in Manila."
"Then you're the one. The Philippines Ambassador is giving a dinner tomorrow, and requests that you attend. I've already accepted for you. Ambassador Rodriguez seemed particularly eager . . ."
"So, Don Phillippe wangled himself that job after all, the old buzzard. Sure I'll go. I hope he's brought a couple of cases of
tuba,
a wagonload of San Miguel, and those two good looking maids he kept in Manila . . ."
"Eight o'clock," said the protocol officer hastily. "Black tie. And be a little early. The Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister and several other Sarkhanese dignitaries will be there."
"You have a guest list?"
"I'll get you one."
The Philippine Ambassador's dinner party was fully attended because Don Phillippe had already established his reputation as a good and charming host. It was rumored that he paid his chef thirty thousand pesos a year, and that he had stolen him from the Waldorf. Regardless of how much he was paid, or where he had been stolen from, the chef had made Don Phillippe's table famous throughout the Orient.
After about an hour of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, a servant came up and whispered something to Don Phillippe. A cloud of disappointment shadowed his face, and his forehead furrowed. Don Phillippe thought a moment, then went over to Colonel Hillandale and beckoned him to one side.
"Kid," he said, "a terrible catastrophe. The first course for this evening is
sole escabeche.
I had the fish caught this afternoon from my own boat. But Henri just told me he doesn't have any ginger, and it'll take a half-hour to get it. So I've got to stall. Do you remember the palm-reading stunt you pulled at my house at Baguio? Do you think . . ."
The melody of
The Whistling Pig
began to drift through The Ragtime Kid's mind.
"Why, Don Phillippe," he said, "I'd love to. I'm in a great palm-reading mood tonight. The humidity is just right and it so happens that Venus is in conjunction with the moon...
"Come on then," said Don Phillippe, looking five years younger. "I don't care what lies you tell these people, just amuse them for a half hour."
"Lies? Don Phillippe, you've hurt my feelings."
The Philippines Ambassador tapped on a glass with a spoon and when he had everyone's attention, introduced Colonel Hillandale.
"Ladies and gentlemen. We have with us this evening a most distinguished palmist and astrologer." He paused. During the pause the Americans present laughed and a few, including George Swift, the chargé d'affaires, said "Fake! Fraud!" The Sarkhanese leaned forward with interest to hear the remainder of the announcement, somewhat embarrassed by the Americans' comments.
Don Phillippe continued. "This distinguished man is my old friend and associate Colonel Edwin Hillandale of the U. S. Air Force. He is the only living Caucasian who is a graduate of the Chungking School of Occult Science. I have seen him perform many times, and the things I have heard him say have been both fantastic and miraculous. I remember the day he read the palm and cast the horoscope of our Secretary of Defense, Ramon Magsaysay. The Ragtime Kid—as we affectionately call the colonel—told Ramon that the sixteenth of the month would be his lucky day, but only if he were in the vicinity of Barang. Out of curiosity Ramon went to Barang, a small town in Ilocos Norte Province. And on that day and in that town Ramon surrounded and captured the leaders of the terrible Huks, in an action which broke the back of the whole Huk movement,"
The Sarkhanese Prime Minister and his foreign minister nodded at each other appreciatively. George Swift laughed and slapped his knee.
"I asked the Kid if he would read some of your palms after dinner, but he told me that astrological conditions are perfect right now when Venus is in conjunction with the moon. The next half-hour is the best time to read palms, and my chef says he can hold dinner up for that length of time, so . . . I give you Colonel Hillandale."
"Bravo! Bravo!" said the Prime Minister, clapping his hands.
Swift turned to his wife and whispered, "I wonder why MacWhite shanghaied this amateur performer. Can you imagine, vaudeville tricks at a state dinner!"
Colonel Hillandale stood up, raised his hand. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, frankly, I don't like to do this in public. When I read palms I must tell exactly what I see. Sometimes the information is the kind you don't want others to know. I must tell you this ahead of time."
"Start on me, Colonel," said Swift sarcastically, holding out his hand. "I've got nothing to hide. Come on, I dare you." They sat down under a light. The colonel spread Swift's hand flat on his knee. Everyone crowded around.
The colonel said, "When were you born?"
"You tell me, Mister Prophet"
The colonel peered closely at Swift's hand and then said gently and without reproach, "I know that you were born on the 28th of April, 1913, in Santa Clara, California. I was hoping to get the exact hour and minute, since it would have helped me. But never mind."
The chargé d'affaires didn't say anything.
"You came from a poor family. Your father ran a saloon, I'm not sure, but there are indications that he went bankrupt and deserted your mother."
Mrs. Swift sucked in her breath.
The colonel continued, "You wanted to be a doctor, but you couldn't pass the entrance exams for medical school. You left college after your third year because... The colonel raised his head and looked at Mrs. Swift, saw the anguish in her face, and skipped to the next subject. "You got a job as the office manager for a real estate company, and held it until 1944 when a client of yours got a big job in Washington. He took you along as his office manager and you did lots of little liaison jobs with Congress. Then you went to the State Department in the same capacity. This is your first assignment, overseas. I can see in your hand that you don't read much— not many books, magazines, or newspapers, I mean—but you have a capacity for scanning reports and for putting them in proper order. This is your great talent. You hate being scolded and when you are—according to your hand—you take it out on your wife. I could easily tell you what will happen in your future, but as long as you don't want to tell me the exact time of your birth, well . . ."
Swift started to blurt out when he was born, but Colonel Hillandale had already let go his hand and moved on to the next person.
The Prime Minister said, "I would like to have my palm read. But I would prefer it to be in private."
"Your Excellency," said the Philippine Ambassador, "of course." He put his hand on the Prime Minister's elbow and led him into the study. The Ragtime Kid followed.
The Ragtime Kid and the Prime Minister closed the door of the study and stayed there for half an hour. What went on inside the study none of the other guests knew. But when the door opened, the two men came out arm in arm, and the Prime Minister was gazing up at The Ragtime Kid with obvious awe.
Dinner was announced, and everyone went into the dining room to enjoy Henri's celebrated cooking. The meal was superb, and the conversation was spirited and clever; the general subject was palmistry and astrology. The Philippine Ambassador made a mental note that he was considerably obliged to The Ragtime Kid and some day would do something for him in return.
Three days later Ambassador MacWhite returned to Haidho. He stepped briskly off the plane and saw that his Deputy Chief of Mission was waiting for him. He put his hand on George Swift's shoulder and said, "Everything in good shape, old boy? Where did you get that shiner? What a beautiful mouse! You look as though you did fifteen rounds with Marciano. How'd you get it?"
Swift's face flushed with anger. "That vaudeville colonel of yours from Manila . . ."
"Hillandale?"
"Yes, sir. I have an official letter of reprimand ready for your signature . . ."
"Tell me about it."
And Swift did.
The first thing MacWhite did when he got back to the embassy was to send for Colonel Hillandale. When the colonel arrived, MacWhite was very severe and formal with him, and demanded his version of the fight with the Deputy Chief of Mission.
"It started like this, sir," said the colonel. "May I have your permission to sit down and smoke?"
"Yes. But let me tell you right now, I have a feeling you're m serious trouble."
The following explanation of George Swift's black eye was offered by Colonel Edwin Hillandale to Ambassador MacWhite.
"Well, sir," said Colonel Hillandale, "first I have to give you some background. Every person and every nation has a key which will open their hearts. If you use the right key, you can maneuver any person or any nation any way you want.
"The key to Sarkhan—and to several other nations in Southeast Asia—is palmistry and astrology. All you have to do to learn this is to walk along the streets and look at the occult establishments. The men who operate them are called doctors, and they're respected. There are chairs of palmistry and astrology in every Sarkhanese University, and the Prime Minister himself has a Ph.D. in Occult Science.
"There are many things which we don't know much about in the United States which are held in high regard by the Asians, and in which they have developed a genuine skill. Palmistry and astrology are among these.
"The Sarkhanese officials wouldn't make a major decision without consulting a doctor of the occult. Shortly after I arrived a well-known astrologer announced that on the eighteenth a 'big man' would die in Sarkhan. Well, sir, on the seventeenth almost every important official in Sarkhan flew to Rangoon so as to be out of the country on that fateful day. Even the King and the Prime Minister went away. They make no bones about it—they believe.
"It so happens that palmistry and astrology are hobbies of mine; I studied them when I was in China. It was immediately clear to me that I had knowledge which would be helpful in furthering U. S. interests out here.
"When I was asked to read palms at the Philippine Ambassador's dinner, it was a God-given opportunity. All of the Sarkhanese brass except the King were present. And then that knucklehead of an assistant of yours, instead of helping me, started laughing at me and trying to make a fool out of me. If he had an ounce of brains, he would have noticed how serious the Sarkhanese were. And if those fools in the State Department had briefed him properly, he would have known all about palmistry and astrology before he even came here."
"But," interrupted Ambassador MacWhite, "George Swift told me that you insulted him . . ."
"He dared me to read what was in his palm, and I read it. The things I told him were true, and he knows it.