The Honorary Consul by Graham Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

could take the second or third just as well and make a little turn. I enjoy your company, doctor. What did you say your name was?"
           "Plarr."
           "Do you know what my name is?"
           "Yes."
           "Mason."
           "I thought..."
           "That's what they called me at school. Mason. Fortnum and Mason, the inseparable twins. It was the best English school In B. A. My career though was less than distinguished. A good word to get out so distinct... so well. The right measure you see. Not too much and not too little. I was never a prefect, and the marble team was the only one I made. Not recognized officially. We were a snobbish school. All the same the headmaster, not the one I knew, that was Arden—we called him Smells—well, this new man wrote me a letter of congratulation when I became Honorary Consul. I wrote to him first, of course, and told him the glad news, so I suppose he couldn't very well ignore me altogether."
           "Will you tell me when we get to the Consulate?"
           "We've passed it, old man, but never you mind. I've got a clear head. You just take another turn. First to the right and then left again. I'm in the sort of mood when I could drive like this all night. In sympathetic company. No need to pay attention to the one-way signs. Diplomatic privilege. The CC on the car. I can talk to you, doctor, as I can talk to no other man in this city. Spaniards. A proud people but they have no sentiment. Not as we English know it. No sense of Home. Soft slippers, the feet on the table, the friendly glass, the ever-open door. Humphries is not a bad chap—he's as English as you or me, or is he Scotch?—but he has the soul of a—pedagogue. Another good word that. He always tries to correct my morals, and yet I don't do much that's wrong, not really wrong. Tonight, if I'm a little pissed, it was the fault of the glasses. What's your other name, doctor?"
           "Eduardo."
           "But I thought you were English?"
           "My mother's Paraguayan."
           "Call me Charley. Would you mind if I called you Ted?"
           "Call me what you like, but for God's sake tell me where the Consulate is."
           "The next corner. But don't go expecting too much. No marble halls, no chandeliers and potted palms. It's only a bachelor's digs—a bureau, a bedroom—all the usual offices, of course. The best the buggers at home are ready to provide. No sense of national pride. Penny wise, pound foolish. You must come out to my camp—that's where my real home is. Nearly a thousand acres. Eight hundred anyway. Some of the best maté In the country. We could drive there now—it's only three quarters of an hour from here. A good night's sleep and afterward—a hair of the dog. I can give you real Scotch."
           "Not tonight. I have patients to see in the morning."
           They stopped outside an old colonial house with Corinthian pillars; the white plaster gleamed in the moonlight. On the first floor a flagstaff projected and a shield bore the royal arms. Charley Fortnum swayed a little on the pavement, gazing up. "Is it true?" he asked.
           "Is what true?"
           "The flagstaff. Isn't it leaning over a bit too much?"
           "It looks all right to me."
           "I wish we had a simpler flag than the Union Jack. I hung it upside down once on the Queen's birthday. I could see nothing wrong with the bloody thing, but Humphries was angry—he said he was going to write to the Ambassador. Come up and have a glass."
           "I must be getting home—if you can manage by yourself."
           "I promise you it's real Scotch. I get Long John from the Embassy. They all prefer Haig there. But Long John gives you a free glass with every bottle. Very nice glasses, too, with the measures marked. Women, Men, and Shipmaster. I count myself, of course, a Shipmaster. I've got dozens of Long John glasses out