Hakim shrugged. “Before I came along, Moslems, Christians and Jews lived peacefully in my realms. I set the precedent of oppression, and did not survive to see it
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work properly—it was always unjust oppression, never just. For years afterward, rulers continued to harass Christians with biased zeal. A lifetime later, the Franks responded with the First Crusade.”
Hakim paused at this dramatic juncture. Plum took up the slack. Apparently the man wanted blame—or credit. Yesterday he’d almost begged to be called evil. “So you caused all that.”
“All that harm. Useless bloodshed in the name of religion, because I wanted to break those institutions, not use them. Should I not be famous over the centuries for my mistakes? Perhaps Lenin was greater than me. He succeeded where I failed.”
Plum shook his head. “The verdict isn’t in. Not as of my former life span. Anyhow, Lenin’s religion of communism—I can’t see it’s better than the others. People die for it the same way.”
Hakim smiled. “I like the way your mind works. But Maria and I have anticipated your reservations. Secrets within secrets! This is one I cannot give away. An extraordinary woman!”
He went to the window again and spoke in a more public voice: “For you, my women do not exist. You will never be useful in the same measure as my favorite among them. There is no scoundrel in you. No energy I can grasp and use. I must simply give you paper and ink, and trust in the results.”
On this note he swept off, except this one-room shack lacked the dimensions. A good sweep needs three paces— two if there’s a door one shuts dramatically. By Hakim’s third pace he was well outdoors and talking about someone’s prospective execution.
A tyrant’s agenda was a busy one. Plum reconstructed
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the last ten minutes, and decided the man had done it again. Overwhelmed him. What he was proudest of in his work wasn’t his lyrical English, his mastery of the storyteller’s rules. No, he prized those Rube Goldberg plots, full of hairsbreadth timing and improbable coincidences. It cost him half his eflforts putting them together— the harder half. The easier half was slathering on the verbiage.
Hakim? Hakim was a plot on the hoof. You could hardly help having a story with a dervish like him whirling around. Wodehouse didn’t like it. Reality was reality and fiction was fiction, and never the twain should meet. He’d always been fond of the characters in his stories, but did those characters like their author? The issue came up with a vengeance, because Hakim had an author’s power over him.
Plum fulminated. What one had here in spades were: plush digs, servants, impostors. Familiar elements to any of his readers. What about the love angle? The dreaded aunt? Well, there’d be enough of that on the other side of the wall, in the women’s garden.
Yes, he could work something out. It might be therapeutic. If Hakim made good on his promised paper, Plum might manage a story: Blandings-on-Riverworld. Something to restore his sense of balance. Something to put Hakim in his place.
Careful. ‘Twere best to be subtle indeed, given all this bally fanaticism. The cast must play in disguise. It made a pretty problem, and Wodehouse devoted the rest of the afternoon and evening to working it out.
By morning he was adding details, and wishing he could remember them all. Hakim-and-crew came by again on their daily constitutional. “People who die
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simultaneously—do they resurrect in the same place? Have you heard rumors? Lovers’ compacts and the like?”
Plum blinked. “I—I don’t know.”
“We’ll experiment. Nabuch and the Afghan can be lovers somewhere else, with my blessings.” He shifted his voice, as newscasters did when they sat in front of a mike. “Unnatural vices are not tolerated here.”
“Ah.” Plum focused on the sight of two historical consultants being led to the big tree. Thrust up against the bark. Tied. If this happened often, no wonder there were empty huts for new arrivals like himself.
Hakim reached behind him and handed over a parcel. “Paper, pens, and ink. Don’t watch if it distresses you.”
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