“Excellent vittles,” he said. “Is there any more wine?”
I opened another bottle for him, and we all watched with a certain admiration as he proceeded to empty that one as well. His cheeks were swiftly turning from magenta to a very deep purple and his nose seemed to be catching on fire. Halfway through the third bottle, he began to loosen up. He worked, he told us, in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and was home on leave. His job had to do with the Sudan Irrigation Service, and a very hot and arduous business it was. But fascinating. Lots of fun, y’know. And the wogs weren’t too much trouble so long as one kept the old shambok handy all the time.
We sat round him, listening and not a little intrigued by this purple-faced creature from distant lands.
“A great country, the Sudan,” he said. “It is enormous. It is remote. It is full of mysteries and secrets. Would you like me to tell you about one of the great secrets of the Sudan?”
“Very much, sir,” we said. “Yes, please.”
“One of its great secrets,” he said, tipping another glass of wine down his throat, “a secret that is known only to a few old-timers out there like myself and to the natives, is a little creature called the Sudanese Blister Beetle or to give him his right name, Cantharis vesiccitoria sudanii.”
“You mean a scarab?” I said.
“Certainly not,” he said. “The Sudanese Blister Beetle is a winged insect, as much a fly as a beetle, and is about three-quarters of an inch long. It’s very pretty to look at, with a brilliant iridescent shell of golden green.”
“Why is it so secret?” we asked.
“These little beetles,” the Major said, “are found only in one part of the Sudan. It’s an area of about twenty square miles, north of Khartoum, and that’s where the hashab tree grows. The leaves of the hashab tree are what the beetles feed on. Men spend their whole lives searching for these beetles. Beetle hunters, they are called. They are very sharp-eyed natives who know all there is to know about the haunts and habits of the tiny brutes. And when they catch them, they kill them and dry them in the sun and crunch them up into a fine powder. This powder is greatly prized among the natives, who usually keep it in small elaborately carved Beetle Boxes. A tribal chief will have his Beetle Box made of silver.”
“But this powder,” we said, “what do they do with it?”
“It’s not what they do with it,” the Major said. “It’s what it does to you. One tiny pinch of that powder is the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world.”
“The Spanish Fly!” someone shouted. “It’s the Spanish Fly!”
“Well, not quite,” the Major said, “but you’re on the right track. The common Spanish Fly is found in Spain and southern Italy. The one I’m talking about is the Sudanese Fly, and although it’s of the same family, it’s a different kettle of fish altogether. It is approximately ten times as powerful as the ordinary Spanish Fly. The reaction produced by the little Sudanese fellow is so incredibly vicious it is dangerous to use even in small doses.”
“But they do use it?”
“Oh God, yes. Every wog in Khartoum and northwards uses the old Beetle. White men, the ones who know about it, are inclined to leave it alone because it’s so damn dangerous.”
“Have you used it?” someone asked.
The Major looked up at the questioner and gave a little smile under his enormous moustache. “We’ll come to that in a moment or two, shall we?” he said.
“What does it actually do to you?” one of the girls asked.
“My God,” the Major said, “what doesn’t it do to you? It builds a fire under your genitals. It is both a violent aphrodisiac and a powerful irritant. It not only makes you uncontrollably randy but it also guarantees you an enormous and long-lasting erection at the same time. Could you give me another glass of wine, dear boy?”
I leaped up to fetch more wine. My guests had suddenly become very still. The girls were all staring at the Major, rapt and motionless, their eyes shining like stars. The boys were staring at the girls, watching to see how they would react to these sudden indiscretions. I refilled the Major’s glass.