Vonnegut, Kurt – Player Piano

CHAPTER TWO

THE SHAH OF BRATPUHR, spiritual leader of 6,000,000 members of the Kolhouri sect, wizened and wise and dark as cocoa, encrusted with gold brocade and constellations of twinkling gems, sank deep into the royal-blue cushions of the limousine – like a priceless brooch in its gift box. On the other side of the limousine’s rear seat sat Doctor Ewing J. Halyard, of the United States Department of State, a heavy, florid, urbane gentleman of forty. He wore a flowing sandy mustache, a colored shirt, a boutonniere, and a waistcoat contrasting with his dark suit, and wore them with such poise that one was sure he’d just come from a distinguished company where everyone dressed in this manner. The fact was that only Doctor Halyard did. And he got away with it beautifully. Between them, nervous, grinning, young, and forever apologetic for his own lack of ?clat or power, was Khashdrahr Miasma, the interpreter, and nephew of the Shah, who had learned English from a tutor, but had never before been outside of the Shah’s palace. “Khabu?” said the Shah in his high, frail voice. Halyard had been with the Shah for three days now and was able to understand, without Khashdrahr’s help, five of the Shah’s expressions. “Khabu” meant “where?” “Siki” meant “what?” “Akka sahn” meant “why?” “Brahous brahouna, houna saki” was a combination of blessing and thanks, and Sumklish was the sacred Kolhouri drink which Khashdrahr carried in a hip flask for the Shah. The Shah had left his military and spiritual fastness in the mountains to see what he could learn in the most powerful nation on earth for the good of his people. Doctor Halyard was his guide and host. “Khabu?” said the Shah again, peering out at the city. “The Shah wishes to know, please, where we are now,” said Khashdrahr. “I know,” said Halyard, smiling wanly. It had been khabu and siki and akka sahn until he was half out of his mind. He leaned forward. “Ilium, New York, your highness. We are about to cross the Iroquois River, which divides the town in two. Over there on the opposite bank is the Ilium Works.” The limousine came to a halt by the end of the bridge, where a large work crew was filling a small chuckhole. The crew had opened a lane for an old Plymouth with a broken headlight, which was coming through from the north side of the river. The limousine waited for the Plymouth to get through, and then proceeded. The Shah turned to stare at the group through the back window, and then spoke at length. Doctor Halyard smiled and nodded appreciatively, and awaited a translation. “The Shah,” said Khashdrahr, “he would like, please, to know who owns these slaves we see all the way up from New York City.” “Not slaves,” said Halyard, chuckling patronizingly. “Citizens, employed by government. They have same rights as other citizens – free speech, freedom of worship, the right to vote. Before the war, they worked in the Ilium Works, controlling machines, but now machines control themselves much better.” “Aha!” said the Shah, after Khashdrahr had translated. “Less waste, much better products, cheaper products with automatic control.” “Aha!” “And any man who cannot support himself by doing a job better than a machine is employed by the government, either in the Army or the Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps.” “Aha! Khabu bonanza-pak?” “Eh?” “He says, ‘Where does the money come from to pay them?’ ” said Khashdrahr. “Oh. From taxes on the machines, and taxes on personal incomes. Then the Army and the Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps people put their money back into the system for more products for better living.” “Aha!” Doctor Halyard, a dutiful man with a bad conscience about the size of his expense accounts, went on explaining America, though he knew very little was getting through. He told the Shah that advances had been most profound in purely industrial communities, where the bulk of the population – as in Ilium – had made its living tending machines in one way or another. In New York City, for instance, there were many skills difficult or uneconomical to mechanize, and the advances hadn’t liberated as high a percentage of people from production. “Kuppo!” said the Shah, shaking his head. Khashdrahr blushed, and translated uneasily, apologetically. “Shah says, ‘Communism.’ ” “No Kuppo!” said Halyard vehemently. “The government does not own the machines. They simply tax that part of industry’s income that once went into labor, and redistribute it. Industry is privately owned and managed, and co-ordinated – to prevent the waste of competition – by a committee of leaders from private industry, not politicians. By eliminating human error through machinery, and needless competition through organization, we’ve raised the standard of living of the average man immensely.” Khashdrahr stopped translating and frowned perplexedly. “Please, this average man, there is no equivalent in our language, I’m afraid.” “You know,” said Halyard, “the ordinary man, like, well, anybody – those men working back on the bridge, the man in that old car we passed. The little man, not brilliant but a good-hearted, plain, ordinary, everyday kind of person.” Khashdrahr translated. “Aha,” said the Shah, nodding, “Takaru.” “What did he say?” “Takaru,” said Khashdrahr. “Slave.” “No Takaru,” said Halyard, speaking directly to the Shah. “Ci-ti-zen.” “Ahhhhh,” said the Shah. “Ci-ti-zen.” He grinned happily. “Takaru – citizen. Citizen – Takaru.” “No Takaru!” said Halyard. Khashdrahr shrugged. “In the Shah’s land are only the Elite and the Takaru.” Halyard’s ulcer gave him a twinge, the ulcer that had grown in size and authority over the years of his career as an interpreter of America to provincial and ignorant notables from the backwaters of civilization. The limousine came to a stop again, and the driver honked his horn at a crew of Reconstruction and Reclamation Corpsmen. They had left their wheelbarrows blocking the road, and were throwing rocks at a squirrel on a branch a hundred feet overhead. Halyard rolled down his window. “Get these damn wheelbarrows out of the way!” he shouted. “Ci-ti-zen!” piped the Shah, smiling modestly at his newly acquired bilinguality. “Drop dead,” called one of the rock throwers. Reluctantly, surlily, he came down to the road and moved two wheelbarrows very slowly, studying the car and its occupants as he did it. He stepped to one side. “Thanks! It’s about time!” said Halyard as the limousine eased past the man. “You’re welcome, Doc,” said the man, and he spat in Halyard’s face. Halyard sputtered, manfully regained his poise, and wiped his face. “Isolated incident,” he said bitterly. “Takaru yamu brouha, pu dinka bu,” said the Shah sympathetically. “The Shah,” said Khashdrahr gravely, “he says it is the same with Takaru everywhere since the war.” “No Takaru,” said Halyard apathetically, and let it go. “Sumklish,” sighed the Shah. Khashdrahr handed him the flask of sacred liquor.

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