face in the opposite direction, they joined him and headed away from the marketplace.
The part of town where they were now was shadowed by trees and from inside the houses of whitewashed mud and flattened paraffin tins, they could see rooms lit by the yellow light of lanterns where men smoked and drank tea, while the women squatted outside chattering in their high-pitched voices. A scrawny, tubercular-looking Arab lounged on a cart as it rattled past, half-heartedly beating the tiny donkey between the shafts, and a youth rode by on a bicycle, importantly sounding the bell at a misshapen beggar with only stumps for hands and feet. The air was pungent with wood-smoke and a few children were still running about despite the hour. Here and there groups of camels stood, gaunt and ugly in the faint light, their jaws working, or knelt in the dust like piles of dusty matting. Dogs barked but tall Somalis, robed against the chilly night air in blankets embroidered in stiff-petalled flowers, stalked past without paying any attention. Then an Italian lorry, its horn blaring, thrust through the busy street and, as they moved out of the way to let it pass, it began to edge by, its offside wheel crumbling the lip of the drainage ditch.
It had just passed them when there was a sharp crack from behind them and even at that distance they felt the disturbance of the air. Immediately, two more followed. The driver of the lorry yelled something in Italian and as he gestured at his companion the lorry dropped its front wheel into the ditch. As it canted over, its nose down, they turned and saw blue smoke rising against the lights of the marketplace and heard voices yelling. The Somalis, always eager for excitement, began to hurry. Children began to run and the women rose to their feet and set off after them with their stately gait to see what had happened.
The driver of the lorry and his mate were standing in the road, gesturing and shouting at each other in a rage. No one took the slightest notice of them and in the end they gave up and hurried after the crowd to see what was going on. Immediately dark figures swarmed over the lorry from the trees to remove anything that wasn’t screwed down.
Harkaway looked at the other two and smiled under the boot-blacking. ‘Let’s join the crowds,’ he said. ‘This I would like to see.’
The marketplace was filling with robed and turbaned figures, and Italian policemen, aided by fezzed native levies, were pushing them back, yelling wildly. A car, its horn blaring, forced its way through and an officer in a green tunic resplendent with buttons climbed out.
‘Cosa successo?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’
‘La colonna,’ one of the policemen yelled at him. ‘ E coventrizzata!’
The officer stared across the square where a wisp of blue smoke was still drifting across the beam of the light that had been rigged up to shine on the flag. The ramshackle mud wall of the old house had disappeared for about thirty yards. Its condition had not been up to the assault on it and, as the explosion had carried away a good ten feet of it, the rest had given up the ghost and collapsed. It was now possible to see into the garden where the dry grass was still smouldering. The column announcing the bringing of light to Central Africa by Mussolini’s fascist forces was cracked across the middle so that it had a drunken look, the fasces at the top leaning forward at an angle of forty-five degrees, while Mussolini’s head had performed a neat parabola through the air, just missing one of the Italian policemen, to land at the feet of a sergeant who had just paused to stare up at the flag.
l Dov’e il generale?’ the officer in’ the green tunic snapped.
The policeman gestured and, pushing at the curious Somalis, the officer set off at a half-run towards the Residency, where it was possible to see several figures in white on the balcony, trying to discover what had happened.
Standing among the crowd
The part of town where they were now was shadowed by trees and from inside the houses of whitewashed mud and flattened paraffin tins, they could see rooms lit by the yellow light of lanterns where men smoked and drank tea, while the women squatted outside chattering in their high-pitched voices. A scrawny, tubercular-looking Arab lounged on a cart as it rattled past, half-heartedly beating the tiny donkey between the shafts, and a youth rode by on a bicycle, importantly sounding the bell at a misshapen beggar with only stumps for hands and feet. The air was pungent with wood-smoke and a few children were still running about despite the hour. Here and there groups of camels stood, gaunt and ugly in the faint light, their jaws working, or knelt in the dust like piles of dusty matting. Dogs barked but tall Somalis, robed against the chilly night air in blankets embroidered in stiff-petalled flowers, stalked past without paying any attention. Then an Italian lorry, its horn blaring, thrust through the busy street and, as they moved out of the way to let it pass, it began to edge by, its offside wheel crumbling the lip of the drainage ditch.
It had just passed them when there was a sharp crack from behind them and even at that distance they felt the disturbance of the air. Immediately, two more followed. The driver of the lorry yelled something in Italian and as he gestured at his companion the lorry dropped its front wheel into the ditch. As it canted over, its nose down, they turned and saw blue smoke rising against the lights of the marketplace and heard voices yelling. The Somalis, always eager for excitement, began to hurry. Children began to run and the women rose to their feet and set off after them with their stately gait to see what had happened.
The driver of the lorry and his mate were standing in the road, gesturing and shouting at each other in a rage. No one took the slightest notice of them and in the end they gave up and hurried after the crowd to see what was going on. Immediately dark figures swarmed over the lorry from the trees to remove anything that wasn’t screwed down.
Harkaway looked at the other two and smiled under the boot-blacking. ‘Let’s join the crowds,’ he said. ‘This I would like to see.’
The marketplace was filling with robed and turbaned figures, and Italian policemen, aided by fezzed native levies, were pushing them back, yelling wildly. A car, its horn blaring, forced its way through and an officer in a green tunic resplendent with buttons climbed out.
‘Cosa successo?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’
‘La colonna,’ one of the policemen yelled at him. ‘ E coventrizzata!’
The officer stared across the square where a wisp of blue smoke was still drifting across the beam of the light that had been rigged up to shine on the flag. The ramshackle mud wall of the old house had disappeared for about thirty yards. Its condition had not been up to the assault on it and, as the explosion had carried away a good ten feet of it, the rest had given up the ghost and collapsed. It was now possible to see into the garden where the dry grass was still smouldering. The column announcing the bringing of light to Central Africa by Mussolini’s fascist forces was cracked across the middle so that it had a drunken look, the fasces at the top leaning forward at an angle of forty-five degrees, while Mussolini’s head had performed a neat parabola through the air, just missing one of the Italian policemen, to land at the feet of a sergeant who had just paused to stare up at the flag.
l Dov’e il generale?’ the officer in’ the green tunic snapped.
The policeman gestured and, pushing at the curious Somalis, the officer set off at a half-run towards the Residency, where it was possible to see several figures in white on the balcony, trying to discover what had happened.
Standing among the crowd
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