gluey, but I was determined to make a good fist of it.
‘Weaponry, ordnance, firepower, calibre, all that crap’—taking a bite of his Bath Oliver biscuit.
I assured him that, thanks to my experience of the Chat Room, I was familiar with a range of technical and military terms. ‘But basically what happens, where there’s no vernacular equivalent, is they filch it from the nearest colonial language,’ I added, getting into my stride. ‘Which, in the case of a Congolese, would naturally mean French.’ And, unable to restrain myself, ‘Unless of course they’ve been Rwandan or Ugandan trained, in which case you’ll get some purloined English, such as
Mag
, or
Ambush
, or
RPG
.’
Maxie appeared no more than politely interested. ‘So a Munyamulenge rabbiting away to a Bembe would talk about a
semi-automatique
so to speak?’
‘Well, assuming they could talk to each other at all,’ I replied, keen to show off my expertise.
‘Meaning what, old boy?’
‘Well, for instance, a Bembe might speak Kinyarwanda, but not be able to make the
total
bridge to Kinyamulenge.’
‘So what do they do?’—wiping his wrist across his mouth.
‘Well, basically, they’d have to muddle through on whatever they had in common. Each would understand the other—to a point, but not necessarily all the way.’
‘So after that?’
‘They might do a bit of Swahili, a bit of French. It depends what they’ve got, really.’
‘Unless they happen to have you around, that it? You speak ’em all.’
‘Well, in this case, yes,’ I replied modestly. ‘I wouldn’t impose, naturally. I’d wait to see what was needed.’
‘So whatever they speak, we speak it better. Right? Well done us,’ he mused. But it was clear from his tone that he wasn’t as satisfied as his words suggested. ‘Question is, do we need to tell ’em all that? Maybe we should play it canny. Keep our hardware under wraps.’
Hardware? What hardware? Or was he still talking about my proficiency in military matters? I cautiously voiced my confusion.
‘
Your
hardware, for Christ’s sake. Your arsenal of languages. Every child knows a good soldier doesn’t advertise his strength to the enemy. Same with your languages. Dig ’em in and keep the tarps over ’em till you need to wheel ’em out. Common sense.’
Maxie, I was beginning to discover, possessed a dangerous and beguiling magic. Part of this magic was making you feel that his most outlandish plan was the normal one, even if you had yet to discover what his plan entailed.
‘Try this one for size,’ he suggested, as if offering me a compromise that would satisfy my over-exacting standards. ‘Suppose we put it out that you speak English, French and Swahili and call it a day? That’s more than enough for anybody. And we keep your little ones to ourselves. How would that grab you? Different kind of challenge for you. New.’
If I had understood him correctly, it wouldn’t grab me in the least, but that wasn’t quite what I replied.
‘In what
context
exactly, Skipper—in what
circumstances
might we be saying that? Or
not
saying it,’ I added, affecting what I hoped was a wise smile. ‘I don’t mean to be pedantic, but who would we be saying it
to
?’
‘To everyone. Whole room. In the interests of the op. To help the conference along. Look.’ He made one of those pauses that professionals make when they’re trying to explain something to a simpleton. In my time, I’ll admit, I have been guilty of the same presumption. ‘We have two Sinclairs’—holding out his bulletproof palms, one for each of me—‘Sinclair
above
the waterline’—raising the left palm—‘and Sinclair
below
the waterline’—dropping the right palm into his lap. ‘Above the line, tip of the iceberg, you speak French and variations of Swahili only. Plus English to your chums, obviously. Which is normal rations for any middle-of-the-list interpreter. With me?’
‘With you thus far, Skipper,’ I
‘Weaponry, ordnance, firepower, calibre, all that crap’—taking a bite of his Bath Oliver biscuit.
I assured him that, thanks to my experience of the Chat Room, I was familiar with a range of technical and military terms. ‘But basically what happens, where there’s no vernacular equivalent, is they filch it from the nearest colonial language,’ I added, getting into my stride. ‘Which, in the case of a Congolese, would naturally mean French.’ And, unable to restrain myself, ‘Unless of course they’ve been Rwandan or Ugandan trained, in which case you’ll get some purloined English, such as
Mag
, or
Ambush
, or
RPG
.’
Maxie appeared no more than politely interested. ‘So a Munyamulenge rabbiting away to a Bembe would talk about a
semi-automatique
so to speak?’
‘Well, assuming they could talk to each other at all,’ I replied, keen to show off my expertise.
‘Meaning what, old boy?’
‘Well, for instance, a Bembe might speak Kinyarwanda, but not be able to make the
total
bridge to Kinyamulenge.’
‘So what do they do?’—wiping his wrist across his mouth.
‘Well, basically, they’d have to muddle through on whatever they had in common. Each would understand the other—to a point, but not necessarily all the way.’
‘So after that?’
‘They might do a bit of Swahili, a bit of French. It depends what they’ve got, really.’
‘Unless they happen to have you around, that it? You speak ’em all.’
‘Well, in this case, yes,’ I replied modestly. ‘I wouldn’t impose, naturally. I’d wait to see what was needed.’
‘So whatever they speak, we speak it better. Right? Well done us,’ he mused. But it was clear from his tone that he wasn’t as satisfied as his words suggested. ‘Question is, do we need to tell ’em all that? Maybe we should play it canny. Keep our hardware under wraps.’
Hardware? What hardware? Or was he still talking about my proficiency in military matters? I cautiously voiced my confusion.
‘
Your
hardware, for Christ’s sake. Your arsenal of languages. Every child knows a good soldier doesn’t advertise his strength to the enemy. Same with your languages. Dig ’em in and keep the tarps over ’em till you need to wheel ’em out. Common sense.’
Maxie, I was beginning to discover, possessed a dangerous and beguiling magic. Part of this magic was making you feel that his most outlandish plan was the normal one, even if you had yet to discover what his plan entailed.
‘Try this one for size,’ he suggested, as if offering me a compromise that would satisfy my over-exacting standards. ‘Suppose we put it out that you speak English, French and Swahili and call it a day? That’s more than enough for anybody. And we keep your little ones to ourselves. How would that grab you? Different kind of challenge for you. New.’
If I had understood him correctly, it wouldn’t grab me in the least, but that wasn’t quite what I replied.
‘In what
context
exactly, Skipper—in what
circumstances
might we be saying that? Or
not
saying it,’ I added, affecting what I hoped was a wise smile. ‘I don’t mean to be pedantic, but who would we be saying it
to
?’
‘To everyone. Whole room. In the interests of the op. To help the conference along. Look.’ He made one of those pauses that professionals make when they’re trying to explain something to a simpleton. In my time, I’ll admit, I have been guilty of the same presumption. ‘We have two Sinclairs’—holding out his bulletproof palms, one for each of me—‘Sinclair
above
the waterline’—raising the left palm—‘and Sinclair
below
the waterline’—dropping the right palm into his lap. ‘Above the line, tip of the iceberg, you speak French and variations of Swahili only. Plus English to your chums, obviously. Which is normal rations for any middle-of-the-list interpreter. With me?’
‘With you thus far, Skipper,’ I
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