A Good Man in Africa

  “I got her back, didn’t I?” Morgan said petulantly. He explained the new arrangements he’d made and Fanshawe seemed to calm down somewhat. “All the servants came back on time, I assume?” Morgan said. “Did the function go alright?”

  Fanshawe put his hands on his hips. “Good question. It did actually. But why weren’t you there?”

  “I wasn’t well, I told you. Listen, Arthur …”

  “You were missed, you know,” Fanshawe said. “Particularly by the Duchess. For some reason she kept asking where you were. Got in a very bad mood when you never appeared.”

  Fanshawe thought some more about this. “Curious woman … very pleasant though, mind you. Seemed especially put out by your absence.” He looked suspiciously at Morgan. “Make any sense?”

  “Beats me,” Morgan said. “Look, Arthur, I want to talk to you about something important.”

  “Still,” Fanshawe said, completely ignoring him and clapping him on the shoulder, “water under the bridge and all that.” He gestured at the party. “All’s well etcetera.” He dropped his voice. “Kingpin looks like paying off. Lucky for all of us.”

  “That’s actually what I want to talk about, Arthur, I …”

  “Good grief!” It was Chloe Fanshawe, brushing aside a couple of guests to intrude upon their dialogue. “What’s happened to your face? Your hair?” She was wearing a shocking-pink dress encrusted with silvery threadwork and had a triple rope of pearls around the soft folds of her neck. She must have re-dyed her hair, Morgan thought, its blackness was so dense, giving her skin the edible texture and whiteness of marshmallow.

  “My Christmas present,” Morgan improvised. “Cigarette lighter. Turned the flame adjuster the wrong way. Lit a cigarette and whoomph.”

  “Dear me. Shame … Arthur, come along. I want you to meet …”

  Morgan clawed his way back to the bar. Obviously he wasn’t going to be able to break the news of his resignation to Fanshawe tonight. He replenished his drink. He noticed Dalmire and Priscilla chatting cosily and the old envy returned to him for a minute. He turned away and saw Georg Muller and his daughter Liesl coming over. Morgan raised his hand in salutation. He knew her well, she came out every year for Christmas.

  “I want to give you a kiss,” Liesl said flirtatiously, “but I don’t want to cause you pain.”

  “Haha,” Morgan said. He was getting tired of explaining about his face.

  “What happened?” Muller asked, looking as smart as he ever did in a rumpled green safari suit.

  “Well, there was this baby trapped in a burning house and … oh, never mind. How are you, Liesl? You look fit.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. On her high heels she was at least three inches taller than he. “I wish I could return the compliment. Kinjanja seems not to be agreeing with you.”

  “You’re telling me,” Morgan said with feeling.

  “The British are out in force tonight,” Muller observed wryly. “You must all be very pleased about the election.”

  Morgan shrugged. “It all depends on your point of view.”

  Muller laughed. “You are a sly fellow, Morgan. I haven’t forgotten the last time we met.” There was an uncomfortable pause. It suddenly struck Morgan that Muller somehow resented him, thought he’d done something clever and underhand with Adekunle and the KNP.

  Liesl broke the ice. “The new government has its first crisis anyway. I hear the students have occupied the administration block. The riot squad have been called in again.”

  “I was just talking to the Vice-Chancellor,” Muller said. “It has quite spoiled his Christmas.”

  “I know how he feels,” Morgan said. Just then he saw Adekunle approaching, the guests parting obediently in front of him like the Red Sea before Moses. Morgan felt a tremble start up in his right leg.

  “Georg, my friend,” Adekunle boomed. “Can I steal our bruised and battered Mr. Leafy for a moment?” Muller bowed his acquiescence and Morgan followed Adekunle’s flowing robes across the room and into the hush of his study.

  Adekunle carefully placed his bulk on the edge of the desk. “Well?” he said.

  “Sorry,” Morgan found it hard to concentrate. “Congratulations on your victory.”

  “Thank you,” Adekunle said graciously. “But I was thinking more about our own agreement. You said that you decided in the end not to put our proposition to Dr. Murray.”

  “That’s right,” Morgan lied, deciding to pacify Adekunle until he’d had a chance to speak to Fanshawe. “It was just all wrong. His mood … he just wouldn’t have been amenable. I could sense it instantly.”

  Adekunle lit a cigarette. “You are sure of that? You said nothing to him? Because we have other plans now. To have to pay Murray would be most inconvenient.”

  “He still intends to give a negative report on the site,” Morgan said, telling the truth for once. “I assume,” he added.

  “Good.”

  Morgan was perplexed. “Why good?”

  Adekunle looked at him. “Let us just say that I have discovered a … a ‘cousin’ in the Senate office. It now becomes simply a matter of misplacing the minutes of the Buildings, Works and Sites committee meeting when Murray vetoes the site.” He puffed smoke into the air, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “A simple, effective, and, as it turns out, a far cheaper method. I am only sorry I could not have arranged it earlier. Saved you some—what shall we say?—heartsearching, some worries perhaps.” Adekunle tapped ash into a thick-bottomed glass ashtray. Morgan felt like burying it in his head. So Murray’s report would be intercepted. And now Adekunle was Foreign Minister he couldn’t see Murray pressing any effective charges either. A bit of dirt might be stirred up but knowing Kinjanjan politics it wouldn’t make any difference. He felt suddenly sorry for Murray and his lone struggle for “fairness.” He was just too small a man. The Adekunles of this world always came out on top.

  “Ah, what about me then?” he asked in a feebler voice than he had meant.

  “Yes, what about you, Mr. Leafy. I think we shall let you, as the saying goes, lie doggo for a while. You are still under a considerable ‘obligation’ to me as I’m sure you will acknowledge. I can foresee some time in the future when you might be able to repay that debt.”

  Morgan knew then that his job was finally gone. There had been some faint hope that Adekunle might have let him off, in a post-victory amnesty now that everything had turned out so well for him. He was glad then that he’d decided to resign. He couldn’t linger on as Adekunle’s man in the Commission, not any more. He felt an odd sensation of relief mingle with his general despair. In a way he’d be glad to get the whole farce over and done with—extricate himself from the enfolding net of lies and complicity. You’d better get a move on, you fat bastard, he swore at Adekunle under his breath, because I won’t be around much longer.

  The phone on Adekunle’s desk rang. He picked it up. “Yes,” he said sharply. “What? … These damn fools! … OK, OK, send them in.… This has to be finished tonight, you understand.” He put the phone down.

  “These students,” he said. “Setting fire to cars, destroying documents. It can’t be permitted.”

  “No, quite,” Morgan agreed. “Disgraceful.”

  Morgan looked blearily out of the bathroom window on the first floor, trying to see beyond the glare of the floodlights. He had just been sick in the toilet bowl—the result of the two gins, a buck’s fizz, a whisky and a drambuie he had drunk, one after another, on emerging from Adekunle’s study, snatching drinks from passing stewards as if he were challenging some inebriate’s world record. Celebrating the end of his life, he had told himself.

  As usually happened after a drink-induced vomit he felt both better and worse. He borrowed a toothbrush and cleaned his teeth. The crowd outside had scarcely grown at all and was still quiet and docile. Hardly a sweeping popular victory, he thought, wondering when Adekunle would be giving his speech. He opened the window and strained his ears; he thought he could
make out a distant chanting that seemed to be getting louder—the grass roots support arriving, he assumed.

  He left the bathroom and shakily advanced towards the stairhead. He had to go and drink some more, try to blot out the dismal future that lay inevitably ahead of him. Priscilla, Adekunle, Fanshawe, Kingpin, Innocence and Murray: it had all been too much. He had tried, he had fought, but he couldn’t stand the pace any longer. The odds had always been too great: it was time to surrender.

  “Psst, Morgan.”

  He looked round in surprise. Celia appeared for an instant in a doorway. She beckoned him into the room. Celia! She closed the door behind him and they kissed. He was glad he’d cleaned his teeth. They stood in a guest bedroom as far as he could make out. Celia had left the light off.

  “Where have you been?” he asked a little slurringly. “I didn’t see you downstairs.”

  “That was what I was going to ask you. You told me to phone you, remember?” she said in wounded accusation. “I kept getting this Yorkshireman who said he didn’t know where you were.”

  “I … I was out of town,” Morgan said. He stroked her hair and kissed her cheeks. “I had something to clear up.” He pulled her to him. “I’ve missed you, Celia,” he began, but she pushed him away.

  “It’s Sam,” she said despairingly. “I’ve decided. I’m leaving him. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Celia, Celia,” he complained gently. “Don’t start that again. I know he’s a bastard but how can you leave him? What about the boys?” She had raised this topic of conversation on a couple of occasions before, but he had always managed to stop it before it had gone any further.

  “No, I mean it!” she said in a shrill whisper. “I’ve got a plan.” He peered nervously at her, a little alarmed at her vehemence; she seemed to be on the verge of cracking up.

  “But I can’t help you, Celia,” he said patiently. “Not any more. I’m not in a position to. I won’t be …”

  “What are you talking about?” she said irritably. “You’re the only person who can. You’re the only one with the authority.”

  He felt vaguely flattered at this reference to his masculine resourcefulness. He tried to put his arm round her again but she shrugged it off. “Celia, darling,” he said. “You have all my support and my … affection.” He had almost said “love,” but not while she was in this mood. “And you’re a very special person to me.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me in this bloody country. No,” he held up his hand with drunken insistence as she tried to interrupt. “No. I mean it. I’ve felt closer to you than to anybody. Honestly,” he said sincerely. “That’s what’s so hellish. That’s the only thing that upsets me about leaving, my darling. I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Leaving?” she gasped. “What do you mean, ‘leaving’?”

  He tried to smooth down his candyfloss forelock. “I’ve got myself into serious trouble,” he said, still thinking it wise to keep Adekunle out of it. “My fault. My stupidity, but it’s very serious. I’d lose my job. So I’m resigning. Tomorrow. I’m going back home.”

  Celia gave a stifled cry. “But you can’t.”

  “Can’t what? my darling.”

  “You can’t resign your job.”

  He smiled at her tenderly. “I have to,” he said. “I’m in a terrible fix. If you knew, you’d see it was the only way. There’s no alternative.” In the dark of the room he saw her cheeks streaming with tears. He felt his heart swell. She was loyal; she cared for him.

  “No!” she said in a mad, tearful croak. “No. You can’t resign. You can’t,” she repeated. “You can’t, not yet. I need you. I need you for the visa. You’re the only one who can get me the visa.”

  “Visa? What visa?”

  She beat at his chest with her small fists. “You’ve got to get me a visa for Britain,” she sobbed, her face contorted with grief and dismay. “I’m a Kinjanjan. I have a Kinjanjan passport. I can’t fly home without a visa. You’ve got to get me one. I need a visa to get home and only you can get me one.” Slowly she fell to her knees on the floor.

  Morgan stood there. It was as if everything in his body had stopped moving for a second. Brief suspended animation. His mind flashed back to his early meetings with her. He recalled now, how almost from the first there had been innocent inquiries about his job and responsibilities—the momentary alarm when Dalmire arrived, relief when she found out he was still in control. He let out a long quivering breath as the truth hit him with agonising force; he had just been a part of her escape plan—an important one, but a part nonetheless. She couldn’t get free access to Britain with her Kinjanjan passport; she needed a visa. So she found somebody who could supply one without her husband knowing.

  Morgan looked down at her crying on the floor. Used again, Leafy, he said to himself. You bloody fool. He felt angry at his conceit, bitterly furious for convincing himself that there was something special here, something different. It was just like everything else, he said to himself with sad cynicism, exactly the same. But what did it matter to him, really? He was an aristocrat of pain and frustration, a prince of anguish and embarrassment. He moved to the door.

  “I’m sorry, Celia,” he said. “But it’s too late now.”

  Out on the landing he wiped his eyes, took a few deep breaths and flung wild knockout punches at some invisible opponent. Funnily enough, he found he didn’t hate or resent Celia. He just felt angry with himself for failing to see the facts. Murray was right: it was the old seeming/being trap again, and he fell into it every time. Where was that penetrating insight he prided himself on? he asked. Where’s the gimlet eye that strips away duplicity and pretension, that uncompromising assessor of human motives? He heard a dull roaring in his ears. He leant against the wall and shut his eyes but it didn’t go away. He opened his eyes and it dawned on him that it was coming from outside. He ran to a window and looked out. The crowd seemed suddenly enormous. A dark mass beyond the floodlit garden pressing up against the barbed wire fence and filling the road. They were chanting something rhythmically. He saw a small figure in black leading the shouts with a loudhailer. He listened. He couldn’t believe his ears.

  “FAN-SHAWE,” the crowd roared. “FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.”

  Morgan dashed down the stairs. The guests had spontaneously backed up against the wall furthest away from the demonstration. There was a hum of uneasy discussion, but people were more occupied casting wary glances about them searching for emergency exits, as if in a basement night-club with a notoriously fallible sprinkler-system. The Commission staff stood to one side looking increasingly uncomfortable. Morgan joined them.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “We were just about to go,” Fanshawe spoke up nervously. “Dickie and Pris had to drive down to the capital for their plane.” He gulped. “Peter had brought round the car to the front door. We saw this huge crowd had turned up. We thought they were KNP supporters, but as soon as I stepped out they went mad. Shouting and jeering.”

  “Yer,” Jones chipped in. “Like some kind of signal. FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.”

  “Thank you, Denzil,” Fanshawe snapped. “We know what they’re saying.” He turned to Morgan. “What’s it all about, Morgan?” Everybody looked at him.

  “Why are you asking me?” he protested. “I don’t know anything.” But before another word could be said there was a crash of breaking glass from upstairs and screams from the women guests. There then followed a hail of stones directed at the house. The party broke up in confusion, people running, screaming, crawling under tables, huddling in terrified groups as stones and rocks came flying through the open French windows, thudding and skittering onto the carpet. Chairs and sofas were upturned to form flimsy barricades behind which terrified guests crouched.

  Morgan rushed to the front door and opened it an inch. He was in time to see Peter abandon the Commission car and take to his heels. At the top of the drive some thirty yards away M
organ saw a line of Adekunle’s uniformed servants manning the firmly closed gates. And beyond them, clutching a megaphone, the small dark figure of Femi Robinson.

  “UK OUT,” he bellowed verbosely. “NO EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE WITH KINJANJAN AUTONOMY.”

  Unable to chant this, the crowd satisfied themselves with shouts of “FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.”

  A stone thudded into the door. Oh my Christ, Morgan thought, I told him we’d be here. Robinson must have convinced a good few of the demonstrating students that their protests would be more effectively directed at Fanshawe than at the university authorities. It must have seemed a golden opportunity—the conspirators caught celebrating. Morgan felt sick. He looked round and saw the object of the mob’s abuse equally white-faced with fear.

  “How did they know I was coming here tonight?” Fanshawe whimpered. “Morgan, this is ghastly. You’ve got to do something.”

  “Me?” There were more wails and screams from the guests as another volley of missiles spattered against the house’s façade. Morgan saw Adekunle and Muller striding towards them.

  “Is this your doing, my friend?” Adekunle hissed at Morgan.

  “Me?” Morgan repeated, dumbfounded that he should be so singled out in this way. “For God’s sake, no!”

  “ADEKUNLE IS A PUPPET OF UK,” Robinson screamed outside.

  “FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE,” agreed the crowd.

  “Students,” Adekunle spat out the word. “Phone for the police,” he ordered an aide.

  Muller peered out of the door. “That gate is going to go soon,” he observed calmly. “Look. They are burning a Union Jack now.” Morgan looked over his shoulder and confirmed it.

  “FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE,” the crowd chanted tirelessly. It was a very chantable name, Morgan thought.

  “My God, what if they break through?” Fanshawe squeaked in terror to his wife, Jones, Dalmire and Priscilla, who had joined the group in the hall. They all ducked as another window shattered somewhere above them.