Doris Lessing - The Temptation of Jack Orkney - Collected Stories Volume Two

Mr Devuli looked to his lieutenant, who said: ‘Yet it is Mr Devuli who has been summoned by the Minister, and you should be careful, Mr Chikwe – as a barrister you should know the law: a difference of political opinion is one thing, slander is another.’

‘As, for instance, an accusation of poisoning?’

Here they all turned, a fourth figure had joined them. Mr Kwenzi, a tall, rather stooped, remote man, stood a few paces off, smiling. Mr Chikwe took his place a foot behind him, and there were two couples, facing each other.

‘Good morning, Mr Devuli.’

‘Good morning, Mr Kwenzi.’

‘It must be nearly time for us to go in to the Minister,’ said Mr Kwenzi.

‘I do not think that Mr Devuli is in any condition to represent us to the Minister,’ said Mr Chikwe, hot and threatening. Mr Kwenzi nodded. He had rather small direct eyes, deeply inset under his brows, which gave him an earnest focussed gaze which he was now directing at the sweat-beaded brow of his rival.

Mr Devuli blurted, his voice rising: ‘And who is responsible? Who? The whole world knows of the saintly Mr Kwenzi, the hardworking Mr Kwenzi, but who is responsible for my state of health?’

Mr Chikwe cut in: ‘No one is responsible for your state of health but yourself, Mr Devuli. If you drink two bottles of hard liquor a day, then you can expect your health to suffer for it.’

‘The present health of Mr Devuli,’ said Mr Mafente, since his chief was silent, biting his lips, his eyes red with tears as well as with liquor, ‘is due to the poison which nearly killed him some weeks ago in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Kwenzi mildly. ‘I trust the worst is over?’

Mr Devuli was beside himself, his face knitting with emotion, sweat drops starting everywhere, his eyes roving, his fists clenching and unclenching.

‘I hope,’ said Mr Kwenzi, ‘that you are not suggesting I or my party had anything to do with it?’

‘Suggest!’ said Mr Devuli. ‘ Suggest? What shall I tell the Minister? That my political opponents are not ashamed to poison a helpless man in hospital? Shall I tell them that I have to have my food tasted, like an Eastern potentate? No, I cannot tell him such things – I am helpless there too, for he would say – black savages, stooping to poison, what else can you expect?’

‘I doubt whether he would say that,’ remarked Mr Kwenzi. ‘His own ancestors considered poison an acceptable political weapon, and not so very long ago either.’

But Mr Devuli was not listening. His chest was heaving, and he sobbed out loud. Mr Mafente let his ignored forearm drop by his side, and stood away a couple of paces, gazing sombrely at his leader. After this sorrowful inspection, which Mr Kwenzi and Mr Chikwe did nothing to shorten, he looked long at Mr Chikwe, and then at Mr Kwenzi. During this three-sided silent conversation, Mr Devuli, like a dethroned king in Shakespeare, stood to one side, his chest heaving, tears flowing, his head bent to receive the rods and lashes of betrayal.

Mr Chikwe at last remarked: ‘Perhaps you should tell the Minister that you have ordered a bulletproof vest like an American gangster? It would impress him no doubt with your standing among our people?’ Mr Devuli sobbed again, and Mr Chikwe continued: ‘Not that I do not agree with you – the vest is advisable, yes. The food tasters are not enough. I have heard our young hotheads talking among themselves and you would be wise to take every possible precaution.’

Mr Kwenzi, frowning, now raised his hand to check his lieutenant: ‘I think you are going too far, Mr Chikwe, there is surely no need …’

At which Mr Devuli let out a great groan of bitter laughter, uncrowned king reeling under the wet London sky, and said: ‘Listen to the good man, he knows nothing, no – he remains upright while his seconds do his dirty work, listen to the saint!’

Swaying, he looked for Mr Mafente’s forearm, but it was not there. He stood by himself, facing three men.

Mr Kwenzi said: ‘It is a very simple matter, my friends. Who is going to speak for our people to the Minister? That is all we have to decide now. I must tell you that I have made a very detailed study of the proposed constitution and I am quite sure that no honest leader of our people could accept it. Mr Devuli, I am sure you must agree with me – it is a very complicated set of proposals, and it is more than possible there may be implications you have overlooked?’

Mr Devuli laughed bitterly: ‘Yes, it is possible.’

‘Then we are agreed?’

Mr Devuli was silent.

‘I think we are all agreed,’ said Mr Chikwe, smiling, looking at Mr Mafente who after a moment gave a small nod, and then turned to face his leader’s look of bitter accusation.

‘It is nearly half past ten,’ said Mr Chikwe. ‘In a few minutes we must present ourselves to Her Majesty’s Minister.’

The two lieutenants, one threatening, one sorrowful, looked at Mr Devuli, who still hesitated, grieving, on the pavement’s edge. Mr Kwenzi remained aloof, smiling gently.

Mr Kwenzi at last said: ‘After all, Mr Devuli, you will certainly be elected, certainly we can expect that, and with your long experience the country will need you as Minister. A minister’s salary, even for our poor country, will be enough to recompense you for your generous agreement to stand down now.’

Mr Devuli laughed – bitter, resentful, scornful.

He walked away.

Mr Mafente said: ‘But Mr Devuli, Mr Devuli, where are you going?’

Mr Devuli threw back over his shoulder: ‘Mr Kwenzi will speak to the Minister.’

Mr Mafente nodded at the other two, and ran after his former leader, grabbed his arm, turned him around. ‘Mr Devuli, you must come in with us, it is quite essential to preserve a united front before the Minister.’

‘I bow to superior force, gentlemen,’ said Mr Devuli, with a short sarcastic bow, which, however, he was forced to curtail: his stagger was checked by Mr Mafente’s tactful arm.

‘Shall we go in?’ said Mr Chikwe.

Without looking again at Mr Devuli, Mr Kwenzi walked aloofly into the Ministry, followed by Mr Devuli, whose left hand lay on Mr Mafente’s arm. Mr Chikwe came last, smiling, springing off the balls of his feet, watching Mr Devuli.

‘And it is just half past ten,’ he observed, as a flunkey came forward to intercept them. ‘Half past ten to the second. I think I can hear Big Ben itself. Punctuality, as we all know, gentlemen, is the cornerstone of that efficiency without which it is impossible to govern a modern state. Is it not so, Mr Kwenzi? Is it not so, Mr Mafente? Is it not so, Mr Devuli?’

The building she was headed for, no matter how long she delayed among the shops, stalls, older houses on the pavements, stood narrow and glass-eyed, six or eight storeys higher than this small shallow litter of buildings which would probably be pulled down soon, as uneconomical. The new building, economical, whose base occupied the space, on a corner lot, of three small houses, two laundries and a grocer’s, held the lives of 160 people at forty families of four each, one family to a flat. Inside this building was an atmosphere both secretive and impersonal, for each time the lift stopped, there were four identical black doors, in the same positions exactly as the four doors on the nine other floors, and each door insisted on privacy.