William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

He gave a start of alarm as he had imagined himself to be quite alone. He looked round and saw Mrs Adekunle standing in the shadows of the large entrance hall, her headscarf removed and hanging from her hand. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you take the film either?’

‘Made me homesick,’ she said, stepping out into the light. Morgan saw she had mid-blonde hair, a little thin and lank, and a deep tan, which he hadn’t noticed outside.

She held up the headscarf. ‘This was coming off as well. And I needed the loo.’ She undipped her handbag, small and expensive-looking, and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Cigarette?’ she offered.

‘No thanks,’ Morgan said. ‘Given up.’

‘Mmm.’ Celia Adekunle made an impressed noise as she lit her cigarette. ‘Where is it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The loo.’

‘Oh. The official ones are back down that corridor. But why don’t you go upstairs. The wwofficial one’s up there, bit plusher, second on your left on the landing.’

‘My. I’m honoured. Thank you.’ She moved towards the stair.

‘I’d better warn you,’ he said. ‘For some reason it only locks from the outside. You have to clear your throat very loudly every five seconds or whistle a tune if you don’t want to be interrupted.’

She laughed. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But I think everyone’s engrossed out there.’

Morgan looked at his watch. ‘Only another twenty minutes. I think I’ll sit this one out.’

‘That’s not very British of you.’

‘Nor of you come to that.’

‘Ah. But I’m not British any more,’ she smiled a little grimly. ‘I’m Kinjanjan.’

‘Oh I see,’ he said. ‘Then I’m the only guilty one.’

‘What is it you do exactly?’ she asked, ‘Here, in the Commission?’ She sounded interested so he told her.

‘It’s fairly routine in a small place like this. It’s just a presence that’s required really, in case of any problems and so on. But what I mainly do is take care of immigration. Vet the visa applications, issue them, keep up the records, that sort of thing. It’s amazing how many people want to go to the UK, even from somewhere like Nkongsamba. There’s a lot of paperwork and documentation. Not a very exciting life, unless it’s enlivened by occasions like this.’ He pointed in the direction of the back lawn, but she ignored his irony.

‘I see,’ she nodded. ‘So you get to decide who goes?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Right,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll go and practise my whistling.’ She climbed the stairs. ‘Second door on the left?’

‘That’s right,’ he said after her. ‘I’ll keep guard down here if you like.’

She laughed. ‘My goodness, special privileges.’

Morgan heard her walk across the landing and open and close the door. She seemed a nice sort of person, he remarked to himself, he wondered what it must be like for her being married to someone like Adekunle. He paced about the hall trying not to imagine her sitting urinating but found, to his vague self-disgust, that he did so all the same. He was thankful when he heard the noisy flush of the cistern.

She came down the stairs shortly after tucking up a fold in her remade head-tie.

‘Looks nice,’ he said. ‘The clothes.’ He thought she looked ridiculous.

‘Nice of you to say so,’ she said drily, clearly not believing him. ‘Sam’s made me wear them at these official functions ever since he became seriously involved in politics, though I still feel a bit of a fraud. I think you need a black skin for this style. I just feel I look weedy and washed out.’

‘I think it looks nice,’ he insisted, not very convincingly.

‘You’re very kind,’ she said in cynical tones reminiscent of her husband. Just then there was a loud and prolonged burst of applause from the garden.

‘Looks like you’ve missed the end,’ he said.

‘Yes, I’d better find Sam.’ She seemed to have lost some of her poise. ‘Listen,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you really want to speak to him?’

Morgan was confused. ‘Well…Yes, actually, I suppose I would rather, but…unofficially, you know.’ He smiled shamefacedly. ‘He didn’t seem too keen.’

‘He wasn’t on his home ground. He’s always more…difficult then. That’s why you should come to his birthday party.’

‘Birthday?’

‘Yes. It’snextweek. Friday night at the Hotel de Executive.’ She enunciated the name carefully, conscious of its pretensions. ‘Do you know it?’

Morgan nodded. ‘It’s on the way into town from here.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you an invitation. You can be my guest.’

‘Are you sure he won’t mind?’ Morgan asked. ‘I mean, I won’t be intruding or anything, will I? Do I need to bring a present?’

She laughed out loud. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘There’ll be about three hundred people there. But don’t worry. I’ll tell him you’ll be there. Look, I must be off.’

Morgan felt mingled sensations of relief and gratitude. ‘That’s amazingly kind of you, Mrs Adekunle. I’m indebted to you. Very.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘See you on Friday.’

The Commission staff waved goodbye to the last of the departing cars. Morgan stood on the steps beside Jones and Fanshawe; behind them, as though assembled for a photograph, were Mrs Fanshawe, Priscilla, Mrs Jones and her children and another expatriate couple Morgan didn’t recognize. He glanced at his watch: it was just after ten, he was to pick Hazel up at eleven.

‘Great success,’Jones opined, his Welsh accent seeming to Morgan’s ears stronger than ever. ‘Marvellous film, I thought, marvellous. So…so relaxed, wasn’t it? How you imagine they must really be, you know, behind the scenes, like.’

Fanshawe grunted absentmindedly. Morgan said nothing, he was thinking about Hazel, now that Celia Adekunle had solved his more immediate problem. Jones moved offin search of more enthusiastic appraisals.

‘How did you get on?’ Fanshawe asked immediately, snapping Morgan out of his sex-dream. ‘I tried to sound him out a little myself. Tricky customer I thought,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Surprisingly…I don’t know — sophisticated. Very confident man.’ He paused. ‘So, how did it go?’

Morgan inspected his fingernails. ‘Oh, not too bad,’ he said modestly, extracting maximum mileage from his stroke of good fortune. ‘He’s invited me to a party he’s giving next Friday — his birthday party in fact.’

Fanshawe’s face lit up with delighted surprise. ‘But that’s absolutely marvellous, Morgan. Marvellous. Great progress. Where’s the party?’

‘Hotel de Executive, in town.’

‘Splendid. Into the lion’s den, eh? How did he react to your moves?’

‘He’s a wary sort of character,’ Morgan said evasively. ‘I was just sounding him out really. He seems…approachable, anyway.’

‘Going well though,’ Fanshawe said. ‘A good night’s work, well worth setting the whole thing up.’ He looked round. ‘Do you know the Wagners?’ he asked, referring to the couple Morgan hadn’t recognized. ‘He’s from the American consulate in the capital. Come and meet them. We’re all going over to the house for a drink.’

‘Oh, I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind, Arthur,’ he said. ‘Been a long day.’

‘Fine, fine. Please yourself.’ They joined the group gathered round the front door and Morgan was presented to the Wagners — the ‘w’ was not pronounced as a V. Errol and Nancy Wagner had greatly enjoyed the film, it transpired. Mrs Fanshawe turned to Morgan, just as he was about to speak to Priscilla, and smiled at him, but only with her mouth. Her eyes remained suspicious and probing.