William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Morgan had a curious reluctance to address Dalmire so familiarly; he couldn’t explain why, but it would seem somehow like giving in before a shot had been fired. ‘Let’s get your bags,’ he said.

On the way to the university guest-house Dalmire told him how grateful he was to be met by Morgan himself, how pleased he was to make his acquaintance and how thrilling he found it to be sent out to Nkongsamba. ‘I mean, just look at it,’ he said indicating some flimsy huts and a small herd of goats by a railway crossing they were drawing near. ‘Unique, isn’t it. Africa. That heat…the life…It’s all so different. We’ll never really change it. Not deep down.’

Morgan averted his face to conceal the smile that had appeared on it. Jesus Christ, he thought, where do they dig them up from? He had romanticized about Africa too, once, but that had been back in Britain, before he’d left for it. His colourful images and fond illusions had lasted about five minutes. Dispelled by the furnace blast of heat, littering his path on the walk from the plane to the humming immigration shacks at the international airport. All his Rider Haggard, Jock of the Bushveldt , Dr Livingstone-I-presume, Heart of the Matter pretensions fell from him with the sweat from his brow. Dalmire’s naivety was of a firmer more adamantine cast than his had been: he would give him about two weeks.

They booked Dalmire into the guest-house, deposited his luggage and set out, after a pause to freshen up, on the road again for the Commission. Dalmire was full of questions, like a new boy on his first day at school, and happily conceded the rightness of every opinion Morgan expressed.

‘Fanshawe’s a Far East man, isn’t he?’ Dalmire asked.

‘Yes,’ Morgan said. ‘So they sent him to Africa.’

‘Does seem a bit odd,’ Dalmire agreed, still gazing entranced at the passing landscape. ‘How long have you been out here?’

‘Getting on for three years.’

‘Ah well, I suppose that’s why they could send Fanshawe — you’d know the ropes.’ Morgan looked round sharply to see if Dalmire was joking, but he seemed serious.

‘You may be right,’ he said, turning into the driveway of the Commission.

Half an hour later Morgan stood with an orange juice in his hand watching sidelong as Dalmire talked with Priscilla. It had not been as bad as he had feared, Priscilla had greeted him pleasantly enough — no one would have guessed anything was amiss. Fanshawe had been bluff and hearty, needlessly reintroducing him to Dalmire and making some patronizing but flattering remarks about his value. Only from Mrs Fanshawe had a palpable chill emerged, her eyes narrowing slightly as she asked him if it was sherry as usual. Morgan had smiled as broadly as he could and said no, he felt like a soft drink if she didn’t mind.

‘Oh,’ she said obviously surprised. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Oh fine,’ Morgan said confidently. ‘Spot of upset tummy, that’s all.’ The frosty smile on her face as she handed him an orange squash let him know that she wanted to hear nothing further of his intestinal complaints. He was astonished, though, to hear Dalmire’s response to Mrs Fanshawe’s fluted, ‘Sherry for you, Dickie?’

‘I’d rather have a G and T if that’s no bother,’ Dalmire had replied.

It only went to show, Morgan told himself, resignedly, that he had never really fitted in. He’d been drinking their wretched sherry for years because misguidedly he thought they’d like him better for it. He’d never asked for anything else, apart from today, thinking it would be impolite and pushy, and so it had come to be known as his drink. He was just a fool to himself, he decided sadly, looking enviously at Dalmire’s clear bluey gin with its clinking ice cubes. He felt suddenly depressed. Fanshawe was wittering on at his elbow about Project Kingpin and how useful his report had been, but Morgan only half-listened. Dalmire was talking to Mrs Fanshawe, asking her intelligent questions about her furniture. Priscilla wandered over to them with a tray of canapes and soon all three were nattering earnestly and easily away in a manner, he instinctively sensed, that he had never achieved.

Later, on the verandah saying their goodbyes, the Fanshawes led Dalmire off to show him their potted plants and he found himself miraculously alone with Priscilla.

‘Priscilla,’ he began, feeling like an awkward teenager. ‘About the other night…’ She interrupted him with a smile of such seraphic brightness that he wondered if she’d suddenly gone mad.

‘Morgan,’ she said. ‘Let’s not talk about it. Let’s forget it totally. I’m to blame as well — in a way — so we’ll just pretend it never happened. OK?’ She paused. ‘He seems very nice, Dickie.’

Morgan ignored her. Hope was fluttering in his heart like a moth round a candle flame. ‘Priscilla, would you…can you?…Well, what about coming out tonight. Just a drink that’s all, only a quiet drink, we’ll…’

The bright smile returned. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ she asked patiently. ‘Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s going to happen. Let’s just leave it at that. I think it’s best. It was all a dreadful mistake. I think it’s better that way.’

Morgan hung his head. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Of course. But I just wanted to say…’ He never got the chance because Mrs Fanshawe swept up at that moment with Dalmire and Fanshawe in tow.

On the way back to the university Dalmire said musingly, ‘They seem very nice sorts. Very nice indeed.’

‘Mmm,’ Morgan said non-committally, thinking: there’s no hope for you, boy. But his mind was soon locked back on other matters, such as the utter wreckage of his prospects with Priscilla.

‘…Priscilla too.’

‘What?’

‘I was just saying that I liked their daughter too. Very attractive girl,’ Dalmire commented appreciatively.

‘Yes. I’ve, ah, been out with her a few times myself since she arrived,’ Morgan said possessively, adding subtle emphasis to the words ‘been out’.

‘Oh I’m sorry…I hope you didn’t think. Really, I was just…’

‘It’s OK,’ Morgan laughed without much conviction. Dalmire was genuinely confused. ‘She is attractive,’ Morgan went on in a worldly manner. ‘As nice as you’ll find out here.’

‘I am sorry,’ Dalmire continued. ‘It’s just that she’s offered to take me down to the club tonight. Show me around. I would hate you to think,’ he twirled his hands around each other, ‘that I was trying…anything.’

Morgan forced himself to smile. ‘I’d come with you,’ he said, spreading unconcern over his features like butter, ‘only I’m tied up with work.’

It was mid-morning. A clear washed-out blue sky was visible in the top half of the window of Morgan’s office. He had been at work since seven-thirty. The phone went.

‘Leafy here.’

‘Mr Leafy, this is Sam Adekunle.’ Morgan almost dropped the phone in surprise. ‘Mr Leafy?’ Adekunle repeated.

‘Hello,’ Morgan gasped. ‘Good to hear from you. Anything I can do?’

‘Yes,’ Adekunle admitted. ‘There is actually.’ His voice was confident and smooth. ‘About our last discussion. I think it might be worth resuming it, if you get my drift, so to speak, as you British say.’

Morgan agreed. He said he would be very happy to resume discussions.

‘Let’s meet at my house then,’ Adekunle suggested. ‘Do you krtow where it is on the university campus? Ask at the main gate. Shall we say three-thirty this afternoon?’ Morgan said that was fine with him. He put the phone down and sat there feeling excited. At last, the break he wanted. But what did it all mean? Fanshawe had been pestering him for progress on Project Kingpin and Morgan had barely managed to keep him satisfied with the endless sections of his file on Adekunle’s party. He felt he could apply for the job of official KNP historian so thorough was his knowledge of its background, membership, power base and influence. And since Dalmire had arrived and taken over most of the routine immigration work, Morgan had had plenty of time to amass his quantities of pointless information. It had become obvious though, that the initial singling-out of the KNP had been the right one to make as far as Britain was concerned. It had an ostensibly liberal-democratic, capitalist base and represented a coalition of Kinjanjan tribal loyalties in contrast to the limited regional background of the ruling UPKP. Whether it would win, however, was another matter. Popular rumblings of discontent over the evident corruption and earnest graft of politicians was intense. Absurdly, Kinjanja was in the top ten of champagne importers worldwide; the rival party newspapers assailed the impoverished, bureaucratically harassed populace with scandalous stories of weekend shopping sprees in Paris and London, village-sized parties with the guests shuttled in by helicopter, forced requisition of Kinjanjan Airlines planes for private use, and so on. Morgan had pages of clippings on gross abuse of power. Clearly the UPKP had to go but it was not so clear that any unchallenged winner would emerge from any of the opposition parties. Ultimately these things were decided on tribal and theological grounds, Morgan had come to learn, and the ethnic and religious mix in Kinjanja seemed, as far as he could establish, to point to no majority government. Still, he thought, closing his file, if you’ve got to back one horse in this field you could do worse than bet on the KNP.