William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

He congratulated himself on his well-laid contingency plans; he felt the satisfaction of a food-hoarder in a time of hardship — how clever he’d been, how well-off he’d be. But he also felt the inward bite of lonely selfishness and he despairingly admitted to himself that he just wasn’t the kind of man who could take the money and run; he always had to stop outside the bank and have a think about it.

‘You haven’t told Mr Selim who I am, have you?’ Morgan demanded of Hazel. ‘He doesn’t know anything about me, does he?’ Hazel assured him Selim knew no more than was absolutely necessary. Morgan hoped she was telling the truth. Selim was no fool, he’d guess what was going on — just as long as he didn’t make the connection between him and the Commission. A scandal of those proportions would be disastrous and not even the good opinions he’d amassed over Project Kingpin could help him there.

He counted out a month’s rent and handed the notes to Hazel. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I’ll look in tomorrow evening, see how you’ve settled down. Expect me around seven.’

Morgan slipped his feet into his shoes and stood up. The sun had nearly set, he could see its orange syrupy light gilding the flat leaves at the top of the higher teak trees. He stretched and rested his side for a moment against the warm metal of the Peugeot. He was naked. He peered into the car and saw Celia dabbing at herself with a tissue.

‘Just off for a pee,’ he said. He strode a few yards into the teak trees, his shoes crushing the brittle leaf-carpet with resounding crackles, and drenched a column of ants with his urine stream. The column broke up in confusion, and he entertained himself picking off stragglers while the pressure lasted. He wondered what the ant-world would make of that little episode. Did it, he wondered, somewhere fit into the scheme of ant-things?

He made his way back to the car, ducking under branches, brushing aside some of the lower boughs carelessly. He felt a slight breeze on his naked body and felt his skin respond with goosepimples. He heard the moronic unvaried chirrup of crickets and the beeping sonar of a fruit-bat on the wing.

‘One man against nature,’ he said to himself in a deep American accent, ‘nood, in the African farst.’ For a second or two he tried to imagine himself thus exposed, a creature of pure instinct. The setting was right: dusk, heat, foliage, animal noise, mysterious crepitations in the undergrowth. But he was wrong. What would anyone think if they saw him? A naked overweight freckled white man pissing on some ants. He looked down at his feet. And, he added, wearing brown suede Chelsea boots.

As he approached the car he plucked off a teak leaf and held it over his genitals. Celia sat in the rear seat, her head resting in the angle its back made with the window. She had a dreamy, peaceful look on her face. She saw him and laughed.

‘And they saw that they were naked,’ he said in a sonorous voice, ‘and were sore ashamed. Come on Eve, make thyself an apron of teak leaves.’ He flung his leaf into the car and clambered in to join her. He pressed his face into her lap feeling the wiry moistness of her pubic hair on his cheek and nose. He smelt the spermy salty smell of their sex.

She ran her fingers through his hair. He wished she wouldn’t do that.

He sat up and looked at her. He traced the areola of her nipple with his fingernail, watching it pucker and thicken. He pressed it as if it were some kind of fleshy bell-push.

‘OK?’ he said. She nodded, still smiling. ‘Recovered?’ he asked.

‘Yes thank you, Adam dear.’

‘It’s God, if you don’t mind. I’ve just drowned a few hundred ants out there.’

‘Why God, you sod!’

He gave her a kiss. ‘We’d better go I suppose.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ she said, stroking his face. ‘I told you, Sam’s away until tomorrow.’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go and have a drink somewhere then?’

They dressed, got into their separate cars and drove carefully up the track and on to the road. Morgan looked in his rear-view mirror and saw the lights of Celia’s Mini close behind him. He felt stiff, tired and, remarkably, he thought, happy.

About two miles from Nkongsamba he pulled into the car park of a largish hotel at a major road junction. It was called the Nkongsamba Road Motel. In Kinjanja names moved between extravagant, metaphorical fancy or prosaic, no-nonsense literalness. There was no in-between. They went into the bar which was lit with green neon and decorated with soft drink and beer advertisements. There were a dozen tin tables with chipped and peeling chairs round them. On one wall was a large poster of Sam Adekunle, and the message ‘KNP for a united Kinjanja’ below it.

Celia smiled grimly at Morgan. ‘Can’t seem to get away from him, can I?’

‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ Morgan asked feeling an acid sickness spread throughout his stomach at the sight of Adekunle’s face.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind and there’s no chance of anybody recognizing me.’ She sat down to put a stop to any further argument and Morgan ordered two beers. The bar was quiet at this time of night; there were a couple of the inevitable sunglassed youths and a table of four soldiers. Morgan and Celia attracted curious but unhostile stares: the Nkongsamba Road Motel didn’t entice many white clients.

They sipped at their beers in silence. Morgan felt ill at ease though, with Adekunle’s face staring at him over Celia’s shoulder.

‘Relax,’ she said. ‘It’s only a poster.’

But he’s looking straight at me,’ Morgan said only half-jokingly. ‘It’s uncanny the way his eyes follow you round the room.’ He held up his beer. ‘Cheers,’ he said, ‘here’s to the Garden of Eden.’ They clinked glasses.

‘It’s hot though, isn’t it,’ Celia said. ‘Can’t you do something about the weather, God dearest?’ Morgan smiled, it was their first private joke, sacrosanct, like a code no one could crack.

‘Bloody uncomfortable as well,’ he said. ‘I shall have to get on to Peugeot’s design team. They’ve slipped up badly with their back seat, I must say. Real lack of foresight.’

‘Oh for a bed,’ Celia sighed.

‘I’ll drink to that.’ He raised his glass again.

‘Guess what,’ Celia said, dropping her voice to a husky whisper. ‘I can feel you slowly oozing out of me while I’m sitting here.’ For some reason the unadulterated candour of this statement left him at a loss for words.

‘Sorry,’ was all he managed to come up with.

She reached over and laid her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said softly. ‘It’s lovely.’

They finished their beers and went back out to the car park. A nail-sickle of moon hung suspended over Nkongsamba.

‘Morgan,’ Celia said, ‘why don’t you come back tonight? While Sam’s away.’

‘Are you sure?’ Morgan questioned seriously. ‘Isn’t it a bit risky?’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘The kids’ll be back in a week. It might be our only chance.’

He hesitated. ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s not too difficult.’ He paused. ‘This sounds absurdly Victorian,’ he said, trying not to smile, ‘but what about the servants?’

She was not so inhibited and gave a high clear laugh. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said eventually, ‘I can easily take care of them. Come on.’

♦

He lay on Celia’s bed. His head was propped on some pillows. A glass of whisky balanced on his chest. He squinted at it hypnotically as it tipped and wobbled with the rise and fall of his breathing.

‘Do you feel at all guilty?’ he asked. ‘About Sam?’ It was a question he asked of all the wives he slept with. Celia put her drink down on the bedside table and slipped in beside him. Morgan steadied his glass.