Nadine Gordimer - A Guest of Honour

So that’s my man Bray thought; that’s my man.

He found himself with Dando and Shinza in one of the bars of the Great Lakes Hotel; if it were true that anyone ever “found himself” anywhere: by haphazard more purposeful than would appear, the pull of a fascinated reluctance had brought them slowly from group to group at the cocktail party going on in the Golden Perch Room. He hadn’t known whether to expect Shinza to turn up at all; Dando’s was the first voice he heard— “What sort of sex symbol, without a between to its legs”—declaiming over the latest piece of redecoration, the huge stuffed lake perch that had given the room its name and now had the upper half of a woman’s body, in gilded plaster, in place of its own fishy head.

Many of the delegates had never seen the inside of a place like the Great Lakes before. They stood about overcome by unfamiliarity with the required manner of eating and drinking in such surroundings and were ignored by waiters who disdained to initiate them, hurrying past with gins and whisky — sodas for those who knew how to appreciate these things. When Mweta (in a correct dark suit) moved among them lemonade in hand, and himself pressed them to the plates of tidbits and drinks, they sat down solemnly to the treat they were bidden and blindly ate the bits of shrimp on sticks; some even became roistering among themselves, as the drinks went down, while the professional politicians and the people who sat on company boards drank steadily and achieved nothing more than the glowing self-importance associated with social drinking. The triumphs and resentments of all factions seemed to be contained this way, a feast following a funeral as it does a wedding.

Shinza was wearing the same crumpled holiday shirt, as if he had come with the object of making his presence a jarring note. He was seen with various knots of people, never in the vicinity of Mweta, apparently talking detachedly. Now he was surrounded by a few young men like a dangerous object that may go off any moment. One, older and a little drunk, was the leader in boldly taking him up — they were asking questions about autogestion— “Was that the blacksmith’s place in Kinshasa Road you’re talking about? — But one of my in — laws worked there and he’s got a job at a boiler — makers’ place now.” “So what, man.” Someone was ashamed of the level of the question. “—But who owns these farms and factories, then — the government?”

Roly Dando had had a great deal to drink; his companions were head — down, entranced over their glasses while poker — faced he talked louder and louder until his voice reached out into the neighbouring discussion— “of course, respect for trade union action’s just a pious hope in African states. You know that, for God’s sake, don’t you, Shinza? — Of course he does. Knows it as well as I do.”

Faces opened up to make way, gleaming. Shinza smiled slowly with closed lips and ran his first finger along them in a parody of apologetics. “Well, I’m learning — fast.” They were pleased with him; they laughed. Ras Asahe, who had dragged Bray off to the bar, addressed Shinza through Bray. “Oh yes, we believe you, my friend. There’s only one way to make you learn, though.”

“… talking into your beard, this business about the workers and the government building the socialist state for the benefit of the workers,” Dando was saying. “In African states the economy can only be developed to the detriment of the workers. For a hell of a long time to come. That’s a fact. I don’t care what political creed or economic concepts you want to name, the realities of production and distribution of wealth remain the same, just the same, right through the continent. No, no — I know what’s coming — don’t trot out what happened in Europe a hundred years ago, because you know the answer to that one, too. The sacrifices squeezed out of the European working classes in the nineteenth century enabled Western economies to reach a point where they could acknowledge the demands of the poor bastards who’d sweated their guts out. It was possible for one reason only: the point had been reached without disturbing the pattern of growth. Within limits, they’d come to a stage where increased consumption leads to greater investment.”

Shinza and Dando were shoved into the cockpit by the smallness of the bar, the drink in their veins, the curiosity of their companions — and also something else, an awareness of each other in the same room. Shinza took up the exchange with the air of a man who has done with argument. “And why is that impossible?”

“Because, my dear Shinza, in Africa today internal saving’s nonexistent. Nonexistent or unproductive. A few quid stuffed into a mattress along with the bugs. And consumption’s so low it’s impossible to restrict it any more to encourage increased investment, so your salary freezes won’t help. Wealth is distributed in an irregular and morally unjustifiable way, but I’m damned if anyone knows what to do about it. Trade unionism’s all trussed up because it’s come on the scene long before complete industrialization has taken place.”

“Spouting Marx to defend black capitalism! Remember who you’re working for these days, Dando.” Shinza pulled down his bearded mouth, half — humouring, half — patronizing. “—All you’re saying’s the workers won’t feel the benefit right away—”

“—Not Right away or Left away or Middle — of-the-road away — you can talk till kingdom come. Have a drink, Edward. — Come on, man, look after the gentlemen,” he berated the barman. The circle drew in closer. “Edward and I were talking about these things when you were all a lot of snotty — nosed kids … he knows what I’m saying.”

“What’s this rubbish about trade unionism being ‘tied up.’” Shinza took a swallow of Dando’s round of whiskies. “Listen — what it has to do is make a choice. For the sake of economic development, it can become an organ of the government’s policy — making machinery — which means any criticism of government incompetence is out — finished. Then union activity’s restricted to one thing — ensuring the allegiance of workers in productive industries. Now that’s something that perpetuates your famous inequitable distribution of national income, all right. You hand out the big money to dignitaries, you foot the bill for a massive police force to keep everyone quiet. And all that represents unproductive expenditure, ay? So the trade unions’ll be able to congratulate themselves on consolidating the political power of the elite. — But there’s another way—”

Dando started shaking his head while Shinza was speaking. “—Defence-of-the-workers’-interests line. Tell me another one, do. Inevitably leads to a slowing of economic growth. All your ideas about activities based on the workers’ productive role can have only a very limited effect. Either you get the workers to buckle down and shut up—”

Shinza was waving an arm at him— “That’s what you’ve tried to do, that’s what you’ve tried!”

“Oh nobody’s denying there’re plenty of doubts about the unions’ ability to put their policies into practice. We know that.” Bray, also on Dando’s whisky, found himself borne into the argument. “Until now, the trade union leader’s metamorphosis into a political’s forced him to compromise … that’s one of the principle causes of weakness here. But the fundamental weakness is a mixture of the two — industrial underdevelopment plus the political responsibility trade unionists have had to assume.”

“Oh for Christ’ sake. The only thing is, take that political responsibility properly—” Shinza’s hands extended under something invisibly heavy— “No holds barred,” Dando said. Bray turned on him— “You’d agree that a big say in the drafting of an economic development plan is one of the basic demands of most African trade unions, Roly?”