Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

Rose knew Sylvia was not a racist, but, since she was white, most blacks would be ready to say she was. But it needed only one letter in the Post from a black saying Sylvia was a friend of the blacks – no, but how about spy? That was tricky too. In that time just before apartheid collapsed, the spy fever in South Africa's neighbours was boiling over. Anyone who had been born in South Africa, or had lived there; who had gone there for a holiday recently; who had relations there; anyone criticising Zimlia for anything, or who suggested things might be better done; people who 'sabotaged' an enterprise or a business by losing or damaging equipment, such as a box of envelopes, or half a dozen screws -anyone at all who had become the focus of even mild disapproval, could be, and usually was, described as the agent of South Africa – which of course was doing everything it could to destabilise its neighbours. So, in such an atmosphere, it was easy for Rose to believe that Sylvia was a South African spy, but when so many were, it was not enough.

Then Rose had a stroke of luck. A telephone call from Franklin's office invited her to a reception for the Chinese Ambassador, where the Leader would be present. At Butler's Hotel. At the best. Rose put on a dress and took herselfthere early. Already, after only a few weeks, if she was at a party for what she described to herself as the 'alternative crowd', she knew them all, at least to greet. Journalists, editors, the writers, the university people, the ex-pats, the NGOs – a mixed crowd, and a clever one, a quality she distrusted, since she always imagined people laughing at her – and it was still more white than black. They were informal, irreverent, hardworking, and most of them still full of faith in the future of Zimlia, though some were bitter and had lost faith. The other crowd, the one she would be with this evening, was where she felt at home – rulers and bosses, leaders and ministers, the ones with power, and more black than white.

Rose stood in a corner of the great room whose general style and elegance soothed her, telling her she was in the right place, and waited for Franklin to come in. She was being careful not to drink too much – yet. She would get drunk later. The room was filling, then it was full, and still no Franklin. She was standing next to a man whose face she knew from The Post. She was not going to say she was a London journalist, a breed so hated by this government, but said, ' Comrade Minister, it is an honour to be in your wonderful country. I am visiting here. '

' Okay,’ said he, pleased, but certainly not ready to spend time on this unattractive white woman who was probably somebody's wife.

' Am I right in thinking of you as the Minister for Education?’ said Rose, knowing he was not, and he replied, amiable but indifferent, ‘No, as it happens the Under Minister for Health. Yes, I have the honour to be that. '

He was craning his head over and around the heads in front of him; he wanted to catch the eye of the Leader when he came in, who, while he was renowned throughout the world as a man of the people, gave his Ministers little chance to see him. At the rare cabinet meetings he appeared, made his views known and departed: not a comradely man, the Comrade Leader. The Under Minister had been for some time wanting an opportunity to discuss certain things with the Boss, hoped for even a few words tonight. Besides, he was secretly in love with the fascinating Gloria. Who was not? This big exuberant irrepressible sexy woman with her face like an invitation... where was she? Where were they, the Comrade President and the Mother of the Nation?

'I wonder if you know anything about a hospital in Kwadere?' Rose was saying – was repeating, for he had not heard her the first time. Now this was a solecism indeed. In the first place, at his level he could not be expected to know about individual hospitals, and then this was an official reception, it was not the place or the time. But as it happened he did know about Kwadere. The files had been on his desk that day, three hospitals, begun but not finished, because the funds had been – not to mince words – stolen. (No one could regret more than he did that these things happened, but then, one had to expect mistakes.) For two of the hospitals, angry and by now cynical donors had put forward a plan that if they, the original benefactors, raised half the necessary sums, then the government would have to match them. Otherwise, too bad, no go, goodbye hospitals. In Kwadere the original donor had sent a delegation out to the derelict hospital and then said, no, they did not propose to fund it. The trouble was, that hospital was badly needed. The government simply did not have the money. There was a sort of hospital, at St Luke's Mission, with a doctor, but a report had not been encouraging. The fact was it was embarrassing, that hospital, so poor and so backward: Zimlia expected better. And then there had been a report from the Security Services, saying the doctor's name was on a list of possible South African agents. Her father was a well-known communist, hand in glove with the Russians. Zimlia did not like the Russians, who had cold-shouldered Comrade Matthew when he was fighting – or rather, his troops were – in the bush. It was the Chinese that had supported Comrade Matthew. And here was the Chinese Ambassador now, with his wife, a tiny slice of a woman, both smiling away and shaking hands. He must move forward fast now, because where the Chinese Ambassador was, then that is where the Leader would be.

'You must excuse me,' he said to Rose.

'Please may I come and see you – perhaps in your office?'

‘And what for, may I ask?'-said rudely enough.

Rose improvised: ' The doctor at the Kwadere hospital is -well, she is a cousin of mine and I heard that...'

‘You heard right. Your cousin should be more careful with the company she keeps. I have it on reliable authority that she is working for – well, it doesn't matter who. '

‘And – please, wait a minute, what is this about her stealing equipment from...’

He had heard nothing about this, and was annoyed with his advisers that he had not. The whole business was irritating, and he did not want to think about it. He had no idea how to solve the problem of the Kwadere hospital.

‘What is this?' he said, turning to speak as he edged away into the crowd. ' If this is true then she will be punished, I can assure you, and I am sorry to hear she is related to you. '

And he went to where the lovely Gloria had appeared, in scarlet chiffon and a diamond necklace. Where was the Leader? But it appeared he was not coming, his wife was doing the honours.

Rose quietly left and went to a cafe that was always full of gossip and news. There she reported on the formal reception, on the Leader's absence, on the Mother of the Nation's red chiffon and diamonds, and the Under Minister's remarks about the Kwadere hospital. There was a Nigerian official, a woman, in Senga for the conference on the Wealth of Nations. Told about the spy at Kwadere, this woman said she had heard nothing but spies, spies, since she had arrived in Zimlia, and speaking from her experience in her own country, spies and wars were useful when things weren't going well with an economy. This provoked animated discussion, and soon everyone in the cafe was involved. One man, a journalist, had been arrested as a spy, but let go. Others knew people who were suspected of being agents and... Rose realised that now they would talk about South African agents all evening, and she slipped out and went to a little restaurant around the corner. Two men who had followed her from the cafe, though she had not noticed them, asked if she minded sharing her table: the place was full. Rose was hungry, a bit tight, and she rather liked these two men whom she found impressive in a hard-to-define way. Probably anyone in Zimlia would have seen at a glance that they were secret police, but to use that so useful formula, it has been so long since Britain was invaded that its citizens have a certain innocence. Rose was actually thinking that she must be looking attractive tonight. In most countries in the world, that is to say, those with an energetic secret service, it would have been instantly evident that with such men one should keep one's mouth shut. As for them, they wanted to find out about her; why had she left the cafe so precipitously when they started talking about spies?