A Good Man in Africa (7 page)

“Good,” Murray agreed. “See you then, first tee.” He said goodnight and walked back to the car-park. Morgan watched him go; he suddenly felt weak from the tension. You bastard, he thought, if you only knew what you are putting me through.

He went shakily into the club, which was busy and, he noted with Scrooge-like displeasure, manifesting signs of Christmas everywhere you looked. The streamers, the baubles, the ruffled bells reminded him once again of his foolish undertaking to personify the spirit of this season himself and for a full minute he raged inwardly against the Fanshawes, mother and daughter. Outside in the club’s garden, spotlights lit up the barbecue. White-jacketed stewards gathered around three huge bath-sized grills made from oil-drums divided longitudinally. These were filled with glowing charcoal and above this hundreds of kebabs sizzled on wire netting laid across the drums. Morgan noticed Lee Wan, a Malay biochemist from the university, ladling out punch. A cheerful, friendly little man who organised pantomimes and children’s parties, he was also a seasoned reprobate, and, under his tutelage, Morgan had been introduced to Nkongsamba’s club-brothels some two months after his arrival in the country. He thought about joining the queue for the kebabs but his appetite had left him and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t come; the bustle and the seasonal gaiety were too overpowering in his present mood.

His eye caught a noticeboard with an arrow-shaped sign on it saying “Teenage disco, this way.” Morgan sighed, a mixture of longing and exasperation. With the advent of the Christmas holidays the expatriate population of Nkongsamba was sizeably increased by the arrival of all the sons and daughters from boarding-school in Britain and Europe. For a month the tennis courts and the swimming pool were taken over by these youthful hedonists. They would lie in groups around the pool’s edge, like basking seals, smoking and drinking, gambolling sexily in
the water and occasionally kissing with shameless abandon. Late one evening he had wandered into one of the club’s teenage discos—some of the girls were breathtakingly attractive—and had found the room in total darkness. Three couples swayed on the dance floor in a position of vertical copulation and the perimeter armchairs were occupied by hunched and entwined combinations of two. Morgan had never,
never
been to a party like that in his life, far less when he was their age, and the unjustness of it all made him tremble with inarticulate envy.

A few of these teenagers wandered about the club now, casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, laughing and joking. Morgan caught a glimpse of Murray’s son standing on his own, friendless apparently, eating a kebab. He gave him a wave but the boy didn’t react. Little creep, thought Morgan, as he turned and headed for the bar. He wanted a drink badly.

The expatriate community needed little excuse to come out in their droves to celebrate and the “Bumper Xmas Barbecue” was no exception. Morgan responded to the smiles and nods of recognition as he threaded his way through the press around the bar. The noise of conversation was intense and people had a flushed excited look. There were a few Kinjanjans among the predominantly European crowd, but not that many. The club was fully integrated but its black members seemed to keep away on the whole. They had better places to go, thought Morgan, wondering what was going on at the Hotel de Executive. He looked at his watch: just after nine—he would give Hazel a ring to make sure she complied with his 10:30 curfew. Then he remembered there was no phone in the flat; there was nothing to stop her staying out all night for all he’d know about it. He felt a violent rage building up inside him. Calm down, he told himself, calm down. Just because he was being blackmailed by an unscrupulous politician, just because the girl he wanted to marry had got engaged to his subordinate, just because his mistress was out getting up to God knew what with her “brother,” there was no reason for him to lose his rag, was there? Come on, he said to himself with withering scorn, be reasonable, it could be worse, couldn’t it?

He ordered a large whisky from the steward and asked for the telephone. This was placed on the end of the bar for him
and he edged his way round to it, stealing a sip from his glass, and dialled his home number.

“Allo?” It was Friday, Morgan’s house boy. He came from Dahomey and spoke French; his command of English was erratic.

“Friday,” Morgan said, “it’s master here.”

“Masta ’e no day. ’E nevah come home yet.”

Morgan turned his face away from the crowd; the anarchic fury exploding in his head caused him to squeeze his eyes shut as tightly as he could manage.

“Listen, you stupid bugger, it’s
me,
” he rasped into the receiver. “
C’est moi, ton maître.
”

“Ah-ah,” Friday exclaimed. “Sorry-oh, masta.
Désolé.
” He went on with a stream of apologies.

“Never mind, never mind,” Morgan rapped out. “I’ll be home at ten. Tell Moses I want an omelette. Yes, when I come in—a cheese omelette.” That should make them sick, he thought with evil satisfaction.

“Excuse, masta, can I go? My brother he …”

“No you bloody well can’t,” Morgan shouted, slamming down the phone. To his surprise he felt his hands shaking. Make them wait in for me, he thought blackly, they’ll just watch my television, eat my food and drink my booze. It was a full-time job getting your own back on the world, he reasoned; you couldn’t afford to weaken.

He heard someone call his name, and looked up. To his dismay he saw the grinning faces of Dalmire and Jones at the other end of the bar. They were beckoning him over. “Over here, Leafy,” he heard Jones shout beerily. It sounded like “Woava yur, Leefi.” God, he thought, that Welsh accent’s got to go. He pushed his way sullenly round to where they stood. Dalmire and Jones were a little tipsy. They were still in their golfing clothes and had obviously been drinking since the end of their game. Morgan thought they were like a couple of schoolboys who’d slipped away from an outing and dodged into a pub.

“Hello there, Morgan old man,” Dalmire said heartily, resting a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. His speech was a little slurred, his normally even features slackened by the alcohol. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have another whisky, please,” Morgan said, trying to drive the coldness from his voice. He emptied his glass and put it on the bar. “Large, if you don’t mind.”

“A pleasure, squire,” Dalmire averred.

“Bloody ’ell,” Jones said, shaking his round dark head in admiration. “You can certainly put ’em away.” He giggled stupidly. Morgan noticed beer froth on his upper lip. Dalmire slapped Morgan powerfully on the back.

“He’s a good man, is Morgan,” he said thickly. Morgan wished he wouldn’t use that ghastly rugger-club expression. “Bloody good man,” he continued challengingly. “Fed me gin at half past three this afternoon. Bugger keeps it in his filing cabinet.” There was an explosion of laughter at this from Jones. Morgan glowered.

Jones grinned conspiratorially. “Quiet celebration, eh? Great news about Dickie and Pris, what do you say, Morgan? Marvellous.” He slipped his arm round Morgan’s shoulders. “Better not let Arthur catch you though,” he breathed into Morgan’s ear.

Morgan was about to describe in graphic detail what he would do to Fanshawe with the said gin-bottle if the former tried to tick him off about it when he realised that the Deputy High Commissioner was Dalmire’s prospective father-in-law, and so kept it to himself. He contented himself with smiling knowingly and tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. This sent his two companions off into another attack of chuckles.

“God, aren’t you a fly one though,” Jones wheezed. “Yur, let’s have another round. Boy,” he called to the barman, “same again.”

Morgan looked resentfully at them: Dalmire, in his midtwenties flushed with drink like any adolescent; Jones, shiny fat face with puffy blue jowls married to a pale sickly wife with two pale sickly kids. It made you think, he said to himself, they certainly sent the dross out here. But then he realised he had included himself in the general condemnation, a thought which depressed him deeply for a moment before his pride told him he was different from the others, special, the exception to the rule. The self-evidence of this evaluation didn’t strike home with the convincing justness he had expected, so he changed the subject.

“Where’s Priscilla?” he asked Dalmire. “I thought she was coming down to meet you.”

“She’s off with Geraldine and the kids,” Dalmire told him. Geraldine was Jones’s wife. “Getting some kebabs. You eating here?” Dalmire asked. “Why don’t you join us?”

Jones seconded this suggestion. They both seemed genuine. The thought came to Morgan, as it had done a few times in the past when faced with similar unprompted invitations, that they actually liked him, wanted his company, found him intriguing and amusing. He was always a little nonplussed on these occasions, too, sentiments of humble gratitude spontaneously rising up within him. However, it annoyed him to feel grateful to people like Dalmire and Jones, it seemed demeaning in a way, so he made a point of ruthlessly expunging such emotions when they occurred.

“Ah … no thanks,” he said tapping the side of his nose again, playing out the role of rake, hell-raiser and debauchee they had created for him. “Must be going soon. Got a date.”

This initiated a series of throaty laughs, mutual rib-digging and low cries of “Wor-hor-hor.” Morgan wondered why he did it. His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Priscilla and Geraldine. Geraldine Jones was wearing a green … frock was the only suitable word, that hung limply from her thin shoulders and displayed the top half of her wash-board chest. She had big eyes in a small face, like some potto or lemur, and short indeterminately brown hair.

“Hello, you lot,” she said with forced cheeriness. “Hello, Morgan, nice to see you. What’s all this laughter about?”

Morgan knew instantly the kind of response Jones would make to this question and watched with mounting horror as the little Welshman fashioned a crude leer out of his plump features, tilted his body forward confidentially and said in his sing-song voice, “ow-er Mor-gan’s got a ro-man-tic ass-ig-nation.”

As the red mist of virulent wrath dimmed his view, Morgan felt like plucking the eyes from Jones’s face, stamping his head to a pulp, ramming all types of fiendishly blunt uneven instruments into his various orifices, but instead, by a ruthless act of self-control, he managed a twisted, white-lipped smile, acutely conscious of Priscilla stiffening perceptibly beside him. While
his heart sank to his shoes, the mildly comforting thought came to him that this indicated she was not entirely indifferent as to how or with whom he spent his evenings. Nevertheless she moved round to stand by Dalmire, whose eyes were beginning to look distinctly glazed, and gave him a loving little peck on the forehead. Dalmire put his arm round her and patted her haunch. She looked Morgan in the eye; he thought he could read triumph there. Before she could speak, Morgan blurted out the first innocuous thing that came into his head.

“Met Dr. Murray’s son tonight. Spit and image of his father.” He craned his neck as though searching the room for him. As expected this got everybody following suit.

“I’m sure I saw him out by the barbecue,” Geraldine remarked. “Quiet boy, on his own. Shame.”

“Marvellous doctor, that Murray,” Jones affirmed importantly. “I don’t know what we’d have done without him, or what would have happened to Gareth and Bronwyn. It’s difficult, this country, for our two.”

Everybody looked serious for a moment, reflecting on this.

“He could do with a dash of the old milk of human kindness, I reckon,” Morgan commented, inserting the knife half an inch.

Geraldine looked astonished. “Oh no, do you think so? I found him ever so nice and helpful.”

“Depends what’s wrong with you, I expect,” Priscilla interjected. “There are so many hypochondriacs out here. I think Murray can spot them a mile off.” There was more general agreement. Morgan didn’t like the sound of this one bit. What exactly did Priscilla know? he wondered uneasily.

One of Jones’s children ran up. It was the little girl Bronwyn and she was holding a red balloon. “Daddy, Daddy, look what I’ve got,” she piped. Jones picked her up and in a mood of bibulous fatherly love nuzzled her neck saying, “Oo’s a clever likkle girl en? Eh? Oo’s daddy’s likkle clever girlie? Brrrr,” and so on until she screamed in panic to be put down. Whereupon everyone except Morgan leaned over her to admire the red balloon, commenting on its rare and exotic beauty and Bronwyn’s Nobel Prize-winning intelligence in acquiring it. Amongst the hullabaloo Morgan noticed Dalmire’s hand slide from Priscilla’s hip round to cup and squeeze her buttock. The green-eyed monster ruled in Morgan’s heart. Its reign, however, was shortly
terminated by the arrival of a steward bearing a note. Bronwyn had now been joined by her brother Gareth, also clutching a balloon—only this time a yellow one—and also demanding acclaim and admiration so Morgan had plenty of undisturbed time to accept the note, thank the steward, look puzzled and read it. It said:

“I am in the small bar. Why don’t you come and join me. Sam Adekunle.”

Morgan thought he was going to be sick; he even felt a bit unsteady on his feet. He thrust the note into his pocket and thought furiously. His deep concentration eventually impinged on the consciousness of the others present and they stopped talking and looked curiously at him.

“Is everything all right?” Priscilla asked.

“Not bad news, is it?” Jones laughed nervously. “Been stood up by the girlfriend?”

Morgan forced a smile. “God no.” He played for time. “Worse than that.” He said the first remotely plausible lie that came into his head. “Apparently some British Council poet we’re meant to be putting up has gone and got himself lost. Bloody artist, typical.” He left it vague. “Ah well, duty calls.” People commiserated, their conversation resumed. Morgan drained the last inch of his whisky, shuddered, and moved round the side of the group to put it on the bar.

He felt Priscilla’s hand on his arm. “Everything
is
all right, isn’t it, Morgan?” She sounded concerned, and he was touched. He shot a glance at Dalmire, who was chatting to Jones, and looked back at Priscilla, taking in the shiny fringe, the silly nose, the fabulous breasts as if for the first time. Love bloomed like a napalm blast in his heart—a stupid, irrational drink-induced love that had little to do with the emotion spelt with a capital L. He thought: if only he could
have
her, somehow, before she and Dalmire got married, then, well, everything would seem fairer, more even and proper. Her hand was still on his arm; Morgan laid his on top of hers.