A Guest of Honour

by Nadine Gordimer

  “Where’re you staying?” Shinza considered.

  “With Dando.”

  “Oh. Well there’s a café down the road. The one near the post office. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

  As Bray was leaving Roly Dando came up level with him, but left the distance of two or three people in between. As white men, there was a tacit feeling they shouldn’t appear to stick together in any sense; a feeling based, in any case, below its social meaning, on the private inkling that their positions had become very different, although they were old friends. Roly said, “Having a good time?” His face was small with gloom. He had changed so much; the sexually spritely, dapper Dando of ten years ago really existed only as one remembered him; this was the aged, middle—aged face, completely remoulded by disappointments, desires and dyspepsia, that is more characteristic of a white man than his skin. No African ever transformed himself like that.

  The shops run by Greeks had always been called “cafés” although they had little enough in common with the European institution from which they took their name. The one near the post office sold the usual fish—and-chips over the counter, for consumption in the street—a relic of the days when black people were not allowed to sit at the tables—and still served the staple frontiersman diet of eggs, steak, and chips. Shinza was already there drinking a glass of some bright synthetic juice that churned eternally in the glass containers on the counter. He held up a finger to settle an important question: “Steak and eggs? Sausage?” “Yes, sausage, I think.” Between them on the table was the usual collection of bottles, like antidotes kept handy—Worcester sauce, tomato sauce, bleary vinegar. “Could almost have been old Banda himself in some places, ay,” Shinza said; Mweta’s address was between them with the sauce bottles.

  Bray smiled. “For example?”

  Shinza fluttered his hands over the table impatiently. “ ‘This is the answer et cetera to those who talk of nationalization.’ ‘… no sense in talking nationalization in an underdeveloped country.’ That’s just what the mad doctor himself tells them in Malawi.”

  “Not quite as bad. He always says you have to accumulate wealth before you can nationalize—something like that. ‘Nationalization as national suicide.’ No—Mweta’s was more Senghor’s line.”

  “Senghor?” Shinza grinned at him to prove it.

  “Oh yes. Senghor once said it—very much the same as Mweta. He rapped the trade unions over the knuckles and wrote an article saying there was no point in nationalization for an underdeveloped country.”

  “Ah, I remember what that was about. Yes, I suppose it’s possible he did….” Shinza gave his snort, acknowledging himself a man of no illusions. “He’s always had it in for socialist—minded unionists. D’you know when that was? That was before sixty—one. When he was fighting UGTAN’s demands for the development of a publicly owned sector in the economy. He was busy calling the union boys a hypocritical elite and a lot of other names.” He nodded his head significantly at the parallel he saw he had stumbled upon there.

  “I haven’t had a good look at the resolutions yet. How’ve you done with the secretarial committee?”

  Shinza pressed his shoulders back against the uncomfortable formica chair and his pectoral muscles showed under his rather smart, long—sleeved shirt. He wore no tie but the shirt buttoned up to a pointed collar and there were stitched flaps to match on the breastpockets. The outfit ignored as fancy dress togas or paramilitary tunics (he had worn a Mweta tunic during the days of the independence struggle, so this was a sign that, for him, there was no dilly—dallying in the past) and disdained the terylene—and-wool prestige of the new black middle class. He said—one who knows his chances don’t look too good, but prefers to ignore this— “We submitted that the position of the Party in relation to trade union affairs be re—examined, but that was chucked out. But—so was the Young Pioneers’ one that the Party should support the government ‘in its efforts to consolidate the unions against disruptive elements in their ranks.’ A little bird told me that’s how it went. —I like that one, don’t you? I like that. As one disruptive element to another.” They laughed. “But we had a lot of smaller stuff—resolutions here and there that’ll give more or less the same opportunities … we had an idea the big one wouldn’t make it onto the agenda.… We’ve got quite a few that will do.”

  “How did the committee manage to squirm out of the big blast?”

  “Oh you know—the old formula: all matters that would come under that heading were actually being dealt with separately under other resolutions, so there was no point. Well, we’d thought of that, too.… And the Young Pioneers must’ve been asked to go easy and give in on theirs. No need to have Congress discussing what they’re allowed to get away with every day, after all.”

  Shinza ate quickly and almost without looking at what was on his plate. He cleaned it with bread, like a Frenchman.

  Bray paused often. “I see the business of challenging Mweta’s power to appoint the Secretary—General of the Trades Union Congress is coming up. How’d you manage that?”

  “That’s a resolution from the Yema branch—”

  “—Yes, so I noticed.” At Yema there were railway workshops and phosphate mines; the Party branch was one of the oldest established, started by trade unions organized by Shinza years ago.

  Shinza gave his breathy chuckle; released his tongue with a sucking sound. “That was a tough one. They said it was a matter for the UTUC congress itself, not the Party Congress. But as it happened”—he raised his eyebrows and his beard wagged— “several other branches sent in exactly the same resolution … so … It made things difficult for the committee. They were forced to hear us.”

  “I was surprised.”

  Shinza nodded slowly.

  “It could be very important,” Bray insisted; either a question or a statement, depending on the way Shinza took it.

  “It could be—” Shinza was gazing off in absent curiosity at the waiter clearing the next table, and then his eyes came slowly back to Bray and were steady there, his nostrils opened slightly, and tensed.

  “You knew about the ILO thing,” Shinza said, after a pause, watching Bray saw through his overdone sausage.

  “You’re not impressed.”

  “That’s what’s happening here. Management schemes. A training centre to make a petty merchant class. They’ll learn how to get extended credit from the white importers and how to keep a double set of books for when the tax man comes.” He tipped back his chair. “Everybody’s happy because they think what’s behind it is to get the Indians out. As if that solves anything. They think it’s a stroke of genius meant to avoid that stupid situation in Zambia when the Indians were told to sell and it turned out there weren’t any Zambians who had the money to buy or knew how to run a business. But anyway whatever they think, it’s beside the point. It’s not the race or the colour of the shopkeeper that needs changing. All middlemen are by nature exploiters; Africanizing the exploiting class isn’t going to solve our problems.”

  It was not necessary for him to say he agreed, there; Shinza knew. “The training might come in useful for other things—running small retail co—ops and so on.”

  “We should have had something like the Tanzanians got—the ILO’s establishing a national institute of productivity in Dar. Even the Ugandan scheme would have been better than this management thing. Small—enterprise training could be adapted along cooperative lines. They’ve got a fishing and marketing business going on Lake Albert, a carpentry shop in Kampala. Not bad. But you get what you ask for. That’s set down in the policy of this sort of international aid—naturally; they can’t go on and work against the policies of countries. So we’ve got a scheme that’s for Africanizing an old, free—enterprise society.” He turned round the bread—plate with the bill. “Well—let’s get on, I suppose. How much’s mine?”

  “You can pay for me tomorrow.”

  They screeched the chairs back. Shinza let Bray go throu
gh first and said as he passed, “You better not eat with me too often.” He stopped to buy cigarettes at the counter. He joined Bray in the glare of the street, putting on big dark glasses so that the secrecy of the beard was reinforced and his whole face was obscured. “Nobody here calls me ‘boy’ any more. Is it freedom or just I’m getting old?”

  “You are not getting old,” Bray said. “You may be older, but you are not getting old, I can tell you that.”

  Shinza pushed his shirt in under his belt, smiling. As they walked he took a match, broke it in two, and probed in his mouth. “My teeth are going.”

  Shinza, despite his sophistication, remained very African; if you lost your teeth, it was in the nature of things: he probably would not think of going to a dentist to have the process delayed. But Joshua Ntshali had prominent gold—filled teeth; it was simply that for him—Bray—what Shinza did was significant. There are people in whom one reads signs, and others, on the surface equally typical, whose lives do not speak.

  “Why shouldn’t we eat together?”

  Shinza said nothing, threw the match away. “You stay at Dando’s place. He might not like it.”

  “Poor Dando.” Roly, too, was an old friend of Shinza’s. He was about to say: Dando spoke to me about what happened to you, months ago, the moment I arrived. He got drunk and lamented you. “He’s a functionary these days.”

  “That’s so. They might not like it.”

  He wants to know whether I’m seeing Mweta.

  “I don’t think my presence anywhere compromises me.”

  “You don’t think.” It was not a suggestion that Bray was innocent of the facts of life; it was said almost bitterly, an accusation, a challenge. “But it has, it does, it will. We think.”

  He was faintly riled by the imputation that he fell short somewhere. His defence was, as always, to get cooler and cooler, give more and more evidence of being what he was accused of. “We? You and Mweta?”

  Shinza laughed, but it was not a laugh that let Bray off.

  Before they reached the cinema Shinza left him with the remark that he had to see someone. “I’m at Cyrus Goma’s place,” he said.

  “Old Town?” The African quarter had always been called Old Town.

  “Mm. I think it’s number a hundred and seven, main road. Just by the Methodist Church.”

  “Oh I know.”

  “The dry cleaners’ on the corner will give a message. A Mrs. Okoi. Take the number.”

  “Dhlamini’s mother? I remember her.” Dhlamini Okoi was Minister of Posts and Telegraphs; Mweta had just taken Information away from him and made it a separate portfolio.

  “That’s it. It’s really the old Gomas’ place I’m staying.”

  The secretarial committee had been careful to place no big issue on the first afternoon’s agenda. The question of the participation of women’s organizations produced hard words from the few women delegates—formerly they had attended congresses on a branch and not a regional basis—and they wanted their rights back. (This must have been the reason for the militant female singers outside.) The resolution that “strenuous” efforts be made to build up the State’s own diplomatic network instead of continuing to rely on services provided by the former colonial power was the sort of thing that gives an opportunity for people to ride their hobby—horses through—in terms of party politics—an unmined field. Conservative or radical, everyone wanted the country to have its own diplomatic representation; the resolution satisfied patriotic principles even though the government didn’t have either the money or personnel to carry it out. A resolution on the Africanization of social amenities, put by the Gala Central Branch, turned out to be Sampson Malemba’s baby—Sampson hadn’t said a word about it, coming down in the car. But there was no question which particular institution he, personally, had in mind when he spoke of the “white social clubs with valuable amenities, still existing in small towns where such things are not available to the community as a whole.” There was one instance he knew where the “dogs’ kennels were refused for a community centre workshop.” A chest—hum of laughter stirred, rose aloud against him. Malemba looked slowly surprised; he explained that this was no ordinary doghouse. This time the chairman had to call Congress to order. Heads went down at the press table and ballpoints scribbled. Sidelights of Congress: the white editors would transcribe the anecdote into European connotations—Congress Puts White Clubs in Doghouse—and Africans would be puzzled and rather offended at the choice of issues publicized. The women were in splendid form after the vindication of their right to attend Congress in full force. If the chairman evaded one pair of commanding eyes he looked straight into another. A large woman with a turban in Congress colours and a German print skirt down to her ankles cited the “powder rooms” of shops and garages as amenities to be Africanized. She spoke in her own tongue with the English phrase mouthed derisively. There were lavatories and water taps in these “powder rooms” but the keys were for white ladies only. If white women could put powder on their faces in there, why shouldn’t African women be able to go in and wash their babies?

  After this, the resolution that wine and liquor be taxed more heavily to discourage excessive drinking wasn’t given the serious attention it perhaps deserved. The delegate who spoke to it had the facts and figures all right; fifteen times more liquor had been imported last year than in 1962. And this at a time when the European population was thinning out. The country must be careful not to follow the example of places like Madagascar, where one year liquor held second place of all imports, to the disadvantage of much—needed machinery and equipment. There was more laughter but faces were dutifully straightened when someone invoked the example of the teetotal president. Mweta himself grinned broadly in disarming self—parody of a strong—man showing his muscles. The resolution was carried and ended the day’s proceedings and as they edged slowly out into the aisles Bray’s neighbour remarked confidentially gaily, “And now we all go off for a beer.”

  He was back where he started, in the rondavel room at Roly Dando’s. He lay on the bed and looked at the light hanging from the ceiling beam and the combed pattern of the thatch. Bluebottles bumbled hopelessly against the fixed central panel of the window and never found the open sections. They thudded and bounced against the unresisting, invisible barrier; at the drowsiness that overcame him. Behind closed lids in the swarming red—dark of himself she was there with her square—jawed, innocently belligerent face, the face of a woman who has always to fend for herself, some draggle—teated female creature whose head, above a well—used body, remains alert for her young. She suggested many things to him. Also an early Greek, in the inevitability that hung about her life. An Iphigenia who would have understood that Agamemnon must trade her for a favourable wind. He thought, perhaps it’s that she’s a commonplace girl, really, someone very limited, with courage but not the intelligence to use it for herself, and I’m just a middle—aged man enjoying the last kick of the prostate. It was a phrase he and Olivia used tolerantly, of friends’ affairs; he had forgotten who coined it. (He saw the girl’s breasts with the marks on them, her meaty thighs really too heavy for trousers.) It could happen to oneself, like cancer or a coronary; like dying. One connected it only with other people, but it could come. —Well, if this was what it was, no need to be tolerant—envy was more appropriate, if the superiorly tolerant ones only knew.

  But Olivia would know that, too. Olivia had great intelligence; in the second sense as well, intelligence of everything: the body, too. At the beginning—for years, in fact—they had had that between them; Venetia and Pat, the young matron and the would—be actress, were made out of what had seemed unsurpassable intimacies. Olivia must remember them; but he was living them. For her, with her, they belonged to the past. The body has a short memory. His had forgotten her long before he began to make love to the girl. What had happened to Olivia and to him now seemed as useless to question as the result of an air crash; he was the survivor. He was aware of the sexu
al arrogance of this interpretation … a bird called out, persistently, overhead on the roof and he opened his eyes with a sense of having heard exactly that note before. He bunched the limp pillow behind his neck and set himself to read through the Party Congress agenda slowly, making faint pencil crosses here and there.

  Roly Dando had had his operation and no longer interrupted the evening drinking with trips to the bushes, but the look of some annoying inner summons that twinges of the bladder had brought to his face had become permanent. With poor Dando, with everyone he met in the capital, Bray felt his own well—being must announce itself for what it was; that it would be as easily recognized, in its way, as the dark—ringed eyes of the adolescent masturbator. But Dando said nothing. The distance between them was difficult to analyse. Whether it was a matter of sexual energy, of age, of changing political and personal directions, was something that could not be separated from the atmosphere of the garden, which was not as it had been, although they sat there together just as they had always done.

  Dando, too, had noticed that Mweta’s intention to take to himself the right of appointing the Secretary—General of the United Trades Union Congress was coming up on the PIP Congress agenda. He dismissed Bray’s surprise that it had got so far. “There isn’t anything that isn’t Party business. I suppose Shinza drummed up so much support, the secretarial crowd couldn’t avoid it. Just as by bringing the whole trade union affair under fire at Congress, Shinza can’t avoid showing his hand. He must have good reason to believe he’s going to be Secretary—General again himself, if it’s left to UTUC elections in the old way.”

  “Mweta’s shown his hand too. If he’s going so far as to bring in a new act just to keep Shinza out of the unions.”

  “Oh it’ll only be a proclamation, you don’t have to bother with a new act. The old Industrial Conciliation Act allows for it, it’s a piece of good old colonial legislation, tailor—made to keep the blacks in their place. It’ll do perfectly now.” Dando drained the bottom of his glass, where the gin had settled, and pulled the skinny tendons of his jaw wryly.