Lucy interrupted him. “Absolutely. Were it not for the work of WorldFeed, scores of thousands would have died of hunger.”
Furniver considered pursuing the matter, but decided to move on.
“Did you see this, Lucy,” he asked, nodding at the newspaper. “I know I’m starting to sound like the Oldest Member, but things like this really make you think . . . Did you know that Kuwisha is staging the First Session of the Conference of African Ministers of Culture, and that the outcome will be presented to the Special Session of the Assembly of Heads of State and Government?”
He read on: “ ‘I hope,’ says the African Union Commission chairperson, ‘the conference will take the interface between education and culture seriously and explore the possibility of maximizing the contribution of each to the other.’ What are we expected to make of that?”
“Per diems,” said Lucy, “it’s all about per diems.”
“All I know,” said Furniver, “is that these conferences seem an awful waste of time.”
Lucy sighed with exasperation. Sometimes she wondered whether Furniver lived in the real world – a world in which black market and official exchange rates, expenses, per diems and travel extras provided a significant source of income.
“Waste of time?” Lucy brushed a wisp of her blonde hair aside. “It’s a waste of money, more like. All these delegates will be saving their per diems and fiddling their ex’s. They’re as bad as the hacks,” she said contemptuously. “I remember when Pearson and I were in Zaire a couple of years ago. There was nearly a fight between the Times and the Mail at that rather good restaurant in Kinshasa . . . the one that serves salads made from five varieties of lettuce, all flown in from abroad.” A wistful look came into her eyes. “They were pissed as I recall. Both wanted a seat on the WorldFeed charter to Kigali.”
She snorted. “Neither of them gave a monkey’s about the story. Both rewrote the wires as usual. The truth is they were fighting over the receipt for the ticket.”
Furniver started to look interested.
“You know why, Ed?”
He could guess, but he shook his head.
“They sold their dollars on the black market. Let’s say they got fifty krotniks to the dollar. Official rate was five krotniks. You work it out. You claim your ex’s at the official rate, in the local currency – and you buy the krotniks with which you pay the ex’s at the market rate. Beauty of the scam is that head office in London or New York can hardly complain, can they? Can’t ask their staff to use the market, and then moan about corruption.”
“So the more money you spend on expenses . . .” said Furniver, “. . . the more you make.”
“Precisely,” said Lucy, “precisely.”
32
The reaction of Ntoto and Rutere to the news of Pearson’s imminent arrival at Harrods was far from welcoming.
From their perch atop the bar, where they were preparing vegetables for the next meal, they began to chant: “Cheat, cheat, cheat . . .”
“Stop that nonsense,” ordered Charity.
“He cheated in the game,” said Ntoto, “you yourself saw it.”
Charity nodded. It was perfectly true.
The boys undeniably had the moral high ground and they knew it. Pearson had indeed been late in giving the obligatory warning the last time they had played Ack-Ack, and she had witnessed his disgraceful behaviour.
“Cheat, cheat, cheat,” continued the boys, who were not prepared to forget that Pearson had broken the most important rule in a game which they had devised. According to this rule, anyone who was seated at Harrods was open to aerial attack by any registered street boy; but the target was entitled to try and trip any approaching “aircraft”, subject to two conditions.
The person or persons under attack had to simulate the sound of anti-aircraft fire; and they had to do so before extending their leg, crying out as they did so: “Ack-ack-ack!”
It was a rule about which the boys felt strongly, and understandably so. Successful raids could produce a satisfying cry of alarm as the target responded to a careening street boy. Failure, on the other hand, could prove painful, and a successful trip-up could lead to a skinned knee.
Pearson was due any minute now. Ntoto and Rutere kept an eye on the comings and goings of customers, the one boy peeling carrots, the other scrubbing potatoes. Sitting on the roof of the steel containers, concealed by the sign of the bar, they could look out without being spotted themselves.
Beneath them and beyond them spread Kireba, tough, hardworking and ambitious, the size of a small city where all but the truly destitute and the utterly hopeless nursed dreams.
Some dreamt of becoming a lawyer or teacher or doctor; others worked for seven days a week, labouring for the extra ngwee needed if they were to extend a one-roomed shack.
But ambitions went far beyond these dreams. Some did indeed become a doctor; but if this proved out of reach, you tried to become a nurse; if you failed to become a nurse, you could become a health clinic assistant; and failing that, a messenger who worked at a clinic. And if that proved impossible, then a friend of a messenger. Who knows? Life was full of opportunities, and the people who lived in Kireba were nothing if not ambitious.
What is more, they took pride in being ordinary – ordinary in the sense that they lived in a community that had as many saints as sinners, or at least the same ratio of saints to sinners as any other town or city. Or, for that matter, the same ratio of Samaritans who would lend a hand to strangers to others who would walk on by; the same ratio of honest folk to rotten thieves; or of good citizens anxious about the school fees they could not afford to bad citizens who cared for nothing.
Kireba was as honest or as rotten, good or bad, and had heroes and villains, just as any city of similar size, with one difference: there were none of the comforts of modern life, there was no clean running water, there was no electricity.
Systematically the boys worked their way through their respective chores, Ntoto peeling carrots, and chopping cabbage. Rutere was equally absorbed in his task, and after the potatoes were scrubbed, he began picking greenfly out of cauliflower heads, driven by the deal he had struck with Charity: if she could not find a single greenfly in a sample of her selection, Rutere would qualify for three dough balls. Thereafter he would lose a dough ball for every three that she found, with the appalling prospect that he could end in deficit – actually owing Charity.
Ntoto chatted away, sharing with Rutere his thoughts, and occasionally inviting his friend’s comments.
On that afternoon, when the sun beat down and their bellies were full of corn-bread and pumpkin soup, and they had managed to grab a spoonful of condensed milk, without Charity catching them, they played one of the word games they had devised to pass the time.
The game itself was simple – a question was asked in the form of a riddle, and if it got the answer that the questioner had in mind, you scored full points. But beyond that simple rule were qualifying rules and sub-rules, and extra rules, all of such fiendish complexity that the boys themselves would be unable to finish a game.
That day was an exception, however.
“If Kuwisha was an animal,” said Ntoto, “what would it be, Rutere?”
It was a tough question but there was plenty of time to answer it.
The answer had to begin with the letter of the current month.
“A dog,” said Rutere, “tied with a piece of string and always hungry, and always barking and only stopping when kicked.”
“Phauw,” said Ntoto – it was a good answer, though not the answer he had in mind.
Rutere gave a little whoop of self-congratulation, nothing to do with Ntoto’s question, but the discovery of a nit on his head, which he deftly decapitated between thumbnail and forefinger.
“Wash your hands,” said Ntoto.
Rutere made a great show of doing just that in a pail of water Charity had provided for the purpose.
The boys continued their work, lost in thei
r thoughts.
“Or a donkey,” said Rutere. “If Kuwisha were an animal, rather than a country, it would be a donkey. Better than dog,” he continued, and looked up to see if, by the rules of the game, he had got it right.
“Explain,” said Ntoto.
“The donkey works very hard, is not treated well, but has a big heart. The politicians are the man that beats his donkey, to get the donkey to work harder, but feeds him badly. We are like donkeys, working harder but not doing well.”
Ntoto clapped his hands. There was no doubt about it, Rutere was clever. He dealt with the last carrot, and turned to help Rutere, as friendship required.
“Shssh,” hissed Rutere suddenly, “someone is coming.”
Pearson surveyed the 300 yards between the matatu stop, where he had been dropped, and Harrods. The direct route had more hazards, and he had to assume that he could clear the foul black stream in a single leap. On the other hand, while the alternative route was as much as twice the length, the lean-to toilet, which was within striking distance of Harrods, provided secure cover.
He opted for the long way round.
He knew that his plan was childish, and certainly no way for an adult to behave at Harrods. But what the hell – the sanctimonious little bastards deserved to be taken down a peg or two. Pearson was pretty sure that Ntoto had sold the tape recorder he had lent him, and made up that cock and bull story about being mugged.
He reached the toilet, fairly certain that he had not been detected. Pearson was close enough to hear snatches of exchanges between Charity and Furniver, and greetings as Lucy arrived, earlier than he had expected, and the chatter in Swahili between Ntoto and Rutere.
It was a perfect moment to launch his attack.
Pearson burst onto the group, wheeling and diving like one of the aeroplanes the street children became, arms outstretched and crying:
“No mercy, Ntoto, ACK-ACK-ACK . . . no mercy, Rutere, no . . .”
To say the response was disappointing was an understatement.
“Aren’t you a bit old for that sort of wheeze?” said Furniver mildly.
“I thought . . . there you are . . . thought I heard Ntoto and Rutere . . .”
Pearson stuttered to an embarrassed end.
His targets sat atop the bar, legs dangling over the edge.
“We don’t play ack-ack with cheats,” said Ntoto.
Rutere sniggered, and started a further chorus of “Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!” pointing his finger at the journalist in time to the chant, just like the supporters of English football teams, which he watched on the black and white television in the bar.
“Bloody childish, Pearson,” said Lucy dismissively, who had emerged from the bar with a tray of drinks.
Pearson tried to recover his dignity, but he did feel foolish.
“A crash landing, I assume?” said Furniver, and guffawed.
“Childish!” said Lucy.
“Give me present,” demanded Rutere, sniggering.
It was not exactly a hero’s welcome.
33
“Rum place, Kuwisha,” thought Furniver, as he sipped an ice-cold Tusker. Here he was, sitting at a bar in the middle of Africa, reading news about Manchester United in the local papers, chatting with a young English journalist, arguing with an aid worker, falling for the bar’s owner, and discussing the appearance of a thing called a tokolosh.
And carols. Christmas bloody carols, couldn’t escape them, banging on about sleighs and snow. Couldn’t escape them.
Furniver waited until the radio news headlines had been listened to and absorbed.
Most of the Harrods’ regulars were there. Mildred Kigali was about to meet Didymus, Charity was pottering around, rattling the occasional saucepan, issuing instructions to a couple of Mboya Boys, with Ntoto and Rutere keeping an eye on the new recruits. At last, hoped Furniver, there was a chance of piecing together the events of the night before, and this time, God willing, there would be no interruptions.
“Time to get to the bottom of this tokolosh business,” said Furniver.
“Charity says that you saw it,” said Mildred.
“True,” said Furniver, “absolutely true.”
His audience looked at him expectantly.
It was now his turn to complete his version of events.
“Not much more, really,” he told the listeners at Harrods. “I went to my office to make notes for my speech at around four. No, probably closer to five o’clock. I was supposed to be on parade at seven o’clock. But given that I knew my subject, inflation and so on, I had bags of time . . .”
Bags of time . . . Edward Furniver looked out of his office window, beyond the shacks that were crammed together until his gaze rested on the eucalyptus trees that formed a section of the border which marked the start of the city.
The crows were returning to their roosts, and Furniver followed their flight, fascinated.
When he looked at his watch again, no less than thirteen minutes had passed. A further few minutes were spent checking the pace of the second hand on the clock in the kitchen. He was halfway back to his desk when he spotted the almost-empty packet of biscuits, and nibbled at the last one. For the life of him, he could not remember eating four? Or was it five?
He tapped the title of his talk onto the screen, and wondered whether it should be presented as: By Edward Furniver, MA Oxon.
Or would it be more . . . what was the word Lucy used so often . . . accessible . . . if he called himself Eddie Furniver?
“OK, OK,” he said, rubbing the palms of his hands together, “Here we go . . .”
He took a quick peek at his watch. Not quite six, but definitely gin-and-tonic time. He poured a generous tot, drank half of it on the spot, topped it up, and went back to his desk.
“This should be a doddle,” he said, and recalled advice that one should always start with a decent joke . . .
But no sooner had Furniver pulled up his office chair, settled in front of the computer, and started to gather his thoughts, than he realised that his preparations for the task were incomplete.
He got up, went to the kitchen, read the sports pages of the Standard while waiting for the water to boil for a cup of coffee, and returned to the desk.
“Damn!” he said, getting up again, and returning to the kitchen to collect a chocolate-coated biscuit from the packet he kept in the fridge.
He checked his watch. Still bags of time.
He poured another gin and tonic . . .
An hour later, Furniver just had time to press the print button, grab the pages, and set off for Harrods. He must have nodded off . . .
Once outside, he came within an ace of slipping on what certainly was not mud, if the smell was anything to go by. Furniver reached into his jacket pocket and took out his keyring. It included an “everlasting” torch, the size of a credit card though slightly thicker, which emitted a blue beam.
“Can see it a mile away,” said the assistant at the Tottenham Court Road store.
The noise from within Harrods was growing, and the sound of ululating was becoming positively unnerving. He decided on one last circuit around the bar, and would use the torch to read through the pages of his talk.
Furniver’s head had begun to ache. The inspiration from the emergency gin and tonics was evaporating, and his talk no longer seemed as perceptive and witty as it had when he read it on the computer screen.
He stumbled along the path that took him to Ogata, past “Results” Mudenge’s clinic, and as Harrods loomed into sight, Furniver held up the pages and focused the tiny torch on the text, trying to make sense of what he saw.
“Start with a decent joke,” it said.
The joke was passable. But what followed made little sense . . .
Phrases about the cost of living based on a basket of consumer goods were mixed with attempts to explain the relationship between the price of bananas and the matatu fare from Kireba to the city centre. And at intervals throughout the gibberish were varia
tions of his name, from Ted Furniver to Ed Furniver.
Someone – he did not remember doing it himself, though no-one else had been around – had made a diagram of inflation and money supply.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” he moaned.
Humiliation awaited him.
“Furniver!”
Charity’s voice broke through his reverie.
“Are you sleeping? You were telling us what happened last night . . .”
Furniver jerked to attention.
“Where was I . . . oh yes. Bags of time. And so I was reading and checking my speech, just before going into Harrods. Just as I passed the beer crates, you know, behind the kitchen, nearly tripped over this dwarf thing. It let out a hell of a scream. Made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I was terrified, don’t mind admitting.”
His audience made sympathetic noises. Even Charity, ever sceptical about the existence of a tokolosh, had no doubt that she had heard an honest account of an extraordinary event.
Like everything else they had heard that day, it had the ring of truth.
“Your turn, Mrs Kigali,” said Furniver.
Quite who started the dancing was a moot point, and Mildred was reluctant to take the credit. She was far from sure if that would have been appropriate for someone of her advanced years. To have subtly emerged as the leader of the dancers was another matter, she felt.
One thing had led to another.
“It was the paw-paws,” Mildred began, somewhat hesitantly. “Yes, it was the paw-paws,” she said, confidently this time.
“Gladwell Sibanda brought two paw-paws, quite small but very sweet, for her membership fee. That we accepted after talking to Charity. Then I went with Sibanda to sign the membership book, which is kept next to the needles of the circle. Sibanda signed.”
Mildred nodded her head.
“Yes, Sibanda signed. I will show you . . .”
Mildred was about to get up and collect the membership book, but Charity interrupted.
“Paw-paws, tell us about the paw-paws.”
“I have not forgotten the paw-paw business,” Mildred said sternly. The new generation, Charity included, was far too impatient. If someone had a good story to tell, it should not be hurried. If a story is worth telling, it is worth telling well. On second thoughts, perhaps she should move on and discuss the paw-paws, for there was a look in Charity’s eyes that suggested this was not the time to argue for the values of traditional storytelling.
Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies Page 17
