by William Boyd
“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.
“Everything’s fine, Pris,” he said softly, noble in defeat, trying to convey also that she was making a terrible mistake but, ah well, there you go. “Under the circumstances,” he added wryly. He removed his hand to expose her engagement ring. Priscilla snatched it away, as if his arm had suddenly turned blazing hot, and tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. She looked down at her feet in confusion.
Morgan leaned forward. “You don’t want to listen to Denzil’s nonsense about me having a date,” he whispered. “It’s just his curious Welsh sense of humour.” He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, then raised his voice. “Bye everyone,” he called. “See you anon.” He strode off, exulting momentarily at this superb turning of the tables until he recalled suddenly where he was striding to. His step faltered and he looked back longingly at the small circle of people he’d just left. He felt a terrible sense of isolation descend on him. Adekunle was waiting.
Chapter 4
The small bar was the name given to the club room that overlooked the eighteenth hole. Normally it was occupied by perspiring golfers downing pints of shandy but at this time of night it was deserted. A sleepy steward slumped on the bar; Morgan wondered where Adekunle was, thankful for his discretion.
He heard his name called from the stoop. Walking out on to it he saw Adekunle’s bulk at the far end, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.
“Ah, Mr. Leafy,” Adekunle said again, coming to meet him with his arm outstretched. “I think we will have rain tonight.” Morgan shook hands with him and concurred nervously. Adekunle was a big man with bulging apple-cheeks and a well-padded jowl. He was a distinctive figure; images of his moustachioed face currently regal
ed hoardings throughout the Mid-West. Tonight he looked even larger than usual as he was in his full traditional costume, an embroidered, loose, knee-length cream tunic with prodigious wide sleeves that were folded back over his shoulders, matching cream pyjama trousers that tapered to the ankle and a black velvet, gold-threaded tarboosh that, in the Kinjanjan fashion, was crushed lopsidedly down on his head. The evident wealth and splendour of his outfit, plus his considerable girth, made him seem like some all-powerful native potentate, an African Henry VIII.
“Forgive the paraphernalia,” he said. His voice was deep and educated, with a near-perfect English accent modulated by hints of American tones he’d picked up while studying at the Harvard Business School. “But I’m going on to a party rally.”
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Morgan ventured, his voice sounding unnaturally husky and at least two registers higher. “Did you have a good trip?”
Adekunle smiled broadly. “An excellent trip, thank you, most fruitful. London was cold and very crowded.” Adekunle paused, and when he continued the genial note was missing from his voice. “I wanted to see you … urgently. So you can imagine how delighted I was to spy you out here. I am the bringer of bad news I am afraid.” He puffed cigarette smoke out into the night. “As I feared, we have a problem. A problem with Dr. Murray.”
“I’m glad,” Morgan cleared the catch from his throat. “I mean I’m glad you were so discreet. My colleagues are out there.”
“Don’t mention it,” Adekunle said urbanely. “I fully understand your position.”
“Listen,” Morgan croaked, “would you mind if I got another drink?” He paused, unsure if he could form the following words. “Before I hear your problem.” He went into the bar, shook the steward awake and was given another whisky. He took a large gulp and rejoined Adekunle on the stoop. Adekunle lit another cigarette and asked in his unperturbed, sonorous voice, “Talking of Murray, how is your friendship with him progressing? Is everything going as planned?”
Morgan swallowed; he was glad at least to report some success. “Going quite well,” he said weakly. “As you suggested I’ve been trying to mix with him socially which is … a little difficult as he’s not the most sociable man. However, I am playing golf with him later this week.”
“Golf,” Adekunle said reflectively. “Excellent. Just you and Murray?”
“Yes … at least, I assume so.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Morgan said plaintively, “but what’s this all about? I’m afraid I don’t understand anything. Why is it so important for me to become friendly with Murray? What exactly do you expect me to do?”
Adekunle looked quizzically at Morgan. “I suppose I can tell you now,” he said. “It is not unreasonable. Yes.” He paused, and then said quite quickly as though it were the most natural thing in the world, “I want you to get to know Murray because I want you to bribe him.”
Morgan wasn’t at all sure he’d heard this correctly. “What?” he said haltingly. “Murray? A bribe? You must be joking.”
“I’m not joking, my friend,” Adekunle said in a tone that effectively removed any doubt on that point from Morgan’s mind. He suddenly felt nauseous; a nightmare vision of the future was forming in his muddled brain; unrelated events in the past fell into their allotted places in the dreadful pattern; ambiguous remarks and attitudes suddenly became menacingly explicable. With some effort he managed to speak.
“You want me to bribe Murray,” he said faintly. “To do what?”
Adekunle took him by the arm and led him to the far end of the stoop. The bar lights cast a faint glow on them. In the darkness somewhere beyond the pool of light the fairways stretched out into the forest. “Let me explain,” Adekunle said reasonably. “There is a building project at our university here in Nkongsamba in which I have a very great interest—not just because of my, ah, professorial connections with the university but for other reasons as well. You see,” he went on, “the university is expanding and they want to build a new five-hundred-room hall of residence and cafeteria. The land that they want to build the hall on belongs to me. I have been expecting to sell them that land for some months now but there have been hold-ups.” He held up his hand for silence as Morgan was about to interrupt. “There is also a university committee called the Buildings, Works and Sites committee. Its job is to investigate and consider the viability of all new university building projects from the point of view of hygiene, social and environmental concerns and report its conclusions to the university senate. It is an important committee; in fact, it carries a veto on all building projects and its chairman …”
“Is Dr. Alex Murray,” Morgan gulped.
“Precisely,” Adekunle congratulated. “You are, as the saying goes, catching on.” He plucked at the embroidery on his gown. “I became aware of the problem some time ago through certain contacts I have. But yesterday, on my return from London, I was informed by my sources that my worst fears have been realised. Dr. Murray,” there was a hint of annoyance as Adekunle pronounced the man’s name; Morgan knew how he felt, “Dr. Murray intends to file a negative report on the proposed site. If he goes through with this the land will not be bought and there will be no sale.” Adekunle smiled grimly. “I feared as much,” he said. “I had to make preparations, which is why I … decided to, ah—how would you say?—engage your services in this delicate matter of persuasion.”
“You want me …”
“I want you to persuade Dr. Murray to change his mind.”
“Oh my God,” Morgan said feebly, suffering from an attack of neurotic clairvoyance. “I’m not sure …”
“Please,” Adekunle said silkily, squeezing Morgan’s arm. “Let us not talk of defeat.”
“But what’s the problem?” Morgan asked. “Why is he saying no?”
Adekunle flicked the stub of his cigarette out into the night. “There were certain objections to be expected—the proximity of Ondo village, the inconvenient course of the nearby river—but these were not major, they could be overcome without difficulty. Villagers can be persuaded to resettle, rivers can be diverted.” He sighed with exasperation. “Unfortunately for all of us, Dr. Murray is very thorough. A very thorough man.” He took a cigarette pack from a pocket in his robe. “Perhaps you know,” he said, lighting a cigarette from it, “that my family are tribal chiefs in this part of the world. In fact, we own a great deal of the land around Nkongsamba. But, alas, the expenses of political life are very considerable, and so two years ago I was obliged to sell some of my family’s land. Some land which now borders the proposed site for the new hall of residence.” Adekunle smiled emptily. “I was chairman of the Nkongsamba Chamber of Commerce at the time and so it was—shall we say convenient?—for me to sell it to the Nkongsamba Town Council. They own that land now.”
Morgan frowned. He wondered if in his naivety he was missing something very obvious. He still couldn’t see how it all tied in. Perhaps Adekunle’s ponderous euphemisms were a code he should have picked up on immediately. “Does Murray know you own the land?” he asked.
“No,” said Adekunle. “No, no. I am sure of that. None of these transactions occur under my own name,” he said condescendingly, as if suppressing his frustration at Morgan’s slowness. “I don’t think,” he went on, “that the University of Nkongsamba would spend hundreds of thousands of pounds if they knew it was going to their own Professor of Economics and Business Management. No,” he continued, “the problem lies with the Town Council. The land I sold two years ago is today the new Nkongsamba municipal rubbish dump.”
“Oh,” Morgan said, suddenly seeing. “I see.”
“They started dumping there about six months ago. At present the dump is still fairly small and insignificant and at some distance from the proposed hall site. However, in another year it will be most obvious; in fact, if they continue at this rate the rubbish will be pressing against the walls of the buildings. But if by then,
” he said fake-sadly, “construction is under way it will be too late to find a new site.” Morgan was impressed by his concern for his students’ welfare. “Nobody,” Adekunle said emphatically, “nobody could know this now. Unless they consulted the town planning records.”
“And Murray has consulted the … yes.”
“You have it, my friend. A very thorough man, as I said.”
“But can’t you get them to move the dump or something?” Morgan asked hopelessly.
Adekunle gave a scornful laugh at the impracticability of this suggestion. “And where will you put thousands of tons of decaying rubbish? Besides,” he added, “since entering politics I have been obliged to abandon my more influential positions within the council for the sake of—what shall we say?—probity.” The word seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. “I am sorry, my friend, but there is no other way. And in any case it is vital that this deal goes through now. I cannot afford to wait.” He spread his hands. “Election expenses. And when, I mean if, we win I will need substantial reserves. No, Murray must change his report. Without Murray there would be no problem; the land would have been sold already.” He looked at Morgan. “You are a white man, a representative of Her Majesty the Queen’s Diplomatic Service and a friend of his. I am counting on you to change his mind.”
Morgan gazed bleakly heavenwards. He felt the weight and menace of the invisible black rainclouds above him as a personal threat, a final vindictive rebuff from a surly and spiteful God. The Canutian impossibility of the task Adekunle had set him made him want to laugh hysterically; the sheer audacity of the suggestion made him want to weep with helpless despair. Did the man know nothing of Murray? he wondered. Could he not see in those stern features the moral rectitude of a latter-day John Knox?
