A Good Man in Africa

by William Boyd

  “I’ve no idea,” said Morgan, genially passing the buck. “It’s as big a surprise to me. I’m afraid you’ll need to talk to Mr. Fanshawe on that one. But then,” he added fairly, “he may know nothing about it either.”

  Robinson seemed to be preparing himself for a mighty explosion of scoffing disbelief but his fervour visibly collapsed before Morgan’s eyes, as if he’d been punched in the belly. “Mr. Leafy,” he said resignedly, taking off his gloves and wiping his dripping hands on his trousers, “whatever you are doing you are playing a very dangerous game. We have a saying here: ‘If you are cleaning a room you don’t sweep the det under the carpet …’ ”

  “Sorry. The debt?”

  “Yes, the det, the rubbish, the dust.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “As I was saying: ‘you don’t sweep the det under the carpet because somebody can easily come and lift it up and find the det beneath.’ This is what has been going on in Kinjanja for these last five or six years. The carpet is now raised from the floor!” The old passion returned for an instant.

  Morgan nodded sagely, as if considering the gnomic trenchancy of Kinjanjan folklore. “Well that’s all very interesting, Mr. Robinson, but there’s nothing I, or even the British Government can do about … about the shoddy housework, if you see what I mean. It’s a Kinjanjan problem.”

  “If it is a Kinjanjan problem why are you consulting with the KNP?”

  “Are we, Mr. Robinson? Are you absolutely sure of that?” Morgan said, diplomatically avoiding the question by asking another.

  Robinson practically erupted with frustration. “It is written here!” he shouted, jabbing at the newspapers covering Morgan’s desk. “Here, here and here!”

  “Ah, but you don’t want to believe everything you read in the newspapers, especially at election time.”

  “In that case issue a denial.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Deny it. Expose the KNP if they are lying as you say.”

  Morgan felt a flutter of worry. He smiled, “No, we can’t do that. We don’t issue denials, as a matter of policy. We find it has the habit of conferring a certain dignity on accusations and, um, inaccuracies which only deserve to be ignored.”

  “Jargon!” Robinson asserted fiercely, his arms windmilling around in exasperation. “This is diplomatic jargon. If one man says you killed his wife,” he pointed at Morgan, “do you keep your silence? If they accuse you of thieving, do you not deny it?”

  “Mr. Robinson, please,” Morgan said, rattled by the cogency of the man’s argument. “Those are quite spurious examples. Really, I think you need to get this newspaper thing in perspective. It’s an electioneering ploy—vote-catching.”

  Robinson slumped in his chair. “From a British perspective it may be nothing. From a Kinjanjan perspective it is very serious indeed.” He paused. “I will tell you why. If the KNP win because of this, or even if the UPKP are returned, there will be very serious problems.”

  “I don’t quite follow,” Morgan said.

  “Do you know,” the finger prodded at his chest again, “that Kinjanja is the seventh largest importer of champagne in the world? Do you know that last year over two hundred Mercedes Benzes were purchased for government officials?” He sat back. “They will not allow such corruption to continue. Then we are in dangerous trouble.”

  “Who?” Morgan asked. “Who won’t allow it?”

  “The Army, of course,” Robinson said, flinging his arms wide. “There have been mutinies in the North already. All troops have been recalled to barracks. They will take over.”

  Morgan frowned sceptically. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Everybody knows it,” Robinson declaimed scathingly.

  “But what about the voters? What if they vote a party in?”

  “You go to one village. You pay the chief. You say vote for me and you get your votes.”

  “But in the towns, surely …”

  “Even in the towns it is the same.”

  Morgan shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t quite see what I can do about any of this.”

  “Expose the lie,” Robinson said with ardour. “It is simple. If the KNP are lying you must say so.”

  Morgan gulped. He thought he should change the course of the questioning. “But why here? Why Nkongsamba? We’re not important. You should go to the High Commission in the capital.”

  “We have gone,” Robinson said. “We are there at the gates at this very moment. But, as you know, Adekunle is a chief in Nkongsamba; there is a strong connection with the town.”

  “Well, look, I’m sorry,” Morgan apologised. “But there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’ll tell you what though, I’ll pass your message on to higher echelons—I’m sure they’ll pay close attention to it.” He rose to his feet to signify the meeting was at an end. Robinson smiled sarcastically.

  “That is no good,” he said. “You must act now. There is very little time.”

  As soon as Robinson had gone Morgan raced out of his office and bumped into Mrs. Bryce on the landing. She was carrying a bundle of sheets in her hands.

  “Ah, Mrs. Bryce,” he said breathlessly. “Just the person. Where’s Mr. Fanshawe?”

  “He’s away,” she said simply.

  “I know that,” Morgan said slowly, with forced reasonableness. “But where?”

  “The capital, meeting the Duchess of Ripon. She arrives today. Weren’t you informed of all this?”

  Of course, Morgan remembered now: the wretched visit.

  “He’ll be back tomorrow,” Mrs. Bryce continued. “Anything urgent?”

  “Ah no. No. It can wait. Keep until tomorrow, I suppose.” He looked at Mrs. Bryce again. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Bryce, but what are those sheets for?”

  “Making up the beds in the guest suite,” she said, marching off towards it across the landing. “The Duchess is spending Christmas night here.”

  Morgan wished grievous septic inflammation on her mosquito-bitten legs and thoughtfully retraced his steps back into the office. Kojo sat at his desk, one hand covering the mouthpiece of his telephone.

  “Mr. Fanshawe on the line, sah,” he said. “From the High Commission.”

  “Oh Christ, no,” Morgan muttered. He picked up the phone in his office. He took a deep breath.

  “Arthur?” he said breezily. “Hello. How’s everything with you?”

  “Seen the papers?” Fanshawe squeaked in fury down the phone. “It’s a disaster, man. Grade A disaster!”

  “Sorry, Arthur … I don’t quite … I mean …” his stomach hollowed. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  “There are about two thousand demonstrators outside the High Commission here raising merry hell. Phones’ve been going all day. H.E.’s been summoned to Government House. The UPKP are hopping mad. Hopping. It’s dreadful, Morgan. Dreadful.”

  “God,” was all Morgan could find to say.

  “And. And the Duchess is due to arrive here this afternoon. What’s she going to think when she finds the High Commission surrounded by rioters?”

  There was a silence. It seemed to Morgan that Fanshawe was expecting an answer. “I don’t know,” he began. “I suppose …”

  “She’ll think it’s quite disgraceful, that’s what,” Fanshawe told him. “I mean, really, Morgan, what’s Adekunle playing at?”

  Morgan thought quickly. “It might not be that bad—in the long term. What if he wins?”

  “Well, there has been talk of that,” Fanshawe conceded, his voice calming down. “That would make a difference. Our pundit-chappies here think the prestige he’s bought with this visit will outweigh any damage. But, and this is the main thing, Project Kingpin wasn’t meant to work out this way at all. The whole thing’s been handled very badly. Very badly.”

  Morgan felt anger flare up inside him as he sensed the gun barrels of blame swinging ponderously around to point at him. “We could have had no idea he was going to do this though, could we, A
rthur. It is a breach of trust on Adekunle’s part, not ours. What do you suggest we do?”

  “Yes, well …” Fanshawe said, obviously taken aback. “The official line is say nothing, do nothing. The elections are not far off, everything may work out for the best, if the KNP emerge as victors. But, if the UPKP get back in, Anglo-Kinjanjan relations are going to be decidedly rocky.”

  For a moment Morgan wondered whether he ought to pass on Robinson’s dire warnings, but then thought better of it; Fanshawe had enough on his plate as it was—as did they all. “It’s been fairly quiet up here. We had a small demo but nothing to write home about: the PPK mob.”

  “And who in God’s name are the PPK?” Fanshawe demanded impatiently. “I can never get these initials straight.”

  “The Marxists: People’s Party of Kinjanja, Femi Robinson and his merry band.” He craned his neck to get a view down the drive. “But they’ve all gone home now, more or less.”

  “That’s something at least,” Fanshawe said ungraciously. “But how about our other problem?”

  “Innocence? Ah. Yes. I’m afraid not much progress there. I had a couple more undertakers out, but they wouldn’t touch her.”

  “Damnation,” Fanshawe swore angrily. “Everything’s going wrong. Listen, Morgan, I want two things from you: some sort of denial or apology from Adekunle, and Innocence out of the way before the Duchess arrives.” He spoke of her as though she were a tree that had fallen down and blocked his drive.

  Morgan cursed at him under his breath. “You won’t get a peep out of Adekunle, I can tell you that right now,” he said harshly. Then, “Sorry, Arthur, lot on my mind. I’ll see what I can do.” He thought: you horrible, revolting little shit.

  “Very well,” Fanshawe said in a hurt, offended voice. “Try and come up with some results for once.”

  He hung up, swore at Fanshawe again, and thought grimly how fragile loyalty was. He gazed emptily at his desk top. Disaster was mounting on disaster. What was he going to do?

  There was a cocky rat-a-tat-tat on his door and Dalmire came in. He looked smart and fresh and annoyingly cheerful.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Dalmire said. “Got held up by a demonstration at the university. Then I arrive here and guess what? We’ve got one of our own. What’s it all about?” Morgan sullenly indicated the newspapers. Dalmire glanced at them. “God,” he said. “He’s got some cheek, hasn’t he?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Morgan said ambiguously. He didn’t feel like explaining the intricacies of Project Kingpin to Dalmire at the moment. “Were they demonstrating about this,” he indicated the newspapers, “at the university as well?”

  Dalmire had moved away to the window. “No,” he said. “Something quite separate. Apparently there’s some threat to close down the university by the government. They say they won’t reopen after the Christmas holidays because of general student bolshiness,” he smiled, as if his mind was on other matters. “I’ve no idea what it’s all about, but there were hundreds of students all round the admin block. It seems they intend staying up, occupying the rooms over the holidays. One of these sit-in things or whatever they’re called.”

  “Christ, typical,” Morgan said in disgust, but thankful at least it had nothing to do with Kingpin.

  “Ever been skiing?” Dalmire asked out of the blue.

  “What? No, doesn’t appeal. Why?”

  “We were thinking about skiing—me and Pris—for our hols.” A dreamy look lit up Dalmire’s eyes.

  “Honeymoon, don’t you mean?” Morgan said, trying to keep the resentment and impatience out of his voice.

  “No, no. That comes later.” Dalmire paused, he seemed slightly embarrassed. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re going on holiday. Leaving after Christmas. I thought it might be fun to go skiing. New Year on the slopes, a welcome in the mountains, that sort of thing.”

  “HOLIDAY?” Morgan exclaimed, appalled. “But you’ve only been out here for a couple of months. Christ, my last leave was in March.”

  “I’m taking it off my leave, don’t worry,” Dalmire said hastily. “It was Priscilla’s idea actually. Arthur said it would be fine.”

  Morgan felt he was about to splutter inarticulately with rage like some gouty brigadier, but with an effort he composed himself. The lucky bastard, he thought, envy mixed with outrage at the gross injustice. That was what came of marrying the boss’s daughter. Dalmire, however, appeared quite oblivious of his resentment.

  “So what do you think?” he said. “About skiing?”

  “Sounds great,” Morgan said, thinking: maybe he’ll break his leg. Maybe he’ll break his back. An evil idea edged its way into his mind. “By the way, Richard,” he asked, “did you hear what happened to Innocence?”

  Three little boys watched as Dalmire sat down heavily on the verandah. He had turned quite pale. “Oh my God,” he said dully, holding the back of his hand up to his mouth. Morgan blanched himself and threw the cloth back over Innocence’s body, disturbing the cloud of flies that hovered above it.

  “Pretty gruesome, isn’t it,” Morgan said.

  Dalmire swallowed and puffed out his cheeks. “My God,” he said again. “That’s repulsive. Revolting. To think …” he paused and then added in explanation, “It’s the first dead body I’ve seen.”

  A small fire had been lit near Innocence in a little charcoal brazier onto which leaves and green twigs were occasionally flung. A smudge of bluey smoke hung about this end of the compound, meant, Morgan assumed, to drive away flies and overlay any smell.

  Dalmire got to his feet and walked unsteadily away. Morgan felt a little sorry for him; it was a mean sort of revenge but it was intensely satisfying nonetheless to see him so shaken up.

  “Oyibo, oyibo,” a little naked girl shouted in delight, dancing on the verandah and pointing a stubby plump finger at the trembling Dalmire.

  “The kids,” Dalmire said. “What about these kids just running about? It’s unreal.”

  “Yes,” Morgan agreed, walking over to join him and looking back at the scene: Innocence’s covered body, the wash-place, the juju spells, the smoking fire, the wandering semi-nude children, hens pecking in the dust. He didn’t feel as mature and dispassionate as he was trying to sound. “But it’s Africa.”

  They were walking slowly back to the Commission in thoughtful silence, when a shrill call came across the lawn.

  “Morgan. Oh, Morgan.” It was Mrs. Fanshawe. She was standing by the edge of her drive beckoning him over.

  “Bloody hell,” he said crossly. “What does she want?” Then, remembering she was Dalmire’s future mother-in-law, added apologetically “Sorry, Richard. Bit unsettled.” Dalmire, however, was too preoccupied with intimations of mortality to take offence and waved his excuses away.

  “Morning, Chloe,” Morgan said as he approached. Mrs. Fanshawe was wearing a tight-waisted, sleeveless dress in a brilliant ultramarine that contrasted strongly with her almost ethereally pale skin and raven hair. It also made her look twice her normal size, somehow.

  “Just been over to see Innocence,” he said, like some charitable WRVS helper. “Unfortunately, no one’ll move her.”

  “She’s still there?” exclaimed Mrs. Fanshawe, raising her hands to her temples. “Oh, it’s too ghastly.”

  “Yes, it’s been quite a day so far,” he said ruefully, “what with our demonstration. Did you see it?”

  “It’s still going on,” she said scornfully, “if you can call it a demonstration. I’ve just come back from town and there are still three of them loitering by the gate. This funny little man with some sort of beard and a huge head of hair shouted at me as I drove in.” They walked towards the house. “He was wearing a black polo-neck and leather gloves. Looked miserably hot.”

  Morgan was wary about the friendly chatter—she wanted something. “That’ll be Femi Robinson, urban guerrilla,” he said. “Got to wear the authentic anarchist gear, you know.” They chortled together patronisingly over this as they entered the
sitting room.

  “Drink?” Mrs. Fanshawe asked. “You must need one. Surely you’re not still on orange juice.”

  “No, no,” he laughed falsely. “I’ll have a gin and tonic if I may.” Anything Dalmire can do, he thought.

  Mrs. Fanshawe looked at him appraisingly. “Always thought G and T was more your drink, you know? Could never understand your lust for sherry.”

  Morgan was startled. What had come over the woman? he wondered; she’d never been so familiar. He was asking himself what could be behind it all when he was served a gin and tonic by a red-eyed Maria. He thought suddenly of her mother cooking slowly in the hot sun.

  “She insisted on working,” Mrs. Fanshawe whispered guiltily as Maria left the room. “Wouldn’t take any more time off.”

  “Priscilla home?” Morgan asked unconcernedly, trying to alter the images in his mind.

  “No,” said Mrs. Fanshawe. “She’s at the club. Consolidating her tan. She and Dickie are off on holiday, you know.” He did know. Mrs. Fanshawe paused to screw a cigarette into its holder. “I want you to come upstairs, Morgan,” she said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  Morgan warily followed the large turquoise globes of her buttocks up the stairs, wondering again what was going on. The ubiquitous chinoiserie of the house was more muted on the first floor, confined to pictures and curtain material. Mrs. Fanshawe led him into a small room with a low divan and a table, upon which stood a sewing machine. In the corner was a dress-maker’s dummy. Morgan took a spine-bracing gulp of the gin which he’d brought up the stairs with him. Mrs. Fanshawe deposited her cigarette and holder in an ashtray and unhooked something from the back of the door. It was red. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Looks suspiciously like a boiler-suit to me,” he ventured.

  “It is, or rather was. It’s an ordinary white one I dyed red. I’ve made the sleeves short too. I thought that would make a nice tropical Santa. Mmm? What do you say?”

  “Mmnng … sorry. I …”

  “Of course I’m going to put some spangly stuff on it. I picked some up in town.” She beamed at him. “Thought I’d get you to try it on first though,” she frowned, looking him up and down. “I didn’t know your size. We may have to let it out a bit here and there.”