by William Boyd
Morgan stayed in Hazel’s flat for the duration of polling day—the twenty-seventh. On the morning of the twenty-eighth he drove back to his house and found Greg Bilbow packing his bags.
“You off already?” Morgan asked.
“Yes,” Bilbow said. “I’m getting a plane back down to the capital in a couple of hours. Where the hell have you been anyway?” Bilbow inquired with amusement. “I’ve never known anyone so in demand. Phone going like the clappers. Your pals Adekunle and Fanshawe as per, and also some female called Celia.”
“Oh Gawd,” Morgan groaned, exaggeratedly rolling his eyeballs. He’d forgotten about Celia’s frantic message on Christmas day.
“You in some kind of trouble?” Bilbow asked sympathetically.
“To put it mildly.”
“Sorry. Anything I can do?”
“No, no. You’ve been great anyway, acting as my answering service.”
Bilbow smiled. “No problem. Except for that Fanshawe. I think he thought I was you, you know, putting on a Yorkshire accent. He kept saying ‘Come on, Leafy, I know it’s you.’ ‘Stop playing these childish games, Leafy.’ ” Bilbow had Fanshawe’s pompous accusations off to a tee.
Morgan laughed uneasily. “Bloody typical,” he said. He looked at Bilbow’s thin face. “Here,” he said. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a lift to the airport. Don’t want you getting in any more taxis.”
To his amazement Morgan managed to purchase two bottles of beer from the sulky girl at the Nkongsamba airport bar. They were unchilled, but you couldn’t have everything. Morgan and Bilbow sat down at a table to wait for the plane which was reputed to be fifty minutes late. They drank their beers and chatted. To his surprise Morgan found he warmed to Bilbow, and discovered him to be a loquacious, wry character and wished he had been able to spend more time in his company. He bought two more beers and told him this.
“Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been behaving so mysteriously since you came,” Morgan said. “I could have shown you around a bit. Anyway I thought you were due to stay on a while longer. Wasn’t your Anglo-Kinjanjan do meant to last a couple more days?”
“It was,” Bilbow said. “But the whole thing’s been stopped because of the student unrest at the university. There were big demonstrations yesterday. The riot police were called in. Had all the signs of turning out very nasty indeed. I thought it was something to do with the elections but I was told it’s because of some threat to shut down the university next term.”
Morgan punched his palm. “God, the elections,” he said. “I keep forgetting about them.” Vote-counting would be going on today; they should know the result by late afternoon. He wondered if a KNP victory could possibly help him now.
There was the crackle of a loudspeaker announcing the imminent arrival of Bilbow’s plane.
“Only an hour and ten minutes behind schedule,” Morgan observed brightly. “Things are looking up.”
Morgan had just got out of the bath when the phone went later that afternoon. Pulling his dressing-gown around him he padded wetly down the corridor to the sitting room.
“Hello,” he said tentatively. “Leafy here.”
“Ah, my good friend, you have returned from your travels.” It was Adekunle. Morgan leant weakly against the wall.
“Yes,” he said. “I was going to ring you. I …”
“To congratulate me, I hope.”
“Sorry?”
“My dear Mr. Leafy. Are you not listening to the election returns? We have won, my friend. Victory is ours!” Geniality and good-fellowship oozed from Adekunle’s voice.
“Oh.” Morgan felt no excitement. He was unsure whether this was good or bad news. “Congratulations.”
“Such enthusiasm,” Adekunle said cynically. “Still. It looks like being a small majority but a majority nonetheless.” He paused. “I have been trying to phone you. I assume you went ahead with the other matter. Dr. Murray and our agreement.”
“Ah. Now, yes. That was something I …”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
Morgan thought fast. “I didn’t,” he said, instinctively seeking safety in a lie. “I … I was assessing his mood and, um, the conditions just weren’t suitable.”
“Good,” Adekunle said. “Good.”
“What did you say?”
“I said good. You have put my mind at ease. This was what I was trying to contact you about but you were nowhere to be found. I was going to tell you not to do anything on this occasion.”
Morgan sat down on the floor. “Why?” he said in a shocked whisper.
“I have made other plans. I will tell you about them tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. At my house. A little victory celebration before I take up my new duties with the government. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
“Well, it’s very kind of you to ask but I …”
“My good friend,” Adekunle said. “Let us eat, drink and be merry, as the saying goes. I count on seeing you. Goodbye.”
Chapter 9
Innocence had been dragged back to her original position. The juju spells had multiplied around her, the same cloth shrouded her body. Morgan thought it was as though nothing had ever happened, as if those two dreadful nights had never taken place. He returned the torch to Ezekiel. The warm African night enclosed them; to the west a thin gash of livid orange, some greys, rose pinks and metallic blues lingered on, edging the rain clouds on the horizon.
“So,” Morgan said to no one in particular. “She is still there.” Isaac, Joseph and Ezekiel nodded in agreement.
“Some person done move her tree days ago,” Isaac informed him in a deeply suspicious voice.
“I know,” Morgan said. “Mr. Fanshawe told me. Bad business that. However, I’m very glad to see she was brought back.”
“Dis ’e no respec’,” Ezekiel affirmed.
“Well,” Morgan said, suddenly making up his mind, “you can tell Maria to bring the fetish priest tomorrow. I will pay,” he announced. There were mutters of astonishment.
“You will pay, sah?” Isaac confirmed.
“That is what I said. I will pay. Everything.”
“Fun’ral as well?” Joseph asked.
“Yes, yes. Let’s get the whole thing sorted out. Over. Finished.”
“Dis ’e very good ting,” Ezekiel declared. “Very, very good.”
“Isaac,” Morgan said, “if I give you money tomorrow, will you buy the beer and goat etcetera for Maria? Is that OK?”
“Orighti,” Isaac agreed. They made their arrangements. Morgan noticed how the cost had jumped to eighty pounds now he was footing the bill. It would be an especially large celebration they assured him, to which he was cordially invited. He didn’t begrudge it. If anyone deserved a decent send-off, he thought, it was poor Innocence. He’d get it all back out of petty cash, somehow, before he left.
They strolled to the edge of the compound. Cooking smells came from the charcoal braziers. A toothless mammy passed in the dark, her flat black breasts swinging in the light of the lantern she balanced on her head. The child she was leading by one hand pointed at Morgan and called out “Oyibo, oyibo.” White man. Morgan wondered if they ever stopped noticing.
He sniffed the air. “Is it going to rain tonight?” he asked.
“I think we get small rain tonight, sah,” Isaac said. Morgan was about to make a remark about lightning never striking twice but thought better of it. He said he would see them in the morning and walked across the lawn to his car.
He drove home to change for Adekunle’s party. As he was pulling on his shirt he shouted for Friday to bring him a whisky and soda. Friday brought the drink and established that he would not be requiring any supper. Morgan decided against his dinner jacket and put on a pale grey suit. As he reached into the wardrobe for it he noticed Friday still lingering by the door.
“Yes, Friday? What is it?”
“Please, sah. Let me warn you something.”
“Warn
me? About what?”
“Nevah go for Nkongsamba tomorrow. I beg you, sah.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“The soldiers will be there.”
“Soldiers? What are you talking about? A coup? Do you mean a coup d’état?”
“Ah oui. C’est ça. Un coup d’état. Demain.”
“How do you know?”
“Everybody is knowing.”
“OK, Friday, thank you.” The little man left. What nonsense, Morgan thought, as he knotted his tie. That night with Innocence must have addled his brain.
As he set off for Adekunle’s house at ten to eight he felt he was like a man living on borrowed time. The news that he need not have bothered to bribe Murray after all had been a particularly cruel and ironic blow. All that humiliation, all that soul-searching need never have occurred—at that point anyway. Adekunle had seemed only to speak of a postponement, a temporary change of plan. In any event it was over now, and he thought that wasn’t necessarily bad. For the first time in several weeks he sensed a modicum of composure entering his life, probably due to the fact that there was little he could do now to alter or influence events. He decided, there and then, to take Murray’s advice and tell Fanshawe of his indiscretions and thereby deprive Adekunle of the satisfaction of fulfilling his threat. Fanshawe of course would still sack him—or recommend his dismissal—but it would be far better than allowing Adekunle to breathe slanders in his ear. In fact, he made up his mind, he wasn’t going to allow Fanshawe to derive any pleasure from firing him either. He would resign—tell Fanshawe everything, then hand in his resignation. He smiled at the thought: yes, that would be best. He was setting his house in order at last, and now Innocence too was tidied up, so to speak—everything set in motion for the wake. The only small unresolved cloud on his horizon was Celia. He felt a glow of affection spread through his body as he ran through the memories. Celia, the one true love affair of his life, he realised with astonishment, or at least the relationship that came closest to it. Now that he didn’t care about Adekunle he must try to see more of her, he told himself, before he booked his passage home.
Driving up a hill on the way to the university, his headlight beams picked out a familiar black-clad figure. It was Femi Robinson, trudging up the slope with a bundle of placards under his arm. Morgan pulled into the verge. Robinson trotted up.
“Can I give you a lift?” Morgan asked. He felt generous and he had nothing against Robinson; in fact, he sympathised with him. “I’m going as far as the university,” he added. Robinson gladly accepted, flung his placards in the back seat and got in beside him. Morgan caught a glimpse of one that read PEDAGOGY YES! DEMAGOGY NO! He pulled the car back on to the road and set off on his way once again. They obviously shared the same destination.
“You’ve abandoned us then?” Morgan said, indicating the placards and winding down the window as far as it would go. Robinson could have ideally played Sweat in some allegorical deodorant ad.
Robinson scowled. “Since the election has been won according to your plans there is no point in warning the people. So tonight we are protesting at the presence of riot police on the university campus and the planned closure next semester.”
“But won’t the new government make any difference?” Morgan asked.
Robinson laughed scornfully at this display of naivety. “I assume you are making the joke. I told you: UPKP, KNP—they are just the same. They don’t like students making them trouble.”
“So you are off to lend your support.”
“It is my duty, while I can. I expect the PPK to be banned very soon.”
Morgan looked at Robinson with some admiration. He seemed always to be searching for a new set of hopeless odds he could pit himself against. “Well,” he said. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the new Foreign Minister.”
Robinson looked round sharply. “You are going to meet Adekunle already?”
Morgan laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s unofficial—a victory celebration, I believe.”
“Fanshawe will be there, I suppose,” Robinson sneered, “to congratulate his puppet.” He spat out the last word with some venom.
Morgan hadn’t considered this possibility. He hoped Robinson was wrong. “Adekunle Fanshawe’s puppet?” he scoffed. “That’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it.”
Robinson folded his arms across his chest. “This is how we see the Anglo-KNP collusion prior to the election. How do you want us to interpret it otherwise?”
Morgan couldn’t think of anything to say. He hoped he hadn’t blundered in telling him of Adekunle’s victory celebration.
He stopped the car outside the university’s main gate. “I’ll let you out here, Femi, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m not sure if it would be wise for me to be seen delivering revolutionaries to their demonstrations.”
Robinson collected his placards. “Thanks for the lift,” he said. “I enjoyed our conversation. It was most interesting.”
As Morgan drew near Adekunle’s house he was waved down by a uniformed guard and told to park his car some distance away. The roads nearby were lined with vehicles but as he approached he saw that the area immediately in front of the house had been left clear and the building itself was lit up with floodlights. He saw loudspeakers rigged up on the first-floor balcony and a dozen or so KNP supporters standing outside the gate. It looked as if Adekunle was planning to deliver a post-election victory address to the party faithful at some point in the evening. The front gate was opened once Morgan had established his credentials and he stepped through and walked down the drive. At the bottom down by the garages were several official-looking limousines and it was with a sinking feeling that he recognised Fanshawe’s black Austin Princess parked alongside Muller’s rather dirty Mercedes. Both cars were also sporting their national flags on the bonnets.
Peter, the Commission driver, snapped out an extravagant salute as Morgan came by. “Evenin’, sah,” he called. Morgan went over.
“Hello, Peter. Mr. Fanshawe here?”
“Yes, sah. I go bring them all.”
“All?”
“Yes, sah. Mrs. Fanshawe, Mr. Dalmire and Miss Fanshawe also.”
Morgan looked towards the house. The downstairs rooms seemed crowded with people. A little victory celebration, Adekunle had said.
“Are there many people here?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Peter said. “Plenty plenty, sah.”
Morgan edged his way through the crowded sitting room towards the bar. The atmosphere was hot and frenetic and there was a mood of euphoria in the air rather like a New Year party. He kept his head down. He didn’t want to see anyone; he was only here because Adekunle had ordered him to attend. He fought his way to the bar.
“Large whisky, please. And soda.”
“Hello, you,” he heard, and looked round. It was Priscilla. “Good Lord!” she said. “What’s happened to your face? And your hair?”
“Christmas pud,” he explained. “Too much brandy. Never realised the stuff was so combustible.” He thought she looked breathtakingly desirable, from the neck down: tanned and glowing with health in a creamy scoop-necked dress.
“So that’s why we haven’t seen you,” she said, popping an olive into her mouth. “I think Daddy’s been trying to get hold of you for days.”
“Really?” Morgan said, touching his elastoplast eyebrow with one hand and trying to control the featherlight cilia of his quiff with the other. “I’ve been convalescing,” he added in explanation. He changed the subject. “I thought you and Dickie were going on holiday after Christmas. Skiing, wasn’t it?”
“We are,” she said. “In fact, we shall have to be off soon as we’re driving down overnight to the capital. Plane leaves at some ungodly hour in the morning. Peter’s taking us in the big car. Oh look, there’s Dickie.”
Dalmire approached looking young and clean-cut in a white dinner jacket. “Well,” he said. “The prodigal returns. What on earth have you been doing to
your face?” He bent over and whispered in Morgan’s ear. “Arthur wants to see you, Morgan. I think he’s in a bit of a bate.”
“What about?” Morgan asked.
“Innocence mainly, I think.”
“That’s all taken care of now.”
“And something to do with the Duchess, too.”
“Oh Christ. I suppose I’d better get it over with. Where is he?”
“Over on the other side of the room. Under that mask-thing on the wall.”
Morgan began to ease and weave his way through the packed bodies across the room in the direction Dalmire had indicated. He was half way there, wedged between an enormous Kinjanjan lady and a gesticulating KNP official when he felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Denzil Jones.
“Hello, Denzil. Some other time. I’ve got to see Arthur.”
“Just a word, Morgan,” Jones wriggled himself closer. He looked downcast and serious. Perspiration gleamed on his blue jowls. He shot a nervous glance around the room. “Do you know anything about this?” he asked, shoving a piece of paper into Morgan’s hand. It was a bill from the Ademola clinic for Hazel’s treatment, which it clearly specified along with the penicillin dosage.
“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” Morgan said innocently. “Have you been overcharged?” He cursed under his breath; he’d given Hazel money to pay that bill.
“It’s not bloody true, man!” Jones yelped. “It’s not your idea of a joke, is it? Because if it is, it’s not very funny. Not funny at all.” He looked miserable. “Geraldine went mad. She refused to come here tonight.”
“Sorry, Denzil. Probably some of the buggers at the club.” He patted Jones’s shoulder. “Cheer up, old son.” He’d always wanted to say that to Jones. He pushed his way on through the crowd.
“Hello, Arthur,” he said. Fanshawe was in full regalia: bum-freezer DJ, cummerbund, medal ribbons.
“Morgan! Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “And what in God’s name have you done to your face?”
“A slight accident. I’ve been, ah, convalescing. Needed a bit of peace and quiet.”
“Oh marvellous,” Fanshawe said with heavy sarcasm. “Marvellous. And what about Innocence, eh? Just leave her to rot.”
