A Good Man in Africa (40 page)

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.”

“I got her back, didn’t I?” Morgan said petulantly. He explained the new arrangements he’d made and Fanshawe seemed to calm down somewhat. “All the servants came back on time, I assume?” Morgan said. “Did the function go alright?”

Fanshawe put his hands on his hips. “Good question. It did actually. But why weren’t you there?”

“I wasn’t well, I told you. Listen, Arthur …”

“You were missed, you know,” Fanshawe said. “Particularly by the Duchess. For some reason she kept asking where you were. Got in a very bad mood when you never appeared.”

Fanshawe thought some more about this. “Curious woman … very pleasant though, mind you. Seemed especially put out by your absence.” He looked suspiciously at Morgan. “Make any sense?”

“Beats me,” Morgan said. “Look, Arthur, I want to talk to you about something important.”

“Still,” Fanshawe said, completely ignoring him and clapping him on the shoulder, “water under the bridge and all that.” He gestured at the party. “All’s well etcetera.” He dropped his voice. “Kingpin looks like paying off. Lucky for all of us.”

“That’s actually what I want to talk about, Arthur, I …”

“Good
grief!
” It was Chloe Fanshawe, brushing aside a couple of guests to intrude upon their dialogue. “What’s happened to your face? Your hair?” She was wearing a shocking-pink dress encrusted with silvery threadwork and had a triple rope of pearls around the soft folds of her neck. She must have re-dyed her hair, Morgan thought, its blackness was so dense, giving her skin the edible texture and whiteness of marshmallow.

“My Christmas present,” Morgan improvised. “Cigarette lighter. Turned the flame adjuster the wrong way. Lit a cigarette and whoomph.”

“Dear me. Shame … Arthur, come along. I want you to meet …”

Morgan clawed his way back to the bar. Obviously he wasn’t going to be able to break the news of his resignation to Fanshawe tonight. He replenished his drink. He noticed Dalmire and Priscilla chatting cosily and the old envy returned to him for a minute. He turned away and saw Georg Muller and his daughter Liesl coming over. Morgan raised his hand in salutation. He knew her well, she came out every year for Christmas.

“I want to give you a kiss,” Liesl said flirtatiously, “but I don’t want to cause you pain.”

“Haha,” Morgan said. He was getting tired of explaining about his face.

“What happened?” Muller asked, looking as smart as he ever did in a rumpled green safari suit.

“Well, there was this baby trapped in a burning house and … oh, never mind. How are you, Liesl? You look fit.”

“I’m fine,” she said. On her high heels she was at least three inches taller than he. “I wish I could return the compliment.
Kinjanja seems not to be agreeing with you.”

“You’re telling me,” Morgan said with feeling.

“The British are out in force tonight,” Muller observed wryly. “You must all be very pleased about the election.”

Morgan shrugged. “It all depends on your point of view.”

Muller laughed. “You are a sly fellow, Morgan. I haven’t forgotten the last time we met.” There was an uncomfortable pause. It suddenly struck Morgan that Muller somehow resented him, thought he’d done something clever and underhand with Adekunle and the KNP.

Liesl broke the ice. “The new government has its first crisis anyway. I hear the students have occupied the administration block. The riot squad have been called in again.”

“I was just talking to the Vice-Chancellor,” Muller said. “It has quite spoiled his Christmas.”

“I know how he feels,” Morgan said. Just then he saw Adekunle approaching, the guests parting obediently in front of him like the Red Sea before Moses. Morgan felt a tremble start up in his right leg.

“Georg, my friend,” Adekunle boomed. “Can I steal our bruised and battered Mr. Leafy for a moment?” Muller bowed his acquiescence and Morgan followed Adekunle’s flowing robes across the room and into the hush of his study.

Adekunle carefully placed his bulk on the edge of the desk. “Well?” he said.

“Sorry,” Morgan found it hard to concentrate. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thank you,” Adekunle said graciously. “But I was thinking more about our own agreement. You said that you decided in the end not to put our proposition to Dr. Murray.”

“That’s right,” Morgan lied, deciding to pacify Adekunle until he’d had a chance to speak to Fanshawe. “It was just all wrong. His mood … he just wouldn’t have been amenable. I could sense it instantly.”

Adekunle lit a cigarette. “You are sure of that? You said nothing to him? Because we have other plans now. To have to pay Murray would be most inconvenient.”

“He still intends to give a negative report on the site,” Morgan said, telling the truth for once. “I assume,” he added.

“Good.”

Morgan was perplexed. “Why good?”

Adekunle looked at him. “Let us just say that I have discovered a … a ‘cousin’ in the Senate office. It now becomes simply a matter of misplacing the minutes of the Buildings, Works and Sites committee meeting when Murray vetoes the site.” He puffed smoke into the air, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “A simple, effective, and, as it turns out, a far cheaper method. I am only sorry I could not have arranged it earlier. Saved you some—what shall we say?—heartsearching, some worries perhaps.” Adekunle tapped ash into a thick-bottomed glass ashtray. Morgan felt like burying it in his head. So Murray’s report would be intercepted. And now Adekunle was Foreign Minister he couldn’t see Murray pressing any effective charges either. A bit of dirt might be stirred up but knowing Kinjanjan politics it wouldn’t make any difference. He felt suddenly sorry for Murray and his lone struggle for “fairness.” He was just too small a man. The Adekunles of this world always came out on top.

“Ah, what about me then?” he asked in a feebler voice than he had meant.

“Yes, what about you, Mr. Leafy. I think we shall let you, as the saying goes, lie doggo for a while. You are still under a considerable ‘obligation’ to me as I’m sure you will acknowledge. I can foresee some time in the future when you might be able to repay that debt.”

Morgan knew then that his job was finally gone. There had been some faint hope that Adekunle might have let him off, in a post-victory amnesty now that everything had turned out so well for him. He was glad then that he’d decided to resign. He couldn’t linger on as Adekunle’s man in the Commission, not any more. He felt an odd sensation of relief mingle with his general despair. In a way he’d be glad to get the whole farce over and done with—extricate himself from the enfolding net of lies and complicity. You’d better get a move on, you fat bastard, he swore at Adekunle under his breath, because I won’t be around much longer.

The phone on Adekunle’s desk rang. He picked it up. “Yes,” he said sharply. “What? … These damn fools! … OK, OK, send them in.… This has to be finished tonight, you understand.” He put the phone down.

“These students,” he said. “Setting fire to cars, destroying documents. It can’t be permitted.”

“No, quite,” Morgan agreed. “Disgraceful.”

Morgan looked blearily out of the bathroom window on the first floor, trying to see beyond the glare of the floodlights. He had just been sick in the toilet bowl—the result of the two gins, a buck’s fizz, a whisky and a drambuie he had drunk, one after another, on emerging from Adekunle’s study, snatching drinks from passing stewards as if he were challenging some inebriate’s world record. Celebrating the end of his life, he had told himself.

As usually happened after a drink-induced vomit he felt both better and worse. He borrowed a toothbrush and cleaned his teeth. The crowd outside had scarcely grown at all and was still quiet and docile. Hardly a sweeping popular victory, he thought, wondering when Adekunle would be giving his speech. He opened the window and strained his ears; he thought he could make out a distant chanting that seemed to be getting louder—the grass roots support arriving, he assumed.

He left the bathroom and shakily advanced towards the stairhead. He had to go and drink some more, try to blot out the dismal future that lay inevitably ahead of him. Priscilla, Adekunle, Fanshawe, Kingpin, Innocence and Murray: it had all been too much. He had tried, he had fought, but he couldn’t stand the pace any longer. The odds had always been too great: it was time to surrender.

“Psst, Morgan.”

He looked round in surprise. Celia appeared for an instant in a doorway. She beckoned him into the room. Celia! She closed the door behind him and they kissed. He was glad he’d cleaned his teeth. They stood in a guest bedroom as far as he could make out. Celia had left the light off.

“Where have you been?” he asked a little slurringly. “I didn’t see you downstairs.”

“That was what I was going to ask you. You told me to phone you, remember?” she said in wounded accusation. “I kept getting this Yorkshireman who said he didn’t know where you were.”

“I … I was out of town,” Morgan said. He stroked her hair and kissed her cheeks. “I had something to clear up.” He pulled her to him. “I’ve missed you, Celia,” he began, but she pushed him away.

“It’s Sam,” she said despairingly. “I’ve decided. I’m leaving him. You’ve got to help me.”

“Celia, Celia,” he complained gently. “Don’t start that again. I know he’s a bastard but how can you leave him? What about the boys?” She had raised this topic of conversation on a couple of occasions before, but he had always managed to stop it before it had gone any further.

“No, I mean it!” she said in a shrill whisper. “I’ve got a plan.” He peered nervously at her, a little alarmed at her vehemence; she seemed to be on the verge of cracking up.

“But I can’t help you, Celia,” he said patiently. “Not any more. I’m not in a position to. I won’t be …”

“What are you talking about?” she said irritably. “You’re the only person who
can.
You’re the only one with the authority.”

He felt vaguely flattered at this reference to his masculine resourcefulness. He tried to put his arm round her again but she shrugged it off. “Celia, darling,” he said. “You have all my support and my … affection.” He had almost said “love,” but not while she was in this mood. “And you’re a very special person to me.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me in this bloody country. No,” he held up his hand with drunken insistence as she tried to interrupt. “No. I mean it. I’ve felt closer to you than to anybody. Honestly,” he said sincerely. “That’s what’s so hellish. That’s the only thing that upsets me about leaving, my darling. I don’t want to leave you.”