Water Theatre (31 page)

I can't say that the waters of the spring spoke to me. Certainly I felt no god rushing in. But something did change during the course of that afternoon. For a time at least, the grief that had raged inside me was dispelled by the tranquil light, by the way the living water surfaced quietly from its depths and dispersed
into itself, as thoughts surfaced and settled throughout my mind.

I recalled my past fondness for Adam and winced to remember the harm I had done him all those years ago. And it seemed that, despite all discouragement, my love for Marina remained as undiminished as it was unrequited. And because that love refused to accept the case that circumstances had conspired to make against its continuing existence, I knew by the end of the afternoon that, whatever might be waiting for me there by way of shock or revelation, recrimination or reproach, I had to go back to Fontanalba.

The BOAC turbo-prop liner had landed in Zurich first, and then, briefly, for refuelling in Barcelona, before taking off on the last long stage of the journey. Gazing down in wonder at the changing world, Martin Crowther saw the blue-green glitter of the Mediterranean break in surf against Africa's northern coast. He watched the plane's cruciform shadow traversing the Atlas Mountains before falling prostrate on the Sahara's floor. Then, for hour after hour, with Adam asleep in the aisle seat beside him, he looked down on a contour map of silent plateaux and parched wadis until the desert yielded at last to savannah lands, through which the Niger twisted its brown coils. By the time he glimpsed the green welter of rainforest far below, declining sunlight had begun to redden the clouds.

He was flying into Africa as into a possible dream, and if he felt a knock of trepidation at his heart, it was not because this was the first time he had flown; nor because this opportunity had come to him at such short notice. All of this felt exhilaratingly new to him, as new almost as the country to which Emmanuel Adjouna's government was bringing such radical change. But whatever else awaited him down there, Martin knew that he would be obliged to spend time in close company with Grace Brigshaw, of whom he had chosen to see little since their encounter at High Sugden two years before – and that thought worried him.

Yet his doubts fell away as he stepped off the plane into the shimmer of heat lifting off the tarmac. He was remembering his first conversations with Emmanuel and Hal, the way they had enlarged his vision, showing him how a man's destiny might lie
in his own hands if only he found the courage to seize it. And here he was now, in the land they had liberated. Didn't this prove that everything was possible, no matter how steep the odds? He was taking his first steps into a new world. The air smelt differently here, of spices and flowering trees, of wood smoke and fetid vegetation. Martin drew it into his lungs, and with it a strong premonitory conviction that he too had begun to find his destiny.

Meanwhile, “Oh God,” Adam was grumbling at his side, “I'd forgotten just how bloody hot it gets over here!”

A burly African, affable with them and officious with everybody else, waved them through the crowd in the customs hall, and out to where Hal leant against a shiny Opel saloon, smoking a cigarette. He and Grace had been in Equatoria since the celebrations of independence a year earlier, so he was browner than Martin remembered, and his unruly hair shone silvery now. Also he seemed even more grandly built, as though he had grown in stature with his controversial appointment to the office of Political Advisor to the President.

Stubbing the cigarette under his foot, he opened his arms to receive his son. Martin looked on while Hal and Adam hugged each other warily. Neither had forgotten their terrible row two Christmases ago – and perhaps, Martin thought, Hal must still feel guilty at having left his son behind in England so soon after his breakdown at Cambridge. But, “It's so good to see you again, my boy,” he was saying, as the driver put their bags into the boot. “And you're looking well.” Then he turned to Martin with a grin. “And you too, young man. It's a pleasure to have you here with us.”

“It's a privilege to be here, sir.”

“Well, I wish my sniffy daughter thought so too,” Hal answered with a wry tilt of his brows. “But as she wouldn't deign to join her old mum and dad this summer, I'm glad you could come in her place. And the name's Hal, remember. No
need for this ‘sir' nonsense just because Emmanuel's made me his Grand Factotum. Now come on, into the car with you both. I can fill you in on the latest news while Samuel drives us home.”

They drove through downtown Port Rokesby to the noise of car horns and shouting, and tinny Highlife music wafting from luridly lit bars. Hal pointed out the white walls of Makombe Castle, where the slaves had been herded in while they waited for the ships to arrive; and when they came out onto palm-lined Atlantic Parade, Martin caught glimpses of high-crested combers breaking against the seaward wall of the corniche. He felt his shirt sticking to the seat. Through the car's window came hot smells of charred meat and open drains, and then the warm salt wind off the sea. His senses were so quickened that he found it hard to concentrate on Hal's brisk chatter about the government's progress and Adam's enquiries about old friends. But the more they talked, the clearer it became that both father and son were eager to forestall what might otherwise be a hostile silence.

Then a sentry in khaki drill and a scarlet tarboosh was raising the striped boom of a roadblock and stamping into a smart salute as they drove through into the Government Residential Area. The Brigshaws' bungalow stood in its own large garden, with bougainvillaea and poinsettia rampant against its walls, and a heady scent of moonflowers on the night air. As soon as the car drew up, a uniformed steward came out to fetch the bags into the house, and then Grace was at the door, the breeze off the sea blowing at the skirt of her pale-blue cotton dress as she opened her arms to embrace Adam, saying, “Oh thank goodness you've made it safely, darling! It's so lovely that you're here. I can't begin to tell you how much I've been missing you.”

“This is a bit grand, isn't it?” Adam said, disengaging himself and gesturing at the house. Then he smiled at the steward. “Hello, Joshua, I'm glad to see you're still in charge of things!”

The African beamed with pleasure. “Yessah, Master Adam.”

Grace glanced across at Martin with a quizzical look. “And here you are too, young Mr Crowther! Welcome to Africa. Whoever would have thought we'd meet like this? I have to say it's a pleasure to see you again.”

Martin pecked her quickly on the offered cheek. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“Oh it was all Hal's idea,” she said, “once Marina had made it clear she'd rather stay in London – though of course I was delighted that you could come. It's been rather a long time, hasn't it? You're almost a stranger these days.” Before Martin could think of a reply, she turned to Hal. “I'm afraid Government House has been on the phone again. Emmanuel wants you over there chop-chop.”

“Oh damn it!” Hal exclaimed, though with no great heat. “Didn't you tell him I was meeting the boys off the plane?”

“It was his secretary who called. She said it was urgent – Emmanuel wants all his Cabinet there.”

“When was this?” Hal frowned.

“Nearly half an hour ago. I got the impression it was some issue that Kanza Kutu had raised.”

“I'd better get over there.” Biting his lip, Hal turned to Adam. “Look, I'm really sorry about this. Your mother and I had planned a slap-up dinner for us all, but… Well, you know how it is…” He took in his son's sidelong shrug, gave Martin an apologetic grimace and glanced at his watch. “Anyway, the two of you are here for weeks. We'll have plenty of time.” He looked back at Grace, “I'll ring if it looks as if I'm going to be late.” Then he called for Samuel to get back in the car.

Two days later, Martin and Adam were sitting on the rear terrace of Government House when Emmanuel came out to greet them wearing a cloth toga-fashion over shorts and traditional leather sandals. They had spent the morning touring various ministries, to which everyone had free access these days – not
least, Martin had observed reflecting on his own position, the many relatives and friends of those whose loyalty to the PLP had won them positions of power and influence.

“My dear chaps,” Emmanuel exclaimed, “I'm so sorry to keep you hanging about. I've been stuck for half the day listening to the Cultural Commission arguing over
names
, for goodness' sake! The only thing we managed to agree on is that Port Rokesby is far too colonial a moniker for our capital, and ought to be changed.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Adam said. “What are the options?”

“Well, most of them were a touch embarrassing.”

“Don't tell me,” Adam said, “they wanted to rename it Port Adjouna?”

“Something along those lines.” Emmanuel wrinkled his nose and then laughed. “But I wasn't having any of it. There's already too much of a cult of personality gathering around this harassed head.”

“What was the place called before the British came?” Martin asked.

“Makombe – but that's part of the problem, I'm afraid. The Nau are all in favour of restoring the name. But it was a king of theirs called Osa Bassoumi who let the traders build the slave fort here – for captives he'd taken during the tribal wars.”

“So the Tenkora are opposed to it in principle,” Adam put in.

“Exactly.” Emmanuel shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It's the old tribal rivalry rearing its ugly head again. The PLP was always a tricky coalition. I sometimes think I'm only allowed to be in charge of this place because I'm just a poor bloody Mdemba and we're too insignificant an ethnic group to upset the rest! Anyway, enough of our neighbourhood squabbles!” He drew in his breath, gazed with a distracted frown at where a gardener was hosing a bed of canna lilies, and then turned back with a grin. “Well, come on, out with it, tell me all your news: about Cambridge and what the girls there are like – terribly
intimidating, I should think! Look, we could do with more beers, couldn't we?” He signalled to the steward who stood at a discreet distance with a tea towel over his arm. “Hal should be with us in a little while. And then he and I have to put our heads together with Hanson Osari, my extremely able Minister of Finance. So let's make the most of this, shall we? Oh, and by the way, Adam, have you been in touch with Ruth Asibu yet? I hear she's devastated that Marina decided not to come. And what about you, Martin my friend?' he said. “Hal has been talking to me about your plans for the future. I think there may be things we can do for you. What do you say?”

“So tell me,” said Grace some hours later, swirling the ice in her glass, “how is my daughter these days? Adam has been somewhat tight-lipped about her.”

Martin was also annoyed with Adam, who had drifted off without apology or explanation, leaving him alone with Grace on an evening when Hal had been called away to another meeting. “Doesn't she write to you?” he asked uneasily.

“Not often,” Grace answered, “and her letters are very sketchy. I get more news from Jim Lumb about how the poor dogs are doing!” She got up to let down the blind. “Anyway, I was rather hoping you'd tell me that I needn't worry.”

“I'm sure Marina can look after herself.”

Grace took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and relaxed back on the couch. “So when did you see her last?”

For a moment Martin relived his bleak visit to the London flat only a couple of weeks before – a distinct smell of cannabis in the air, two students arguing listlessly about something in the other room, while Marina played handmaiden to a lean, bearded man in jeans and a leather jacket, who was several years her senior, and probably – Martin guessed – one of her tutors. Presumably it was he who had arranged the illegal abortion she had recently undergone in a doctor's surgery in the Elephant and Castle area of south London.

“Some time ago,” he said.

“And how was she?”

“She looked in good shape.”

“And is there anything else I should know?”

“Such as?”

Grace uttered a small dissatisfied grunt. “I see you're going to be no more use to me than Adam.” Sighing, she looked up where the blades of the ceiling fan languidly stirred the night's humid air. “And what about him? He's so evasive with me these days I hardly know what to think about him.”

“Wasn't he always a bit like that?”

“Not with me. He used to be clear as a stream to me. But ever since… well, you know… that bad time he had…”

She faltered there, paused, glanced back at Martin with firmer resolve. “What I really want to know is, have his nerves really been all right since then? The doctor seemed confident enough. But does he resent my leaving him to come here with Hal?”

“I'm sure he doesn't. He just wants to get on with his life.”

“Yes, but how? I don't even know what's important to him any more.”

Worrying whether Adam was still somewhere in the house and able to hear this conversation, Martin said, “He seems very serious about his acting.”

“Acting?” For a moment Grace failed to conceal her surprise, then she said, “Yes, I suppose that makes sense… so long as he enjoys it, I mean. Have you seen him in something? Was he any good?”

“He's very good,” Martin reassured her. “He has a terrific range – comedy as well as the serious stuff. He was brilliant as Touchstone. Someone in the Third Year had already bagged Jaques. Everybody loved it. Didn't he tell you?”

“Well, he mentioned it, of course, but I hadn't realized…”

“Though he's less committed to politics than he was,” Martin added.

“Well, that's no bad thing.”