A Good Man in Africa (14 page)

“Well,” Fanshawe said triumphantly. “Wait for it … Sam Adekunle,” he announced. “Our very own Sam Adekunle, Professor of Economics and Business Management at the University of Nkongsamba.” Morgan wondered why this was so significant, but he felt sure that Fanshawe would eventually get round to enlightening him. “Marvellous stroke of luck,” Fanshawe insisted. “Here we are stuck miles up country, a quiet little backwater and it turns out we’ve got this political bigwig on our doorstep.”

“Yes,” Morgan said slowly, “extraordinary luck.” He shifted in his seat, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, nodded a few times and repeated the word extraordinary.

“You see what this means,” Fanshawe pressed on, leaving his desk and going to stand by the window. He clasped his hands behind his back and raised himself up and down on tiptoe. “Our analysis and evaluation is going to be of key importance.” He whirled round suddenly to face Morgan, who gave a little jump of alarm at the unexpected movement. “We’re in the best position to find out what makes the KNP tick, what it thinks, what its ambitions are. What we tell the FO is going to carry a lot of weight. A lot of weight,” he repeated. “Adekunle’s position in the party makes him, from the UK’s point of view, the most interesting man in the KNP. And,” the glee in his voice was unmistakeable, “the man’s right bang on our doorstep!”

Morgan’s brain was sluggish that morning; he just couldn’t concentrate. “That’s marvellous news for you, Arthur,” he said distractedly. “What do you propose to do exactly?”

“Oh no,” Fanshawe said. “Not me.”

Morgan smiled. “Sorry?” he said pleasantly.

“Not me,” Fanshawe said. “You.”

“
Me?
” Morgan suddenly woke up.

“Of course. I can’t possibly start investigating or encouraging Kinjanjan political parties, can I?”

Morgan wondered what he meant by encouraging. “I suppose not,” he said, his voice heavy with trepidation. “But I don’t exactly see what I can do … I mean, I’ve got a hell of a lot on already and …”

“Why do you think we’re getting a new member of staff?” Fanshawe interrupted. “To relieve you of the daily routine, give you a free hand, let you really get to work.” He gazed at Morgan as if entranced. “This is what it’s all about, Morgan,
real
work. Real diplomacy. Not this endless socialising, mindless official business. No, you can really do something positive here, something creative. For your country.”

Morgan had bowed his head from acute, painful embarrassment as this tirade had progressed and was screwing the knuckles of each forefinger into his temples. What in hell’s name, he asked himself, was the old goat bleating on about? “For your country,” something creative for his country; give him a cocktail party any day. “Excuse me, Arthur,” he said. “But what did you mean just then by ‘encouraging’?”

“Coming to that,” Fanshawe said. “The way I see it, your mission”—there was a tremor in his voice as he said this word—“is to try to get to know Adekunle personally if possible. Mix with him socially. Try to find out everything you can. Not the usual guff they fill their manifestos with but the—what do they call it?—‘realpolitik.’ You know,” he seemed to be growing frustrated at Morgan’s lack of enthusiasm, “realities, hard facts that we can pass on. I want you to write everything up in a report, anything you can get on Adekunle and the KNP. I’ll take it from there, liaise with the Commissioner in the capital, get the gist back to Whitehall.”

Oh yes? thought Morgan, I don’t like the sound of that. Fanshawe seemed to sense this and hastily countered. “Of course, I can tell you confidentially, Morgan, that a really top class piece of work here could, well, do us—our, ah, careers—no harm. Let’s face it, I think we both agree Nkongsamba’s not a major posting, not exactly the summit of our ambitions … I think I’m
not going too far to say that both of us wouldn’t object to moving on somewhere a little more exalted. When there’s Washington, Paris, Tokyo, Caracas out there, Nkongsamba doesn’t … well, you know what I mean.” He fiddled with the knot of his tie, touched the neat bristles of his moustache and frowned. Morgan was perplexed; he had never heard Fanshawe speak so openly and intimately before. “We’ve known each other for a good while now,” he continued, “and I don’t think I’d be giving any family secrets away if I told you that Chloe and I had always hoped that the final years of my diplomatic service would end, well, somewhere
 … not
Nkongsamba. The same goes for you, I’m sure. You’re a young man with … with ability—you have to be looking ahead.”

The subdued flattery fell soothingly on Morgan’s ears, and for an instant he felt sorry for Fanshawe, an ageing failure with his dreams unfulfilled, but he still realised he’d be doing most of the work.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” he asked hesitantly, keen to move the subject away from these awkward and uncomfortable personal revelations.

“Try to meet Adekunle for a start. He’s an urbane sort of chap, modern tastes, English wife, children at prep school in the UK, that sort of thing. Shouldn’t be a great effort for you to get into his particular social circle in the university. You know a few people there, don’t you? Shouldn’t be impossible. Then gently let him know that we’re on his side.”

“I’m not sure,” Morgan said. “I do know who Adekunle is but I don’t see him around much socially at all. Seems to keep to his own kind as it were.” To his surprise he found his interest quickening as he considered the possibilities. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, enthusiasm creeping into his voice. “The next big jamboree we have here, let’s invite all the local political people. That way I might gain some sort of entrée.”

“First class idea,” Fanshawe congratulated, obviously thrilled. “We’ll think up some excuse for a do. Duke of York’s birthday or something.” He chuckled at his own waggishness. “Yes. You’ll keep me in touch? Every move?”

“Naturally,” Morgan said.

“Good,” Fanshawe said. “Excellent. We can work this one out together, Morgan. Soon have something solid to show them.”

Morgan suddenly had an idea. “What’s this Royal visit you mentioned? Is it coming up soon? We could use that as an excuse.”

“No,” Fanshawe looked crestfallen. “She’s coming out at Christmas. Not really a Royal either—someone called the Duchess of Ripon, third cousin twice removed to the Queen or something equally distant. She’s representing Her Majesty at the Independence celebrations. Tenth anniversary on New Year’s Eve, you know. She’s doing a whistle-stop tour of the country—should be with us for a couple of days—finishing up in the capital for the big celebrations.”

“And the elections,” Morgan added.

“Yes,” Fanshawe mused. “Tell you what, I’ll get Chloe to organise some party or other. She enjoys these functions. Priscilla can give her a hand.” Fanshawe stroked his little moustache thoughtfully. “Speaking of which,” he said, “I wonder if I could ask a little favour of you.”

“Fire away,” Morgan said amicably; he wasn’t averse to doing any favours connected however remotely to Priscilla Fanshawe.

“Chloe would murder me if she knew I was telling you this,” he said sadly. “But it’s better if you’re fully in the picture.” He paused. “Priscilla’s had a bit of a sticky time lately, you see. She was engaged to a young chap in the Army—Marines—known him for ages, met him while we were in KL. Well, this summer he suddenly ups and offs back to Malaya, calls off the engagement, resigns his commission and marries a Chinese girl. Living out there now, working for her father.” Fanshawe’s features registered tragic disbelief. “Can’t understand it. Such an appalling waste. Well brought-up young chap too, good family and all that. Quite inexplicable.”

Morgan said nothing. Since he’d started sleeping regularly with Hazel, miscegenation had become a sensitive topic.

“I was wondering if,” Fanshawe cleared his throat, “if you could perhaps pop round from time to time. Show her round the place maybe. Cheer her up if you can as she’s naturally been down in the dumps rather since it all fell apart. I’d be most grateful.”

“Don’t mention it,” Morgan said. “I’d be glad to. My pleasure entirely.”

Morgan tried to thrust his tongue into Priscilla Fanshawe’s mouth, but its flickering tip met only the immovable enamel barrier of her teeth. Resignedly he contented himself with another lingering dry Hollywood-style kiss until his lips began to hurt from their being continually pursed. He allowed his hand to drop from her forearm onto her hip and felt her body stiffen. He let it rest there for a couple of seconds before obligingly returning it to her unerogenous arm. He hadn’t indulged in such discreet, inoffensive foreplay, such diffident, tactical petting since the early days of his adolescence, but the nostalgic Proustian memory-glow had soon worn off and he was rapidly becoming bored with the game.

They were sitting in the front seat of Morgan’s Peugeot which was parked in a dark corner of the Ambassador Hotel’s car-park. It was about half past ten at night. The Ambassador was Nkongsamba’s most exclusive and elite hotel. It sat proudly on a hill about two miles north of the city. It was a modern six-storey block with a reputedly international restaurant, a swimming pool and a casino. The food in the restaurant was appalling, the service disgracefully slovenly and the swimming pool grew green algae despite being so heavily chlorinated that you could practically see the gas rising from its surface. The casino, on
the other hand, was the one place in Nkongsamba where tacky mediocrity wasn’t the watchword and a dash of sophistication had gained a precarious foothold. It was run by a Syrian entrepreneur who had imported two plump girl croupiers from Beirut and was patronised almost exclusively by fellow Middle-Easterners. Morgan and Priscilla had just passed a giddy hour in its dimly plush interior at the roulette and baccarat tables and Morgan had steadily lost twenty-three pounds, before prudence told him that Priscilla was unlikely to be impressed by a flawless capacity to back the wrong numbers.

It was turning out to be an expensive evening—the second he had spent in Priscilla’s company. They had started out at the university club’s restaurant, where Morgan had bought their priciest wine, a sweetish highly scented Piesporter, and from there had proceeded to drinks in the “Embassy” bar at the Ambassador where they had shared a joke at the curious aptness of the venue. When Priscilla informed him that she’d never been in a casino, Morgan offered to show her how one functioned.

He had planned that the evening should end this way. He had sought her hand as they sauntered from the casino entrance towards the car-park. It was accepted, fingers were linked, they both turned wordlessly to face each other, smiled and squeezed. They sat in the car, maintaining the silence, looking out at the view of Nkongsamba’s glimmering lights before commenting huskily on its magnificence. Steadily a “mood” was established, a tingling awareness of their warm breathing bodies close to one another in the enclosed unobserved darkness of the car. Priscilla had run both hands through her hair, causing her sharp breasts to rise beneath the cream satin blouse she was wearing.

“It’s been a marvellous evening,” she had breathed. Morgan had leant across, his left elbow on the back of the car seat and whispered “Priscilla …” her head turned and their lips touched, exactly as they knew they would.

And here they still were.

Now Morgan applied his mouth to Priscilla’s again; gently at first, tenderly, sensitively—she had nice soft lips. Then he started breathing quickly through his nose—in-out, in-out—in simulated passion, wriggling his head around energetically as if their lips were stuck fast and he was trying, vainly, to wrench
them apart. Priscilla responded in muted kind, eyes shut, shoulders alternately heaving. Thus encouraged, Morgan slid his hand off her upper arm and on to her left breast. Priscilla’s eyes immediately shot open and she clawed herself upright with the help of the dashboard.

“Morgan, please,” she said in half-hurt reproach.

He almost burst out in uproarious laughter at this display of coy restraint. Here he was, he said scornfully to himself, with a highly sexed, compliant black mistress in a down-town hotel—and he was putting himself through this obstacle course. Patience, he thought to himself, and said “I’m … I’m sorry, Priscilla,” sticking manfully to the required formula. “I shouldn’t have, but, well, you’re to blame.” He touched her face as though to emblematize her provocative beauty, smiling at her helplessly. She smiled too and lowered her gaze. He started the car engine. “We’d better get you home,” he said.

During the silent drive back he asked himself why he was bothering, and offer up as he might reasons of boredom, masculine challenge, sex and so forth, he knew instinctively it was really because he had always wanted to—he searched for a word—go out, be linked, associated with, wanted by, even married to a girl like Priscilla Fanshawe. He had never ever so much as been acquainted with anyone like her before, so even a chaste and tiring ten-minute embrace and the milli-second’s impression of an impossibly firm breast beneath his palm represented a considerable triumph in the deprived scale of his life, a positive move up in his impoverished world. And although he felt a little ashamed to admit it he knew that if he could keep things as they were, gradually work on improving them, immense gains in self-esteem and personal kudos would ensue. Perhaps even a giant leap in social mobility, leaving his tawdry past unrecognised far behind him.

The ruthlessness of this desire for Priscilla, and the things she represented for him, surprised him rather when he objectively considered that aspects of her physiognomy and character were off-putting to say the least. There was her voice and her nose and the attitudes they seemed to embody—a profound incuriosity about any world other than her own, a bland superficiality in all her personal relations: always pleasant and charming—as if an evil, bitchy or hurtful thought never passed through her
largely empty head—or, if it did, it was dressed up in rib-digging, simpering innuendo. Paradoxically, for they were attitudes he otherwise affected to loathe and deprecate, he found he slotted himself into those brainless behaviour patterns with a quisling’s ease. Everything became super or dreadful, shades of grey were not admitted. People were either “sweet,” “really sweet” or “awfully sweet” unless they overtly conspired against you. Human endeavour and general amiability were held to be in plentiful supply among the right sort of people, and with pluck, courage and good fellowship all sorts of grubby little problems could be seen off.