Stories (56 page)

Mr. Kwenzi, frowning, now raised his hand to check his lieutenant: “I think you are going too far, Mr. Chikwe, there is surely no need …”

At which Mr. Devuli let out a great groan of bitter laughter, uncrowned king reeling under the wet London sky, and said: “Listen to the good man, he knows nothing, no—he remains upright while his seconds do his dirty work, listen to the saint!”

Swaying, he looked for Mr. Mafente’s forearm, but it was not there. He stood by himself, facing three men.

Mr. Kwenzi said: ‘It is a very simple matter, my friends. Who is going to speak for our people to the Minister? That is all we have to decide now. I must tell you that I have made a very detailed study of the proposed constitution and I am quite sure that no honest leader of our people could accept it. Mr. Devuli, I am sure you must agree with me—it is a very complicated set of proposals, and it is more than possible there may be implications you have overlooked?”

Mr. Devuli laughed bitterly: “Yes, it is possible.”

“Then we are agreed?”

Mr. Devuli was silent.

“I think we are all agreed,” said Mr. Chikwe, smiling, looking at Mr. Mafente, who after a moment gave a small nod, and then turned to face his leader’s look of bitter accusation.

“It is nearly half past ten,” said Mr. Chikwe. “In a few minutes we must present ourselves to Her Majesty’s Minister.”

The two lieutenants, one threatening, one sorrowful, looked at Mr. Devuli, who still hesitated, grieving, on the pavement’s edge. Mr. Kwenzi remained aloof, smiling gently.

Mr. Kwenzi at last said: “After all, Mr. Devuli, you will certainly be elected, certainly we can expect that, and with your long experience the country will need you as Minister. A minister’s salary, even for our poor country, will be enough to recompense you for your generous agreement to stand down now.”

Mr. Devuli laughed—bitter, resentful, scornful.

He walked away.

Mr. Mafente said: “But Mr. Devuli, Mr. Devuli, where are you going?”

Mr. Devuli threw back over his shoulder: “Mr. Kwenzi will speak to the Minister.”

Mr. Mafente nodded at the other two, and ran after his former leader, grabbed his arm, turned him around. “Mr. Devuli, you must come in with us, it is quite essential to preserve a united front before the Minister.”

“I bow to superior force, gentlemen,” said Mr. Devuli, with a short sarcastic bow, which, however, he was forced to curtail: his stagger was checked by Mr. Mafente’s tactful arm.

“Shall we go in?” said Mr. Chikwe.

Without looking again at Mr. Devuli, Mr. Kwenzi walked aloofly into the Ministry, followed by Mr. Devuli, whose left hand lay on Mr. Mafente’s arm. Mr. Chikwe came last, smiling, springing off the balls of his feet, watching Mr. Devuli.

“And it is just half past ten,” he observed, as a flunkey came forward to intercept them. “Half past ten to the second. I think I can hear Big Ben itself. Punctuality, as we all know, gentlemen, is the cornerstone of that efficiency without which it is impossible to govern a modern state. Is it not so, Mr. Kwenzi? Is it not so, Mr. Mafente? Is it not so, Mr. Devuli?”

T
he building she was headed for, no matter how long she delayed among the shops, stalls, older houses on the pavements, stood narrow and glass-eyed, six or eight stories higher than this small shallow litter of buildings which would probably be pulled down soon, as uneconomical. The new building, economical, whose base occupied the space, on a corner lot, of three small houses, two laundries and a grocer’s, held the lives of a hundred and sixty people at forty families of four each, one family to a flat. Inside this building was an atmosphere both secretive and impersonal, for each time the lift stopped, there were four identical black doors, in the same positions exactly as the four doors on the nine other floors, and each door insisted on privacy.

But meanwhile she was standing on a corner watching an old woman in a print dress buy potatoes off a stall. The man selling vegetables said: “And how’s the rheumatism today, Ada?” and Ada replied (so it was not her rheumatism): “Not so bad, Fred, but it’s got him flat on his back, all the same.” Fred said: “It attacks my old woman between the shoulders if she doesn’t watch out.” They went on talking about the rheumatism as if it were a wild beast that sunk claws and teeth into their bodies but which could be coaxed or bribed with heat or bits of the right food, until at last she could positively see it, a jaguarlike animal crouched to spring behind the brussels sprouts. Opposite was a music shop which flooded the whole street with selections from opera, but the street wasn’t listening. Just outside the shop a couple of youngsters in jerseys and jeans, both with thin vulnerable
necks and untidy shocks of hair, one dark, one fair, were in earnest conversation.

A bus nosed to a standstill; half a dozen people got off; a man passed and said: “What’s the joke?” He winked, and she realised she had been smiling.

Well-being, created because of the small familiar busyness of the street, filled her. Which was of course why she had spent so long, an hour now, loitering around the foot of the tall building. This irrepressible good nature of the flesh, felt in the movement of her blood like a greeting to pavements, people, a thin drift of cloud across pale blue sky, she checked, or rather tested, by a deliberate use of the other vision on the scene: the man behind the neat arrangements of coloured vegetables had a stupid face, he looked brutal; the future of the adolescents holding their position outside the music-shop door against the current of pressing people could only too easily be guessed at by the sharply aggressive yet forlorn postures of shoulders and loins; Ada, whichever way you looked at her, was hideous, repulsive, with her loose yellowing flesh and her sour-sweat smell. Et cetera, et cetera. Oh yes, et cetera, on these lines, indefinitely, if she chose to look. Squalid, ugly, pathetic…. And what of it? insisted her blood, for even now she was smiling, while she kept the other vision sharp as knowledge. She could feel the smile on her face. Because of it, people going past would offer jokes, comments, stop to talk, invite her for drinks or coffee, flirt, tell her the stories of their lives. She was forty this year, and her serenity was a fairly recent achievement. Wrong word: it had not been tried for; but it seemed as if years of pretty violent emotion, one way or another, had jelled or shaken into a joy which welled up from inside her independent of the temporary reactions—pain, disappointment, loss—for it was stronger than they. Well, would it continue? Why should it? It might very well vanish again, without explanation, as it had come. Possibly this was a room in her life; she had walked into it, found it furnished with joy and well-being, and would walk through and out again into another room, still unknown and unimagined. She had certainly never imagined this one, which was a gift from Nature? Chance? Excess? … A bookshop had a tray of dingy books outside it, and she rested her hand on their limp backs and loved them. Instantly she looked at the word “love,” which her palm, feeling
delight at the contact, had chosen, and said to herself: Now it’s enough, it’s time for me to go in.

She looked at the vegetable stall, and entered the building, holding the colours of growth firm in her heart (word at once censored, though that was where she felt it). The lift was a brown cubicle brightly lit and glistening, and it went up fast. Instead of combatting the sink and sway of her stomach, she submitted to nausea; and arrived at the top landing giddy; and because of this willed disco-ordination of her nerves the enclosed cream-and-black glossiness of the little space attacked her with claustrophobia. She rang quickly at door 39. Bill stood aside as she went in, receiving her kiss on his cheekbone, which felt damp against her lips. He immediately closed the door behind her so that he could lean on it, using the handle for a support. Still queasy from the lift, she achieved, and immediately, a moment’s oneness with him who stood giddily by the door.

But she was herself again (herself examined and discarded) at once; and while he still supported himself by the door, she went to sit in her usual place on a long benchlike settee that had a red blanket over it. The flat had two rooms, one very small and always darkened by permanently drawn midnight blue curtains, so that the narrow bed with the books stacked up the wall beside it was in a suffocating shadow emphasised by a small yellow glow from the bed lamp. This bedroom would have caused her to feel (he spent most of his time in it) at first panic of claustrophobia, and then a necessity to break out or let in light, open the walls to the sky. How long would her amiability of the blood survive in that? Not long, she thought, but she would never know, since nothing would make her try the experiment. As for him, this second room in which they both sat in their usual positions, she watchful on the red blanket, he in his expensive chair which looked surgical, being all black leather and chromium and tilting all ways with his weight, was the room that challenged him, because of its openness—he needed the enclosed dark of the bedroom. It was large, high, had airy white walls, a clear black carpet, the dark red settee, his machinelike chair, more books. But one wall was virtually all window: it was window from knee height to ceiling, and the squalors of this part of London showed as if from an aeroplane; the flat was so high, or seemed so, because what was beneath was so uniformly
low. Here, around this room (in which, if she was alone, her spirits always spread into delight), winds clutched and shook and tore. To stand at those windows, staring straight back at sky, at wind, at cloud, at sun, was to her a release. To him, a terror. Therefore she had not gone at once to the windows; it would have destroyed the moment of equality over their shared giddiness—hers from the lift, his from illness. Though not going had another danger, that he might know why she had refrained from enjoying what he knew she enjoyed, and think her too careful of him?

He was turned away from the light. Now, perhaps conscious that she was looking at him, he swivelled the chair so he could face the sky. No, this was not one of his good days, though at first she had thought his paleness was due to his dark blue sweater, whose tight high neck isolated and presented his head. It was a big head, made bigger because of the close-cut reddish hair that fitted the back of the skull like fur, exposing a large pale brow, strong cheekbones, chin, a face where every feature strove to dominate, where large calm green eyes just held the balance with a mouth designed, apparently, only to express the varieties of torment. A single glance from a stranger (or from herself before she had known better) would have earned him: big, strong, healthy, confident man. Now, however, she knew the signs, could, after glancing around a room, say: Yes, you and you and you … Because of the times she had been him, achieved his being. But they, looking at her, would never claim her as one of them, because being him in split seconds and intervals had not marked her, could not; her nerves were too firmly grounded in normality. (Normality?) But she was another creature from them, another species, almost. To be envied? She thought so. But if she did not think them enviable, why had she come here, why did she always come? Why had she deliberately left behind the happiness (word defiantly held on to, despite them) she felt in the streets? Was it that she believed the pain in this room was more real than the happiness? Because of the courage behind it? She might herself not be able to endure the small dark-curtained room which would force her most secret terrors; but she respected this man who lived on the exposed platform swaying in the clouds (which is how his nerves felt it)—and from choice?

Doctors, friends, herself—everyone who knew enough to say
—pronounced: the warmth of a family, marriage if possible, comfort, other people. Never isolation, never loneliness, not the tall wind-battered room where the sky showed through two walls. But he refused commonsense. “It’s no good skirting around what I am, I’ve got to crash right through it, and if I can’t, whose loss is it?”

Well, she did not think she was strong enough to crash right through what she most feared, even though she had been born healthy, her nerves under her own command.

“Yes, but you have a choice. I haven’t, unless I want to become a little animal living in the fur of other people’s warmth.”

(So went the dialogue.)

But he had a choice too: there were a hundred ways in which they, the people whom she could now recognise from their eyes in a crowd, could hide themselves. Not everyone recognised them, she would say; how many people do we know (men and women, but more men than women) enclosed in marriages, which are for safety only, or attached to other people’s families, stealing (if you like) security? But theft means not giving back in exchange or kind, and these men and women, the solitary ones, do give back, otherwise they wouldn’t be so welcome, so needed—so there’s no need to talk about hanging on to the warmth of belly fur, like a baby kangaroo; it’s a question of taking one thing, and giving back another.

“Yes, but I’m not going to pretend, I will not, it’s not what I am—I can’t and it’s your fault that I can’t.”