A Girl From Zanzibar

by Roger King

  Gabrielle became my friend. It took a little time. If Monique was the lure that filled Hereford Road with visitors of every type, Gabrielle was the one who kept them there. She was quiet and cheerful, though often tired from her work at the St Mary’s hospital on Harrow Road. She monitored how everyone was doing, made them welcome and comfortable, ensured that they were fed and their problems addressed. People visited because of Monique and kept visiting because of Gabrielle. She was the one with a job that was more than for the money. Kamara told me that in her past was a love affair with an English doctor that went wrong. Now she seemed to prefer the collective affection of a group.

  There were times when we were the only ones at home, when we talked, joked and watched TV. She was almost exactly my size and the flat felt spacious with just the two of us. I laughed with her while we watched a programme about Ken Livingstone, the leader of the Greater London Council. While he stood and talked, he rhythmically exercised the muscles in his buttocks, which only we seemed to notice. We giggled, decided we liked him, his ordinariness. He was cheeky to the older politicians and, against all odds, had reduced the fares of the buses and tubes. His smiling face was on hoardings all over London so that our home seemed presided over by an invincible friend.

  IN COOKHAM WOOD, I SHOPPED MY FRIENDS TO THEBritish—even Gabrielle—for the sake of a degree, murdering my past for the second time. Benji was the only one I saved. It was what the academics craved, firsthand accounts of the immigrant scene by an authentic non-white participant. They loved me, and loved that I was in prison, and forgave me my lack of statistics for the sake of my empathic depth of understanding. I teased out the warmth and hospitality from the sisters’ home and made of it a machine of self-interest for my examiners’ delectation. While, in life, we had sat among cushions on the carpet, chatting, leaning against each other, watching TV, eating snacks, I perceived, in my thesis, that we were exchanging information of mutual interest: how to work the system and avoid the law. I detected functional sub-groups, like the Africans, with their concentration on the politics back home. Temporary stays were credit notes to be repaid by future favours. The flat was an employment exchange and a market for commodities. The wealthy provided food, drink and patronage and the poorer loyalty, labour, information, personal charms. Loans and gifts were insurance policies against future need. I traced the course of progress from the flat towards integration into English society and identified the point where individuals gained the confidence to ditch their old immigrant friends. And the point where persistent failures came to be seen as spongers and were made unwelcome.

  Of my friends, I made case studies A to M. Monique was A, Gabrielle B, Kamara C. I cannot quite remember who I used for M, someone I knew less well and who required a greater dose of imagination for their three-page profile. It felt like betrayal, but by then I was girded for betrayal. It was a cold thing, my thesis. And I did not tell the exact truth, so that my betrayals were nicely balanced: I shopped my friends, but I also lied to the English academics who wanted their lives so much.

  The truth was that Hereford Road was a warm embrace. On an evening some time after the end of our restaurant venture, we were sitting around as usual, nibbling at cakes from LEtoile Patisserie, drinking wine. Outside it was still light—long after the proper time for darkness, just as during my Reading winter the darkness had arrived too early and stayed too late. The one certainty offered by Zanzibar had been a consistent length of night. We were subdued. Kamara was there and so was his friend Yvonne, the white South African revolutionary whom I had first met at Geoffrey’s pub in Reading. They had just put Tayeb, a young Gambian visitor, on a plane back home. He had come to London for medical treatment, but in the time we knew him had just got thinner without finding any help from London doctors. We thought he would probably die and the mood was subdued. Adnam was in his usual seat.

  “The poor thing!” said Monique. “Couldn’t we do anything to help him, Gaby?”

  “They couldn’t find out what is wrong with him. He is very sick. Just wasting. They tried some treatments, but nothing.”

  “If he was English, they would have kept trying, I’m sure,” said Kamara. “African illnesses are neglected by Western medicine.”

  “No, Kamara, it wasn’t a plot. I called my friend at the hospital. They tested him for everything. Not everyone can be cured.” Gabrielle was almost impatient, tired after her nursing shift. “It’s better he goes home and is among his family.”

  “African traditional medicine might be more helpful,” offered Yvonne. “Traditional healers know things that Western doctors don’t. Witch doctors, you know.” Yvonne never noticed how much more strident her voice was than ours.

  “I hope so,” said Gabrielle.

  Monique was looking towards Adnam as if he might have a solution to this as he did for everything else, but Adnam was silent on the subject of death.

  I used Tayeb too, a case study somewhere between G and L. They discovered AIDS in between the time he left and the time I wrote my thesis, so I gave him that. I made a delicate analysis of medical migration, how the hope for a cure is balanced against its cost and the comfort of home. I think I even brought the desire for life itself into it, and the trade-off against its quality.

  Cutting short this talk of death and medicine, Adnam asked, “Do you think you’ll ever go back to Sierra Leone, Kamara?”

  “Not now. The government will kill me. I can’t imagine when it will be safe for me.”

  “They still have some diamonds there, don’t they?”

  “There are still diamonds, but the Syrians take them all. They give some to the politicians to keep them quiet.”

  Adnam nodded, weighing a further question, then deciding it was not the time, turning to Yvonne instead.

  “Of course, it’s nothing like the diamond industry in South Africa.”

  “My father was in the diamond business. It’s built on horrible exploitation of the black population.”

  “Of course. Horrible. I’d like to talk to you about it one day.”

  “You’re interested in diamonds?” asked Benji quietly, of Adnam.

  “I am,” said Monique.

  “Actually,” said Kamara, ignoring the new current, “I’m a property owner now, so I can’t call myself a visitor to England any more.”

  “What?” said Yvonne.

  “I’m a property owner. I own a house.”

  “I don’t believe you. How can you? You’re a socialist. Anyway, you don’t have any money.” She half smiled as insurance, in case she had missed a joke. Yvonne often missed jokes.

  Kamara laughed. “You should believe me. I have a house. A big one, actually. Four floors. Not too far from Bayswater. More Queens Park.”

  “How can you? You can’t afford a house. And you don’t believe in private property. That’s why you tried to make your coup, remember?”

  “It’s corrupt, actually.” Kamara looked happy, animated, as if delighted to confound Yvonne’s good opinion of him. There was something cruel in it. “Thatcher is making us sell off our council houses. Privatisation, you know. Smaller government. Doctrinaire capitalism. She wants to make all our voters into little Conservative property owners. So my housing department wanted to sell me one. Very cheap. With a loan of course. If housing has to be private, it’s better that it’s owned by socialists, isn’t it?” He laughed. “The Conservatives started it. Westminster council only sells to its Conservative friends. Very corrupt, actually. I’m surprised at how corrupt England is. They didn’t teach us that in the British Constitution classes at school.”

  “You pig!” said Yvonne.

  Adnam, comfortable in the armchair, slumming it here, his shoes off, smiled indulgently. Gabrielle in her dressing gown had pulled her knees up underneath her chin and closed her eyes. Monique started to push herself up from the arm of Adnam’s chair to fetch some wine and Benji motioned for her to stay put while he got it. Yvonne was looking dishevelled and awkward, as if her p
osition on the floor actually had resulted from the rug being pulled out from under her. Into this silence, I blurted, “Kamara, do you have any more houses?” and got everyone’s attention.

  Kamara chuckled, “You want a house, Marcella?”

  “Maybe.” I could feel Benji’s eyes on me, but I ignored him.

  “Well, there are plenty of houses. I could get another house from the council, or sell you this one. These are big dirty old houses, you know. Four floors. They were divided into rooms for council tenants—poor people. Sometimes addicts or prostitutes, people like that.” “That’s the sort I want, a big old one. It could be converted into flats. Queens Park is up and coming,” I said, borrowing the phrase from estate agents’ advertisements.

  “Marcella has some big ideas,” said Benji, mainly to Adnam, annoying me.

  “Kamara,” started Adnam, “how much would your house be if Marcella bought it from you?”

  “Maybe ninety thousand.”

  “That would be fifteen, twenty thousand more than you paid for it?”

  Kamara hesitated, but Adnam’s affirming smile coaxed him on. “'Yes. Maybe a bit less.”

  “That’s disgusting,” interjected Yvonne, but Adnam silenced her with the palms of his hands, as if to say: It’s nothing; it’s just as we should expect; this is the way of the world.

  He turned to me. “Is it a good price?”

  “It should convert into four flats. They would sell for about thirty-five each, that’s a hundred and forty thousand total. The conversion costs would be about twenty-five.” I could feel Benji’s smile on me. I wasn’t going to look at him.

  “So, let’s make it thirty-five for costs, with contingencies. That’s fifteen thousand profit on a hundred and twenty five investment—twelve percent. Barely enough. Do you have the money?”

  “No... I’d have to find it.”

  “So, maybe interest payments too.” Adnam paused briefly. “What do you think, Benji?”

  I waited, holding my breath, then heard him say, “Marcella’s never wrong with figures.” Bless him.

  “It’s what I believe. But you would help? With finding contractors and so on?”

  Benji glanced at me, but replied to Adnam, adopting his most serious expression. “Of course. With pleasure.”

  “Good. I thought so.”

  Kamara went to speak but Adnam quietened him with a slight movement of his hand and a little moue of conspiracy. “Marcella,” he continued, looking straight at me, “I want to invest with you. Kamara”—now he looked straight at him—“I think you’ll take a little less for the house. Say eighty. To be fair. For a cash transaction.” He raised his eyebrows in the expectation of agreement and finally received Kamara’s nod. “Good”—his eyes were back on me—“Then I will open an account for you, Marcella, at the BCCI. You can withdraw up to one hundred and thirty thousand and there will be no interest to pay for a year. By then you should have your money back. You don’t pay taxes here, do you?”

  “I’m illegal.”

  “I thought so. All the best people. Are you agreeable?” He was smiling, as if I should know this was a generous gift.

  Was I agreeable? The idea had only just left my brain. I was shocked. Adnam stepped into my hesitation. “No, you should sleep on it before deciding. And, Benji,” he added, “I am so happy to have this business association with you.” Adnam shook Benji’s hand, and the two of us chorused, “Thank you,” like children.

  “No, please. You are friends of Monique’s. That’s enough. In any case it’s good business—you’ll have your business empire one day and then I’ll come to you for help. And Marcella, I haven’t forgotten about Ismael. I was very embarrassed.”

  “You’re so good,” said Monique, planting a kiss on top of his head.

  “I’m good and you’re beautiful. And we’re late for an appointment. Will you please excuse us, everyone?”

  “Don’t wait up, big sister,” said Monique to Gabrielle as she departed. “I’ll be chez Adnam tonight.”

  Without opening her eyes, Gabrielle murmured to me, “Are you sure this is what you want, Marcella?”

  “I can’t be a nurse like you, Gaby. I think this is what I can do.” Her hand squeezed mine.

  I am sure this is how it happened, but when I used the episode as a case study for my PhD thesis, I extracted from it my ownership of the bright idea and the brilliance of Adnam’s orchestration, to make a dull thing of it. I also omitted the deadly, hidden keystone to its plot, though by then it was no longer hidden from me. For my thesis, using the dry paper currency favoured by universities, I illustrated how Third World businessmen, excluded from the chummy channels of the London financial establishment, depended instead on each other. The common bonds between outsiders were reinforced, in this view, by ties of friendship, love and illegality. To read my thesis there could have been no other possible outcome to the coincident presence of opportunity and capital in a Bayswater basement.

  Yet it had started in my head, only mine. And it had been completed only by Adnam’s deadly brilliance. So cleverly and quickly had he completed the deal that I went over and over it in my head that night, a child after a magic show still looking for the sleight of hand. He had caught Kamara in his boastfulness and had exploited Yvonne’s disapproval to disadvantage him. He had flattered Benji and tied him to the deal’s success. He had neatly erased the slight stain on his perfection caused by Ismael’s ungentlemanly treatment of me, and he had made it more difficult than ever for Monique to believe she might not love him. Which left me only with the question: What was it he had noticed in me that made him think me worth the trouble? While Benji slept peacefully next to me, I went over it again, half excited, half uneasy.

  THE ACADEMIC YEAR AT MOORE IS NEARLY OVER. THE

  students will be gone soon and the summer suddenly looks long and empty. Unlike everyone else, I’ve neglected to make plans.

  The students did well with their projects and I’ve had fun tracing the history of apples and underwear across the world with them, as if we were fellow travellers. One chose the oboe for his subject, and traced it back from France through Spain, Arabia, Indonesia, Thailand, India and Afghanistan to its origins in Mesopotamia. At least that’s as far as he got. Now he’s off to Indonesia for the summer to research the oboe’s ancestor that is still played there.

  For those returning to their American homes, I’ve set summer tasks. They have to think like someone else. One has decided to be an Indian migrant and find where in his hometown he can buy the makings of a traditional Indian wedding. A black scholarship student has undertaken to become fluent in the comparative merits of the golf courses and country clubs of his city. A rich girl will be finding out how to eat for nothing. A boy has to think like a girl and I’ll want him to know where to buy tampons and eyeliner. A girl has elected to become expert in the accessories of pick-up trucks and their significance to boys.

  I’ve set everyone in motion but myself. They say summer in Vermont can be hot, with lots of insects. I feel like something is ending and nothing is beginning, and that I’m about to walk off a cliff. I am starting to fear loneliness. The students will be gone and too much else is gone. London’s gone, and my home there. Zanzibar’s gone. Family’s gone. Mrs F is gone. And Benji is gone. Geoffrey knows I’m here, of course, and writes sometimes— simple reports on his life, routine hopes for mine—and I wish I wanted that more.

  Julia is going to Bangladesh for the summer to work for something called Bangladesh Rescue. She says I inspired her to do so, but I’m not sure how. Since Geoffrey and his friends, I’ve not much cared for good works towards the disadvantaged races that I inadvertently embody. But I’m happy to see her enthusiastic, and I’ve tried not to point out to her that she is following in the footsteps of her Mennonite missionary father from whom she was trying to escape. The idea of any of my students rescuing Asians makes me edgy. So much simplicity meeting so much complication. And then, I think I might miss Julia.

>   Julia asked me, “Did you ever get a reply to that letter?”

  I had to answer truthfully. “Yes.”

  “And was it as bad as you feared?”

  I thought. “No. It wasn’t bad. But I didn’t find out anything about my friend either.”

  “So, I didn’t do anything too terrible, mailing it?” “No, Julia, it wasn’t terrible as it turned out.”

  “Thank goodness. I was worried. What will you do now?”

  “I have the address of someone who should know.” “And you’ll write to this person.”

  “I already have,” I admitted.

  “I hope so much that you find him. Maybe he’s looking for you too. Maybe he’ll come and visit. Love is the most important thing, isn’t it?”

  Her forehead had creased; she really wanted an answer to that question. Julia had been showing me the letters from her boyfriend across the country. They were perfunctory, with a breeziness that makes me believe that he is not as earnest or honest as she. I suspect he sleeps with other people and wishes she would do the same. Now I tell her, “Love is important, but you shouldn’t depend on it. Make other plans.”

  The letter from Gabrielle read:

  Dear Marcella,

  It was so good to hear from you and to find out you are doing well. College professor! Who would have thought of it ten years ago? Vermont sounds lovely. I am so happy you have found a place like that after everything you’ve been through. I’ve missed you for the last year. Would it be selfish to say I’ve even missed my visits to Cookham Wood and our conversations there? "You learned so much. I would never have guessed that we Mauritian Creoles came from Zanzibar if you hadn’t found out!

  I seem to be the only one that nothing happens to. I’m still living on my own in Hereford Road, and I’m still a sister at St Mary’s Paddington. (Since you were in the property business, you might be interested to know that the businessmen who knocked down my dear old St Mary’s in the Harrow Road and built flats there could not rent them after the eighties bubble burst.) They make us work even harder these days, if that’s possible. I have to take new exams just to keep the job I have!