A Girl From Zanzibar

by Roger King

  Ashraf arrived at eight-thirty instead of seven, saying, “I’m sorry I’m late. I try never to be on time. Once it saved my life. Next time I’ll be early. Benji!” He laughed and took Benji’s hand, turning the handshake into a contest of strength, which Benji lost.

  “I should have remembered,” Benji said, happily nursing his hand. I watched them laughing together, Ashraf slapping Benji’s back. Two Asian men with moustaches, I noted.

  With his arm still on Benji’s shoulder—I felt a pang of something—Ashraf turned to me. He was a little shorter than Benji, but more muscular. When he turned to me, his body stayed flexed and he cocked his head quizzically, seeming to say, Well, this is me, now what about you? but actually saying simply, “Marcella!” and offering his hand with the precision of a salute. I overlooked his treatment of Benji and took it. The hold was light, dry and firm. I smiled. He laughed, and enclosed my hand in both of his. In a way I did like him.

  In the same movement, as he delicately released my hand, Ashraf turned on his heel to examine the four walls of my home. “Wonderful!” he announced. “A woman’s touch. Benji, you are fortunate. Somehow I neglected to collect a Marcella on my travels. A soldier’s lot. May I sit?”

  He took the couch, then immediately sprang up, as if burdened by an excess of energy. “I forgot. I brought you some champagne—in my bag.”

  I watched them together as they played the fool opening the champagne. They were a double act. I was the audience. I could not remember when I had last seen Benji in such high spirits.

  “Sit,” said Ashraf to me. “We’re going to serve you. Benji is going to be cook and I am going to be cook’s assistant.” He pressed me into a dining table chair.

  “Onions,” said Benji. “Chop the onions.”

  “Sir!”

  “No, fill Marcella’s glass, then chop the onions.” “Sir!”

  “And Ashraf, I don’t want to see any tears. Marcella, watch Ashraf for tears.”

  “But Marcella is so beautiful, she makes me want to cry. I am so far from home and so alone.”

  “I’ll put on some music,” I said. “Something sentimental.”

  “Lamb,” said Benji. “Where’s the lamb, Ashraf? I’m making khorma for you.”

  “I will die of happiness. Marcella, will you dance for us? No, no, later. Let me fill your glass again.”

  I settled in my chair, a guest in my own home, a drink in my hand, and let myself be pampered, let myself laugh, put uneasiness aside, even dismissed it as foolish jealousy.

  Fiji was not mentioned once. Fiji, I came to understand, was just a sprat among Ashraf’s fishes. At one time he had commanded the army of a sizeable African country. At another he had been responsible for training African guerrillas in Libya. His jeep had been blown up in Kashmir, he had been shot by an Afghan in Iran while working for the Americans. To hear it, his life had been one good joke after another. I watched Benji drink it in, Ashraf’s hilarious conversation with President Mobutu who had thought to build his own guided missiles, the comedy of errors resulting from Ashraf’s playing all sides in Angola: Marxists, Americans, Portuguese, South Africans, Cubans. His talk was so reckless, it seemed there could be nothing in the world to fear. “But that’s all over now,” he concluded lightly. “Now I’m a businessman. Benji is teaching me how to be a businessman.”

  I watched Benji glow. “Ashraf has amazing contacts,” he confided, returning the compliment. Big, international, illegal, dangerous and depending on personal contacts, I remembered, was Benji’s description of the perfect deal.

  The drink and good humour had won me by the time Benji and I got to bed that night, leaving Ashraf to sleep among Benji’s junk in the spare bedroom. “So what do you think of our friend?” Benji asked, getting in beside me, and holding me at arm’s length by my shoulders for his interrogation. “I think he likes you.”

  “Very attractive. Very dangerous.”

  “More dangerous than me?”

  “Oh, you,” I managed. “You couldn’t hurt a fly.” I reached for him, took his penis in my hand and squeezed, surprised to find how little give there was to it.

  I closed my eyes and pulled Benji’s weight down on me. I wanted victory for him, surrender for me, but in the long-fought roughness I encouraged for this return to me there was victory for us both.

  At last I said, “Did I make a lot of noise? Whatever will Ashraf think of us?” He was on my mind. He had given us this.

  “He’ll think we’re lucky,” said Benji. “He’ll think I’m lucky.”

  In two weeks Ron will return from Zanzibar via London and I’m looking forward to this relief from solitude in about the same measure as I wish he would never return. I’m like a hungry woman who finds the only item on the menu is a dish she’d never choose. The end I am at these days is so loose that I’ve even replied to an old letter of Geoffrey’s—which means I’m bound to get one from him by return of post. Julia sends me garish postcards from Bangladesh covered in tiny writing, the messages her usual perplexing mixture of eager-to-please child and earnest advisor: “Bangladesh is beautiful Bright green rice fields and crowds of people in colourful clothes. I’m reading a lot. The Bengalis have an incredibly rich literature. Of course it’s hard to know if I’m doing any good but people seem appreciative. Giving medicine to sick people can’t be a bad thing, can it? Marcella, you should travel too. You’ve hardly seen anything of America. And I’m sure there are lots of people who would love to meet you. I’ll tell you everything when I return. Your friend, Julia.”

  But I can’t budge an inch. I’m being carried along by something and I need to be here to discover what. I seem to have got as far as Ashraf. Much of the day I lie in the hammock on my porch reading books left here by other people. Or, as often as not, just leaving them open on my tummy while I daydream. I’m drawn to books set in England and the most successful in holding my interest so far has been Barchester Towers by one Anthony Trollope. I cannot, for the life of me, understand how the intrigues of nineteenth-century English clergymen can hold my interest, but they do. Even so, I spend more time with the TV than with Trollope. I’ve become a cranky watcher: every time a gun appears I stab the remote to make it go away, which means I rarely see the end of anything.

  ASHRAF MORE OR LESS MOVED IN AFTER THE FIRST

  evening and now I was catching the phone calls of two disorganised men, in addition to my own work. I complained, but I really did not dislike being so much the centre of things. The calls had an element of fun, making me play the parts of secretary, associate or innocent as required, keeping me dancing on my toes. And they kept me in company with Benji’s life. If the calls became more numerous and more strange with time, my life was too busy to see any pattern or progression. I clung to an unre- flective, hectic happiness that is nearly unimaginable in the slow loneliness of my Vermont summer.

  “Hello?”

  “Give me Ashraf!”

  “What? Who? It’s four in the morning.” I flung my arm across Benji’s side of the bed and found him absent.

  “It’s seven!” The voice was round and strong and very definite.

  I squinted towards the window. There was no sign of dawn and no sound of birds. The clock read four. “Who am I talking to, please?”

  “It is ldi.”

  “Idi?”

  “Idi Amin, President of Uganda. Give me Ashraf.”

  I tried to rally my mind from sleep. It did sound like Idi Amin. Did I have friends stupid enough to play a four a.m. practical joke on me? And anyway Idi Amin wasn’t president of Uganda. He hadn’t been president for years. It was someone else now. Not Obote... Museveni. “Ashraf is not here. Where are you calling from?” “Where? From Saudi, of course.”

  There was the seven o’clock. I couldn’t remember Ashraf ever mentioning Idi Amin. “Maybe I can help you. I am Ashraf’s associate.”

  “No, of course you can’t help me. You’re just a woman. I cannot talk to a woman. Give me Ashraf. Or Benji. You c
an give me Benji.”

  “Benji? Benji is not here either. You can leave a message.”

  “Tell Ashraf to call me.”

  “He has your number?”

  “Of course he has my number.”

  “What shall I tell him it’s about?”

  “I don’t need to tell you that! Tell him it’s about Sudan. Sudan and Uganda. That’s enough.” He put down the phone.

  When Ashraf next checked in with me I passed on the message. “Ashraf, your friend Idi Amin called.”

  “Idi! He’s crazy. What did he want?”

  “He called at four in the morning and wanted you or Benji.”

  “No, no. Keep him away from us, Marcella.” “Something about Sudan and Uganda.”

  “The man is dreaming. He still thinks he’s somebody. I don’t deal with madmen.”

  “And if he phones again?”

  “Tell him Ashraf has become a Jew.”*

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, dear. This is Eric Crouchman of Hearty Foods in Middlewich. Is Mr Peters there?” Benji used “Mr Peters” when he thought a foreign name might go against him.

  “No, I’m afraid you’re out of luck again, Mr Crouchman. He’s in a meeting. Maybe I can help. We’ve talked before.”

  “Right, love. Well, will you tell him, I’ve got that quote for baked beans for the Nigerian army. Got a pen handy?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “OK. The price for five thousand cases, f.o.b. Liverpool is five-fifty a case. We’d go to five-twenty for anything over five thousand. Did you get that?”

  “Thank you, Mr Crouchman. I’ll give it to Mr Peters as soon as he returns.”

  “In with a chance, are we? Can you give me a hint?” “I’ll put your bid on top of the pile, Mr Crouchman. It might make a difference if you could come down just a little. Could you? I can’t commit Mr Peters, of course. Maybe by twenty pence a case?”

  What was I doing? This was the only bid. What was Benji doing? The chances of the Nigerian army officer actually paying the bills with the money entrusted to him were about zero. Why did Benji bother with these hopeless propositions? Poor Mr Crouchman. He sounded so straightforward. I imagined him in a flat cap with cigarette ash on his rumpled grey suit, and no idea of who he was dealing with. Here I was in my kitchen, still in my dressing gown with him imagining a smart English secretary behind her London desk.

  “It’d be tight, love. Not out of the question, though. Not completely. Thanks for the tip. You always sound so nice. Busy man, your Mr Peters, is he? Works you ragged, does he?”

  “Between you and me, Mr Crouchman, his right hand doesn’t know what his left hand’s doing. I wouldn’t rely on this if I were you. I’m just telling you this because I don’t want to see you waste your time.”

  “It’s like that, is it? Better to forget it?”

  “Might be better all round.”

  “All right, love. A wink’s as good as a nod. I’ll miss talking to you, though.”

  “Bye, Mr Crouchman.”

  I hung up. I should not have done that. Now I hated myself for betraying Benji, protecting him from his poor judgement. And him for making me need to. Now I had a secret from him. I hated that too. I decided, while I dressed, that I would not interfere again. I couldn’t both love him and protect him.

  “Hello?”

  “Marcella! How good to hear your voice. Is that bad man of yours there?”

  Lord Cramp never offered his name when he called. Lord Cramp made my skin creep.

  “Lord Cramp. How are you?”

  “Harry, Marcella. Harry. Blooming. Blooming. All the better for hearing your dulcet tones. Are you alone?” “Sorry, Benji’s out this evening.”

  “And that other bad man? Ashraf?”

  “They’re both out. Can I help?”

  “Always. Always. You’re the brains of the outfit, I’ve always thought. Just a little business matter. Perhaps I should drop in. Unless you’d like to come here. To The Rose.”

  Lord Cramp did his business from his private room over a Mayfair pub. A man in a dinner jacket guarded the foot of the stairs and another served visitors drinks. It was a peculiar way of business that involved him circulating boozily between his private bar and the tables, simultaneously maintaining business conversations with visitors from around the world. No pens or papers were permitted. When Benji first introduced me, Lord Cramp had kept my small hand in his fat one for far too long. “Zanzibar,” he had said. “Slaves and cloves. Slaves and cloves. Am I right?”

  “It’s after eleven, Lord Harry,” I now pointed out. “Just Harry, please. Well, as you wish. Benji kept you posted on the South African chappie, has he?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Just as well. Just tell him that the South African chappie is biting. He’s interested. Early days, of course.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Good enough for me, Marcella. "Your word. Maybe a nightcap? I could drop round.”

  “Past my bed-time, Harry.”

  “Ah!” He hesitated and finally decided against the words that came to mind, offering instead, “You’re a hard one to catch, Marcella. Benji keeps you on a tight rein, eh?”

  “Well, you know how it is.”

  “Right enough. Goodnight, Marcella.”

  I grimaced at finding my name in his mouth again. “Goodnight,” I said, refusing to say his.

  I put a notice for Benji on the board: “Friday, 11.00 p.m. Benji, Lord Cramp says South African chappie biting, but early days!! M.” It could have been anything.

  “Hello?”

  “Marcella, this is Adnam.”

  “Adnam, how are you? We haven’t seen much of you recently.”

  “Well, business, you know.”

  “How’s Monique? And the baby?”

  “Mother, baby and father are all doing well. You must visit us. Monique gets lonely.”

  “Yes, I’d like to.” But Gabrielle had told me that even she had not felt welcome at Adnam’s Hampstead home. Servants spent more time looking after the little boy than did Monique. When Adnam had proposed marriage, I was one of those who had not discouraged Monique. He seemed to love her and it solved the problem of her planless life. Now, with the rumours of her unhappiness, I felt a twinge of responsibility.

  “But before I get carried away talking about my family, I had a special reason for phoning you. Do you legally exist in England yet, Marcella?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “I thought not. That’s good. I need you to return a favour, if you would.”

  “Of course. If I can.”

  “Do you remember that BCCI account I opened for you three or four years ago? When you were just starting out?”

  “For the house conversion. Yes.”

  “Well, you know it’s still there?”

  “No, I thought it was closed when I paid the money back. I opened another account.”

  “No, we kept it open. I needed a place to deposit some money recently and we put it in that account. Benji knows about it. Now I need to transfer some money and, of course, I’ll need your signature.”

  “How much is in there?”

  “Between five and six million.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  For half a second, I laughed. Marcella D’Souza was a millionairess five times over. Then I thought quickly: Adnam is using my name to launder money and there is nothing I can do about it. I can’t refuse to let him have his money and it’s too late to avoid becoming involved. He set me up when he first opened the account for me. All along this was the real reason he helped me with that deal, the missing keystone. Clever, clever, Adnam. My only choice was to cooperate with a show of innocent good grace. But Benji’s knowledge of this was a puzzle.

  I said, “This is a surprise. But of course it’s no problem.”

  “I knew I could depend on you. And don’t worry, Marcella, I’d never expose you to anything embarrassing. I’ll be seein
g you next week, I think. I’ll bring the electronic transfer forms with me.”

  “You’re coming round?”

  “No, at our meeting. Didn’t Benji let you know?” “Benji has not been around too much.”

  “Well, you must come. I’ll bring Monique too.”

  EVEN HERE IN VERMONT GEOFFREY STILL WANTS TOhelp me. I was never able to persuade him that I did not need him, or that I was not his responsibility. When I was in London it was important to me that he understood I could stand on my own two feet—maybe better than he could stand on his. Now it’s gone on so long, it’s just a constant, a bit funny and a bit reassuring. Among the case studies that filled out my thesis, I invented an Englishman like him to be the husband of a Filipina woman. In real life she had an English husband but I was short of facts. My point was that false alliances are made between recent immigrants and natives. For a brief period there was an equality between the Filipina and her husband because he knew better how England worked and this counter-balanced her superior intelligence, energy and character, not to mention looks. Time, though, took away her disadvantage. She moved into English life on her own account and the marriage foundered as she outpaced her husband in every way. Influenced by Geoffrey’s irritating refusal to notice how I had outdistanced him, I made this lesson unfairly broad.

  Geoffrey finally had his wish and proved me wrong. In the end I needed his loyalty, and took his help again. This job is Geoffrey’s doing. He found it for me when he was visiting an American university and I was still in prison.

  In the end loyalty counts when it lasts long enough, even if it’s for the wrong reasons. Sometimes death can come before the wrong reasons show up to spoil things. And now I have this letter.

  What he has written is not important, but I have just spent the whole day studying the enclosure, a clipping from The Guardian. I’ve studied it over my lunch, in my hammock, on the toilet. I’ve studied it under the magnifying glass belonging to The Oxford English Dictionary. The headline is “BCCI Fallout Still Settling,” and the article deals with the embarrassing revelations from the BCCI’s former involvement with arms, money laundering, drug revenues, and the dirty work of governments around the world, some of which it seemed to own. It points out that several associated figures have recently met suspicious deaths and that remnants of the BCCI’s ruthless intelligence service may still be at work. I’ve read the article many times, but it is the two small photos that I have been studying all day.