A Girl From Zanzibar

by Roger King

  The phone rang and I pulled myself away from Gabrielle to reach for it. “Hello?”

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

  “Oh, Idi. Ashraf’s not here, Idi.” To Gabrielle, I whispered, “It’s Idi Amin—the Ugandan dictator.” “Then Benji. Give me Benji.”

  “Benji’s not available either. You have to talk to me. Is it guns you want, or baked beans?”

  “Who is this? Don’t talk nonsense at me.”

  “This is Marcella D’Souza. I’m an East African Asian. You hate people like me. Remember? You’re a murderer. You chased us out of Uganda. Ashraf and Benji are Asian too. Why would they want to help you?”

  “Clear the line, you foolish girl. Get off Ashraf’s line.”

  “Actually, it’s my line. Oh, and Ashraf says to tell you he’s not a Moslem any more. He’s become a Jew. He thinks you’re crazy.”

  “I am Idi Amin. I am not nobody. You cannot speak to me this way. I am a head of state.”

  “Bye, bye, Idi. Bye, bye.” I put the phone down, caught the astonished look on Gabrielle’s face and doubled over in laughter.

  “Marcella, you’re crazy! Was that really Idi Amin?” She tried to find a reply in my face, but I was too far gone.

  “That felt good,” was all I could manage, then, “Bye, bye, Idi!” until Gabrielle was laughing as much as me and echoing, “Bye, bye, Idi.”

  When we faltered through shortage of breath, resting on each other, she asked, “Is Ashraf really a Jew?” starting me off again, then her. “You’re my best friend, Gaby,” I finally managed.

  “You’re mine,” she replied.

  A key in the front door lock seemed like insufficient reason to break free from laughter or each other. “Benji!” I said as he slipped past the door. “We’re acting silly. Come and join us.”

  Then I saw that Benji’s face was dark. “Hello, Gabrielle,” he said without his usual smile and welcome. “Will you excuse us a moment? I have to talk to Marcella.”

  He took me to the spare room, his office and Ashraf’s bedroom. I noted a pile of glossy gun catalogues on the floor that I had not seen before. “Has Ashraf called or visited since last night?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone else? Anyone unusual?”

  “Idi Amin called a minute ago. What is it?”

  “Not Amin. Anyone else.”

  “No. Like who?”

  “Ashraf was arrested yesterday. We were in Mayfair, just walking from the car to The Rose when two plainclothes policemen stopped us. They ignored me and took Ashraf away. He just had time to say that he had to go with them before they took him to a car. I’ve asked around but no one has any idea of what it’s about.” He looked around the room. “I’d better clean this place up and go away. Maybe you should come. No, it’s better you don’t come. Less suspicious. You don’t know anything. You see, it was good I didn’t tell you anything.”

  “Benji, what are you saying? Are you in trouble with the police?”

  He gave a crooked little smile. “The police? I don’t know. The police may not be the worst sort of trouble.”

  I looked at him. He picked up a sports bag from the floor and started to fill it with anything that caught his eye. This was serious, somehow we had drifted into seriousness. This was my Benji—my teacher, my smiling, naughty boy—grey-faced and panicking. I took the bag. “I’ll do that. Go and get some clothes. Where are you going? What shall I tell the police, if they come?”

  The doorbell rang and we froze. It rang again. Gabrielle called out from the living room, “Shall I answer it?”

  “No, leave it,” said Benji.

  A key scraped in the lock and we heard the door swing open.

  “What sort of welcome is this? Hello, I’m Ashraf. I think I know who you are. You’re Gabrielle, aren’t you? Monique’s sister. Family resemblance. The famous sisters. I know your brother-in-law.”

  We emerged from the spare room, me carrying the bag, Benji with a fist full of papers.

  “Marcella. And Benji. What is this? Are you running away from home?”

  “What happened?” asked Benji, anxious and impatient. “Why did they arrest you?”

  “Arrest? I wouldn’t exactly say arrest. It was our friends from British Intelligence. They were just messenger boys for the Americans. It was nothing. Don’t look so worried, Benji. Marcella, if I go to the refrigerator, will I find anything?” Ashraf was already there, the effortless speed of his movements still disconcerting. “I think I did not tell them what they wanted to hear. So the hospitality wasn’t too good.”

  “Did they know about our business?”

  “Our business? Oh, that’s why you’re so worried. Why should they care about that? The Americans want to help Pakistan. We’re allies, you know. Against the Russians.” Ashraf found this funny. Benji had put his finger to his lips for Ashraf’s benefit, but Ashraf was looking in the fridge. “And they secretly want to help the South Africans too. So why would they worry about a bit of uranium going between the two? They should be pleased.” “Ashraf! Quiet!”

  “Sorry, Benji.” Ashraf looked his most innocent. “I thought Marcella would already know? And Gabrielle’s family, isn’t she? Adnam’s sister-in-law.”

  “It’s dangerous for them to know.”

  “Dangerous?” Ashraf turned it around his mouth like a strange and interesting sweet. “Perhaps.” Then, full of mischief, he turned to me, “You have dangerous knowledge, Marcella. We’re selling South African uranium to Pakistan.” He lowered his voice to a mock whisper in my ear. “For the bomb.”

  I found I could not evaluate this information. I looked towards Benji, instinctively hoping for explanation or reassurance, but he seemed unmanned by Ashraf’s antics, caught between anger, apology and a wish to match Ashraf’s insouciance. He was floundering in the same waters that were making Ashraf so buoyant. “Then why did they arrest you?” he finally asked, almost pleading.

  “Oh, the Americans wanted to offer me a job. I was head-hunted by the CIA. They want me to go to Nicaragua to help their Contras. They’re desperate.” He laughed. “Marcella, can I have this chicken?”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway I turned them down. Too dangerous.” His eyes sparkled with the irony. “I have a rule. Never fight a guerilla war when the population is against you.”

  Benji turned to take the papers back to the spare bedroom. He used to be the one with all the rules.

  IN THE UNPREDICTED CONNECTIONS AND COLLISIONSof those days there was a closing in, a sense that my world had again become small and the scrutiny of me more intense. Mrs F said of the walls pressing in on Zanzibar’s alleys, that they had ears, and in London the talk was now of tapped phones. I learned to become brief and cryptic, once again uneasy with my inability to correctly gauge the need for caution.

  When I met David at Le Cafe he was as aptly dressed for London as he had been for Zanzibar. A light check sports jacket, woven tie, raincoat draped over a vacant chair.

  Like Ron now, David had just arrived from Zanzibar and Dar-es-Salaam. He told me, though I had not asked, that my mother and my sister were well and that my mother was living with Maria in Dar. The considerate manner was the same. “I thought you’d like to know,” he said, as if apprised of my failure to keep up with the past. Then he had added, “Probably for the best since Mrs Fernandez passed away,” watching my face as he said it. “She was your aunt, I believe.”

  “Mrs Fernandez? Dead? Mrs Fernandez with the Elephant Bar?” I made a quick calculation in case I had been away longer than I thought. No, she was only about fifty-five.

  “Yes, your aunt. I’m sorry. You didn’t know? Over a month ago now.” He was waiting for me to react, but I wanted to keep it all inside until I knew how I felt. I kept my eyes away from him. I did not know him well enough. “I’m sorry, Marcella,” he said at last, “I imagined someone would have let you know by now.”

  I said that it was all right, that I was all right,
and asked him how she died.

  “Actually, I’m sorry to have to say that she was slain.”

  “Slain? Murdered?” Something in me lurched dizzily.

  “I’m sorry. I believe you were quite close. A person or persons came to her bar and hit her over the head. Then burned the bar.”

  “The bar is gone? Who?”

  Then he said, “We could not find out. You never know in Zanzibar. It might have been the Moslems—because of the alcohol. It might have been a thief. Or, who knows, just someone she offended, someone she refused to serve. Or it might have been something personal. Or political—your aunt was a woman of influence. Not all her business was with respectable people. Or it might have been jealousy. She was doing well when some other people were not doing so well. We don’t know. But we know she was dead before the fire, or at least unconscious. She would not have felt anything.”

  In my shocked silence, in my familiar, cosy Bayswater cafe, so far from Zanzibar, it took me a moment to hear the echo of David’s words and then place them: Mrs F’s dismissive words when Geoffrey was the one hit over the head. “It might have been ... It might have been just something between the Europeans. Maybe he just tripped and banged his own head. He’s foolish enough for that.”

  My eyes tried to relieve my mind by following one of the owners of Le Cafe as he gently removed trays of pastries from the back seat of his Toyota and carried them inside. I remembered he had been a doctor back home in Iraq.

  David continued to wait attentively while I tussled with my thoughts, among which was the one that was against a surrender to his broad shoulders and the unguarded gush that might come with it.

  At last, gathering myself, I asked, “Do you remember when Geoffrey Sutton was hit over the head? I’ve always wanted to ask you—it was you, wasn’t it, who got me my passport? Not Geoffrey.”

  “I think I have to admit to that. Actually, I have a question I’ve always wanted to ask you too, about that time. It doesn’t matter now of course. Was Dr Sutton a spy?”

  “Geoffrey?” I was caught by surprise and laughed in spite of myself. “No. He was just doing research. I can’t imagine him doing anything like that. He’s too timid.”

  “No, I thought not. I told them at the time they were mistaken. Well, I have to go, Marcella. I’m so sorry it has been an occasion for bad news. But it’s wonderful to see you doing so well.”

  I rallied, not wanting him to leave. “David, you haven’t said anything about yourself. What are you doing in London? You’re still in the army? Oh, I see now. You were the spy.”

  “Intelligence. In your own country, it’s intelligence. It’s respectable.” David stood and draped his coat over his arm. “I’m retired. A little young, don’t you think? No, I’m here on business. Semi-official, I suppose. Some people to the south of us—well, Mozambique in fact— need our help. Actually, I believe we have acquaintances in common. It seems we move in the same circles. You never know with connections, do you? A woman named Yvonne who is working with the liberation groups there told me she knew you. She asked me to say hello. She told me to ask you to put me in contact with someone called Adnam, but actually it’s not necessary. He’s already found me.”

  It must have been soon after this when I had dinner with Geoffrey and he added his own bit of gratuitous connection. I arrived late at Etty’s, where the Syrian owner’s red-haired little girl ran up to me and clung to my leg. The Spanish waitress greeted me by name and led me to the table by the window where Geoffrey waited. Before I could properly say hello, I required rescue from the owner’s daughter by his English rose of a wife, who then told me her husband needed my advice on property, which I said I would gladly give. “He was an architect at home,” I explained to a bemused Geoffrey. “All my foreign business friends here are professionals. They just prefer to do business. I’m sorry, how are you?” I leaned over to peck him on the cheek. Dinner was starting well.

  After we had settled, and established that we both looked well and that I seemed to be a local celebrity, I asked, “How did the interview go? I like the suit.”

  Geoffrey was more thoughtful than I expected. “I don’t think it’s going to work. I thought that the Third World Foundation was something independent, or owned by The Guardian since they have a supplement in it, but it turns out it’s owned by a bank with its own interests. I think I’m better off doing my research at the university.”

  “Sorry, Geoffrey. 'You must be disappointed. So, you won’t be coming to London?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Do you know anything about the BCCI?”

  “The BCCI? That’s my bank.” I was tempted to add, I’ve got five million in it.

  “Your bank?”

  “Absolutely. We all bank there. Yau’re behind the times, Geoffrey.”

  “Well, it seemed a bit shady. And I don’t think they liked me anyway. They’re very pro-Pakistan. That’s a military dictatorship!”

  “I don’t know about that. They call it ‘the immigrants’ bank,’ that’s why we like it.”

  “Well, maybe it’s OK. I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “I wouldn’t recognise you, Geoffrey. Anyway, you’re here to enjoy dinner. Shall we order?”

  By dessert, Geoffrey’s low spirits had softened me. We had gone over the time at Reading and we’d reported on our work. I said, “Remember the first dinner we had at a restaurant? In Zanzibar? This is the second. You never took me out to eat once in Reading.”

  “I remember the crows.”

  “And the banging door.”

  “That was creepy.”

  “We didn’t mind. You know, Geoffrey, you’re the only person in England who knows me from Zanzibar. You’re the only person who knows where I came from and has met my family. That makes you almost family.”

  He nodded, looking down, but I could tell he was pleased. “So,” he said, “as an old family member, can I ask you about your personal life? Still with the same man?”

  “With Benji? Yes.”

  “Happy?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re happy in our way.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s away on business a lot. More than I’d like.”

  “Not married?”

  “I promise I’ll invite you when that happens.”

  “So, what sort of business is Benji in?”

  “What sort of business is Benji in? Everything, really. Geoffrey, can I ask you something in strict confidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “You have to promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “If someone was trading in uranium, would that be legal?”

  “I’ve no idea. For what purpose?”

  “Maybe for weapons?”

  “Weapons? Nuclear weapons? That sounds like something only governments should do. It might depend on who it was being sold to.”

  “Let’s say Pakistan.”

  “Of course Pakistan would want a nuclear bomb, wouldn’t it? India has one and there’s always danger of war between India and Pakistan. I should think that would be very illegal. 'You’re not saying Benji is mixed up in this sort of thing, are you?”

  “No, of course not. It just came up in passing. To do with someone else.”

  “Well, let it pass. That’s evil stuff, Marcella. Evil and dangerous. I can hardly think of anything worse that someone could do. If you meet anyone involved in that sort of thing, run as far and fast as you can.”

  “It was just some talk. I felt a bit ignorant.” But instead of running away from Benji in my head, I was running towards him.

  Into my silence, Geoffrey asked, “Do you ever think of going home?”

  “To Zanzibar? No. This is my home now. In any case if I left Britain they might not let me back in. Can you imagine my not being allowed to come back to London? It would seem ridiculous. In any case, there’s nothing there for me. Mummy’s in Dar with my sister. I never knew my real mother and hardly remember my father. And now Mrs F is dead.”
<
br />   “Mrs F? The one whose house I visited?”

  “Yes, my aunt. The one you insulted when you first met her. David told me. Actually, she was always good to me.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry. She was quite a character. So, you saw David?”

  “"Yes, he wanted to know whether you were a spy when you were in Zanzibar.” I pulled off a sad laugh and Geoffrey smiled weakly.

  “Actually, I’ve wondered about that myself.”

  “What? You mean, you don’t know?”

  “Well, we had someone from the Foreign Office seconded to the Institute. The British government gives us money for overseas work and it was a condition. He was always asking me to find out things when I travelled—as a research colleague. I didn’t think about it until Yvonne once mentioned that she thought he was British Intelligence. They were always trailing the ANC apparently. So, maybe I was an inadvertent spy. But Yvonne saw spies everywhere. "You don’t think David was the one to hit me over the head, do you?”

  “David? No, of course not. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I hate it when England is like home. Like Zanzibar, I mean. Do you really think selling South African uranium to Pakistan would be a crime?”

  “You didn’t say anything about South Africa. Then that’s definitely illegal. There are sanctions. Illegal and immoral. I thought you were involved in the property business—as if that isn’t bad enough.”

  “I am. Anyway, you’re just a colonialist. A neocolonialist.”

  Geoffrey looked at his coffee. “Maybe. Maybe so. Let’s not argue. I admire what you’ve done, really. You’ve come so far. I just want you to be careful. Please. I care about you.”

  “I’m all right, thanks. I’m not involved in anything.” I paid the bill, and instead of stepping out into the empty darkness of a Zanzibar alley, and the drive to a deserted beach, we stepped into the lights, noise and traffic of Hereford Road and Westbourne Grove. A slight drizzle was falling, making the pavements shine. There was chatter from young people out to do nothing more complicated than have a good time.