A Girl From Zanzibar

by Roger King

  With my first essay, the one about Bayswater, I found my new life. It was true I did not have the heart to consider creating anything ever again in the world outside, but I had not imagined there was this alternative, an inner world just as large, made up of books and research, connection, ideas and memory. Apparently I was made for this world too, because I sped past Gabrielle and got my first degree in record time. I was Cookham College’s new star, the evil Zanzibari redeemed by British education, someone to set next to Myra Hindley, their famously intelligent mass murderer. My tutor registered me for a doctoral thesis in the Systems Department, which embraced unruly scholarship that would not fit elsewhere, and I set about writing my thesis on Bayswater immigration that proved to be such a local hit.

  At a distance, I followed on the news the disintegration of the BCCI. There was our bank being banned by decent governments and dissected on the slab, proving that everything and everyone was connected to everything and everyone else. Ex-President Carter had been taken in and ex-Prime Minister Callaghan retained. It was Noriega’s bank. And all the other drug lords. They were in the Gulf War, helping America by secretly flying in tanks from East Europe to make the Kuwaitis look good. There they were, making connections, moving money, keeping secrets, accumulating obligations around the world. The CIA had used them before it investigated them. There were the arms deals, the secret ownership of American banks, the ceaseless movement of money, false accounts, phony charitable foundations. The whole fish skeleton of a world beyond law and place. This had been my bank, the immigrant’s bank, the one made in the shape of people like me. Though I listened for it in the reports that picked through the indecent ruins, I heard no mention of South African uranium for Pakistan.

  I had come within fifty feet of Benji without any sixth sense telling me he was close. When I arrived at Dar-es-Salaam airport on the British Airways flight that deported me, he must have been among the untidy, noisy crowd of welcomers just outside the door. I never reached him because David had taken charge and, instead of delivering me to the appropriate immigration officials, was whisking me to an Egypt Air flight that was about to leave for Cairo, connecting for New York.

  In perfect symmetry with my first departure, my second escape from Tanzania was also a joint production of Geoffrey and David, this time deliberate. Geoffrey had finally found a use for the card David had pressed on him, and had called to ask for his help in Dar in diverting my deportation. And David, for reasons of his own, had been pleased to help. So while Benji was waiting on the other side of the wall, his thoughts all on me, my thoughts were all on the urgency of making my flight to Cairo, and on David pressing at my back, brusquely instructing officials to rubber stamp me with no nonsense.

  My first freedom in eight years was the transit hall at Cairo airport, a bleak, cavernous place where I was told that to buy tea I first must purchase a ticket. At the cashier’s desk the only life was two cats who looked at me and stretched themselves. I forgot about the luxury of tea and sat on a bench next to a young Moslem woman who was covered entirely in black, including a mesh over her eyes, except for the incongruity of a lovely exposed breast that was held out on offer to her baby. It was so long since I had seen a baby. England had stolen from me the years when I might have considered one for myself. That policeman with the scratched ear took them.

  In New York I presented my invitation to Moore College and the J-l visa that Geoffrey had helped me to organise. When I filled up the visa application in the Cookham Wood visiting room, I lied in the part about convictions. We all agreed that the truth would have been misleading.

  It had been a near miss for Benji and me: five thousand miles away, then fifty feet away, then seven thousand miles away. It should mean something that I did not guess that he was there.

  It has become clear to me that the person I must speak to about Benji’s Zanzibar proposition is Geoffrey. I could call him. Benji’s call has forced me to appreciate the possibility of international phone calls. The idea of phoning England had not entered my head. I’ve preferred to think it impossible.

  “Hello.” It was a woman’s voice, surprising me.

  I started to put down the phone, then trusting intuition, asked, “Gaby? Is that you?”

  “Marcella! Are you calling from America?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I sounded so surprised. I thought I was calling another number. I must have dialled yours by mistake. But it’s lovely to hear your voice.”

  “No, you probably have the right number. I’m at Geoffrey’s house. You sound just like you’re down the road! Are you all right? Oh, you want to talk to Geoffrey, don’t you?” And without waiting for me to reply I heard her call out, “Geoffrey, it’s Marcella for you. Calling from America.”

  “Marcella?”

  “Geoffrey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put Gaby off. I want to talk to her too. I was just taken by surprise. She didn’t let me get a word in.”

  “It’s all right. She’s not offended. Just a bit flustered. Did you phone just to say hello?”

  “Not exactly. I have an excuse for saying hello. A pretext. I want your advice. Now it seems silly that I can’t make my own decision. I think it’s just that you’ve always been there at important moments. In Zanzibar. Finding me this job.”

  “So, what’s the new important moment?”

  “Benji has turned up. He’s in Zanzibar and wants me to join him.”

  “Oh. That’s wonderful, isn’t it? That he’s alive.”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful. But I’m not sure I want to go back to Zanzibar. I’m not sure about Benji either.”

  “You mean your feelings?”

  “Maybe. No. I think I feel the same. It’s about going back years and picking things up. I don’t know what’s changed and what hasn’t changed.”

  “It is a lot of going back. It just depends how you feel, doesn’t it? How you feel about him. Whether you could stand Zanzibar again. You’ve made a long journey since those days, haven’t you? I don’t know what to say. It just depends on how you feel.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Gaby. About Benji. Women are better at this sort of thing.”

  “For some reason I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Marcella, there’s really no reason I should, but I’m feeling a little awkward. Maybe there’s always something with someone when you’ve been close. And you know I’ve always felt something a bit special about you, even though we were such a disaster. But I’ve become close to Gaby, you know. All those years of us visiting you in prison. We’re going to try living together. I’m well over forty now, you know, looking at fifty. Gaby always seemed a bit like you. Like you two were the sisters. Are you surprised?”

  I was surprised. I thought Geoffrey would be single forever. I thought Gabrielle preferred to live alone. I felt more than surprised; I felt upset. I said: “You and Gabrielle. The two people who have been the best friends to me. I shouldn’t be surprised. I should be happy. Congratulations.” My voice went faint on that and I ran out of words, saying to collect myself, “Let me speak to Gaby.”

  “Do you mind?” came Gabrielle’s voice.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. You both deserve to be happy. You love him, don’t you? Why should I mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Because he was yours first. A long time ago. Do I love him? Oh, we seem to get on. That’s enough for old people like us.”

  But I heard her start, then laugh, then say, “Stop it,” off the phone, so that I knew that her answer had been for Geoffrey, to tease him, and that he was doing some tickling mischief to her in return, a playfulness that spoke more of the promise of love than any reply she could have given.

  “I’m happy for you, Gaby. Really. I hope you do better than me. I’m sure you will. In any case I’ve got Benji on my hands again.”

  “So I understand. It’s such a relief, isn’t it? Just to know. After all this time. Are you getting back together then?” She sounded a
pprehensive, taking care not to judge.

  “I don’t know. He wants me to go back to Zanzibar, of all places.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Marcella. I’m so happy Benji’s safe. But it seems such a long time since you two were together. Don’t you like your job in Vermont? I wish you could come back to England.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “I know. I hate it.”

  “Gaby, I’d better get off the phone.”

  “Yes, this must be expensive for you. But it’s lovely to hear your voice. Call us again. Let us know what you decide.”

  There was the “us.”

  “Say bye-bye to Geoffrey for me, Gaby. Keep in touch.”

  I had forgotten to give them my number and they had forgotten to ask.

  IT WAS JULIA'S VOICE: "MARCELLA! MARCELLA!"

  I hurried from the kitchen to find her framed in the doorway, breathless, and silhouetted against falling snow. “Julia. What? Come in. Close the door.”

  “I’m not staying.” She was so bursting with something that she was having trouble with the words. “I knew it would work. Your letter. I’ve met him. In the store. He’s so charming! He was asking about you. Why did you leave it so long? I told him how to get here. I’m not staying. You should be alone together.”

  “Julia, what on earth are you talking about?”

  She dashed in, threw her arms around me, released me and dashed back to the door. “I almost feel like it’s happening to me.”

  “Julia, you don’t mean Benji is here?”

  Looking towards the road, she said, “There’s a car coming now. It must be him. I’m gone.”

  When I moved my feet, they took me to the bathroom mirror. How did I look now compared to ten years ago? I had omitted to ask myself this question and now it was too late. My face was a little thinner, I thought. My waist a little thicker. Some folds had become creases. Not much of a change really. Still recognisably the same package, the same outside. I had time only to flick at my hair when the knock came.

  The smile was roguish, but not right. I worked for a moment at making it right, taking into account the ten years, and that people change, and that memory is a cheat. And that the moustache was grey. But in the end I could not rearrange the moustache, the teeth, the eyes into the effect I wanted. Finally, I conceded, “You’re Ashraf.”

  “Exactly! It’s been a long time. Marcella, you are living in the Arctic.”

  “Is Benji with you?”

  “Benji? No, no Benji. Are you expecting Benji? Oh, of course, the girl. Sorry, Marcella. The girl told me I was Benji and I did not bother to argue with her. Sorry if I disappointed you. May I... ?” He raised his eyebrows and moved towards the door, feigning a shiver.

  It took me a moment more to fully acknowledge the reality of the apparition and react. “Oh, yes. Where are my manners? No, I was not expecting Benji. Come in. Or you. I wasn’t expecting you either. You look just the same. Except you are greyer of course.” Ashraf was dressed for the city, a camel overcoat over a suit, expensively thin shoes.

  “You look just the same too. More beautiful, if that’s possible.” He stepped over the threshold and offered his hand with a wry little smile. I took it and for a moment we were silent as if the hands were speaking. I remembered his hand: muscular, dry, not very large. It said: Remember that no matter what has passed, we are allies.

  “You were the last person I was expecting. How on earth did you find me? Why are you here? Oh, let me get you something. Tea?”

  “"Yes, tea will do.”

  I turned away from him and went into the kitchen to collect myself. I had become slow-witted, I now realised. Academic and slow-witted, soft in the landscape. Ashraf, I thought, did not look as though his wits had slowed. I felt in myself a rallying of old, sharp abilities summoned up from slumber. I needed them now to tell me what this was, how to measure and manage it.

  From the living room, he called out, “You sent a letter.”

  “What letter?” I put the kettle on the stove and walked back into the living room where Ashraf was making a business of warming his hands in front of the fire.

  “To Adnam. We didn’t know where you were until then.”

  “He never replied. Who’s this ‘we’? You and Adnam?”

  “We didn’t know where Benji was either. So Adnam had nothing to tell you. To be honest, we still don’t know where Benji is. But since you are expecting him, I suppose you don’t need to know anymore.” He stretched and I reminded myself that he was always at his most alert when his manner was most relaxed.

  “I’m not expecting Benji,” I said and vanished back into the kitchen to make the tea.

  When I returned and his eyes had dropped to take hold of the cup, I asked, “Ashraf, why have you come to see me? Is this just a social visit? I mean, did you happen to be passing?”

  “Not exactly. I confess I didn’t pay my own fare. I’ve been commissioned. Not that it isn’t wonderful to see you.” He removed his coat and dropped it on the couch.

  “Commissioned?”

  “Marcella, you know who I am.”

  “I know who you were. The friend who promised me he’d look after Benji.”

  He laughed down at his feet, then did a little pirouette as if he needed fancy footwork to help him out of this.

  “It’s true. It’s true. You are my friends. But, I’m a mercenary, Marcella. You know that. Benji lost me a long time ago. Somewhere around Moputo. Now I want to find him again.”

  “That’s your commission, to find Benji?”

  “Yes. In a way. But it’s also a labour of love. To find Benji. And to find you.”

  “This is all so long ago, Ashraf. Adnam, London, all that business—it’s years and years ago. Benji did not even get paid. Why would anyone want you to find us now? It’s ridiculous. Why?”

  But it was dawning. I edged across to the fireplace, looking for warmth.

  “How do you know Benji didn’t get paid? Where is that bad man, Marcella?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Think of what you know. Think of what is at stake. People are anxious. The records of the BCCI are still being examined. There’s a need for discretion.”

  I wondered, should I run for the door and out into the snow with my slippers on, shouting for help? The picture was comically dramatic. And there was no one out there anyway. And in any case, I could not move.

  “You’re commissioned to kill us?”

  Ashraf sighed and brushed past my tense body to get at the fire and share it with me. He murmured, “No, no, of course not.” Then, more assertively, as if he were my teacher, “Have you forgotten the difference between a mercenary and an assassin? I am a mercenary, a soldier. I decide whose side I am on. I don’t kill my friends.” Then, more quietly again, the bluster gone, “It’s good to see you. I can’t tell you how good. We were all sorry about the prison. You know we couldn’t help. What I like to remember is the time before, staying with you and Benji in your home. I felt happiest in your home, clean. I always thought Benji was lucky to have you.”

  I cast around for the right thing to say, which would confirm the sanity of friendship and remove from the agenda tiresome intrigue and the absurdity of death. But I only found a clever argument, saying, “What I remember is you once telling me that you’d never fight for a cause that did not have popular support, because it was too dangerous. These people aren’t popular. The BCCI is finished. There are new governments in South Africa and Pakistan. The people involved in that deal aren’t powerful any more now. Why are you still working for them?”

  Ashraf turned from the fire and collapsed back onto the couch, his eyes closed. I could not tell whether or not he was thinking about what I had said. “You’re right,” he announced at last, his eyes still closed. “'You’re right. I don’t want that any more.” When he finally opened his eyes there was the hint of a twinkle in them. “You know, Benji was supposed to turn me into a businessman.” Then, he was lost again for a wh
ile in the ironies of his life. “But, Marcella, you know I had to come. If I hadn’t come, they would have sent someone else. Someone who was not a friend. You can’t escape this sort of thing just by going to a new country. They don’t care about countries.”

  I said nothing. Ashraf sighed a second time, gave a little smile, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a gun from it, displaying it on the flat of his hand. “Marcella,” he said, “this is a crazy place for you to live. No one would even hear a shot.” He sounded annoyed with me, as if I had placed him in a difficult position.

  I looked at the dense, dark thing he was offering me but did not move towards it. He reached to place it carefully on the arm of the couch nearest to me and furthest from him. “I want you to take it. Lose it for me. It is loaded. You could shoot me if you wanted. Just move this. Then pull the trigger. Please, take it.”

  The gun stayed there, set on the worn brown fabric of the couch, too metallic for the room. There was no place for the blackness and heaviness of a gun in my room of old books, orange paperbacks, worn wood, furniture made comfortable by its long use in subtle, quiet pleasures. I saw, removing my attention, that snow was organising itself into delicate curves against the windows.

  At last Ashraf flexed, stood and moved away from me and towards where I was looking. “White, white, white. What are you doing here, Marcella? A college. Are the people here very clever?”

  “Not very.”

  “Why aren’t you with Benji? I always thought you two were made for each other. The time in Bayswater was good, wasn’t it? We were a good team. Until I got Benji involved with the wrong people. Sorry for that.”

  “Benji was quite capable of getting involved with the wrong people all on his own.”