Stories

by Doris Lessing

  Then he lowered his eyes, his body sprang into a shape of accusation and he said: “Yet you have to agree with me, Mr. Mafente—it is unfortunate that such a man as Mr. Devuli should be so widely accepted as a national representative, while the virtues of Mr. Kwenzi go unacknowledged.”

  “We all know the virtues of Mr. Kwenzi,” said Mr. Mafente, and his accent on the word “we,” accompanied by a deliberately cool glance into the eyes of his old friend, made Mr. Chikwe stand silent a moment, thinking. Then he said softly, testing it: “Yes, yes, yes. And—well, Mr. Mafente?”

  Mr. Mafente looked into Mr. Chikwe’s face, with intent, while he continued the other conversation: “Nevertheless, Mr. Chikwe, the situation is as I’ve said.”

  Mr. Chikwe, responding to the look, not the words, came closer and said: “Yet situations do not have to remain unchanged?” They looked deeply into each other’s face as Mr. Mafente enquired, almost mechanically: “Is that a threat, perhaps?”

  “It is a political observation…. Mr. Mafente?”

  “Mr. Chikwe?”

  “This particular situation could be changed very easily.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You know it is so.”

  The two men were standing with their faces a few inches from each other, frowning with the concentration necessary for the swift mental balancing of a dozen factors: so absorbed were they that clerks and typists glanced uneasily at them, and then, not wishing to be made uneasy, looked away again.

  But here they felt approaching a third, and Mr. Mafente repeated quickly: “Is that a threat, perhaps?” in a loud voice, and both young men turned to greet Devuli, a man ten or more years older than they, large, authoritative, impressive. Yet even at this early hour he had a look of dissipation, for his eyes were red and wandering, and he stood upright only with difficulty.

  Mr. Mafente now fell back a step to take his place half a pace behind his leader’s right elbow; and Mr. Chikwe faced them both, unsmiling.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Chikwe,” said Mr. Devuli.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Devuli. Mr. Kwenzi is just finishing his breakfast, and will join us in good time. Mr. Kwenzi was working all through the night on the proposals for the new constitution.”

  As Mr. Devuli did not answer this challenge, but stood, vague, almost swaying, his red eyes blinking at the passersby, Mr. Mafente said for him: “We all admire the conscientiousness of Mr. Kwenzi.” The “we” was definitely emphasised, the two young men exchanged a look like a nod, while Mr. Mafente tactfully held out his right forearm to receive the hand of Mr. Devuli. After a moment the leader steadied himself, and said in a threatening way that managed also to sound like a grumble: “I, too, know all the implications of the proposed constitution, Mr. Chikwe.”

  “I am surprised to hear it, Mr. Devuli, for Mr. Kwenzi, who has been locked up in his hotel room for the last week, studying it, says that seven men working for seventy-seven years couldn’t make sense of the constitution proposed by Her Majesty’s Honourable Minister.”

  Now they all three laughed together, relishing absurdity, until Mr. Chikwe reimposed a frown and said: “And since these proposals are so complicated, and since Mr. Kwenzi understands them as well as any man with mere human powers could, it is our contention that it is Mr. Kwenzi who should speak for our people before the Minister.”

  Mr. Devuli held himself upright with five fingers splayed out on the forearm of his lieutenant. His red eyes moved sombrely over the ugly façade of the Ministry, over the faces of passing people, then, with an effort, came to rest on the face of Mr. Chikwe. “But I am the leader, I am the leader acknowledged by all, and therefore I shall speak for our country.”

  “You are not feeling well, Mr. Devuli?”

  “No, I am not feeling well, Mr. Chikwe.”

  “It would perhaps be better to have a man in full possession of himself speaking for our people to the Minister?” (Mr. Devuli remained silent, preserving a fixed smile of general benevolence.) “Unless, of course, you expect to feel more in command of yourself by the time of”—he brought his wrist smartly up to his eyes, frowned, dropped his wrist—“ten-thirty A.M., which hour is nearly upon us?”

  “No, Mr. Chikwe, I do not expect to feel better by then. Did you not know, I have severe stomach trouble?”

  “You have stomach trouble, Mr. Devuli?”

  “You did not hear of the attempt made upon my life when I was lying helpless with malaria in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele?”

  “Really, Mr. Devuli, is that so?”

  “Yes, it is so, Mr. Chiwke. Some person bribed by my enemies introduced poison into my food while I was lying helpless in hospital. I nearly died that time, and my stomach is still un-recovered.”

  “I am extremely sorry to hear it.”

  “I hope that you are. For it is a terrible thing that political rivalry can lower men to such methods.”

  Mr. Chikwe stood slightly turned away, apparently delighting in the flight of some pigeons. He smiled, and enquired: “Perhaps not so much political rivalry as the sincerest patriotism, Mr. Devuli? It is possible that some misguided people thought the country would be better off without you.”

  “It must be a matter of opinion, Mr. Chikwe.”

  The three men stood silent: Mr. Devuli supported himself unobtrusively on Mr. Mafente’s arm; Mr. Mafente stood waiting; Mr. Chikwe smiled at pigeons.

  “Mr. Devuli?”

  “Mr. Chikwe?”

  “You are of course aware that if you agree to the Minister’s proposals for this constitution civil war may follow?”

  “My agreement to this constitution is because I wish to avert bloodshed.”

  “Yet when it was announced that you intended to agree, serious rioting started in twelve different places in our unfortunate country.”

  “Misguided people—misguided by your party, Mr. Chikwe.”

  “I remember, not twelve months ago, that when you were accused by the newspapers of inciting to riot, your reply was that the people had minds of their own. But of course that was when you refused to consider the constitution.”

  “The situation has changed, perhaps?”

  The strain of this dialogue was telling on Mr. Devuli: there were great beads of crystal sweat falling off his broad face, and he mopped it with the hand not steadying him, while he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “It is your attitude that has changed, Mr. Devuli. You stood for one man, one vote. Then overnight you became a supporter of the weighted vote. That cannot be described as a situation changing, but as a political leader changing—selling out.” Mr. Chikwe whipped about like an adder and spat these two last words at the befogged man.

  Mr. Mafente, seeing that his leader stood silent, blinking, remarked quietly for him: “Mr. Devuli is not accustomed to replying to vulgar abuse, he prefers to remain silent.” The two young men’s eyes consulted; and Mr. Chikwe said, his face not four inches from Mr. Devuli’s: “It is not the first time a leader of our people has taken the pay of the whites and has been disowned by our people.”

  Mr. Devuli looked to his lieutenant, who said: “Yet it is Mr. Devuli who has been summoned by the Minister, and you should be careful, Mr. Chikwe—as a barrister you should know the law: a difference of political opinion is one thing, slander is another.”

  “As, for instance, an accusation of poisoning?”

  Here they all turned, a fourth figure had joined them. Mr. Kwenzi, a tall, rather stooped, remote man, stood a few paces off, smiling. Mr. Chikwe took his place a foot behind him, and there were two couples, facing each other.

  “Good morning, Mr. Devuli.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Kwenzi.”

  “It must be nearly time for us to go in to the Minister,” said Mr. Kwenzi.

  “I do not think that Mr. Devuli is in any condition to represent us to the Minister,” said Mr. Chikwe, hot and threatening. Mr. Kwenzi nodded. He had rather small direct eyes, deeply inset under hi
s brows, which gave him an earnest focussed gaze which he was now directing at the sweat-beaded brow of his rival.

  Mr. Devuli blurted, his voice rising: “And who is responsible? Who? The whole world knows of the saintly Mr. Kwenzi, the hard-working Mr. Kwenzi, but who is responsible for my state of health?”

  Mr. Chikwe cut in: “No one is responsible for your state of health but yourself, Mr. Devuli. If you drink two bottles of hard liquor a day, then you can expect your health to suffer for it.”

  “The present health of Mr. Devuli,” said Mr. Mafente, since his chief was silent, biting his lips, his eyes red with tears as well as with liquor, “is due to the poison which nearly killed him some weeks ago in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Kwenzi mildly. “I trust the worst is over?”

  Mr. Devuli was beside himself, his face knitting with emotion, sweat drops starting everywhere, his eyes roving, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “I hope,” said Mr. Kwenzi, “that you are not suggesting I or my party had anything to do with it?”

  “Suggest!” said Mr. Devuli. “Suggest? What shall I tell the Minister? That my political opponents are not ashamed to poison a helpless man in hospital? Shall I tell him that I have to have my food tasted, like an Eastern potentate? No, I cannot tell him such things—I am helpless there too, for he would say, ‘Black savages, stooping to poison, what else can you expect?’”

  “I doubt whether he would say that,” remarked Mr. Kwenzi. “His own ancestors considered poison an acceptable political weapon, and not so very long ago either.”

  But Mr. Devuli was not listening. His chest was heaving, and he sobbed out loud. Mr. Mafente let his ignored forearm drop by his side, and stood away a couple of paces, gazing sombrely at his leader. After this sorrowful inspection, which Mr. Kwenzi and Mr. Chikwe did nothing to shorten, he looked long at Mr. Chikwe, and then at Mr. Kwenzi. During this three-sided silent conversation, Mr. Devuli, like a dethroned king in Shakespeare, stood to one side, his chest heaving, tears flowing, his head bent to receive the rods and lashes of betrayal.

  Mr. Chikwe at last remarked: “Perhaps you should tell the Minister that you have ordered a bulletproof vest like an American gangster? It would impress him no doubt with your standing among our people?” Mr. Devuli sobbed again, and Mr. Chikwe continued: “Not that I do not agree with you—the vest is advisable, yes. The food tasters are not enough. I have heard our young hotheads talking among themselves and you would be wise to take every possible precaution.”

  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?”

  Dialogue

  The 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 futu
re 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.