meet a special sort of guy.' All of Ashes introductions came with a built-in commercial.
'This is Henry Pickering. Henry is a senior vice-president of the World Bank listen and you'll hear all those billions of dollars clashing around in his head. Henry, this is Craig Mellow, our boy genius. Not even excluding Karen Blixen, Craig is just one of the most important writers ever to come out of Africa, that's all he is!'
'I
read the book,' Henry nodded. He was very tall and thin and prematurely bald. He wore a dark banker's suit and stark white shirt, with a little individual touch of colour in his necktie and twinkly blue eyes. 'For once you are probably not exaggerating, Ashe.' He kissed Sally-Anne's cheek platonically, sat down, tasted the wine that Ashe poured for him and pushed the glass back an inch. Craig found himself admiring his style.
'What do you think?' Henry Pickering asked Craig, glancing down at the open portfolio of photographs.
'He loves them, Henry,' Ashe Levy cut in swiftly. 'He's ape over them I wish you could have seen his face when he got his first look loves them, man, loves them!'
'Good, Henry said softly, watching Craig's face. 'Have you explained the concept?'
'I wanted to serve it up hot.' Ashe Levy shook his head.
'I wanted to hit him with it.' He turned to Craig.
'A book, he said. 'It's about a book. The title of the book is 'Craig Mellow's Africa'. What happens is you 'A rite about the Africa of your ancestors, about what it was and what it has become. You go back and you do an in depth assessment. You speak to the people-' 'Excuse me,' Henry interrupted him, 'I understand that you speak one of the two major languages Sindebele, isn't it of Zimbabwe?' Fluently, Ashe answered for Craig. 'Like one of them.'
'Good,' Henry nodded. 'Is it true that you have many friends some highly placed in government?' Ashe fielded the question again. 'Some of his old buddies are cabinet ministers in the Zimbabwe government. You can't go much higher.' Craig dropped his eyes to the photograph of the elephant graveyard. 'Zimbabwe,' he was not yet comfortable with the new name that the black victors had chosen. He still thought of it as Rhodesia.
That was the country his ancestors had hacked out of the wilderness with pick and axe and Maxim machine-gun. Their land, once his land by any name still his home.
'It's going to be top quality, Craig, no expense spared.
You can go where you want to, speak to anybody, the World Bank will see to that, and pay for it.' Ashe Levy was running on enthusiastically, and Craig looked up at Henry Pickering.
'The World Bank publishing?' Craig asked sardonically, and when Ashe would have replied again, Henry Pickering laid a restraining hand on his forearm.
'I'll take the ball a while, Ashe,' he said. He had sensed Craig's mood; his tone was gentle and placatory. 'The main part of our business is loops to underdeveloped countries.
We have almost a biltiori4invested in Zimbabwe. We want to protect our investritnt. Think of it as a prospectus, we want the world to know about the little African state that we would like to turn into a showpiece, an example of how a black government can succeed. We think your book could help do that for us.'
'And these?' Craig touched the pile of photographs.
'We want the book to have visual as well as intellectual impact. We think Sally-Anne can provide that.' Craig was quiet for many seconds while he felt the terror slither around deep inside him, like some loathsome reptile. The terror of failure. Then he thought about having to compete with these photographs, of having to provide a text that would not be swamped by the awesome view through this girl's lens.
He had a reputation at stake, and she had nothing to lose. The odds were all with her.
She was not an ally but an adversary, and his resentment came back in full force, so strong that it was a kind of hatred.
She was leaning towards him across the table, the spotlight catching her long eyelashes and framing those green-flecked eyes. Her mouth was quivering with eagerness, and a tiny bubble of saliva likea seed pearl sparkled on her lower lip. Even in his anger and fear, Craig wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth.
'Craig,' she said. 'I can do better than those if I have the chance. I can go all the way, if you give me the chance.
Please!'
'You like elephants?' Craig asked her. 'I'll tell you an elephant story. This big old bull elephant had a flea that lived in his left ear. One day the elephant crossed a rickety bridge, and when he got to the other side, the flea said in his car, 'Boo boy! We sure rocked that bridge!'' Sally- Anne's lips closed slowly and then paled. Her eyelids fluttered, the dark lashes beating like butterflies' wings, and as the tears began to sparkle behind them she leaned back out of the light.
There was a silence, and in it Craig felt a rush of remorse. He felt sickened by his own cruelty and pettiness.
He had expected her to be tough and resilient, to come back with a barbed retort. He had not expected the tears.
He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he didn't mean it the way it sounded. He wanted to explain his own fear and insecurity, but she was rising and picking up the folio of photographs.
'Parts of your book were so understanding, so compassionate, I wanted so badly to work with you,' she said softly. 'I guess it was dumb to expect you to be like your book.' She looked at Ashe. 'I'm sorry, Ashe, I'm just not hungry any more.' Ashe Levy stood quickly. 'We'll share a cab,' he said.
Then softly to Craig, 'Well done, hero, call me when you've got the new typescript finished, and he hurried after Sally-Anne. As she went through the door the sunlight back-lit her and Craig saw the shape of her legs through her skirt. They were long and lovely, and then she was gone.
Henry Pickering was fiddling with his glass, studying the wine thoughtfully.
'It's pasteurized Roman goat urine,' Craig said. He found his voice was uneven. He signalled the wine waiter and ordered a Meursault.
'That's better,' Henry understated it. 'Well, perhaps the book wasn't such a great idea after all, was it?' He glanced at his wrist-watch. 'We'd better order.' They talked of other things the Mexican loan default, Reagan's midterm assessment, the gold price Henry preferred silver for a quick appreciation and thought diamonds would soon be looking good again. 'I'd buy De Beers to hold,' he advised.
A svelte young blonde from one of the other tables came across while they were taking coffee.
'You're Craig Mello*,' she accused him. 'I saw you on TV. I loved yQuit book. Please, please, sign this for me.' While he signed her menu, she leaned over him and pressed one hard hot little breast against his shoulder.
'I work at the cosmetics counter in Saks Fifth Ave,' she breathed.
'You can find me there any time.' The odour of expensive, pilfered perfumes lingered after she had left.
'Do you always turn them away?' Henry asked a little wistfully.
[mill
'Man is only flesh and blood,' Craig laughed, and Henry insisted on paying the tab.
'I have a limo, 'he offered. 'I could drop you.'
'I'll walk off the pasta,' Craig said.
CDO you know, Craig, I think you'll go back to Africa. I saw the way you looked at those photographs. Likea hungry man.'
'It's possible.'
'The book. Our interest in it. There was more to it than Ashe understood. You know the top blacks there. That interests me. The ideas you expressed in the book fit into our thinking. If you do decide to go back, call me before you do. You and I could do each other a favour.' Henry climbed into the back seat of the black Cadillac, and then with the door still open he said, 'I thought her pictures were rather good, actually.' He closed the door and nodded to the chauffeur.
was moored between two new commercially built yachts, a forty-five-foot Camper and Nicholson and a Hatteras convertible, and she stood the comparison well enough, although she was almost five years old. Craig had put in every screw with his own hands. He paused at the gates of the marina to look at her, but somehow today he did not derive as much pleasure as usual from her lines.
'Been a couple of calls for you, Craig,' the girl behind the reception desk in the marina office called out to him as he went in. 'You can use this phone,' she offered.
He checked the slips she handed him, one from his broker marked turgent', another from the literary editor of a mid-western daily. There hadn't been too many of those recently.
He phoned the broker first. They had sold the Mocatta gold certificates that he had bought for three hundred and twenty dollars an ounce at five hundred and two dollars.
He instructed them to put the money on call deposit.
Then he dialled the second number. While he waited to be connected, the girl behind the desk moved around more than was really necessary, bending over the lowest drawers of the filing-cabinet to give Craig a good look at what she had in her white Bermudas and pink halter-top.
When Craig connected with the literary editor, she wanted to know when they were publishing his new book.
'What book?' Craig thought bitterly, but he answered, 'We haven't got
