“I’ll come back. We have to find a place for you to go. There’s nothing for you here. You shouldn’t go back to Africa House.”
“Go with you?”
I laughed. “People would talk, Geoffrey. One of the Danes from the United Nations team will find you a place, I’m sure.”
“I’d like to go with you.”
I removed his glasses; he was already back in sleep.
DAVID'S VOICE WAS IN MY DREAMS LAST NIGHT: "ITmight have been the Moslems—because of the alcohol. It might have been a thief. Or just someone she offended, someone she refused to serve. Or it might have been something personal. Or political—she was a woman of influence. It might have been jealousy.” This was not Mrs F’s voice wondering aloud at the tedious mystery of the English Boy’s bang on the head, but David wondering at the blows that crushed her own.
The wind has been blowing—a storm—and the trees around my house have been bending to brush and scrape the roof throughout the night. In my upstairs bedroom the noise seems close by, part of my thoughts and I’ve spent the night anxiously, half asleep, half awake. The branches creaked and scraped above me and voices played through me. I heard, “It might have been ...,” a thousand times, matched by the mocking refrain, “You never know in Zanzibar,” and my mind scampered between Geoffrey, Mrs F and Benji. I imagined that a tree would fall and cut my wooden house in two, easily crushing it and me. All violence. I imagined that Benji was dead. “It might have been ... it might have been ... He’s foolish enough for that, don’t you think, Marcella?” I heard this in Mrs F’s voice, though she never knew Benji, and he had never gone to Zanzibar. But, yes, he is foolish enough, my Benji. And he has been gone for so long.
Poor Mrs F is long dead. Killed. Murdered. She was found in the burned-out remains of the Elephant Bar, her skull smashed. The danger was real after all. Now she comes to me in storms, bringing Zanzibar, where there is no bottom of things to get to, just layer after layer.
David’s voice is gentle and articulate. “You never know, in Zanzibar,” he says in conclusion. When I look past David’s face in this recollection, I see two London taxis, stuck in traffic because the Iraqi owner of Le Cafe has illegally parked his Toyota on Westbourne Grove while he brings in trays of pastries.
Mrs F, Mrs Fernandez, Stella Fernandez, Auntie Stella. She looked after everyone, was never sentimental. She was the only one of us who was exactly sure of how things should be, what was right or wrong, what each of us should do with our life, what would make a profit and what wouldn’t, who we were, we Goan immigrants from India, converted, miscegenated, removed, no history in common with our neighbours, not even a common history among ourselves. Unfortunately, her calculations, though brave, proved false.
“A cesspool of wickedness ...” went the description I found of Zanzibar in an old edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica.“A cesspool of wickedness, Oriental in appearance, Mohammedan in its religion, Arabian in its morals ... a fit capital for the Dark Continent.” I can remember the name of the smug author they quoted, an Englishman, Henry Drummond. I can remember the occasion I discovered the quotation, the first time I thought to research Zanzibar among the donated books of Cookham Wood Library. It was notable: the first time I ever felt a loyalty to home.
The night—through the storm, through Geoffrey, through Mrs Fernandez—left me in London, and London left me with Benji. A cesspool of wickedness and Benji in it. A memory of multi-cultural faces, intent in a hotel room. Talk of large sums of money. Benji is foolish enough, don’t you think? In the morning I came to, sweaty and anxious, to find the storm entirely gone, the trees still standing and the question of Benji left fresh and urgent in my mind.
When Julia arrived, uninvited, I was in no mood to aid young Americans take baby steps towards complexity. Any charm to be found in snow angels or innocence had been scoured away by the night’s dark stream.
“What’s wrong?” she asked to my back while I concentrated on making coffee, a hurt in her voice.
“Julia, it’s too early. You really mustn’t just drop in like this.”
“I’m sorry. It’s sort of on my way. I thought ... I wanted to make sure you were all right. The storm ... You’re alone here.”
“As you see, I’m fine. The storm was nothing.”
“And I wanted to talk to you about something. You don’t sound fine.”
I turned and tried a measured smile. “Since you are here, do you want some coffee?”
“I don’t drink coffee. It’s bad for you.”
“Oh, God, Julia, is that the most serious thing you have to worry about? Coffee?”
“No. It just doesn’t suit me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not awake yet. Last night was full of anxieties and bad dreams. The storm, I expect.”
She gave me her shrewd look that I thought not sufficiently earned in life. “Were they something to do with love?”
At this I needed to turn away again. She had no business being so astute. “Well, in a way they do. I was missing someone. Worried about him.”
“Not Ron Murdoch. Professor Murdoch.”
This released me into laughter. Julia hesitated, then joined in. At last, I managed, “Oh, bless you, Julia. No, I am not worried about Ron Murdoch. Someone with a more interesting life than Ron.”
Now she was earnest again. “Love is the most important thing, don’t you think? I don’t just mean romantic love. I mean living your life so that you are able to love the people you love.”
“If you are right then I don’t seem to be doing very well. Oh, is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” Julia told me then about the boyfriend who wanted her to leave Moore to
