At about this time, Ashraf called. I took it in the bath. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m Ashraf.” A pleasant, confiding, playful voice.
“Ashraf?”
“Mohammed Ashraf. Hasn’t Benji mentioned me?”
“I’m not sure. He’s very busy.”
The caller chuckled, a laugh full of good humour. “But I know who you are. You’re Marcella.”
“Yes.”
“From Zanzibar. An Indian Arab from Zanzibar. Very beautiful. Very clever. Drives a red Peugeot 205. Benji’s right hand.”
“Thank you. Did you want to talk to Benji? He’s away at a conference. Or can I help you with something?”
“Benji’s at a conference?” He found this amusing. “Yes, it’s you I should talk to. In any case, I have his car phone. When is Benji going to change that old Mercedes of his?”
“Remind me what this is about.”
“Fiji. About Fiji.”
“Oh, you’re the Fiji man.”
“No, I’m the Pakistani man. But it’s about Fiji.”
Fiji was one more of Benji’s complicated schemes for making money in some tiny, distant place we knew nothing about. They never worked, or if they did work, he didn’t get paid. Or if he did get paid, it wasn’t much and I was the one who had to do all the chasing. There was money to be made in London, but Benji favored distant places, long odds.
“I don’t know anything about Fiji. What did Benji say?”
“That you look after the money. That Marcella—who is clever and beautiful—looks after everything.”
“It will have to wait until I see Benji. What’s your number, Mohammed?”
“Ashraf. I prefer Ashraf. No number. I’ll visit you.” “Please call first. And what business did you say you are in?”
“I’m a soldier, Marcella.” He dropped his voice into mock conspiracy. “A mercenary.” Then he laughed, as if we had agreed that this was all jolly fun, adding, “Sorry,” at my silence.
“And Benji knows how to contact you?”
“Not exactly. But he wants to see me. I’ll visit. Tomorrow evening. At seven. You don’t mind, Marcella, do you?”
“Please call first. Are you sure Benji wants to see you?”
“He’s like my brother.” Ashraf hesitated and I could sense his mischief building. “He told me you take your bath at this time, Marcella. Is it true?”
“I’ll tell him you called.”
I put down the bathroom phone and picked up the glass of white wine sitting next to my open copy of Cosmo on the edge of the bath. I had been looking at a quiz: “Is your man having an affair? Twenty questions you won’t want to answer.” Benji had been scoring badly on the quiz—unexplained absences, failure to regularly repeat “I love you,” generous presents for no obvious reason— but I did not think he was having an affair. With such a richness of profitless intrigue in the rest of his life, deceit over a woman was unlikely to hold his interest. Lunch with a sad Frenchwoman to talk over her late husband’s defunct investments in Mauretania was more exciting than an affair for Benji. And, in any case, he did love me.
I threw aside the Cosmoand slid down into the water. I had mixed feelings about Fiji. Increasingly, Benji’s business ventures produced mixed feelings. More than anything, partly for selfish reasons, I wanted Benji to be successful. I had started to do better than Benji and though his pride would never allow him to admit it, there was a sliver of discomfort in this. His business ideas were becoming wilder—or my assessment of them had become less forgiving. The last time he offered one of his maxims for business success, he had checked himself and said, “Well, you know better than me,” which made my heart sink. And it seemed to me that, in bed, he turned away from me more. Still, mercenaries sounded unpleasant, and I thought I should steer Benji away from this. Then I noticed I was protecting Benji, and that this was not the first time, and that it was wrong, and I should not have to do it. Annoyance rose in me, until I set against it the way Benji never complained of his disappointments, kept his pride, his hopes, his smile, dressed carefully, was never cruel. I reminded myself of the early days when he always seemed to be right, and how I could not have come this far without him.
My own business was not difficult, far too simple for Benji. I knew my way around Bayswater as well as anyone and found flats and houses for foreigners. English yuppies sought me out in the belief that they would make a killing renting their over-mortgaged homes to Arabs. Asians trusted me because I was Asian, Middle- Easterners because I was Middle-Eastern, Africans because I was African. With the yuppies, I was a yuppie. Zanzibar’s accumulated history had prepared me perfectly for being a Bayswater property consultant. Only the most recent wave was leaving me at a loss. I couldn’t be Japanese. All I could find in common with the Japanese was a smile. I had bought property too, converting houses in other parts of London in partnership with other developers, and all this had left my accounts at the BCCI very healthy. When I walked down Queensway, I heard my name a dozen times: “Marcella!... Marcella!” Each time there was a little thrill to it, proof that I belonged.
BENJI TURNED UP IN GOOD TIME FOR ASHRAF'S VISIT,
in good spirits. Loaded yellow plastic bags from Nisa kept his arms stretched while I kissed him hello. Food and drink. From the beginning Benji had decided that the responsibility for stocking the drinks cupboard in the flat must be his. A matter of honour. He also cooked the most serious meals. My cooking had already slipped into the pattern of tasty snacks whenever I wanted them.
“So, who’s Ashraf? And what is Fiji about?”
“Ashraf... is someone special. You’ll like him. He’s had an amazing life.”
“A soldier?”
“Yes. He was a big shot in
