“And he’s going to fight in Fiji? What do we have to do with Fiji, Benji?”
“No, no. He’s not going to fight. The Indians on Fiji are having a hard time because the government and army are Fijian and discriminate against them. Some are so scared they are fleeing the country. The Indians are the majority and own most of the businesses, and some of them asked me if I knew anyone who could help them fight back. I thought Ashraf could be their advisor. He knows Adnam.”
“I’m not sure that’s reassuring, Benji.”
“No, you’ll see. You’ll like him. Don’t worry over nothing. Shall I make gin and tonics?”
Ashraf arrived at eight-thirty instead of seven, saying, “I’m sorry I’m late. I try never to be on time. Once it saved my life. Next time I’ll be early. Benji!” He laughed and took Benji’s hand, turning the handshake into a contest of strength, which Benji lost.
“I should have remembered,” Benji said, happily nursing his hand. I watched them laughing together, Ashraf slapping Benji’s back. Two Asian men with moustaches, I noted.
With his arm still on Benji’s shoulder—I felt a pang of something—Ashraf turned to me. He was a little shorter than Benji, but more muscular. When he turned to me, his body stayed flexed and he cocked his head quizzically, seeming to say, Well, this is me, now what about you? but actually saying simply, “Marcella!” and offering his hand with the precision of a salute. I overlooked his treatment of Benji and took it. The hold was light, dry and firm. I smiled. He laughed, and enclosed my hand in both of his. In a way I did like him.
In the same movement, as he delicately released my hand, Ashraf turned on his heel to examine the four walls of my home. “Wonderful!” he announced. “A woman’s touch. Benji, you are fortunate. Somehow I neglected to collect a Marcella on my travels. A soldier’s lot. May I sit?”
He took the couch, then immediately sprang up, as if burdened by an excess of energy. “I forgot. I brought you some champagne—in my bag.”
I watched them together as they played the fool opening the champagne. They were a double act. I was the audience. I could not remember when I had last seen Benji in such high spirits.
“Sit,” said Ashraf to me. “We’re going to serve you. Benji is going to be cook and I am going to be cook’s assistant.” He pressed me into a dining table chair.
“Onions,” said Benji. “Chop the onions.”
“Sir!”
“No, fill Marcella’s glass, then chop the onions.” “Sir!”
“And Ashraf, I don’t want to see any tears. Marcella, watch Ashraf for tears.”
“But Marcella is so beautiful, she makes me want to cry. I am so far from home and so alone.”
“I’ll put on some music,” I said. “Something sentimental.”
“Lamb,” said Benji. “Where’s the lamb, Ashraf? I’m making khorma for you.”
“I will die of happiness. Marcella, will you dance for us? No, no, later. Let me fill your glass again.”
I settled in my chair, a guest in my own home, a drink in my hand, and let myself be pampered, let myself laugh, put uneasiness aside, even dismissed it as foolish jealousy.
Fiji was not mentioned once. Fiji, I came to understand, was just a sprat among Ashraf’s fishes. At one time he had commanded the army of a sizeable African country. At another he had been responsible for training African guerrillas in Libya. His jeep had been blown up in Kashmir, he had been shot by an Afghan in Iran while working for the Americans. To hear it, his life had been one good joke after another. I watched Benji drink it in, Ashraf’s hilarious conversation with President Mobutu who had thought to build his own guided missiles, the comedy of errors resulting from Ashraf’s playing all sides in Angola: Marxists, Americans, Portuguese, South Africans, Cubans. His talk was so reckless, it seemed there could be nothing in the world to fear. “But that’s all over now,” he concluded lightly. “Now I’m a businessman. Benji is teaching me how to be a businessman.”
I watched Benji glow. “Ashraf has amazing contacts,” he confided, returning the compliment. Big, international, illegal, dangerous and depending on personal contacts, I remembered, was Benji’s description of the perfect deal.
The drink and good humour had won me by the time Benji and I got to bed that night, leaving Ashraf to sleep among Benji’s junk in the spare bedroom. “So what do you think of our friend?” Benji asked, getting in beside me, and holding me at arm’s length by my shoulders for his interrogation. “I think he likes you.”
“Very attractive. Very dangerous.”
“More dangerous than me?”
“Oh, you,” I managed. “You couldn’t hurt a fly.” I reached for him, took his penis in my hand and squeezed, surprised to find how little give there was to it.
I closed my eyes and pulled Benji’s weight down on me. I wanted victory for him, surrender for me, but in the long-fought roughness I encouraged for this return to me there was victory for us both.
At last I said, “Did I make a lot of noise? Whatever will Ashraf think of us?” He was on my mind. He had given us this.
“He’ll think we’re lucky,” said Benji. “He’ll think I’m lucky.”
In two weeks Ron will return from Zanzibar via London and I’m looking forward to this relief from solitude in about the same measure as I wish he would never return. I’m like a hungry woman who finds the only item on the menu is a dish she’d never choose. The end I am at these days is so loose that I’ve even replied to an old letter of Geoffrey’s—which means I’m bound to get one from him by return of post. Julia sends me garish postcards from Bangladesh covered in tiny writing, the messages her usual perplexing mixture of eager-to-please child and earnest advisor: “Bangladesh
