But I can’t budge an inch. I’m being carried along by something and I need to be here to discover what. I seem to have got as far as Ashraf. Much of the day I lie in the hammock on my porch reading books left here by other people. Or, as often as not, just leaving them open on my tummy while I daydream. I’m drawn to books set in England and the most successful in holding my interest so far has been Barchester Towers by one Anthony Trollope. I cannot, for the life of me, understand how the intrigues of nineteenth-century English clergymen can hold my interest, but they do. Even so, I spend more time with the TV than with Trollope. I’ve become a cranky watcher: every time a gun appears I stab the remote to make it go away, which means I rarely see the end of anything.
ASHRAF MORE OR LESS MOVED IN AFTER THE FIRST
evening and now I was catching the phone calls of two disorganised men, in addition to my own work. I complained, but I really did not dislike being so much the centre of things. The calls had an element of fun, making me play the parts of secretary, associate or innocent as required, keeping me dancing on my toes. And they kept me in company with Benji’s life. If the calls became more numerous and more strange with time, my life was too busy to see any pattern or progression. I clung to an unre- flective, hectic happiness that is nearly unimaginable in the slow loneliness of my Vermont summer.
“Hello?”
“Give me Ashraf!”
“What? Who? It’s four in the morning.” I flung my arm across Benji’s side of the bed and found him absent.
“It’s seven!” The voice was round and strong and very definite.
I squinted towards the window. There was no sign of dawn and no sound of birds. The clock read four. “Who am I talking to, please?”
“It is ldi.”
“Idi?”
“Idi Amin, President of Uganda. Give me Ashraf.”
I tried to rally my mind from sleep. It did sound like Idi Amin. Did I have friends stupid enough to play a four a.m. practical joke on me? And anyway Idi Amin wasn’t president of Uganda. He hadn’t been president for years. It was someone else now. Not Obote... Museveni. “Ashraf is not here. Where are you calling from?” “Where? From Saudi, of course.”
There was the seven o’clock. I couldn’t remember Ashraf ever mentioning Idi Amin. “Maybe I can help you. I am Ashraf’s associate.”
“No, of course you can’t help me. You’re just a woman. I cannot talk to a woman. Give me Ashraf. Or Benji. You can give me Benji.”
“Benji? Benji is not here either. You can leave a message.”
“Tell Ashraf to call me.”
“He has your number?”
“Of course he has my number.”
“What shall I tell him it’s about?”
“I don’t need to tell you that! Tell him it’s about Sudan. Sudan and Uganda. That’s enough.” He put down the phone.
When Ashraf next checked in with me I passed on the message. “Ashraf, your friend Idi Amin called.”
“Idi! He’s crazy. What did he want?”
“He called at four in the morning and wanted you or Benji.”
“No, no. Keep him away from us, Marcella.” “Something about Sudan and Uganda.”
“The man is dreaming. He still thinks he’s somebody. I don’t deal with madmen.”
“And if he phones again?”
“Tell him Ashraf has become a Jew.”*
“Hello?”
“Hello, dear. This is Eric Crouchman of Hearty Foods in Middlewich. Is Mr Peters there?” Benji used “Mr Peters” when he thought a foreign name might go against him.
“No, I’m afraid you’re out of luck again, Mr Crouchman. He’s in a meeting. Maybe I can help. We’ve talked before.”
“Right, love. Well, will you tell him, I’ve got that quote for baked beans for the Nigerian army. Got a pen handy?”
“Go ahead.”
“OK. The price for five thousand cases, f.o.b. Liverpool is five-fifty a case. We’d go to five-twenty for anything over five thousand. Did you get that?”
“Thank you, Mr Crouchman. I’ll give it to Mr Peters as soon as he returns.”
“In with a chance, are we? Can you give me a hint?” “I’ll put your bid on top of the pile, Mr Crouchman. It might make a difference if you could come down just a little. Could you? I can’t commit Mr Peters, of course. Maybe by twenty pence a case?”
What was I doing? This was the only bid. What was Benji doing? The chances of the Nigerian army officer actually paying the bills with the money entrusted to him were about zero. Why did Benji bother with these hopeless propositions? Poor Mr Crouchman. He sounded so straightforward. I imagined him in a flat cap with cigarette ash on his rumpled grey suit, and no idea of who he was dealing with. Here I was in my kitchen, still in my dressing gown with him imagining a smart English secretary behind her London desk.
“It’d be tight, love. Not out of the question, though. Not completely. Thanks for the tip. You always sound so nice. Busy man, your Mr Peters, is he? Works you ragged, does he?”
“Between you and me, Mr Crouchman, his right hand doesn’t know what his left hand’s doing. I wouldn’t rely on this if I were you. I’m just telling you this because I don’t want to see you waste your time.”
“It’s like that, is it? Better to forget it?”
“Might be better all round.”
“All right, love. A wink’s as good as a nod. I’ll miss talking to you, though.”
“Bye, Mr
