“I’d rather not involve you.”
“I’m involved.” I kissed him on his nearest part, somewhere on his side.
“Well, I can’t back out now, anyway. It’s nearly done.”
"POODLE OR POSH?" I ASKED, KNOWING THE ANSWER.
“Posh. Lord Cramp will be there. Conservative. It’s not a party, anyway.”
“How about this?” I held up a deep blue dress. “With a gold necklace.”
Benji hardly looked in my direction while we dressed. He was being polite the way he was when he was nervous. I wanted to make him laugh but could not think of a way. Now he glanced over and said, “Perfect.”
“Don’t worry,” I found myself saying. “It will be fine.”
The bedroom at the Coburg Hotel was fussy and too small for all of us. The Hotel had decided to be very English for its foreign visitors. The easy chairs had a floral print, and more vegetation spread across the carpet, wallpaper and curtains. Only the Sony TV, turned on for background noise, was starkly modern. On the wall was a print of a city with Arab dhows in front of it, which I thought might be a Victorian view of Zanzibar. Another print was of a penny-farthing bicycle. My seat was on the pink candlewick bedspread, since there were not enough chairs. Benji was sitting on the bed too, which did not seem right. The South African, “Mr Thomas,” whose room it was, had an easy chair in the corner where the room spread out into a round windowed turret overlooking the corner of Bayswater Road and Queensway. Under the window you could see the dirt and litter collected on top of the entrance to Queensway Tube. Lord Cramp had a comfortable chair too. Adnam had taken the desk chair. We were waiting for Ashraf.
Lord Cramp took it upon himself to do the introductions, introducing Benji to his man, Mr Thomas, though I thought it should have been the other way around. “Benji’s our mastermind,” he said.
Mr Thomas had kinked fair hair like steel wool and was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. He was all business.
Everything was set up. The amounts and specifications. Transport of the uranium to Moputu in Mozambique and from there by ship to Pakistan. Money would go from a BCCI account in Pakistan, to one earmarked for the South Africans in the Caymans.
I asked, “How will Benji receive his commission if the money goes direct?” since Benji hadn’t.
“We’ll set up a separate account for Benji. Numbered. You’ll be able to access it by phone. Is that good?”
I glanced at Benji. “Yes,” I said, “That’s fine.”
When Ashraf arrived half an hour late, he took Lord Cramp’s hand and, bless him, crushed it. “Good heavens, man!” the twig of the Churchill family tree blurted, nursing his fingers while Ashraf filled the remaining space, introducing himself to Mr Thomas without waiting on formalities.
“So, we’re all here,” he declared. “It’s all settled. You didn’t need me.”
“We’ll need someone technically competent in Moputu for the handover,” said Mr Thomas.
“Of course. We have plenty of competent people. I’ll tell them at home.”
“And we’ll need someone with us in South Africa, someone accountable, until the transaction’s completed.”
“That would be Benji,” said Lord Cramp. “He’s our coordinator.”
I saw Benji start a little and glance at me, then Adnam. He had said nothing of this.
“It’s for the best,” said Adnam to me, “To see it through. You’ll look after Benji’s interests here, won’t you?” Then he added as reassurance to everyone, “We’ve done business before,” equating the conversion of a London house to flats with an international deal in uranium.
“I’m going to South Africa too,” said Ashraf. “Pakistani interests.” And he winked at me, as if this was our conspiracy. “I’ll keep that bad man of yours out of trouble.”
I nodded, not sure at what. “Thanks,” I said, finding myself genuinely grateful that Benji would be tied to Ashraf’s indestructibility.
“OK,” said Benji. “That’s good.”
“My plane leaves in three hours,” said Mr Thomas to Benji. “If you want to keep an eye on me you might want to be somewhere on it. Are you packed?”
“I think I want to,” said Benji. “I’m ready to go.”
“That’s it then.” Lord Cramp stood. We all stood.
I put my hand on Benji’s arm. “Benji, how long for?”
“I don’t know. Not long. I’ll phone as soon as it’s prudent.” He was looking at Lord Cramp and Mr Thomas, while he spoke to me. There was some detail or other that had suddenly become essential for him to raise before it was too late.
“We’d better leave singly,” Lord Cramp was advising. “Security and all that. Ladies first, I think. Marcella?” Now Benji looked at me. I thought he might be confused but did not want to show it.
“Take care, Zanzibar girl,” he said.
“You take care,” I said. “Call me when you arrive.”
“If I can. Don’t worry.”
Among all those awful men, we had the briefest parting kiss.
There was order. Then there wasn’t order. Then there was order again. Now I fear a new disorder. I had made a sense in Bayswater. Sense makes a life, like the logic of a house. The walls hold up the roof and make a space for you inside. You come to trust the soundness of the parts. Cappuccino and croissants at Le Cafe in the morning will bring a moment’s happiness. The police are nice young men who say hello. Benji’s good heart would always trump his dreaming head.
In my order, Zanzibar was over there in Africa, treacherous and turbulent, previous and finished with. Then David was in Bayswater, Kamara belonged to a corrupt regime, Thatcher staged a coup, Idi Amin was on the phone. My business was simple and honourable, finding homes or making them, but to my best friend I was another profiteer taking hospitals from the poor. The BCCI had been my lovely bank, more elegant and vibrant than the British banks, sticking up for global migrants like myself. Then
