It took me a moment more to fully acknowledge the reality of the apparition and react. “Oh, yes. Where are my manners? No, I was not expecting Benji. Come in. Or you. I wasn’t expecting you either. You look just the same. Except you are greyer of course.” Ashraf was dressed for the city, a camel overcoat over a suit, expensively thin shoes.
“You look just the same too. More beautiful, if that’s possible.” He stepped over the threshold and offered his hand with a wry little smile. I took it and for a moment we were silent as if the hands were speaking. I remembered his hand: muscular, dry, not very large. It said: Remember that no matter what has passed, we are allies.
“You were the last person I was expecting. How on earth did you find me? Why are you here? Oh, let me get you something. Tea?”
“"Yes, tea will do.”
I turned away from him and went into the kitchen to collect myself. I had become slow-witted, I now realised. Academic and slow-witted, soft in the landscape. Ashraf, I thought, did not look as though his wits had slowed. I felt in myself a rallying of old, sharp abilities summoned up from slumber. I needed them now to tell me what this was, how to measure and manage it.
From the living room, he called out, “You sent a letter.”
“What letter?” I put the kettle on the stove and walked back into the living room where Ashraf was making a business of warming his hands in front of the fire.
“To Adnam. We didn’t know where you were until then.”
“He never replied. Who’s this ‘we’? You and Adnam?”
“We didn’t know where Benji was either. So Adnam had nothing to tell you. To be honest, we still don’t know where Benji is. But since you are expecting him, I suppose you don’t need to know anymore.” He stretched and I reminded myself that he was always at his most alert when his manner was most relaxed.
“I’m not expecting Benji,” I said and vanished back into the kitchen to make the tea.
When I returned and his eyes had dropped to take hold of the cup, I asked, “Ashraf, why have you come to see me? Is this just a social visit? I mean, did you happen to be passing?”
“Not exactly. I confess I didn’t pay my own fare. I’ve been commissioned. Not that it isn’t wonderful to see you.” He removed his coat and dropped it on the couch.
“Commissioned?”
“Marcella, you know who I am.”
“I know who you were. The friend who promised me he’d look after Benji.”
He laughed down at his feet, then did a little pirouette as if he needed fancy footwork to help him out of this.
“It’s true. It’s true. You are my friends. But, I’m a mercenary, Marcella. You know that. Benji lost me a long time ago. Somewhere around Moputo. Now I want to find him again.”
“That’s your commission, to find Benji?”
“Yes. In a way. But it’s also a labour of love. To find Benji. And to find you.”
“This is all so long ago, Ashraf. Adnam, London, all that business—it’s years and years ago. Benji did not even get paid. Why would anyone want you to find us now? It’s ridiculous. Why?”
But it was dawning. I edged across to the fireplace, looking for warmth.
“How do you know Benji didn’t get paid? Where is that bad man, Marcella?”
“Why?”
“Why? Think of what you know. Think of what is at stake. People are anxious. The records of the BCCI are still being examined. There’s a need for discretion.”
I wondered, should I run for the door and out into the snow with my slippers on, shouting for help? The picture was comically dramatic. And there was no one out there anyway. And in any case, I could not move.
“You’re commissioned to kill us?”
Ashraf sighed and brushed past my tense body to get at the fire and share it with me. He murmured, “No, no, of course not.” Then, more assertively, as if he were my teacher, “Have you forgotten the difference between a mercenary and an assassin? I am a mercenary, a soldier. I decide whose side I am on. I don’t kill my friends.” Then, more quietly again, the bluster gone, “It’s good to see you. I can’t tell you how good. We were all sorry about the prison. You know we couldn’t help. What I like to remember is the time before, staying with you and Benji in your home. I felt happiest in your home, clean. I always thought Benji was lucky to have you.”
I cast around for the right thing to say, which would confirm the sanity of friendship and remove from the agenda tiresome intrigue and the absurdity of death. But I only found a clever argument, saying, “What I remember is you once telling me that you’d never fight for a cause that did not have popular support, because it was too dangerous. These people aren’t popular. The BCCI is finished. There are new governments in South Africa and Pakistan. The people involved in that deal aren’t powerful any more now. Why are you still working for them?”
Ashraf turned from the fire and collapsed back onto the couch, his eyes closed. I could not tell whether or not he was thinking about what I had said. “You’re right,” he announced at last, his eyes still closed. “'You’re right. I don’t want that any more.” When he finally opened his eyes there was the hint of a twinkle in them. “You know, Benji was supposed to turn me into a businessman.” Then, he was lost again for a while in the ironies of his life. “But, Marcella, you know I had to come.
