The Rain Forest Page 11

  She shook her head.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Hugh didn’t want any. He feels that his mother failed him and he thinks if he had children, he would fail them. It’s a neurotic fear, of course, but real to him. And I’m not mother material. I have my own work.’

  Ambrose said: ‘Of course’ and left it at that.

  9

  Hugh went several times to the top floor but the room of the Minister for Culture was always empty. Then, on Coronation Day, he saw all the ministers setting out to pay their respects to the Governor.

  He came into the hall as they descended the stairs, slowly, like a religious procession. Stately of mien, self-consciously prestigious, the seven men appeared from above, each wearing the robes of his ancestors. The lift would have held them all but, for the sake of effect, they had chosen the stairs.

  At the first glimpse of the leading figure, the porter jumped to his feet and alerted the supplicants. The supplicants, as eager as he was, roused themselves from the dirty white seat and crowded together at the bottom of the staircase. The ministers took their time but as soon as they were within reach, the supplicants held up their hands and the ministers stretched down to shake them and entered the press of supplicants with a show of sympathy and delighted good-fellowship. They were embraced like relatives. Exchanging greetings, giving to even the dirtiest of the crew assurances of friendship and love, the ministers gently disentangled themselves and crossed the hall to the door.

  Murodi, noticing Hugh, twitched his mouth as though deriding the whole charade but at once regained his solemnity and continued his part in things.

  Pedley, in joking mood, referred to the ministerial floor as ‘the nursery’, a sobriquet that, in Hugh’s opinion, betrayed the official attitude towards the whole idea of Al-Bustan’s self-government. As the Arabs despised British concepts of government, the two Arab ministers had less standing among their kind than the Negroes had among the Africans. The five Negro ministers were highly conscious of their tribal cultures and their awakening to power. They were figures of supreme importance both to themselves and to the blacks, and were careful to maintain their image. English officials walked to the office. The Arabs might stroll down from the Medina but four of the Negro ministers journeyed everywhere in the official Daimlers. The fifth, the Socialist Diddar, made a show of being the exception to this rule.

  Now, though the Residency gates were less than two hundred yards up the road, the ministers, Diddar among them, packed into the two Daimlers and were driven to their appointment.

  Hugh, watching them go, decided that they had grasped the privileges of their position but wondered what they knew of its responsibilities. He was also surprised by the inequality of representation. Two Arabs and five Negroes seemed to him an unjust division of power and he decided, when next he found Pedley affable, to question him about it.

  Hugh was learning Pedley’s moods as he was learning the weather. Pedley in a nice state of insobriety, would let him sort the Reuters’ sheets unsupervised. A few more pulls at the whisky bottle and he was so eupeptic that he was liable to spill over into an outburst of distrust and violent rage. Caught as he balanced on this emotional ledge, he could be informative and even at times critical of his kind.

  Hugh found him critical a week after Coronation Day when it had been noted that cracks were running up the north wall of the Government Offices.

  ‘Bloody awful building,’ he said. ‘We’ve needed an administrative block for over a century and they rush this place up just as we’re thinking of pulling out. Always the same. They did it in Aden. Chucking away tax-payers’ money.’

  Hugh saw his chance to ask why there were only two Arab ministers.

  ‘Policy of H.M.G.,’ Pedley briskly said. ‘We decided to make a black majority. The chaps we put in were selected three years later by popular vote and have been re-elected since. Chiefly, I may say, because the Arabs are too damn indifferent to come to the polls.’

  ‘But why instate five blacks in the first place?’

  ‘We favour the blacks as a safeguard against the return of slavery. It exists, you know, in the Arab world. If the Arabs regained power here, there’s no knowing.’

  ‘So the blacks, having come as slaves, will end as rulers. Rather like the Memluks.’

  ‘If you want to be fanciful, yes.’

  ‘And the Indians? Why aren’t they represented?’

  Pedley, teetering on the edge of ill-temper, grunted twice before he said: ‘Good question’ as though surprised that a good question should come from Hugh: ‘They’re a minority. The plantation workers are indented labour: they come and go, so don’t have a vote. The shopkeepers have Dr Gopal who looks after their interest. He’s not a minister but he’s a deal more powerful. And active. He’s the government planning officer.’

  ‘I don’t know him. But what, in fact, do the ministers do?’

  ‘They don’t do anything, but they have very advanced ideas. They all, to a man, believe in higher wages, better social services, improved housing, and jobs for all. These desiderata will automatically come about as soon as the British leave.’

  Hugh laughed: ‘And what will happen when the British leave?’

  ‘God knows. I expect the Indians and blacks will fight it out.’

  ‘And the Arabs?’

  ‘They’re a spent force. They’ll retreat into the Medina and stay there till the others rout them out.’

  ‘And when will this happen? I mean, when will the ministers be ready for independence?’

  Pedley sniggered. ‘Never, at the rate they’re going.’ He paused to grin into himself then with one of his sudden changes of mood, he said in a disagreeable tone: ‘And here endeth the first lesson.’ Leaving the room, he slammed the door furiously after him.

  The only minister, apart from Murodi, with whom Hugh came into contact was Mr Diddar. Diddar, a bent, elderly black, was Minister for Internal Affairs and when the first edition of the news-sheet was ready, he came in person to collect his copy, saying: ‘I thank you, Mr Editor, for this fine work. I assure you, I shall read it with avidity.’

  He had since called in on Hugh whenever he felt inclined. Every time he picked up a copy of the newssheet, he said: ‘I thank you, Mr Editor, for your fine work. Every copy I read with avidity.’

  Hugh was gratified, feeling that in Diddar, if in none of the others, there was the political consciousness which he was paid to nurture. He discovered that Diddar lived at the Dobo and when he came to the office, he walked the three miles to Government Square. Diddar, too, was pleased by Hugh’s regard for him.

  ‘I see you are a man of broad vision,’ Diddar said, smiling his constant, happy smile: ‘So you will understand how I live and where I live. It is that I may identify with my black brothers. I, also, for the same reason, walk on my feet. I am – you will respect me, I know – a left wing.’

  Mr Diddar, who seemed to be bent by constantly plodding up the steep hill road, had a round nose and a projecting jaw between which there was a very wide mouth that he kept stretched in almost continuous laughter. Even when speaking seriously of his political beliefs, he laughed all the time.

  ‘I am building up among my brothers an understanding of the policies of Mr Foot and Mr Mikardo. I hope you will lose no opportunity to quote from those great men.’

  Hugh, who suspected that Diddar was his only reader, promised to keep Mr Foot and Mr Mikardo in mind.

  Diddar said: ‘Naturally, I am preparing a revolution but there are elements here who do not want a redistribution of wealth. They could prove obstructive. There is, for instance, Dr Gopal. A dangerous man.’

  ‘I have not met Dr Gopal.’

  ‘No, he does not come to this office but,’ Diddar bent confidingly towards Hugh and whispered, ‘Mr Pedley goes to his. They talk very much.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Many things. Many and various.’ Diddar nodded as though he could tell more but would not. ‘And now I mus
t go and consult with Mr Axelrod.’

  ‘May I ask how you work in with Mr Axelrod?’

  ‘It is done very well. I go to Mr Axelrod and I say: “Mr Axelrod, explain this thing to me” and he says: “Mr Diddar, you learn very fast.” Yes, I am a very fast learner, and I work in well with Mr Axelrod. He has said to me, “You are a man to government born.”’

  ‘What about Mr Murodi. What are his policies?’

  Diddar made a face and stretching out his thin, old hand, palm downwards, tilted it this way and that to express the ambivalent nature of Murodi’s policies: ‘But he is young. His thoughts are not formed. When he is older, I trust he will be with me. I intend to be leader, Mr Editor. Believe me, when I take over this island, things will be very different.’

  Mr Diddar’s admiration for the news-sheet heightened Hugh’s sense of responsibility. He felt it necessary to understand, as far as he could, Diddar’s political ideals and when Diddar next dropped in, he tried to discover what reforms, apart from the redistribution of wealth, Diddar wished to see introduced.

  Diddar could only say: ‘They are yet to be formulated.’

  ‘And when do you expect to take over?’

  ‘That, Mr Foster, remains to be seen.’

  Hugh next saw Murodi when he was waiting for the lift. Murodi came across the hall wearing the African tobe, its whiteness enhancing the smooth, rich darkness of his skin. At the sight of Hugh, he raised his arms, lifting the white linen so he seemed to be winged: ‘Ah-ha, Mr Foster, I see you again!’

  ‘I have been looking for you for a fortnight.’

  ‘True, I have been absent from my office. At times, when I am much inspired, I work at home.’

  ‘You are like Mr Diddar. The science of government inspires you.’

  Murodi, with the same gesture as Simon Hobhouse, put back his head, showing the pink roof of his mouth and all his fine teeth, and was still laughing when Hugh got out at the second floor and watched him ascend like a black seraphim to the august company above.

  ‘Come and see me. Come and see me,’ he shouted as his feet passed out of sight.

  During the morning coffee break, Hugh hastened to the top floor. Through the silent, carpeted corridor, came the sound of Murodi’s typewriter.

  Murodi stretched out a hand to Hugh: ‘Sit here, Mr Foster. In a minute I will be with you.’ He touched his brow to show that, meanwhile, his thoughts were elsewhere. He typed rapidly to the bottom of the page, plucked the paper from the machine, then smiled at Hugh: ‘Imagine my joy and surprise when I learnt that we had a famous writer in our midst!’

  ‘Oh. I don’t think I’d call my wife famous.’

  ‘Now, Mr Foster, let us not be facetious. We all know you are a famous writer. The news was overheard at Gurgur’s club and here such news travels fast.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Gunner was joking.’

  ‘You are too modest.’ Murodi opened the drawer of his desk and took out a manuscript: ‘When I heard of your fame, I said to myself: “Here is one who can give the true opinion of writing.” I have here the romance of a young Swahili prince captured by Arab slavers and brought to Al-Bustan to work on the plantations. With your permission, I will read a little.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a critic, either.’

  Murodi smiled and propping his feet on a ledge under his desk, tilted back his chair and began to read.

  Hugh, acutely unwilling to listen, stared from the window at the vast, pale brilliance of the sea. From this height, and at this distance from the window, he could see only the earliest forming of the long wave that rolled slowly towards the strand, carrying on its back a line of sunlight. For how many centuries had that wave formed itself and travelled in exactly as it travelled now? He decided to be generous about Murodi’s writing. He would be kind, but not too kind. Murodi was no fool. He would know if the plaudits were false.

  Murodi read like an actor, every now and then throwing out an arm or shaking the manuscript to enhance the passion of the work. Soon, Hugh was listening in earnest. Murodi’s story had the simplicity of a Celtic legend and his inexact English gave it a vigour that disturbed Hugh out of any thought of being kind. Another emotion filled him: not, of course, envy. He rejected any possibility of envy: a profitless sin and one that did not even give pleasure.

  Looking up and meeting Hugh’s intent frown, Murodi anxiously asked: ‘You do not like it?’

  ‘I do, I do. It is very good. It is more than good: it has poetry. How does it end?’

  ‘Very well, I think. The prince runs away over the mountain to join with other escaped men. He gathers them beneath his banner and he tells them they will march back to the Medina and kill the sultan. He will be their king. They set out but – here it is very sad, very tragic – one by one they die of blig-blig.’

  ‘What is blig-blig?’

  ‘It is an illness. There is a belief among the Africans that on the other side of the mountain, people sicken and die. I think it is an invention of the Arabs but, still, you must admit it is an exciting device: the army coming over the mountain to seize the sultan’s throne and all dying one by one.’

  ‘It is a traditional story?’

  ‘It has traditions. The deaths I thought for myself, but there was a prince among the slaves and they talked of killing the Arabs and making him king, but nothing came of it. The Arabs had guns; the slaves did not. Still, there could be such a king.’

  ‘A king who is also a poet?’

  ‘You are laughing at me, Mr Foster.’

  ‘I am not. Do you think a poet could not be a king?’

  Putting his feet on the ground and sitting upright, Murodi gazed gravely at Hugh: ‘I will be honest with you, Mr Foster: I have asked myself the same question and this is my answer: A poet could be a king, but a king could not be a poet. Do you understand me?’

  Feeling he understood only too well, Hugh said he had better return to his television set.

  ‘No,’ Murodi put out his hand to detain him: ‘Stay, I beg you. You have listened to me and been very kind. Now it is your turn. Tell me, please, the things you have done.’

  Hugh, at a loss, stared at the long roll of the distant sea, then at Murodi: ‘Mr Murodi, when your work is finished, you will have overcome a number of problems. The effect will have been noted, the elusive cause caught, the characters given substance, made to move and meet each other in telling circumstances; their development mapped; each, in contributing to the story, will have worked out his own fate. This you will have done yourself. Isn’t that so?’

  Murodi beamed: ‘You, Mr Foster, have a true understanding of the writer’s exertions.’

  ‘I suppose I have. Now, you asked what have I done? I will tell you. I spoilt other men’s work. I would take the completed book and extract the plot and change it to suit the producer. I would use the dialogue but omit any conversation or situation too subtle or profound for a mass audience. For doing this, I would be paid so much more than the author of the book, you would laugh if I told you. That sounds unjust, but perhaps it wasn’t. You see, I had no joy in my work.’

  Murodi, realizing that Hugh was serious, stared at him in alarmed dismay as though watching a man in acute pain. But Hugh did not betray any pain. He spoke without emotion, his face was expressionless.

  Murodi shook his head slowly: ‘But, why? You understand so much. Why did you give yourself to this work?’

  ‘Perhaps it was all I could do. I don’t know. I wrote a novel. Sometimes I think I could write another, but I am frightened. After all, one can only do what one can do.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Hugh saw retreat on Murodi’s face and, reminded of Kristy, thought: ‘They are all the same. Their work is all that matters. They can make contact only with another like themselves. They are useless as friends for, in fact, they are not here. They are in another place.’ He rose and went quickly to the door. Murodi, hurrying after him, held out his hand: ‘If you have suffered in this way, then your ki
ndness is the more kind.’

  Smiling, Hugh took Murodi’s hand then went, aware that the minister would not seek him out again. In spite of this, he suggested that Kristy meet Murodi. Kristy was not responsive.

  ‘I thought you’d be glad to know you have a fellow-writer on the island.’

  She said despondently: ‘I’ve stopped writing.’

  ‘I don’t know why you ever started. I suppose you were imitating me.’

  This roused her. She laughed: ‘You think I can only imitate. What an ass you are. Women can do anything, but they’re lazy. Mentally, they’re bone lazy. They want someone to do their thinking for them. But you did nothing for me. You threw me out on my own, so I started using my own brain.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘You didn’t want the things that make for a combined effort: a family, a proper home. I should probably have settled down quite happily to domesticity. There’s nothing women like better than to be in a sort of mish-mash of nappies and brats and kitchen-sink squalor. It calls for no mental effort. The efforts are all being made by the chap who brings home the bacon.’

  He could not tell whether or not she was laughing at him, so he said sharply: ‘Do you want to meet Murodi or not?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘If you don’t want to see people when they are there, you’ll find when you do want to see them, that they’re not there.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the artist’s dilemma.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if you have any feeling for anyone. You told me once about your leaving home when you were sixteen. Just walking out without a word or a message. You stayed away for weeks and when the police tracked you down, you were surprised to find your mother crying. You said: “What was she crying for? We always disliked each other.”’

  ‘Subject for a short story.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  10

  Awaiting the resurgence of her creativity, Kristy behaved much like the other women. In the past, to save time, she had washed her own hair but now, glad of any sort of diversion, she went down to Aly’s hairdressing saloon. She was delighted by it. She had often wondered what women found to do with themselves in the afternoons and now, as though on a holiday from herself, she was discovering another order of existence. She went round Aly’s large rambling shop that sold, not only food, wines and spirits, but Indian silks and jewellery, toys, hardwear and newspapers. Here newspapers and magazines lived for ever. Some of the copies of Vogue, Harper’s, the New Statesman and the Spectator were three years old but they had not been reduced in price. There was a corner where customers could sit and study catalogues from the big shops in Nairobi. The goods, when ordered, arrived promptly by boat and the customer was at once telephoned and advised of their arrival.