The Sweetest Dream (44 page)

Next day was the Celebration of the Heroes of the Liberation,
and Comrade Franklin wanted them all to come. ‘It would please
our Comrade President,' he said. ‘I will see that you all have good
seats.'

‘I'm booked to leave for Mozambique tomorrow morning,'
said Cyrus B.

‘Cancel it! I'll get you a good seat on the plane the day after.'

‘I'm sorry. I have an appointment with the President.'

‘
You
won't say no,' Franklin ordered Andrew, his voice rough
because of some unpleasantness that he couldn't quite remember.

‘I have to say no. I am driving out to visit Sylvia–do you
remember Sylvia?'

Franklin was silent. His eyes moved aside. ‘I think I remember.
Yes, I seem to remember she was some kind of relative?'

‘And she is working as a doctor in Kwadere. I hope I
pronounce that right.'

Franklin sat smiling. ‘Kwadere? I did not know there was a
hospital there yet. It is not a developed part of Zimlia.'

‘But I am going to see her and so I can't come to your
wonderful ceremony.'

A sombreness had dashed Franklin's sparkle, he sat silent, his
brows puckering. Then he threw it off and cried, ‘But I am sure
our good friend Geoffrey will be there.'

Geoffrey was now a solid handsome man, who drew eyes as
he had done as a boy, and the millions he had at his command
had given him an almost visible silvery sheen, the glisten of
self-approval. ‘I will certainly be there, Minister, I wouldn't miss it.'

‘But such an old friend ought not to be calling me Minister,'
said Franklin, offering Geoffrey dispensation in his smile.

‘Thank you,' said Geoffrey, with a little bow. ‘Minister
Franklin, perhaps?'

Franklin laughed, a big satisfied laugh. ‘And before you leave,
Geoffrey, I want you to come to my office and I will show you
around.'

‘I was hoping you might invite me to meet your wife and
children. I hear you have six children now?'

‘Yes, six, and soon there will be seven. Children and money
troubles,' said Franklin, looking hard at Geoffrey. But he did not
invite him to his home.

Laughter, understanding laughter. More wine was called for.
But Cyrus B. said he was an old man needing his sleep, and went
off, remarking that he expected to see them at the conference in
Bermuda next month.

‘I believe that our old friend Rose Trimble has done very
well,' said Franklin. ‘Our President likes her work very much.'

‘Rose is certainly doing well,' said Andrew, with a delightful
smile, which Franklin misread.

‘And you are all such good friends,' he cried. ‘That is so good
to hear. And when you see her, please give her my warmest
regards.'

‘When I do, I shall,' said Andrew, even more pleasantly.

‘And so we may soon expect generous aid,' said Franklin, who
was slightly drunk. ‘Generous, generous aid for our poor exploited
country.'

Here Comrade Mo, who had not yet contributed, said, ‘In
my view there should be no aid at all. Africa should be standing
on her own two feet.'

He might just as well have thrown a bomb on to the table.
He sat blinking a little, his teeth showing in an abashed grin,
withstanding stares of surprise. He and all his coevals had
overlooked or applauded every bit of news from the Soviet Union,
and, with far fewer comrades, had celebrated every new massacre
in China, he and still fewer had ruined the agriculture of his
country by forcing unfortunate farmers into collective farms, the
State's bully boys beating up and harrying any who resisted–few of the Causes he had encouraged or promoted had turned
out anything but scandalous, but here, at this moment, at this
table, in this company, what he was saying was inspired, was the
truth, and for saying it, surely, he should have been forgiven all
the rest.

‘It will do us no good,' he said. ‘Not in the long run. Did
you know that Zimlia at Liberation was at the same level as France
was, just before the Revolution?'

Laughter, relieved laughter. For one thing France had been
invoked, the Revolution, they were on safe ground again.

‘No, the Revolution was due to bad harvests, bad weather–France was basically prosperous. And this country too–or it was
until some perhaps slightly unfortunate policies were adopted.'

There was a silence that bordered on the panicky.

‘What are you saying?' said Daniel, hot and offended, his face
flaming under his red hair. ‘Are you telling us this country was
better off under the whites?'

‘No,' said Mo. ‘I did not say that. When did I say that?' His
voice was slurring: with relief they all saw that he was a little
drunk. ‘I am saying that this is the most developed country in
Africa, apart from South Africa.'

‘So, what are you saying?' demanded Minister Franklin, polite,
but concealing anger.

‘I am saying that you should build on your very sound
foundations and stand on your own feet. Otherwise Global Money and
Caring International and this Fund and that Fund–present
company excepted,' he said clumsily, raising his glass to them in a
circling salute, ‘they'll all be telling you what to do. It is not as
if this country is a disaster area, like some we might mention.
You have a sound economy and a good infrastructure.'

‘If I did not know you so well,' said Comrade Minister
Franklin, and he was actually nervously looking around to see if
anyone had heard this dangerous talk, ‘I'd say you were in the pay
of South Africa. That you are an agent for our great neighbour.'

‘Okay,' said Comrade Mo. ‘Don't call the thought police yet.'
Journalists had been arrested and jailed for wrong opinions, only
a few days ago. ‘I am among friends. I spoke my thoughts. I am
saying what I think. That is all.'

A silence. Geoffrey was looking at his watch. Obediently
Daniel looked at him. Various people were getting up, not looking
at Comrade Mo, who sat on, partly out of stubbornness, partly
because he was going to have trouble walking straight.

‘Perhaps we could have a discussion on this subject?' he said
to Franklin. He spoke easily, intimately: after all, had they not
known each other for years, and discussed Africa noisily, but
amicably whenever they met?

‘No,' said Comrade Franklin. ‘No, Comrade, I don't think I
shall be saying any more on this subject.' He got up. A couple of
until now silent black men at a near table got up too, revealing
themselves as his aides or guards. He gave the clenched fist salute,
shoulder level, to Geoffrey and to Daniel, and to various other
representatives of international generosity, and went out, with a
heavy on either side of him.

‘I am going to bed,' said Andrew. ‘I'm getting up early
tomorrow.'

‘I think Comrade Franklin may have forgotten that he has
promised us seats for tomorrow's celebration,' said Geoffrey
sulkily. He meant this as a rebuke to Comrade Mo.

‘I'll see to it,' said Comrade Mo. ‘Just give my name. I'll
reserve you seats on the VIP stand.'

‘But I want a seat too,' said MP James.

‘Oh, don't worry,' said Comrade Mo, waving his hands about,
as if they dispensed largesse, invitations, tickets. ‘Don't lose any
sleep. You'll get in, you'll see.' His moment of truth was past,
defeated by the demon,
peer pressure
.

 • • •

On that morning when Andrew was expected there was trouble
at the hospital. When Sylvia walked down through the again dusty
shrubs she saw chickens lying gasping, their beaks wide open, and
this time it was not their defence against the heat. No water in their
drinking tins. No food in their trough. She found Joshua standing
swaying, a knife in his hand, over a young woman who was
crouching terrified, both hands held up to ward him off. He stank
of dagga. He looked as if he intended to murder the woman, who
had a swollen arm. Sylvia took the knife from him and said, ‘I
told you that if you smoked dagga again then that would be the
end. This is the end, Joshua. Do you understand?' His angry face
and reddened eyes, his powerful threatening body, loomed over
her. She said, ‘And the chickens are dying. They have no water.'

‘That is Rebecca's work.'

‘You agreed between you that you would do it.'

‘She must do it.'

‘Now, leave. Go.'

He stalked off to a tree about twenty yards away, subsided
under it, and sat, his face on his arms. Almost at once he fell over,
asleep or unconscious. His little boy, Clever, was watching. He
had taken to hanging around, anxious to do any little job given
him. Now Sylvia said, ‘Clever, will you feed the chickens and
give them water?' ‘Yes, Doctor Sylvia.' ‘Now watch me while I
show you how.' ‘I know how to do it.' She watched while he
fetched water, filled the tins, threw grain down. The chickens
hustled to the water tins, and drank and drank but one hen was
too far gone. She told him to take it up to Rebecca.

Andrew had trouble getting the kind of car he was used to
from the car hire firm. They were all old and scary. ‘Is that all
you've got?' He knew that any new cars being imported went
straight to the new elite, but on the other hand, tourists were
being beckoned in. He said to the young black woman behind
the desk, ‘You've got to get better cars than these if you want to
attract tourists.' Her face told him she agreed with him, but he
wasn't going to criticise her superiors. He took a battered Volvo,
asked if there was a spare tyre, was told there was, but it wasn't
very good, and, since time was running by, he decided to risk it.
He had detailed instructions from Sylvia on the lines of, Get on
to the Koodoo Dam road, go through the Black Ox Pass, then
when you see a big village, take the dirt road that bends to the
right, go on about five miles, turn right at the big baobab, drive
ten miles, you'll see the signpost for St Luke's Mission on the
same signpost as Pyne's Farm.

He found the country impressive in a grand but hostile way,
so dry, and the dust lying in the air, though he knew there had
been rains recently. He had visited Zimlia many times, but had
never had to find any place for himself. He lost his way, but at
last was driving past the Pynes' signpost when he saw on the road
in front a tall white man waving his arms. Andrew stopped, and
this man said, ‘I'm Cedric Pyne. Could you take this stuff to the
Mission? We heard you were on your way.' A big sack was thrown
into the back, and the farmer went sloping off, back to the house
some hundreds of yards away. Andrew deduced that he, or
someone, had been keeping an eye out for the dust of the car. He was
still waiting to see the Mission, when he saw a low brick house,
with gum trees around it, and beyond it the flat low buildings,
like barracks, which he knew was a school. He parked. A smiling
black woman came out on the verandah and said that Father
McGuire was at the school and that Doctor Sylvia was coming
just-now.

He followed her on to the verandah and into the front room
where he was invited to sit.

Andrew's experience had been with the Africa of presidents
and governments, officials, and attractive hotels, but he had not
ever descended to the Africa he was seeing now. This wretched
little room offended him, and precisely because it was a challenge.
When he talked Global Money, dispensed Global Money, was a
fount of ever-unfailing largesse, this was what it was all about–wasn't it? But this was a mission, for God's sake! This was the
Roman Catholic Church, wasn't it? Weren't they supposed to be
rich? There was a rent in the cretonne curtain which was
attempting to exclude the glare from a sun that had only just
climbed high enough not to strike it direct. Tiny black ants
crawled over the floor. The black woman brought him a glass of
orange juice. Warm. No ice?

The kitchen where the black woman was, opened to his right.
Another door, standing ajar, was on his left. On the door a
dressing-gown hung from a nail: he knew it was Sylvia's, he
remembered it. He went into the room. The bare red brick floor,
the brick walls, the gleaming pale reed ceiling which now was to
Sylvia like a second skin, seemed to him offensively meagre. So
small, this room was, so bare. On the little chest of drawers were
photographs, in silver frames. There was Julia, and there, Frances.
And one of him, aged about twenty-five, debonair, whimsical,
smiling straight back at him. It hurt, his younger self–he turned
away, unconsciously passing his hands down over his face, as if
to restore that confident unmarked face, that innocent face. He
thought, mocking the surroundings, so inimical to him–that
little crucifix–that he had not then eaten of the fruit of good
and evil. He stared conscientiously at the crucifix, which defined
a Sylvia he did not know at all, trying to accept it, accept her.
Her clothes were hanging on nails on the walls. Her shoes, mostly
sandals, stood along a wall. He turned and saw the Leonardo on
the wall. The other pictures of Virgins and infants he ignored.
Well, there was one decent thing in the room.

Now he heard that someone approached, and went to the
window that opened on to the verandah, and watched Sylvia
coming up the path. She wore jeans, a loose top similar to the
one he had seen on the black servant, and her hair was bleached
by the sun, and tied back with an elastic band. Between her eyes
was a deep frowning furrow. She was burned by the sun a dry
dark brown. She was as thin as he remembered ever seeing her.
He went out, she saw him, rushed to him, and there was a long
embrace full of love and memories.

He wanted to see the hospital: she was reluctant, knowing he
would not understand what he saw: how could he, when it had
taken her long enough? But they walked together down the path,
and she showed him the shed she called the dispensary, the various
shelters and the big hut which it seemed she was proud of. Some
black people lay about on mats, under trees. A couple of men
came from the bush, lifted a woman he had thought was sleeping
on to a litter made of branches, the fronds of leaves tied down
over it for softness, and went off with her into the trees. ‘Dead,'
said Sylvia. ‘Childbirth. But she was ill. I know it was AIDS.'
He did not know how she wanted him to respond–if she expected
a response. She sounded–what? Angry? Stoical?