course. When are you free?”
Murray shrugged. “Whenever suits you. Look, I must be going; my daughters are in the car. We’re off to the cinema,” he added in explanation. “
The Ten Commandments.
”
“Fine,” Morgan said, relief flooding his voice. At last he had some success to report to Adekunle. “Shall we say this Thursday afternoon. Four?”
“Good,” Murray agreed. “See you then, first tee.” He said goodnight and walked back to the car-park. Morgan watched him go; he suddenly felt weak from the tension. You bastard, he thought, if you only knew what you are putting me through.
He went shakily into the club, which was busy and, he noted with Scrooge-like displeasure, manifesting signs of Christmas everywhere you looked. The streamers, the baubles, the ruffled bells reminded him once again of his foolish undertaking to personify the spirit of this season himself and for a full minute he raged inwardly against the Fanshawes, mother and daughter. Outside in the club’s garden, spotlights lit up the barbecue. White-jacketed stewards gathered around three huge bath-sized grills made from oil-drums divided longitudinally. These were filled with glowing charcoal and above this hundreds of kebabs sizzled on wire netting laid across the drums. Morgan noticed Lee Wan, a Malay biochemist from the university, ladling out punch. A cheerful, friendly little man who organised pantomimes and children’s parties, he was also a seasoned reprobate, and, under his tutelage, Morgan had been introduced to Nkongsamba’s club-brothels some two months after his arrival in the country. He thought about joining the queue for the kebabs but his appetite had left him and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t come; the bustle and the seasonal gaiety were too overpowering in his present mood.
His eye caught a noticeboard with an arrow-shaped sign on it saying “Teenage disco, this way.” Morgan sighed, a mixture of longing and exasperation. With the advent of the Christmas holidays the expatriate population of Nkongsamba was sizeably increased by the arrival of all the sons and daughters from boarding-school in Britain and Europe. For a month the tennis courts and the swimming pool were taken over by these youthful hedonists. They would lie in groups around the pool’s edge, like basking seals, smoking and drinking, gambolling sexily inthe water and occasionally kissing with shameless abandon. Late one evening he had wandered into one of the club’s teenage discos—some of the girls were breathtakingly attractive—and had found the room in total darkness. Three couples swayed on the dance floor in a position of vertical copulation and the perimeter armchairs were occupied by hunched and entwined combinations of two. Morgan had never,
never
been to a party like that in his life, far less when he was their age, and the unjustness of it all made him tremble with inarticulate envy.
A few of these teenagers wandered about the club now, casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, laughing and joking. Morgan caught a glimpse of Murray’s son standing on his own, friendless apparently, eating a kebab. He gave him a wave but the boy didn’t react. Little creep, thought Morgan, as he turned and headed for the bar. He wanted a drink badly.
The expatriate community needed little excuse to come out in their droves to celebrate and the “Bumper Xmas Barbecue” was no exception. Morgan responded to the smiles and nods of recognition as he threaded his way through the press around the bar. The noise of conversation was intense and people had a flushed excited look. There were a few Kinjanjans among the predominantly European crowd, but not that many. The club was fully integrated but its black members seemed to keep away on the whole. They had better places to go, thought Morgan, wondering what was going on at the Hotel de Executive. He looked at his watch: just after nine—he would give Hazel a ring to make sure she complied with his
Murray shrugged. “Whenever suits you. Look, I must be going; my daughters are in the car. We’re off to the cinema,” he added in explanation. “
The Ten Commandments.
”
“Fine,” Morgan said, relief flooding his voice. At last he had some success to report to Adekunle. “Shall we say this Thursday afternoon. Four?”
“Good,” Murray agreed. “See you then, first tee.” He said goodnight and walked back to the car-park. Morgan watched him go; he suddenly felt weak from the tension. You bastard, he thought, if you only knew what you are putting me through.
He went shakily into the club, which was busy and, he noted with Scrooge-like displeasure, manifesting signs of Christmas everywhere you looked. The streamers, the baubles, the ruffled bells reminded him once again of his foolish undertaking to personify the spirit of this season himself and for a full minute he raged inwardly against the Fanshawes, mother and daughter. Outside in the club’s garden, spotlights lit up the barbecue. White-jacketed stewards gathered around three huge bath-sized grills made from oil-drums divided longitudinally. These were filled with glowing charcoal and above this hundreds of kebabs sizzled on wire netting laid across the drums. Morgan noticed Lee Wan, a Malay biochemist from the university, ladling out punch. A cheerful, friendly little man who organised pantomimes and children’s parties, he was also a seasoned reprobate, and, under his tutelage, Morgan had been introduced to Nkongsamba’s club-brothels some two months after his arrival in the country. He thought about joining the queue for the kebabs but his appetite had left him and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t come; the bustle and the seasonal gaiety were too overpowering in his present mood.
His eye caught a noticeboard with an arrow-shaped sign on it saying “Teenage disco, this way.” Morgan sighed, a mixture of longing and exasperation. With the advent of the Christmas holidays the expatriate population of Nkongsamba was sizeably increased by the arrival of all the sons and daughters from boarding-school in Britain and Europe. For a month the tennis courts and the swimming pool were taken over by these youthful hedonists. They would lie in groups around the pool’s edge, like basking seals, smoking and drinking, gambolling sexily inthe water and occasionally kissing with shameless abandon. Late one evening he had wandered into one of the club’s teenage discos—some of the girls were breathtakingly attractive—and had found the room in total darkness. Three couples swayed on the dance floor in a position of vertical copulation and the perimeter armchairs were occupied by hunched and entwined combinations of two. Morgan had never,
never
been to a party like that in his life, far less when he was their age, and the unjustness of it all made him tremble with inarticulate envy.
A few of these teenagers wandered about the club now, casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, laughing and joking. Morgan caught a glimpse of Murray’s son standing on his own, friendless apparently, eating a kebab. He gave him a wave but the boy didn’t react. Little creep, thought Morgan, as he turned and headed for the bar. He wanted a drink badly.
The expatriate community needed little excuse to come out in their droves to celebrate and the “Bumper Xmas Barbecue” was no exception. Morgan responded to the smiles and nods of recognition as he threaded his way through the press around the bar. The noise of conversation was intense and people had a flushed excited look. There were a few Kinjanjans among the predominantly European crowd, but not that many. The club was fully integrated but its black members seemed to keep away on the whole. They had better places to go, thought Morgan, wondering what was going on at the Hotel de Executive. He looked at his watch: just after nine—he would give Hazel a ring to make sure she complied with his
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