The Governor's Lady by Norman Collins Page A

transfixed.
    Then impulsively pushing his drink away from him, he slid off the high stool and came over.
    â€˜Excuse me, sir,’ he said with a little bow as though he were a shopwalker. ‘Do I disturb private thoughts, or may I be so bold as to enquire if that is an Emma tie you are wearing? You follow me, sir? Emma— Emmanuel College of Cambridge University, England?’
    Harold shifted round to face him. The young man was bent forward, arching his shoulders as he did so. His politeness was overwhelming.
    â€˜Yes, it’s an Emmanuel tie,’ Harold told him.
    The young man was temporarily overcome. Then he shot out a powerful hand of welcome.
    â€˜Permit me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘The name is Ngo Ngono.You’ve heard of me? I was at Cambridge University, too. At Caius. Often I, also, wear my College tie. But tonight it is a flowered one, unfortunately. Permit me to give you my card. It has my name on it.’
    While he was speaking, he had produced an expensive-looking morocco wallet, and was carefully drawing out a card from between its two little leaves of tissue paper.
    â€˜As you will well know, sir,’ he explained, ‘it is not usual to mention the name of the college. Only the University. And the degree, of course. Is this your first visit? Are you happy? Do you have any wishes? Allow me to offer you a drink, sir. A token for old good times beside the Cam. Tell me your pleasure.’
    â€˜I’m drinking lager,’ Harold told him.
    But Mr. Ngono would not hear of it.
    â€˜It must be champagne,’ he said. ‘Champagne for a celebration. Often when alone I drink champagne. It is quite my usual. I prefer it.’
    He clapped his hands as he said so and called to the boy at the far end of the bar.
    â€˜A bottle of champagne in a bucket with ice and two glasses. Champagne glasses of course, all double quick.’ Then turning to Harold, he added. ‘This is such great pleasure for myself bumping into you like this. Think of the talks that we shall have. There is so little conversation in Amimbo. Not deep, intellectual conversation I mean. Not about mutual friends.’
    Over the champagne, Mr. Ngono became not merely convivial, but inquisitive.
    â€˜And your important employment?’ he asked. ‘You are connected with the Government? You will be our new Resident Officer? Is it Omtala you are destined for? You have heard about the regrettable vacancy, of course. They will be most pleased to see you.’
    â€˜I’m a statistician,’ Harold replied. ‘They won’t be wanting me up there.’
    Mr. Ngono waved the point aside.
    â€˜Permit me, sir, to disagree. Emphatically, bloody-well disagree. Statisticians are needed everywhere. This is a very backward country in some respects. Omtala has not even one statistician. Not damn one. You know why I am here?’
    Harold shook his head.
    â€˜Then I will tell you. In great confidence, of course. I have come tofound a publishing house. To counteract the backwardness. A publishing house like Macmillan’s. There is widespread illiteracy among my people. Among the women especially, it is deplorable. The books will be in the native dialects, with the corresponding pictures in colour facing opposite. And all in foreign translations, at a later stage. It will be a very large publishing house. I myself as founder shall be its managing director.’
    â€˜Should be interesting,’ Harold told him.
    â€˜Most interesting, indeed,’ Mr. Ngono continued. ‘Of course, I shall require Government backing. I shall demand it—very discreetly, but most firmly. It will not succeed unless books are made compulsory. I shall ask the Governor to declare illiteracy illegal. Ban it right out with heavy fines.’
    He paused, breathless for a moment, and then resumed.
    â€˜Have you met our Governor?’ he asked. ‘Maybe I could help you with an introduction?