“If the Axis win or the Allies. Having saved the English from the Germans, the Americans will not let them have back what they once stole. These are vast markets. The Americans will want them. Once geared up for war, they will need to produce for peace. I am not a vengeful man, but if Perfidious Albion were to take a bashing, I would not shed a tear.”
He had just made the traditional blessing on the wine, chanting the brief prayer in an unusual sing-song that would have puzzled my parents, for it reflected a Jewish tradition that was alien to them. Salting two pieces torn from a yellow loaf heady with turmeric, he passed the plate to me. As we chewed, only the two of us at one end of his long dining table on the terrace overlooking the old town and the dhows in the harbor shining like triangles of light, he brought up what we had been avoiding since the day we had met.
“Joan darling…”
The servants came in, bearing trays of food: vegetable samosas, nyama choma of lamb on a bed of pilau, and boiled collard greens, sukuma wiki. It was hard to know what his Shirazis thought of this, for on the rare occasions when Abraham’s wife came out with the girls, they served her as well. Discrete they were, of course, but bribable. Everyone in Africa was bribable. And not stupid: just as Abraham knew everything that went on in his universe, it was inconceivable that Mrs. Talal did not know what went on in hers. Hindu or Muslim, Christian or Jew, no woman could bear to know that her husband had taken another. Nor could I bear to be that other. The servants withdrew. It would be easier for us both if I spoke first. “It’s not a good situation, is it?”
“We’re about to spoil a Sabbath meal, aren’t we?”
“I told you, I’m never too angry to eat.”
“Too hurt, then?”
“I’m a rancher’s daughter. I don’t hurt easily. And you needn’t worry. I make it a point not to cry.”
“Will you mind if I do?”
Despite myself, I let go a hard look. I’d wanted more self-control than that. “I’d be surprised if you did, Abraham, whether about the decline of Albion or the decline of us. We’ve had our fun. Let’s leave it at that.”
At this, his face drained of color, then as suddenly flushed. “That is unnecessary and untrue, Joan. If I could, I would divorce. You know that.”
“You mean, if you could without repercussions.”
“My wife is a good woman. She does not deserve to be abandoned. The children do not need the shame.”
“Nor do I, Abraham,” I said.
“You deserve better than this, my Joan.”
“I deserve nothing more than a lift home,” I said. “Will you summon your driver, or shall I call a cab?”
VIII
Two weeks later I broke J8. Maybe I could have done it earlier and, theoretically at least, caused the war to end that much sooner. Maybe not. All I know is that I was again working hard and long and with renewed intensity; perhaps I got lucky. There was also much to be learned from the others’ progress, so that when the eureka moment arrived I hardly felt triumph, but merely relief. Somewhere in the Indian Ocean or in the Pacific, an American submarine or warplane would soon be bearing down on a Japanese tanker or a freighter carrying ammunition or food for the imperial troops in their island fortresses, or perhaps the very troops themselves. My work would have been part of that, as much so as if I’d pressed the button that released the torpedo or dropped the bomb. I often dreamed of it, colorful melodramatic dreams in which the horror my work had unleashed lived alongside, thrived alongside, the self-satisfaction of success.
“Good show on the ciphers, Ferrin!”
Vice Admiral Lord Braithwaite had finally gotten my name straight. He was grinning, the full ruin of his English dentistry leaping out at me. I thought he might clap my back. “You’re being mentioned in dispatches, are you aware?”
“Col. Moseley was good enough to let me know. My job, sir.”
“Nonsense. You boffins have turned out a delightful surprise. It’s hardly a secret I didn’t think any of this would amount to a hill of — Cyril?”
“Maharagwe,” Albright said.
“Maharagwe, beans, maharagwe,” Braithwaite said, as if he were a boy at school. “Mr. Albright is teaching me useful Swahili, Ferrin. After the war I may come back here, buy a farm. Don’t like the coast much. Entirely too hot. But in the highlands, tea, a few cows, maharagwe, that sort of thing. India’s done. People won’t work. Politicized.”
“I’m told, Lord Braithwaite, that the British presence in Kenya may be somewhat reduced after the war.” I have no idea why I said that. It was as if I were intent on bringing Abraham into the conversation, as though I had absorbed part of him in me — and was now compelled to get him out. “Nationalism, sir.”
“Nonsense, Ferrin. The Union Jack will never be struck in East Africa. It may not be fashionable to say so, but your native Kenyan is no…” He looked again to Albright.
“Mzungu.”
“Yes, of course. I know that one. Mzungu, wazungu. Without us wazungu they’ll come a cropper, and they know it.” His tone now changed. “Tell me about my horses, Ferrin.”
For some reason, what I was about to say gave me a peculiar kind of physical pleasure, the kind that might be difficult to describe in mixed company. I had been rehearsing my response for days now. I delivered the verdict slowly, spacing out the words. “Your horses, sir, belong to Mr. Talal.”
“I know that.”
“And he is not giving them up.”
“Of course he is, Ferrin. It’s just price.”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Price, price, price.”
“No, your lordship,” I said. “No. No. No.”
“Don’t be cheeky with me, lieutenant. What’s a fair price? I don’t need them all. One stallion, one mare. It’s not the world, is it?”
“You don’t have the money, sir.”
“I have as much as I require.”
“Lord Braithwaite, whatever your offer, it will be refused,” I said. “Mr. Talal does not wish to sell to you, or to anyone else. That is conclusive. Consequently, if it pleases your lordship, I should like to request reassignment.”
“It doesn’t. You may not.”
“Sir, I — ”
“I don’t care what you request, Ferrin. This isn’t the bloody RCAF. You’ll stand your watch until relieved.”
“Sir, I am mjamzito.”
“What?”
“Mjamzito,” I repeated. “Your lordship.”
“What is that? Cyril, what is this girl saying?”
A vacuum opened up in the room, a balloon of silence that grew and grew until finally Albright popped it, as though with a pin. But it was not a pin. It was his tone. “Vice admiral, the lieutenant is saying…”
In whatever language, the phrase had almost certainly never been spoken by a lieutenant to a flag officer of the Royal Navy, and certainly not in Swahili. It took a moment, a long one. Braithwaite looked from Albright to me, then back to Albright, then back to me. Beneath his luxuriant mustache the vice admiral pursed his thin lips, then walked resolutely behind his desk and, heavily, sat. Finally he spoke. “Extraordinary.”
“Not really, sir,” I said.
“How?”
“The usual way, sir.”
“I mean to say, Lieutenant Ferrin, by whom?”
“Your lordship, I’d rather not say.”
“One of my officers? I must know.”
“No, sir. Not one of your officers.”
Braithwaite’s eyes now widened in horror. “Not an officer? Other ranks?”