Sir Denis might have responded to that, with some dinner-table jest, but Amin became at once serious again, and the lecture swept on, undiminished. “But-ah in Africa, you got-ah to be very careful about how clean-ah you are. You got-ah to look under dah fingernails”—he pointed at his own horny square amber nails on his thick-fingered brown-skinned hand—“you got-ah to look in your hair”—he tapped a middle finger against his great coconut skull—“and you got-ah to look very careful at-ah your private parts.” This time he pointed at Sir Denis.
“Actually,” Sir Denis said, determined to waylay the conversation and take it off to some more pleasant clime, “even in Europe—”
“And-ah your clodes,” Amin told him. “Your under-ah-clodes and-ah your shoes and-ah all-ah your clodes. It’s-ah very important for-ah dah African to keep-ah himself clean. Dis is-ah why when dah European come, dey brought-ah dah epidemic.”
“Yes, I take your point,” Sir Denis said, speaking much more quickly than normal, “but I don’t think—”
“Now-ah dah Nile,” Amin said, leaning closer, as though about to impart an extremely important secret, known to few, “dah Nile is very dangerous for-ah dah water. Also dah crocodile”—here he interrupted himself to chuckle, but swooped back to the lecture before Sir Denis could make use of the opportunity—“but more-ah dan even dah crocodile you got-ah dah microbe. You know-ah dah microbe?”
“Yes, of course, I—”
“It can make-ah you very sick,” Amin said. “In-ah dah stomach, and out-ah dah ass.”
It went on like that.
After dinner, in a rustic unfinished-looking room—rather like the lounge in a small unsuccessful family hotel in the mountains—there was entertainment. Amin, showing another side of his personality, stood by the Ping-Pong table and described with vast enjoyment an epic game of table tennis between himself and a young Ugandan Air Force colonel. Amin mimed the great sweeping forehands and intricate little sneaky shots, his mobile face ranging from comic triumph to comic despair. He gave a running commentary—a quite funny running commentary—mixed with quotes from himself and from the colonel. He imitated the colonel as a very upright, very British, very old-school-tie sort of young chap, and he imitated himself as a clumsy but game bear. At the end, when all hope seemed lost, the bear delivered a series of massive backhand smashes—“A high-drogen bomb! Boom!” Amin cried, and lashed his arm around as though to demolish the wall—and the bear won.
Sir Denis was surprised to find himself laughing, along with the rest of the guests. The man could truly be quite funny, quite charming and personable. The only reminder that this wasn’t the total Amin was the fact that the American couple with the government-dependent airline laughed much too loudly and too long, and twice they even led applause. The odor of their panic was a subtle but effective antidote to Amin’s playful charm.
After the recitative, music. A band dressed irrelevantly in Mexican-style outfits—sombreros, small bullfighter jackets, black trousers with intricate silver designs down the seams—stood at one end of the room with horns and guitars and played tinkly popular music accompanied by the rattling of a lot of gourds.
Amin started the dancing, his first partner being Patricia Kamin and the second his wife. Sir Denis watched Patricia, small and graceful in the arms of big lumbering Amin, and then he looked away.
There was a bar at the opposite end of the room. Sir Denis went there and asked for a brandy. They had none, so he took gin-and-tonic, and was turning away when Baron Chase came over, saying, “Wait for me. Beer,” he told the barman, accepted it, and strolled with Sir Denis down the side of the room.
The obedient American couple were now dancing, awkwardly, their elbows sticking out. Bob Astles danced with the German woman. Chase said quietly, “If I heard you right this afternoon, you’re a neutral.”
They were moving closer to the band, and it was hard to hear Chase over the trumpet and saxophones, which was undoubtedly the man’s idea. Sticking close to him, Sir Denis said, “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”
“You have no stake in this,” Chase said. “You don’t have opinions. You just do what you’re told.”
“I suppose that’s a fair description.”
“You don’t carry tales.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t understand the statement.” Amin was dancing now with his wife; Patricia was at the bar.
“I mean,” Chase said, frowning at the trumpet player, “if you found out the Brazilians were cheating Grossbarger, just as a for instance, you wouldn’t squeal to Grossbarger. You’re neutral.”
“Oh, I see.” Sir Denis thought hard about that. “I’m not sure that’s right,” he said. “Morally neutral? I wouldn’t want to do anything to destroy a fair and equitable negotiation, but if one party were engaged in fraud, wouldn’t it be my obligation to bring that into the open?”
Chase suddenly smiled, as though that were the answer he’d been waiting for, all along. “Fine,” he said. “We’re all safe with you, our secrets are safe, our prospects are safe, as long as we’re all good boys.”
“An odd way to look at it.”
“Oh, very good!” Chase cried, but now he meant something else. He was looking across the room, and now he started to applaud. So did the American couple. The band hurriedly finished their number.
Amin was coming forward, grinning and nodding, carrying in one hand a small accordionlike instrument. A band member dragged over a folding chair from the side wall. Amin nodded his thanks, sat down in front of the band facing the audience, and called out, “Now you goin tah hear sometin! Now you goin tah dance!” He thumped out the rhythm with his right foot and started to play a bouncy little tune. Raggedly at first, but then more professionally, the band gave him accompaniment.
Patricia was standing beside Sir Denis; tapping his arm, she said, “Care to dance?”
“I’d love to. I am a bit rusty.”
“We’ll lubricate you.”
He put his glass on a side table next to hers, and they joined most of the other guests in the middle of the floor. He wasn’t quite sure whether he was doing a waltz or a polka or a foxtrot, but it didn’t seem to matter; high spirits had taken over, and from an extremely unpromising beginning, an actual party was coming to life. Also, it was delicious to feel the slender athletic body of Patricia Kamin in his arms.
Amin played two tunes, then played both of them again, then stopped. Patricia smiled at Sir Denis, told him how well he danced, said she would love to squire him to a dance someday in London, and when Amin stopped playing she said, “It must be very lonely for you, spending so much time far from home.”
He didn’t have a home, not since the death of Alicia, but that didn’t seem the right topic for conversation at the moment, so he merely said, “Well, I have my work. I do enjoy that.”
“Still. They gave you the pretty room, didn’t they? The one with the great big bed?”
“That’s right.”
“I get lonely, too, sometimes,” she said, astonishing him. “If I get lonely later tonight, may I come see you?”
“But of course,” he said, flabbergasted.