Pandit said, “Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you, yes.”
Lew sat at the table, across from where Ketty had been, and drew her folded newspaper close. But then he saw it was in Swahili, and pushed it away again.
Pandit brought to the table: two teacups with saucers and spoons; two small plates with butter knives; a teapot on a tray, the pot covered by a quilted tea cosy; a small silver tray holding a silver cream pitcher and a silver bowl containing lump sugar; two linen napkins; a butter dish; a saucer of lemon circles; a graceful china ashtray; a plate containing an assortment of cakes and pastries. Meantime, Ketty was assembling a similar though larger grouping on a silver tray; as she carried it out of the room, moving in a stately manner only partially undercut by her absurd rear end, Pandit sat down across the table from Lew and said, “Are you very much interested in coffee plantations?”
Something told Lew this was a kid with whom honesty was the best policy. “Not really,” he said.
“I am, of course,” Pandit said. “But it is my job to be.”
“Because you’ll inherit.”
“I already have some managerial responsibilities,” the boy said.
Lew grinned at him, hoping he’d understand the grin was one of comradeship and not mockery. The boy was so solemn and intelligent, and yet still a kid. “I saw the coffee bushes on the hillsides,” he said, “when we were driving in. I can see there’s a lot of responsibility there.”
“Oh, that isn’t all ours.”
“No?”
“No. It used to be, but when my parents died and we came here, my grandmother had to sell most of our land.”
Already knowing the answer, Lew said, “Came here? From where?”
“Uganda.”
“Ah.”
“Have you been to Uganda?”
“Yes,” Lew said.
“I was seven when we left,” Pandit said, “so I don’t really remember it.”
“It’s not a pleasant place,” Lew said. “This is much nicer.”
“Still,” Pandit said, “I would like to see it someday. When things are different, of course.”
“Of course.”
Getting to his feet, Pandit said, “The tea should be ready.” He removed the cosy, picked up the elaborately black-and-gold pot, held the top with his fingertips, and gently swirled the tea for a moment. Then he poured out Lew’s cup, and the room filled with a delicious aroma. “Sugar?”
“One lump, thank you.”
Pandit gave him sugar, using small silver tongs. “Milk or lemon?”
“Milk. That’s fine.” This was the pervasiveness of British civilization: in the middle of a coffee plantation, they sat down to a formal tea.
At last Pandit, having poured his own tea, covered the teapot with the cosy, sat down again, and they both chose pastries.
Lew said, “What are you interested in besides coffee?”
“Football,” Pandit said.
“Oh, really?”
“I am a very big fan of the Italian team,” Pandit said, his eyes shining.
“The Italian—” Then he caught on. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was confused. I thought you meant American football.”
“No, soccer. I don’t like American football.” Then, catching himself in a possible discourtesy, he quickly asked, “That doesn’t offend you?”
“Not at all,” Lew said, smiling at him. “What don’t you like about American football?”
“It keeps stopping,” the boy said. “Every time it starts, you just begin to get interested and it stops. Football—excuse me, I meant to say soccer—soccer isn’t like that. I find it much more exciting.”
“I suppose it all depends what you’re used to,” Lew said. “Baseball, now, in that game nothing ever happens, and yet it’s still the most popular sport in America.”
“That’s the way it is with cricket,” Pandit said, and shrugged. “Cricket’s all right,” he said dismissively.
There was a door in the far wall; this now opened and a girl came in, carrying two string bags, both filled with various small packages. She was dressed in tan slacks and a tan raincoat and round soft rainhat. “Ah,” she said, smiling at Lew and then at Pandit, “you brought a friend home from school.”
Pandit, flustered but still the gentleman, jumped to his feet, saying, “Amarda, this is Mr. Lewis Brady. Mr. Brady, may I present my sister, Amarda Jhosi.”
Lew rose, hit his head on a hanging copper pot, winced, grinned, said, “Ouch. Hello.”
“Oh, those pots,” she said with a commiserating smile. “We aren’t used to men around here. Tall men, I mean,” she said, bowing a bit at her brother. She looked to be about twenty, with Pandit’s large liquid dark eyes but her own softly oval face. The Indian Princess, Lew thought.
“I’ll get you a cup,” Pandit offered.
“Thank you. It’s beastly outside.”
Lew watched, not yet fully realizing that he was smitten, as she removed her hat and shook out her thick black hair. The hat and raincoat went on a chair; she wore a white-on-white blouse, and around her throat a thin gold chain. She unloaded the string bags quickly, putting things away in the refrigerator or on shelves, while Pandit set a third place at the end of the table, between the males. He poured the tea, added a lemon circle, selected a brownish square piece of cake for her dish, and was just sitting down again when she joined them, saying, “Perfect.” Seating herself, she said, “But why are we hiding out here in the kitchen?”
“Mama is in the parlor with Mr. Balim.”
Her manner at once changed; understanding came into her face, and something else. Giving Lew a quick look of unconcealed distaste, she said, “I see.”
The smitten one cannot stand rejection. Lew said, “Is it that distasteful to break bread with the chauffeur?”
The look she gave him now was honestly bewildered. “I beg your pardon?”
“I could wait in the car, if you prefer.”
Pandit, shocked at this breach of etiquette but determined to maintain his own civility, said, “Surely not!”
“Chauffeur?” echoed Amarda Jhosi; then she said, “Oh, I see what you mean. No, to be honest, I hadn’t even thought that word.”
Himself bewildered now, Lew said, “What word did you think?”
“It doesn’t matter. Have some cake.”
Ignoring the pastry plate she held up for him, he said, “Miss Jhosi, what word did you think?”
She hesitated, frowning at him, wanting it to be forgotten. But when she saw he intended to stick on this point, she gave an annoyed little headshake, put the cake plate down, gave her brother a little apologetic look, frowned at the lemon circle drifting in her tea, and said, “If you insist, the word I thought was thief.”
Lew was so angry he could barely control himself. The source of her mad against Balim was her own business, but he wouldn’t let her tar him with the same brush. Holding his voice lower than usual, to keep from shouting, he said, “What have I ever stolen from you, Miss Jhosi?”
Her annoyance showed itself again in a quick glare, and she said, “You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Aren’t you here right now to negotiate with my grandmother about the stolen goods?”
Stolen goods? Balim had said nothing about the reason for this trip, hadn’t even suggested it was connected with their own coffee caper, but now the whole thing laid itself out in front of Lew’s eyes, as clearly as if Balim himself had taken Lew into his confidence.
Here is a family, the Jhosis, who used to have coffee plantations in both Uganda and Kenya. They were among the Asians expelled from Uganda by Amin in 1972, when in some manner the parents of these two died—or were killed. That would have left the grandmother and the children with nothing but this Kenyan plantation, part of which they’d had to sell off because of their financial bind. On the other hand, here is Balim, who will soon be in possession in Kenya of tons and tons of smuggled coffee; somehow it will be necessary to reintroduce that coffee into legal channels of trade. Why not arrange for the coffee to be shipped from the Jhosi plantation, under the Jhosi brand name? In typical Balim fashion, he will be solving a problem of his own and helping needy co-nationals at the same time.