“You know how much I hated it,” said Emma, and added her correction softly, “Them.”
“We could have discussed it.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said, trying not to smile. Then, “I didn’t want to sound pathetic—I thought it would bore you.”
“You had your painting.”
“I had my painting,” Emma said, and now she did smile; she saw the water colors she had forced herself to make, Native Hut, Tulip Tree in Blossom, Rhino Camp—the perfect reflection of the promontory in Lake Albert that had been hung upside-down at the British Council Library in Fort Portal, Humped Cattle, and that mess, Sunset over the Congo. She looked up at Munday, “And you had your people.”
“You’re ridiculing me.”
“Because sometimes,” said Emma, “you are ridiculous.”
“Don’t start again,” said Munday, remembering that sudden voice against the wall, and Flack at the door.
“Your people. That’s what you called them.”
“That’s what they were.”
“ ‘Lapses,’ ” said Emma. “That’s what savagery is when you call savages people.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” said Munday.
“So we have,” she said, her tone going from hostility to gentleness as she turned her head.
“Savages, savagery. I daresay the people around here will agree with you,” said Munday. “As if any of you know the first thing about it!” He went on emptying the suitcase with angry vigor, and slapping a stack of clean shirts said, “I’ve got a surprise for them.”
“What’s that?”
“You remember Silvano, the Bwamba chap who’s at the London School of Economics? I’m planning to have him down here one weekend, as soon as we’ve moved into the house. Introduce him to all the locals, show him around.” Munday’s face became amused. “Should be interesting,” he said with satisfaction. “They don’t see many Africans around here.”
“So you’re going to inflict Silvano on them, is that it?” Emma saw a cheetah, teardrop markings down its jowls, the wild thing on a leash, being taken to tea at a grand house, causing awe-struck stares and nervous conversation, then curled and panting loudly by the feet of a scared guest.
Munday smiled, and snorted with pleasure.
“Like some strange pet,” Emma said. She saw the cheetah pawing the air, frightening strangers with its teeth and claws and bright fur.
“Let’s not argue about it,” said Munday. “Look, it’s almost dark.”
The husband and wife looked at the window and saw their reflections staring in at them, though it was not yet four. The insubstantial gloom of the afternoon which had made the view such a deep African green, had become night during their short talk, giving them a reason for ending it and further emphasizing the familiarity Munday felt about the landscape, for that velvet dark, the liquid windows and the overbright yellow bulbs of the room circled by one dusty moth —all of it, with the smell of floorwax, reminded him of African night and African seclusion. He wondered: Have I carried Africa here?
“We should finish this unpacking,” he finally said. He turned his back on the window and walked over to the bureau where a drawer sagged open.
“Your letter to The Times,” Emma said. “Do you really believe all that?”
“Emma,” he said, warning her with her name. “Because / don’t. I want you to know that. I’m glad we’re here—home.”
“This isn’t home.”
“It’s England,” said Emma.
“A comer of it.”
“We’re English,” she said.
“We’re strangers here,” he said; his voice was gruff. “What were we in Africa?”
“English,” he said.
Emma said, “You know nothing.”
Munday was annoyed; he couldn’t reply to that. But he remembered something else. He said, “What do you mean by saying I’m ridiculous?”
4
Emma resumed her unpacking. She did not say anything immediately. She took a wool dress out of her suitcase and sniffed it, then found a hanger for it and put it in the wardrobe. Then she said, “That little charade at Waterloo.”
The incident had upset him; it was something he had tried to forget, but Emma’s words made a picture of the furry white erasure on his mind, and he saw the obliterated portion and finally the mistake.
They had been late, it was raining. He had lugged the heavy suitcases into the station—cursing the taxi driver who had made no move to help, the huddle of porters who were unloading a coach—and past the newsstand he spotted a porter wheeling an empty baggage carrier. Munday dropped his suitcases and waved to him; the porter did not see him. Munday moved closer in a spurt, jerking the cases, calling out, and when the porter hesitated, Munday ordered him sharply to hurry up. The porter, squinting, stood his ground, for both times Munday had spoken in Swahili.
Munday was berating the porter in Swahili, furious at the man’s hesitation, when Emma cut him off— “Don’t be a jackass, Alfred,” she said—and walked away. The porter, sensing that he was being mocked, wheeled his baggage carrier in the opposite direction. Alone and fearing for his heart, Munday dragged the suitcases onto the platform.
“I was confused,” said Munday. “He was black.”
“That explains it, of course,” said Emma, looking at her wrist watch with an indifference Munday believed she was pretending simply to anger him.
At half-past six, leaving Emma resting, Munday went down for a drink. He pushed open the door of the bar and set a bell jangling. It startled him, he touched his heart; and it jangled again as he closed the door. He carried his pain across the room.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Flack. He was at the bar, still in his overcoat, rubbing his hands. Behind him were shelves and shelves of bright candies in large jars, wine gums, mint humbugs, mint imperials, boiled sweets, wrapped toffees. Behind that nodding aged head a sign reading New Tooty Aniseed Chewsl “How are you getting on?”
“Just about finished,” said Munday, and he turned to take in the whole room, the bar billiards table, the hunting prints, the color print of the old brewery, Cobnut Sliced, the dusty blue sign Briggs Empire Shag, the high yellow walls, a trestle table with the ring marks of glasses, a dart board set in a scarred rubber hoop that had been filleted from a tire, the brass bell above the door, and three old men, motionless as sticks of furniture.
Two of them sat on stools by the fireplace where a low fire glowed under a smoky heaping of coal, a whitehaired one in a threadbare jacket, another in a thick dark coat which reached to his ankles. The third, in a suit jacket and clean bib-overalls, and wearing a too-small crushed felt hat, sat on a bench by the front window. Munday smiled at them, but only the third reacted: he tugged his hat brim in a negligent gesture of recognition. He might have been straightening the hat. The other two shifted on their stools, but continued to study the fire, the smoke curling from between the lumps of coal.
“What will it be?” asked Mr. Flack.
“Is that cider?” Munday pointed to a plump white barrel resting on a rack. Lettered on the barrel was the name of a brewery and Cyder.
“That’s your dry.”
“I’ll take a half of that.”
Mr. Flack bent to the barrel, twisted the wooden spigot, and drew off a plopping glassful. He placed the cloudy liquid before Munday and said, “Four-pence.”
“Very reasonable,” said Munday. An arrogance in Mr. Flack’s manner, different from the civility he had shown upstairs, urged Munday to say curtly, “Have one yourself, Flack.”
“Cheers, sir, I’ll have a tickle of this.” He took a bottle of Glenfiddich from under the bar and poured himself an expensive measure. “To your very good health.”