“Look at that,” said Munday. It was a vista of country so open and empty he wanted to stop the car and march directly across it and lose himself in that expanse.
“Cows,” said Silvano.
“Where?” asked Munday. Then he saw them, at the roadside, cropping grass.
Silvano settled back in the seat and lit a cigarette. He said, “I didn’t know there were so many cows in England.”
“They keep them to pay bride-price,” said Munday. “I had to give half a dozen to Emma’s father when I married her.”
“I think you’re playing, Doctor Alfred,” said Silvano.
“You’re too quick for me.”
“Postgraduate,” said Silvano, and held up his smoking cigarette to examine it.
“Actually, England’s still heavily agricultural,” said Munday. Silvano remained silent, and Munday felt all his old weariness return in the effort of making conversation with -an African, commenting on what was most obvious, spelling out the labored joke. Munday would have preferred to speak in the Bwamba language to mask his insincerity. Somehow, things sounded less trivial spoken in the local dialect. Munday spoke the language well, he used the idioms with ease. He had often said that he knew more about the Bwamba than the Bwamba themselves—it accounted, he thought, for his depressions and their unreasonable cheer.
“Is this your first time out of London?” asked Munday.
“First time,” said Silvano. “So much work to do— always writing and more writing.” Munday said, “Pressure of work.”
“Yes,” said Silvano. He added gravely, “And I have a girl friend.”
“Lucky fellow,” said Munday.
“Young men need to have girl friends,” said Silvano. “Otherwise!” His laughter was full of teeth and greed. Munday knew that Silvano was thirty-five years old; he had a wife who worked in his sizable garden; he supported a pair of aged relatives; he had a bicycle, a short:wave radio, and four children.
“Which reminds me,” said Munday. “How’s your wife?”
“Quite all right,” said Silvano. “Expecting number five.” He continued to smoke calmly. They were passing The Rose and Crown in Broadwindsor. Silvano said, “Are the pubs open?”
“They close early around here,” said Munday. “Two-thirty.”
“We have time for a pint,” said Silvano, looking at his watch. Munday saw that it was a new one. “I always have a pint at this time.”
“I never do,” said Munday.
“There was no beer on the train.”
“I really think we should be getting along,” said Munday as he accelerated past the pub. “Emma’s expecting us. Besides, there’s plenty to drink at the Black House.”
“The Black House,” said Silvano. “Is that a pub?”
“No, no,” said Munday, and he realized that he had spoken the name aloud for the first time. It was like an admission of his acceptance—he had said it quite naturally. “That’s what the locals call my house, don’t ask me why.”
“Interesting,” said Silvano.
Munday explained the English practice of naming houses, illustrating it with the signboards they passed, until, much to his annoyance, Silvano began to call each one out. Munday hoped he would stop, but he kept it up. “The Thistles,” he was saying, “Ladysmith, Aleppo, Bowood House.”
“We’ll let Emma open the door,” said Munday. “She likes the drama.”
“Ah, Silvano,” said Emma, opening the double doors one at a time. “So good to see you.” She had changed into her wool dress and wore a wooden Bwamba brooch, one of the ineptly carved curios they had started to make in the last years of Munday’s residence, to sell in the mission craft-shop.
“He’s eaten,” said Munday. He saw Mrs. Branch lingering at the scullery door, unable to suppress her look of astonishment at the black man chatting in the kitchen. “And this is Mrs. Branch.” She hesitated; in her nervousness she traced a water stain on the wall with her finger. Then she came forward in halting steps, twisting her hands. She said, “Pleased to meet you.” Silvano smiled and put his hand out, but Mrs.
Branch didn’t take it. She locked her fingers together and continued to stare.
“Won’t you have a coffee?” asked Emma.
“Doctor promised me a beer,” said Silvano. He laughed, trumpeting his hilarity with a wide-open mouth.
“So I did,” said Munday. “It’s too early for me, but have one yourself.”
“Let’s go into the other room,” said Emma. “Pauline’s made a fire. It’s lovely and warm.”
“I’ll fetch his case from the car,” said Munday. “Won’t be a minute.” He carried the suitcase upstairs to one of the larger bedrooms (Emma had put flowers in the vase, and a hot-water bottle and towel on the bed), and on an impulse he opened it. It was a large suitcase, heavy cardboard with two leather straps around its middle, the kind that was sold in Indian shops in Uganda. But it contained surprisingly few things—pajamas, a string vest, a sweater, a paperback with Nigger in the title, shaving equipment, several deodorants in aerosol cans (Body Mist, Ban, aftershave lotion). And a picture in a small metal frame. It was a slightly blurred photograph of a rather thin and not young English girl smiling sadly on a bench in a public park. There were thumbprints on the glass. Munday’s first emotion was embarrassment, then great rage at the foolishness of carrying such a picture. But he recognized his anger as unworthy and he returned the picture to the case feeling only pity for the girl, and pity for Emma, and against his will feeling a bit ridiculous himself, as if the glimpse of another man’s desire had devalued and exposed his own.
Emma handed .Munday a cup of coffee when he entered the living room. She said, “Silvano’s telling me about his flat in Earl’s Court.” Munday moved in front of the fire, warming his back. “I thought you had a room at London House.”
“Yes,” said Silvano. “Then I moved. I’m sharing with some other chaps—fellow Ugandans.”
“I should say you’re damned lucky to have a flat,” said Munday. He said peevishly to Emma, “I think of Alec with his bedsitter in Ealing.”
“A flat’s more comfortable,” said Silvano.
“A flat’s more expensive,” said Munday. “But, then Alec’s not on a government grant. His money’s frozen in a Uganda bank account.” Silvano had spoken inoffensively; he was eager to please and impress. But Munday felt a growing resentment against the hair, the new watch, the stylish suit —Silvano plucked at the creases in his trousers—the casual mention of the girl friend, the flat. He was a villager who had for years shared a one-room, grass-rooted hut with his large family. He had served as a subject for one of Munday’s monographs on Bwamba agriculture—he was typical enough for that: a herd-boy, then a clearer of elephant grass, then a family man, indistinguishable from any of the forest people except that he was less quarrelsome, more intelligent, and didn’t drink beer. When Munday first met him, Silvano was convinced that God intended him to be a priest, and it was on the mission’s motorcycle that Silvano went to his extramural classes in Fort Portal. Munday persuaded him against joining the priesthood and, tutoring him privately, got him a place at Makerere. Silvano married; Silvano switched from the School of Agriculture to the English Department; Silvano wrote poems; and on his holidays, when he visited Munday at the Yellow Fever Camp, he had a sharp muhoro in the belt of his drill shorts, and he carried, as a proof of his literacy, a geography book with a faded, soiled cover which gave off the hut smell of dirt and wood-smoke.
“I thought we might go out a bit later and drive to Whitchurch Canonicorum,” said Emma to Silvano. “There’s an English saint buried in the church, and it’s a charming village. We could have a cream tea on the way back. You don’t want to come all this way and miss a cream tea.”