‘I have spoken to Mr Johnson. He has explained some of the matter to me. I’ve told him that you are one of the most reliable members of the faculty. As a result he has been kind enough to allow the use of his office for us to have this conversation.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I see no reason why this should take very long at all.’ His manner was devoid of the fractious energy and absent-mindedness he displayed at other times. I was pleased. He was taking it seriously. At last somebody to make sense of it all, to lead me out of this place.
‘I have no idea what this is about,’ I said. ‘I can assure you.’
‘Mr Johnson tells me the police are clamping down on illegal publications,’ said the Dean. ‘It seems you may have been swept up in somebody else’s business.’
He pushed a newspaper across the desk towards me, one of those street sheets, with names like Scope and Searchlight. I thought of the vendor whose arrest I’d witnessed. The paper on the desk bore a date a month old; in terms of quality it was marginally better produced than most.
The Dean continued, ‘It’s simply a matter of cooperating with these people.’
I didn’t have the strength to argue with the Dean, to tell him what kind of person Johnson was, how you could not believe anything he said. I waited.
The Dean pushed the paper an inch further towards me. ‘He asks me to show you this.’
‘What does this have to do with me?’
‘Take a look.’
I opened the paper, and began to turn the leaves one by one. I could feel the Dean watching me. On the third page, on the right-hand side, a headline caused me to pause. I felt the same small electrical jolt to my heart as when Johnson had mentioned my essay. This article was entitled, ‘A Black Man on the Moon’.
‘Read it.’
I had paused too long. I should have continued turning the pages, maintained a pretence. Too late. So I did as the Dean had asked me and read the article. Put plainly, it consisted of a sustained attack upon the government, on the regime’s failure to observe basic human rights during their time in power. Progress in the country was in danger of stalling because the elite had more interest in lining their pockets. The relevance of the headline was to indicate to the reader how distant we were as a nation from such an achievement. There was no byline, and I noticed none of the other articles had bylines either. I scanned the article quickly; one phrase came to the fore that still sticks: At the present rate of development it will take a century to achieve what many nations manage in a decade. An inversion of the words Julius had used, the very first evening we spent together. A century of work in a single decade. He’d been talking about the moon landing.
The Dean watched me, leaning back in Johnson’s chair, balanced between the chair’s two back legs and his toes. Before I had finished reading he interrupted. ‘Not the kind of thing we want associated with the university, I think you’ll agree.’
I nodded, I was scarcely in a position to do otherwise.
He let the chair drop forward and leaned his elbows on the desk. He was silent, tapping his pursed lips with his forefinger. Then he put his fingertips together, and looked at me over their steepled arch. ‘Really, it’s a matter of coming to some arrangement with these people. No more than that.’
CHAPTER 25
Kai watched the pump lever move up and down, the pink liquid slide from side to side within the glass tank as the level dropped, rising in Old Faithful’s tank. To Kai the colour of petrol was a faint surprise, always. He stretched, felt the skin tight across his back from the swim. Driving with the car windows down, he’d retained the feeling of freshness from that first dive into the water. Somehow he had never expected to find their old haunt unchanged. Surely that was the true force of nature. When so much else lay in ruins, the waterfall, the rocks, the river: these things remained.
One station in town with petrol. Cars, motorbikes, people holding containers, all waited in a line — still, Kai’s mood was good. He counted out the notes and gave them to the attendant. Afterwards he held his hands out in front of him and spread his fingers. No trembling. Good. He looked around for Abass and Adrian. The driver of the car next in line sounded his horn and gave a lazy wave. And so Kai slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine and pulled out of the petrol station. He parked up, still looking around. Ah, there was Abass. The boy stood, fingering cassettes with all the awe and yearning of an archaeologist handling an ancient pot he knows he must return to the earth. Of Adrian there was no sign. Kai got out of the car and went over to the stall, where the stallholder, in his white djellaba and skullcap, perched upon his stool like a stork, one leg crossed over the other.
‘Hey, little man.’ But Abass, deafened by the music, didn’t hear him. Kai put the palms of his hands on the child’s head, Abass tried to swivel round, Kai applied pressure, pinning him to the spot. Abass giggled and squirmed.
The stallholder joined in, laughing oilily. ‘Yes, sir. Your son has been safe with me.’
Kai nodded at him briefly and waited for Abass to correct the stallholder, to tell him Kai was his uncle. Children were particular like that. But Abass said nothing. Kai looked down at Abass, at his bowed head. The pattern of the hairs, near perfect concentric circles ending in a single hair in the centre of the crown. The curled rim of his ears. The unblemished skin. He wondered if Abass remembered anything about his father. He had never asked. And earlier that day, seeing the bodies by the side of the road, Abass had displayed only a child’s morbid curiosity.
‘Look!’ Abass held the cassette box up for Kai’s inspection.
‘Is this the one you want?’
Abass nodded vigorously.
The vendor watched sideways on.
‘How much?’ Kai asked the vendor.
‘Five thousand,’ the man replied.
Kai dug in his pocket for the notes.
‘What of this one?’ The vendor held up a second cassette. Kai felt Abass’s eyes upon him.
‘No thanks. Just the one,’ said Kai, then to Abass, ‘Where’s Adrian?’
‘He’s coming back soon. He said I should wait.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Abass, shrugging as he inspected his purchase. ‘Not very long, I don’t think.’ Then with more emphasis, ‘Like a minute, maybe.’
‘Twenty minutes now,’ said the vendor as he took the money.
Kai looked at the man properly this time. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘No,’ said Abass chirpily. ‘He didn’t say anything, except I was to stay here.’
The vendor didn’t reply directly but pointed with his chin as he pushed the notes into his money belt. ‘This road here. This is the one he took.’
‘Thank you. Come on.’ He reached out for Abass. ‘Let’s go find Adrian.’ He released Abass’s hand and watched the kid run ahead, his arms whirling, kicking up dust.
No sign of Adrian down the road the stallholder had indicated. The street was empty, the market extended no further than the square. Dusk was deepening. Houses were shuttered up, the occupants mostly out back, gathered around the cooking fires. Abass made a game of it, rushing to peer down every side road and calling out Adrian’s name. When he heard Abass’s cry, Kai began to run. By the time he reached the corner his heart was racing. He turned into the street.