“I know.”
“I never felt like that before with anyone. I liked it. I was afraid you wouldn’t be here tonight.”
I kept staring at her hair where the light caught it and made it shine like new honey. “It usually happens when you’re fourteen or fifteen.”
She smiled at the Australian as he served the drink and he smiled back. “He approves,” I said. “My masculinity is confirmed. After we finish this we’ll stroll past the local gas station so the lads can make a proper appraisal.”
“Did you ever do that? Parade your girl friends before the boys at the corner garage or drugstore?”
I shook my head. “The corner garage and drugstore were out by the time I reached puberty. By then it was the drive- in and you showed around ten p.m. in the family sedan. Or in your own car, if you were affluent.”
“Were you?”
“Affluent?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. He made it off wheat.”
“Was he a farmer?”
“Is. No, he owns an elevator.”
“Where?”
“In North Dakota.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s okay. He likes North Dakota. That pretty well sums him up, except for his wife. His second one. She’s what I think they used to call a stepper.”
“You like her?”
“Yes. She’s fine.”
“Now I know all about you.”
“There’s a bit more, but not much.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Minnesota.”
“English lit — right?”
“Wrong. Letters.”
“Letters?”
“As close to a classical education as Minnesota got that year. It was an experiment. A little Latin, and less Greek. It was to produce the well-rounded man. I think they abandoned it in favor of something called communications shortly after I was graduated.”
“A wholesome background,” she said. “All Midwestern and chock full of wheaty goodness.”
“There are a few edges that still need sanding.”
She told me about herself — the bare outline of a life in Florida with parents who were moderately wealthy and moderately young and who got along with each other most of the time. There had been no traumas — her life had run smoothly through high school and college and then into the Peace Corps after eighteen months with a social welfare agency in Chicago.
“It’s not much of a life, is it?”
I smiled at her. “It still has a few years to go.”
The voice that came over my shoulder was smooth and polished and when I turned to see who belonged to it I wasn’t disappointed. He was about six-feet-one, tall for an Albertian, and he carried it straight up and down. The gleam of the leather of his Sam Browne belt matched that of his custom calf-length boots. The crowns on his shoulder said that he was a Major and the uniform I took to be that of the Albertian army. His voice, deep, mellow and smooth as warm grease, had said: “Good evening, Miss Kidd.”
She turned, looked at him, and smiled. I envied him the smile. “Major Chuku,” she said. “It’s nice to see you.”
“I didn’t know you were in Barkandu.”
“I came down two days ago — to see the dentist.”
“A smile so lovely should receive every care,” said the Major — a slick article, I decided.
“Major Chuku, I would like you to meet Peter Upshaw.”
“How do you do?” I said, and we shook hands. He had the weight and the breadth of hand, but he didn’t press his advantage. It was just a firm, normal shake.
“You are down from London, Mr. Upshaw?”
“Yes.”
“On business or pleasure?”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
“I hope then that it will be profitable.”
“Thank you.”
“Major Chuku commands the battalion in Ubondo,” Anne said. “You may be seeing something of each other. Mr. Upshaw is down for the campaign.”
The Major’s eyebrows arched politely and his forehead took on a few interested wrinkles. “Are you one of the Americans whom we’re importing to bring us abreast of the latest political tactics, Mr. Upshaw?”
“Yes.”
“Do you happen to be associated with my good friend, Padraic Duffy?”
“I work for him,” I said.
“Then we must have a drink together,” the Major said firmly. “Surely you will be good enough to be my guest?”
“That’s very kind,” I said.
We left the bar and found a table. The Major sidled around and held Anne’s chair for her. At least it looked like a sidle. He had a round smooth face with a sharp straight nose and small ears that almost came to points. His hair seemed to lie in neat black ringlets around his head. His mouth was big and wide and he wore it in a darting white smile for company, but when he ordered the drinks from the waiter it straightened itself out into a firm enough line. He had that look of command that you usually find only in experienced kindergarten teachers or general officers.
When the drinks came, the Major insisted on paying. I let him. “Now tell me, Mr. Upshaw. How is my good friend, Padraic? The last time I saw him he was trying to convince me that I should invest heavily in cocoa shares. Sometimes I think I should have followed his advice.”
“You met him down here?”
“Yes, when he first came down on the Cocoa Board thing. Chief Akomolo was responsible for Padraic’s introduction to Albertia. Do you know the Premier well?”
“We’ve only met socially.”
“An interesting man,” the Major said. “And an ambitious one. It was at his house that Miss Kidd and I met. He was entertaining the first members of the Peace Corps to arrive in his region.”
“Are you following the political campaign closely, Major?” I asked.
He laughed and made it sound as if he had heard a joke. A funny one. “I have enough difficulty in keeping up with the intramural politics of the army. No, I do not follow governmental politics, only the politicians.”
“There is a difference?”
“Of course. Let us say Mr. X is this particular politician of this particular party, while Sir Y is a politician who owes allegiance to another party. I’m really not at all interested in what either Mr. X or Sir Y says, does or promises. I’m only interested in what happens to them. To put it yet another way: I am not interested in whether the jockey stands up in the stirrups on the back stretch — but only if the horse he rides comes in first.”
“You give the winner a name?”
The Major smiled. It was the disarming smile of a man who seems to have nothing to hide. “Sometimes,” he said, “the winner is called ‘Liberty Bell.’ Sometimes it might run under the name ‘Africa Mine.’ Most lately, it’s been using ‘Martial Air.’”
“I’d put two pounds on the last one if the odds were right.”
“I don’t gamble, Mr. Upshaw. I prefer the security of flat certainty. Perhaps that is why I have been so unsuccessful with the ladies.”
“I’m afraid you’re also something of a liar, Major,” Anne said. “Your name is often mentioned at Ubondo’s hen parties. And it’s usually accompanied by a friendly warning, and giggles.”
“At the earliest opportunity I should like to demonstrate what lies they tell about one. Especially in a place such as Ubondo. I assure you, Miss Kidd, I am completely harmless.”
I tried to remember where I had heard the Major talk before. It wasn’t the sound of his voice; it was the faintly archaic phrasing, the almost mannered structure. It all sounded like one of those interminable novels about India or Malaya where the bright young native barrister takes tea with the pretty little thing just out from England and shocks hell out of the crowd at the club.
The Major talked as if he had read the same novels. But he had a look about him which made it obvious that he was out after more than just a cup of tea and a chocolate bickey. As far as I was concerned, he had “Let’s Screw, Honey” tattooed right across his forehead.