Free A Guest of Honour by Nadine Gordimer Page B

never have agreed to. They nearly didn’t get possession.”
    â€œGood God. They had to leave South Africa because of some political trouble, didn’t they?” Bray had the mild interest of one who is passing through.
    â€œDon’t know about
had
to. She was nervous and wanted to go—Hjalmar’s wife. She’s Jewish—he got her out of Germany in thirty-six, you know, though he’s not a Jew himself. Smuggled her over the border. It’s a terrible story. Of course he wasn’t allowed to marry her in Germany. He couldn’t even tell his family, couldn’t trust anybody. Just disappeared, with her. Incredible story. You wouldn’t think Hjalmar would have the guts, but he did it. He could have been in a concentration camp along with them if he’d been caught.”
    A string of coloured bulbs was looped from pillar to pillar on the Silver Rhino’s familiar old wide veranda. Africans sat about on hard chairs drinking beer. Some were accompanied by women, who were, of course, accompanied by babies. Little children played with empty beer bottles and climbed the low veranda wall. The telephone booth that had always been there had a large portrait of Mweta, surmounted with a gold rosette, pasted on the door; people had scribbled numbers on the margin. Inside the hotel the mouldering butterfly-wing pictures had been replaced by some rather good Congo masks and the walls had been plainly whitewashed—otherwise it was all much as Bray remembered it. In the dining-room there was a hooded construction like a wishing well for grilling meat over an open flame, but it was not in use that night and the steaks came from thekitchen. Since Bray was last in Africa there had been the advent of the deep-freeze, and now he found himself eating these steaks everywhere: large, thick wads of meat that, once cut into, had the consistency of decomposing rags. “She usually makes a mushroom sauce, something special,” Dando grumbled. “All these places are the same, they start off all right.” Hjalmar Wentz had seen them—probably it would be impossible to go there for a meal without involving oneself in a visit to the Wentzes—and he came over to the table. He wore cotton trousers and a green knit shirt wrinkled round his chest and held out his hands apologetically. “Good God, you must excuse me—I wanted you to come and have a martini or something first, but what goes on here … I can’t tell you— The chamber of commerce is having a lunch tomorrow and this morning when I got the crayfish from the station we found it was all bad. The lot. Margot’s concocting something else, a miracle of the loaves and fishes … is that wine all right? Roly, I want you to try a Montrachet I found … but that’s steak, eh? Well, we can’t offer you crayfish tonight. But next time, remind me, you must try it … so light and dry.” He sat and drank a glass of wine with them, and they talked British politics; he would lose the thread, reluctantly, now and then, and look about him in the necessity to be elsewhere, and then return irresistibly to the talk. When the coffee came he said, “Oh Margot wants you to have coffee with us, later. With luck we’ll be out of the kitchen by ten. Come to our palace. Roly knows.” “Stephen in the pub?” said Roly. “He may be. I’m not sure. The barman ought to be there tonight.” The waiters had been looking anxiously at him for some time; he hurried off.
    The bar was stifling, with the cool, sour undersmell of liquor. A fan made a mobile of tiny Viking ships, the sort of thing sold in airport shops, bob slowly like unevenly weighted scales. “How old are you, young man?” Dando called out to a plump, fair boy with a dent in his chin. Apparently it was an old joke; Stephen Wentz smiled and showed off a little as he put down a bottle of brandy and two fancy goblets.