Mimi's Ghost by Tim Parks

is a money-spinner. We’re building up the kind of capital that will allow us to expand, diversify.’
    But Bobo’s stare was fierce. There was a distinct redness about the glassy bead-brown eyes. Almost hatred. Morris realised that rather than it being a question of the boy’s not liking the blacks, or the risks, such as they were in a country where to pay tax was to offer oneself up as a laughing-stock, it was simply that his brother-in-law didn’t like Morris Duckworth. Indeed he loathed him.
    But why? Why? What had Morris actually done not to be liked? He was handsome, affable, charitable, clever. What did these provincial plutocrats want in the end? Hadn’t he bent over backwards? Changing tone to something more plaintive, because it was time to show he was hurt, he said: ‘And then we are helping these people, you know, Bobo. Those poor young men would be freezing in the cemetery if we weren’t looking after them. They were complete outcasts and we’ve given them a place, however humble, in society. Kwame tells me he is actually sending money home. I mean, it’s not just us getting richer, but families in the Third World who really need it. That’s why I feel we must continue.’ He smiled at Bobo’s incredulity. ‘Which reminds me, please do thank Antonella for the bundle of clothes she sent.’
    Bobo stood up as if suddenly, brusquely coming to a decision. ‘ Va bene,’ he said. ‘OK, two thousand more cases it is.’ Then pushing lank hair from his forehead he suggested they go out for a cup of coffee. Morris experienced that sudden twinge of disorientation that came with getting what one wanted. Perhaps the boy didn’t hate him after all.
    The two put on their coats, left the office, walked past the dog, now thankfully chained, and drove a kilometre or so to a small bar in Quinto where Bobo made a resigned sort of small-talk, spooning the froth off his cappuccino. Never one to crow, Morris was more avuncular than triumphant over a brioche with custard cream. Even in the dowdiest out-of-town bars, he remarked, the Italians knew how to make a coffee and pastry such as you wouldn’t find anywhere in the UK. Not to mention the courtesy of the service, ‘an innate sense of the signorile, he added warmly, ‘of what civiltà really means.’ Somewhat overdoing it, he said: ‘I really envy you Italians your culture and background, you know. I really do. The English are so inelegant.’
    There was a slight pause in which Morris savoured this generous humility. Then Bobo said: ‘Speaking of English, did you know that Antonella wants to learn?’
    â€˜Oh, I’d be delighted to give her lessons,’ Morris immediately came back. ‘Delighted.’ Clearly it would be churlish of him not to show that he was more than willing to make himself useful. As long as they were decent to him. Give and take.
    Bobo smiled, but there was a twist to his pale lips.
    â€˜Actually, she’s already found a teacher.’
    â€˜Fine.’ Morris shrugged. ‘Fine.’ After all, the last thing he wanted was to bore himself stupid again teaching a language he was only too glad to have stopped thinking in. There had always been something constraining about English, as if he couldn’t really be himself in it. Then it was hardly likely that the moonish Antonella would be a star student, was it? Let somebody who needed the money have the work.
    â€˜A funny sort of person,’ Bobo said thoughtfully.
    â€˜Oh yes? Good.’ Morris just couldn’t be affable enough.’ I’ve always said, a bit of humour’s a great help when you’re teaching.’ The only thing that saved one from death by tedium more often than not.
    â€˜And he knows you very well,’ Bobo added. In fact I think you told us a story about him that night when you came to see us all, with Massimina.’
    â€˜Oh