Sir Vidia's Shadow by Paul Theroux

But they smiled uneasily and said that he did not understand. He decided that Pat and I should go with him to Nairobi to discuss this matter with the Indian high commissioner and the U.S. ambassador.
    â€œDo you remember what I told you?” he said to me as we drove through the Rift Valley
(Beware of Fallen Rocks
) toward Nairobi. “Hate the oppressor, but always fear the oppressed.”
    I recognized the tone of voice from the main character in his novel in progress. It was also often Vidia’s own tone of voice. Vidia and his hero agreed on most things, it seemed. They even used the same expressions, or “locutions,” as they called them: “latterly,” “crunch time,” “some little time.”
    â€œI have been contemplating this visit to Nairobi for some little time,” Vidia said. “Yes. Some little time.”
    Nearer the Rift Valley escarpment we saw a sign saying
Hussain Co. Ltd. Sheepskin Coats for Sale
. Vidia said he wanted to see them, though I suspected he merely wished to lecture Mr. Hussain. The coats were cheap. They were thick and bulky. Mr. Hussain took our measurements and said he would make the coats to order. He would send them in a month or so.
    â€œAnd what are you going to do when the crunch comes?” Vidia said to Mr. Hussain after we paid our money.
    â€œI have plan,” Mr. Hussain said, wagging his head ambiguously.
    When we were back on the road Vidia said, “He was lying, of course,” and then, “I wonder if I can bring it off?”
    He was speaking of the sheepskin coat.
    â€œOf course you can,” Pat said from the back seat, always the encouraging spouse.
    â€œPerhaps in Scotland,” Vidia said.
    There were giraffes in the distance, crossing the valley, and a herd of grazing zebras and clusters of gazelles.
    â€œFrosty weather. Snow. I can see that coat being useful. But I don’t know whether I can bring it off. I don’t think I’m big enough in the shoulders.” After a moment he said, “Paul, you must come to London. Meet real people. Bring your sheepskin.”
    Nairobi was a small town with wide streets and a colonial air. “Mimicry,” Vidia said, but he liked the Norfolk Hotel, its cleanness, its comfort. He quoted his narrator on the subject of hotels. After we checked in, he said he had the address of a Nigerian man here in Nairobi who had access to the Kenyans. At first Vidia wondered if it might be too much trouble—Pat had already decided to stay behind in the hotel room—but then he grew curious. It was always this curiosity that overcame his reluctance. The Nigerian at the very least would have a West African point of view. His name was Muhammed, and he was a Hausa, from the north of his country. He met us at the door of his apartment wearing a blue pinstriped double-breasted suit. Vidia introduced himself.
    â€œJolly good,” Muhammed said. He led us to a room with a large bookcase and offered us tea.
    â€œThat would be very nice,” Vidia said.
    â€œWhat about some music?”
    There were stacks of record albums on one shelf.
    â€œNo music. No music.”
    â€œJolly good.”
    While we drank tea, Muhammed spoke with Vidia about the persecution of Indians in Nairobi, but instead of interrogating him, Vidia grew laconic and impatient. I just looked at the books. I saw
Tropic of Cancer, Tropic of Capricorn, The Kama Sutra, Naked Lunch, Lolita, Lollipop Lady, A Manual for Lovers
, and others—variations on a theme.
    Vidia was rising. “We must go.”
    Muhammed, stopped in midsentence, said, “Jolly good.”
    In the car, Vidia said he was disgusted.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    He made a nauseated face at Muhammed’s building and said, “Masturbator!”
    It took him a while to calm down, but when his mood eased I said, “I have to see Tom Hopkinson.”
    â€œHopkinson? The chap who was editor of
Picture Post
?