Sir Vidia's Shadow by Paul Theroux Page B

“One has thought about this extensively. Send the Indian Navy on maneuvers off the Kenyan coast. Anchor off Mombasa—a fleet of ships. Remind them that India is a formidable country. Shell Mombasa.”
    The high commissioner was frowning.
    â€œPunish them,” Vidia said. “When Mombasa is in flames they will think twice about persecuting Indians here. Aren’t there fuel depots in Mombasa? Yes, they will leave the Indians alone for some little time.”
    The following noon we were having drinks by the pool at the residence of the American ambassador, William Attwood. Vidia was in the midst of his punitive-mission speech when, without prelude, a large, smiling, familiar-looking African appeared. He said he wished to consult with the ambassador. They went into the house.
    â€œHe’s asking for money, of course,” Vidia said. “What else would he want? And did you see how fat he is? He’s just another thug.”
    After ten minutes the ambassador returned. He said the man was Tom Mboya, a leading politician and government minister.
    â€œMah-boya,” Vidia said.
    â€œVery impressive man,” Attwood said. “Mboya’s going to be the next president of Kenya.”
    Vidia simply stared. He was thinking, Fat thug.
    Mboya never became president. Within a few years he was murdered by his political enemies.
    The ambassador’s wife joined us for lunch while Vidia continued describing the maneuvers in a possible punitive mission. The rant may have made the ambassador nervous, for, passing the sugar tongs to his wife, he bobbled them and dropped them. They skittered toward the edge of the pool and fell in.
    â€œNever mind,” Attwood said.
    We stared as the silver thing swayed downward and settled into the deep end of the pool.
    Vidia said, “Do you have a bathing costume that would fit me?”
    â€œLots in the changing room there,” said Attwood. “We keep them for visitors.”
    Vidia excused himself and was back in a few minutes wearing a blue bathing suit. Without a word he dived neatly in and propelled himself to the bottom—eight feet or so—and brought up the dripping sugar tongs, which he handed over. While the ambassador was still marveling at his athleticism, Vidia changed his clothes, and lunch resumed.
    It was a reminder of his island childhood. He had been brought up near water and was clearly a wonderful swimmer—I could see it in the way he had launched himself off the edge of the pool, diving with hardly a splash, going deep without apparent effort. At that moment I saw him as a skinny child, diving off a splintery pier in Trinidad, in view of the anchored cruise ships. All his pomposity had fallen away and he had become graceful, a child of the islands.
    The ambassador thanked us for coming.
    â€œI think he needed to hear that,” Vidia said of his proposal to shell Mombasa and set it aflame. “Did you notice how attentive he was? He at least realizes there is a problem. I know your people can do something.”
    Over the next few days, in Nairobi’s Indian restaurants and shops, Vidia demanded to know what the Indians would do when they were expelled. They had no future in Africa, he said. They had to make plans for crunch time now.
    â€œYet one has a vibration that the Indians won’t rise to the occasion,” he said to me.
    Passing Khannum’s Fancy Goods shop on Queen’s Road, Pat said she wanted to buy a few yards of printed cloth to use as a dust cover for a table in the room at the Kaptagat. Vidia and I waited on the verandah, where a small Indian girl of about seven or eight was sitting on a wooden bench being fanned by her African ayah. The girl wore a pink sari and long Punjabi bloomers and had the prim look of a child on her way to a party.
    â€œ
Jina lako
nam?” I said to the girl, asking her name in Swahili.
    The ayah smiled and nudged her gently, a tender gesture that made the