The Magic of Saida by M. G. Vassanji Page A

under observation; the door had only been partially opened to him. But what could there possibly be to hide or hold back? Why had his simple search become such a runaround? He knew this for certain: if he had not put aside the two pork sausages that morning, he would never have had a second chance with the family.
    The gong had already sounded, and he went into the dining lounge.
    That evening, sitting in the lounge, Kamal put himself to duty writing letters. Markham was alone at the bar, chatting with two customers, the reverberation of his drawl like the rumble of verydistant thunder. Candle lamps flickered on a few random tables and the dry, acrid smoke from a mosquito coil swirled up from the floor somewhere, thinly tainting the evening air. Music played as usual in the background, and from somewhere came the sound of a soccer commentary. He felt strangely calm and contented. This was his escape, this lonely tropical night, the insistently quick guitar twang in the background only serving to sound its emptiness. It could have been terribly romantic, with the right companion. A good wine, the medium-bodied Chianti he liked, sinful lamb or rabbit, espresso and cognac; slow adult sex. But with the right companion, there would be no limbo, there would always be that preordained ending. The return ticket. As it was, this loneliness should be relished. There was no war in Iraq or Afghanistan, the Dow Jones did not exist. The media did not snipe at you with shock and awe, breaking news every minute; hucksters didn’t pop up all the time, with promises of better life, endless life, more money, more erection and more sperm; the phone rarely rang. Of course he was connected, but that other world was a long way away, on another planet, its signal dim.
    He wrote to his son, Hanif, and to his daughter, Karima. Platitudes. What else but suggest bounds you expected them to transgress, provide a superego or an elastic band of safety. In his childhood there were no bounds, just obligations and love. His one fear in life was that he’d lose his mother, the dearest thing to him. He lost her. But to his Canadian kids and their cohorts such fears were entirely alien. What they knew was want, that fuel of the consumer index.
    He decided he would not mail the letters after all. What was a letter but a strong signal? He did not need to send one of those now. He did not want a reply. He would remain silent as an unknown planet, going about his business somewhere. The kids were taken care of, wherever they were.
    Across the channel, the Island lay like a shadow, two dim pinpoints of light visible upon it. The twenty-first century, and still no electricity there. Where I come from, on that planet we leave lights on casually, cities light up the sky, and we contrive to feel cold in the summer. The sea was calm, black and receding. The lounge had emptied, the few other guests retired. At the bar, without turning to look, Kamal sensed Markham’s presence. Another escapee fromout there, come to eke out the remaining years of his life. There was perhaps fifteen minutes of probing silence between them, before Markham shuffled over with two drinks and sat down. Kamal said thanks.
    They spent a few more quiet minutes, each to himself, before Kamal ventured, “What brought you to these parts, Ed? Not business, surely. Where were you before you came to Kilwa?”
    Markham shook the ice in his glass, the tinkle startlingly eloquent. “I came to East Africa in 1965,” he said. “Nairobi. The days of Kenyatta. Happy days, generally speaking.”
    “And never went back?”
    “Once—for the World Cup in sixty-six.”
    “England won.”
    “They did. Beat the Krauts and that made the win sweeter.”
    He had worked as a book salesman initially, got to travel around East Africa, but mainly the three capitals. He took a car dealership in Kampala, in Idi Amin’s Uganda, slipped out in time and became hotel manager and owner in Arusha for many years.