“Good God no, I’ve got a date.” He went off with two young men who had dusted him down, a cheerful, short — arsed little Mso — they were a dumpy people; Batwa blood trickled down from the Congo, there, in some forgotten migration — and a talkative, stooping man who, in addition to the Party tie, wore various insignia from colonial times — Boy Scout and Red Cross buttons.
He left behind him raised voices and exaggerated gestures; the confusion had released private antipathies and post — mortem tensions over the day’s business in Congress. Shinza was surrounded solidly by his own men, now; Nwanga, Goma, Ogoto were drinking round a small table with an air of not being anywhere in particular, as if they were in a railway waiting room or on an airport. But Shinza said to Bray over his shoulder, “The old man’s all right?”
He had dinner alone with Mweta, late; those guests at the Great Lakes who had not gathered in the bars took a long time to disperse from the Golden Perch Room. Mweta was troubled, as always, by the choice of a cocktail party as a way of entertaining people— “Specially Congress.”
So Congress deserved something better. Yet he had sat there, in his robe that symbolized their coming into their own, and allowed himself to take from them consent to his rigging himself into a position of more power. Bray smiled. “Cocktail parties and democracy go together.”
“Is that so?”
“In dictatorships, it’s banquets.”
Mweta grinned. “Do you want this, James—” There was a bottle of wine on the table.
“No, no, you’re right, I’ve had enough—” They were served unceremoniously with steak and potatoes, and Mweta told the servant not to wait. The big dining — room had been air — conditioned since Bray was last in it and felt chill and airless. Mweta impatiently opened the windows and let in the thick warm night, like a signal of intimacy between them. He knew that Bray thought it a mistake for him to make the Trade Union S.-G. his appointee; he himself brought up the subject at once so that it should not seem an obstacle; they talked with Bray’s attitude assumed. The cosy clink of fork on plate accompanied the emptiness of an agreement to differ. Mweta ate with unaccustomed greed, getting the steak down with a flourish.
“Of course one can’t deny it, in many countries the trade union organization is subordinated to the government’s policy. But these are countries whose economic development is slow, they have the greatest difficulties to face in overcoming their initial disadvantages … reasons that don’t apply here.”
Mweta took in what he was saying with each mouthful, nodding not in agreement but to show that he was attentive. “—Yes, but trade unions in the most advanced African countries must be careful not to become radical opposition movements as their position is consolidated — that’s a serious danger to the success of any economic development policy.”
Bray was aware of his own cold smile and shrug; he reached for the wine after all. “It depends where you draw the line — what does and what does not constitute opposition? There’s a difference between a radical approach to labour problems and radical opposition to the government. That’s where the confusion comes in. In the choice of economic priorities, can a government afford to take action without the support of the majority of an organized labour movement?”
Mweta smiled as a man does when dealing one by one with objections for which he is prepared. “We have the support.”
“That’s not borne out by what’s been happening in the last few months.”
Mweta didn’t believe that was what he meant. He answered words put in Bray’s mouth. “That business today was a perfect example — an attempt to push the unions into the position of political opposition. Well, as you saw for yourself, it failed. That answers the question whether or not we have the support.”
He said dryly, kindly, “Edward failed. You won.”
Mweta showed no signs of distress. He no longer said, trust me. He no longer urged to explain himself. “So you think it’s between Shinza and me — never mind economic prosperity.” He was half — joking, in his new confidence.
“I think that’s the way you see it.”
“Opposition — especially political opposition — from trade unions can only be allowed when it’s clear the governing class is working to consolidate its own benefits rather than for the development of a progressive economy,” Mweta said, confining himself to concern to be exact. “When it’s only an attempt to discredit the government, the government has no choice except to break these people, ay? — even to use force, probably.”
“—I wonder what it was you won.”
But they both rendered the remark harmless by a kind of nostalgia, regretful, giving way to each other; what’s-done-is-done.
He had held in himself the necessity ever since the mission was accomplished in the glare of the carpark that morning— “my old friend, Semstu”—that he would have to give an account of himself on that behalf this evening; here. Why? — now the whole intention was irrelevant. And by the same token it was not necessary for Mweta to admit to him that he was allowing the Company to equip a private army. The evening passed. Each had what he left unsaid. Yet they talked a great deal. Mweta was eager to discuss some mistakes he admitted, difficulties, some doubts — particularly about members of his cabinet. The frankness was a substitute for a lack of frankness. It was perhaps not calculatedly ingratiating — an unconscious appeal (to loyalty? sympathy?) that did not yield an inch. The business of whether Bray was staying on in the country was not mentioned either; Mweta merely remarked that he supposed the work in Gala must be nearly finished? He did not ask why Olivia hadn’t come. And if he had? — what answer, what hastily offered and hastily accepted lie?
Congress remained restlessly divided on everything it discussed. The margin of order at each session was very narrow. Shinza stared out over the auditorium, disdainfully unkempt. He looked more and more like a stranger who suddenly appears from the wilderness and takes up a place to the discomfiture of other men. Even his supporters seemed to approach him at the remove of Goma, the cheerful Basil Nwanga — men more like themselves. Bray wrote to England (he took advantage, these days, of having something objectively interesting, such as the Congress, to tell Olivia about, to make a long letter to her possible) describing Shinza as “an uncomfortable reminder that ideas are still on the prowl. Beyond the charmed circle of the capital’s glow, the whole country …”
It was a letter that would be read aloud to the family or friends. “Interesting,” and nothing in it that anybody couldn’t read. What was happening between himself and Shinza, Mweta — there was no word of that; one confidence, like another, was not possible. Yet — reading it over (he sometimes read over his letters to her several times, now) — he saw that the remark about Shinza reflected some truth about his attitude towards him that had come unconsciously through the studied tone.
He was included in discussions at the Goma house in Old Town. Of course it was his talk to Semstu — using the claim “my old friend” that day sitting in that oven of an ancient car with the plastic rose at eye — level — that, to the rest, made him proven and acceptable; Shinza, no doubt, banked on things more durable and of longer standing. But maybe they were right: the smallest act can be more binding than the largest principles. Shinza’s group themselves continued to attack, through every issue debated, what Goma called “the ossification of Party leadership,” although, gathered in the Goma house, they knew that the defeat of the Secretary — General motion was their defeat at this Congress. They seemed determined that delegates should have in their ears, even as they voted this opposition down, demands for more initiative for the basic units of the Party and a transformation of antiquated social and economic institutions. They pressed the need for simple living, discipline and sacrifice, instead of what they called the careerism of the new ruling elite. Bray remarked privately to Shinza that they were beginning to show the symptoms of puritanism typical of a pressure group. Shinza smiled, picked at his broken tooth; “That’s what’s wrong with pressure groups in the end, ay — it’s all they’ve got to do with themselves.”