In the end he had flown in an uncomfortably crowded SST to Dar-es-Salaam in Tanzania, and had been forced to wait seven hours for a place on a shabby turboprop. The latter had taken him to the new ‘city’ of Matsa, in the republic of the same name, which was Barandi’s neighbour to the west. Now he was waiting at the airport for a commuter flight to Kisumu, and was beginning to question the impulse which had driven him to leave the States in the first place.
With the advent of the dangerous Nineties, the great age of tourism had ended. Ambrose was a wealthy man and yet had rarely been abroad, and then only to recognised stable countries such as England and Iceland. As he stood in the searing brilliance of the concourse, with its dioramas of mountain ranges and shimmering ferrocrete runways, he could feel a growing xenophobia. Many of the waiting travellers appeared to be journalists or photographers, presumably being attracted to Barandi by the same magnet, but the faint sense of kinship they inspired was more than offset by the frequent sight of black soldiers wearing short-sleeved drills and carrying machine guns. Even the gleaming newness of the building disturbed Ambrose by reminding him that he was in a part of the world where institutions were not revered, where things which were not present yesterday could equally well have vanished by tomorrow.
He had lit a cigarette and was wandering in a lonely little circle, keeping within easy view of his luggage, when he noticed a tall blonde girl looking cool and composed in a white blouse and lime green tailored skirt. She seemed so out-of-place, so much like a fashion plate for expensive British clothes, that Ambrose glanced around half-expecting to see cameras and lighting equipment being set up in the vicinity. The girl was alone, however, and unperturbed by the stares of the heterogeneous males standing nearby. Ambrose, both captivated and filled with the desire to appoint himself protector of the fair lady, was unable to resist staring too. He was filling his eyes with the sight of her when she took out a cigarette, pouted her lips on to it and continued peering into her purse with traces of a frown. Ambrose stepped forward and offered her a light.
“I’ve seen this happen so many times on old TV movies,” he said, “that I feel selfconscious about doing it in real life.”
She lit the cigarette, appraising him all the while with calm grey eyes, then smiled. “It’s all right—you do it very well. And I did need a smoke.” Her accent was English. Well-educated English, Ambrose thought.
Encouraged, he said, “I know the feeling. Hanging around airports depresses me.”
“I do it so much that it has ceased to register.”
“Oh?” Unused to dealing with British girls, Ambrose tried in vain to assign a background to this one. Actress? Air hostess? Model? Jet setter? He stopped musing when she gave a delighted laugh, showing perfect teeth which had a very slight inward slope. His puzzlement increased.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you looked so baffled. Perhaps you would like everybody to wear labels showing their occupations.”
“I’m sorry. It was just…” Ambrose turned away, but she stopped him by touching his arm.
“Actually, I do have a label. A badge, really, but I never wear it because it’s a silly thing and the pin destroys my clothes.” Her voice had become warmer. “I work for UNESCO.”
Ambrose made one of his best smiles. “The badge makes you sound like an investigator.”
“You could say I’m a kind of investigator. Why are you going to Barandi?”
“I’m an investigator, too.” Ambrose debated with his conscience about claiming to be a physicist or an astronomer, and in the end he added one vague qualifier. “Scientific.”
“How interesting! Are you ghost hunting?” The complete absence of mockery in her voice made Ambrose think of the incredulous scorn he had endured from both Jody and his mother when he had announced his plans to visit Barandi.
He nodded. “But right now the only thing I’m hunting is a cold drink. How about you?”
“I’d love one.” The girl gave Ambrose a direct smile which modified all his opinions about Africa, foreign travel and the design of airports. The potential rewards for the globe-trotter, he decided, greatly outweighed the dangers and discomforts. Leaving his luggage to fend for itself, he escorted the girl to the mezzanine bar, feeling boyishly pleased at the resentful glances from men who had witnessed the entire meeting.
Over chilled Camparis with soda he learned that her name was Prudence Devonald. She had been born in London, read economics at Oxford, travelled extensively with her father who was in the Foreign Office, and joined UNESCO three years earlier. Currently she was on secondment to the Economic Commission for Africa, visiting the African states of recent origin who had applied for UN membership and checking that the money they received in the form of educational grants was being spent in an approved manner. Ambrose was intrigued to hear that her trip to Barandi was not a matter of routine, but had been occasioned by the sensational news stories concerning National Mine No. 3.
Barandi was promoting itself as one of the most progressive members of the CEASR, with high educational standards for all its citizens. Prudence’s office had been surprised, therefore, to hear that a man called Gilbert Snook—who had no listed teaching qualifications, and had been involved in the theft of a military aircraft from another country—apparently was head of the mine school. The affair was a delicate one because there had been pressure from some quarters to suspend educational grants to Barandi. Her brief was to investigate the situation, with special reference to Gilbert Snook, and make a confidential report.
“That’s quite a big responsibility for somebody your age,” Ambrose commented. “Can it be that, in secret, you’re a hardhearted woman?”
“There’s no secret about it.” Prudence’s finely-moulded features assumed an impersonal quality, like those of a beautiful but highly functional robot. “Perhaps we should get it clear that it was I who picked you up a few minutes ago. It didn’t happen the other way round.”
Ambrose blinked. “Who said anybody got picked up?”
“What would you call it? What’s the latest Americanism?”
“All right—why should you want to pick me up?”
“I need a male escort as far as Barandi—to save me the trouble of fending off various undesirables—and I picked you.” She took a sip of her drink, grey eyes unyielding above the glassy rim.
“Thanks.” Ambrose considered her remarks and found a crumb of comfort. “It’s good to know I’m not an undesirable.”
“Oh, you’re very desirable—much more so than any ordinary scientist.”
Ambrose felt an impostor’s guilt. “Assuming there is such an animal as an ordinary scientist,” he said, “what makes you think I’m not one?”
“In the first place, your wristwatch cost you at least three thousand dollars. Shall I go on?”
“Don’t bother.” Ambrose was taken aback and unable to prevent himself being pompous. “I’m interested in the value of things, not the price.”
“Wilde.”
Ambrose floundered for a moment—convinced she had used the word ‘wild’ like a mid-century hipster—then understanding came. “Did Oscar Wilde say that?”
Prudence nodded. “Something like it. In “Lady Windermere’s Fan”.”
“That’s a pity—I’ve been going around for years passing it off as my own.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Christ knows how many people I’ve convinced that I’m semi-literate.”