Willie thought, “She's right. I've been believing in magic. My time's nearly finished here. My scholarship is nearly at an end, and I have planned nothing at all. I've been living here in a fool's paradise. When my time is up and they throw me out of the college, my life is going to change completely. I will have to look for a place to stay. I will have to look for a job. It will be a different London then. Ana wouldn't want to come to a room in Notting Hill. I am going to lose her.”
He worried like this for some days and then he thought, “I've been a fool. I've been waiting to be guided to where I should go. Waiting for a sign. And all this time the sign's been there. I must go with Ana to her country.”
When they next met he said, “Ana, I would like to go with you to Africa.”
“For a holiday?”
“For good.”
She said nothing. A week or so later he said, “You remember what I said about going to Africa?” Her face clouded. He said, “You've read my stories. You know I've nowhere else to go. And I don't want to lose you.” She looked confused. He didn't say any more. Later, when she was leaving, she said, “You must give me time. I have to think.” When she next came to his room, and they were on the little sofa, she said, “Do you think you'll like Africa?”
He said, “You think there'll be something I'll be able to do there?”
“Let's see how you like the bush. We need a man on the estate. But you'll have to learn the language.”
In his last week at the college a letter came from Sarojini in Colombia.
I am glad you've at last got the diploma, though I don't know what you will do with it where you are going. Serious work has to be done in Africa, especially in those Portuguese places, but I don't think it will be done by you. You are like your father, holding on to old ideas till the end. About other matters, I hope you know what you are doing, Willie. I don't understand what you write about the girl. Outsiders who go to India have no idea of the country even when they are there, and I am sure the same is true of Africa. Please be careful. You are putting yourself in the hands of strangers. You think you know what you are going to, but you don't know all of it.
Willie thought, “She likes her own international marriage, but she is worried about mine.”
But, as always, her words, glib though they were, the words of someone still mimicking adulthood, troubled him and stayed with him. He heard them as he did his packing, removing his presence bit by bit from the college room, undoing the centre of his London life. Undoing that, so easily now, he wondered how he would ever set about getting a footing in the city again if at some time he had to. He might have luck again; there might be something like the chain of chance encounters he had had; but they would lead him into a city he didn't know.
*
THEY—HE AND ANA—left from Southampton. He thought about the new language he would have to learn. He wondered whether he would be able to hold on to his own language. He wondered whether he would forget his English, the language of his stories. He set himself little tests, and when one test was over he immediately started on another. While the Mediterranean went by, and the other passengers lunched and dined and played shipboard games, Willie was trying to deal with the knowledge that had come to him on the ship that his home language had almost gone, that his English was going, that he had no proper language left, no gift of expression. He didn't tell Ana. Every time he spoke he was testing himself, to see how much he still knew, and he preferred to stay in the cabin dealing with this foolish thing that had befallen him. Alexandria was spoilt for him, and the Suez Canal. (He remembered—as from another, happier life, far from his passage now between the red desert glare on both sides—Krishna Menon in his dark double-breasted suit walking beside the flowerbeds in Hyde Park, leaning on his stick, looking down, working out his United Nations speech about Egypt and the Canal.)
Three years before, when he was going to England, he had done this part of the journey in the opposite direction. He hardly knew then what he was seeing. He had a better idea now of geography and history; he had some idea of the antiquity of Egypt. He would have liked to commit the landscape to memory, but his worry about the loss of language kept him from concentrating. It was in the same unsatisfactory way that he saw the coast of Africa: Port Sudan, on the edge of an immense desolation; Djibouti; and then, past the Horn of Africa, Mombasa, Dar-es-Salaam, and finally the port of Ana's country. All this while he had been acting reasonably and lucidly. Neither Ana nor anyone else would have known that there was anything wrong. But all this while Willie felt that there was another self inside him, in a silent space where all his external life was muffled.
He wished he had come to Ana's country in another way. The town was big and splendid, far finer than anything he had imagined, not something he would have associated with Africa. Its grandeur worried him. He didn't think he would be able to cope with it. The strange people he saw on the streets knew the language and the ways of the place. He thought, “I am not staying here. I am leaving. I will spend a few nights here and then I will find some way of going away.” That was how he thought all the time he was in the capital, in the house of one of Ana's friends, and that was how he thought during the slow further journey in a small coasting ship to the northern province where the estate was: going back a small part of the way he had just come, but closer now to the land, closer to the frightening mouths and wetlands of very wide rivers, quiet and empty, mud and water mixing in great slow swirls of green and brown. Those were the rivers that barred any road or land route to the north.
They got off at last at a little low-built concrete town, grey and ochre and fading white, with straight streets like the capital but without big advertisements, without even that clue to the life of the place. Just outside, the narrow asphalt road led inland through open country. Always, then, Africans, small and slight people here, walking on the red earth on either side of the asphalt, walking as if in wilderness, but it was not wilderness to them. Never far away, marked by scratchings of maize and cassava and other things, were African settlements, huts and reed-fenced yards, the huts with straight neat lines and roofs of a long fine grass that seemed at times to catch the sun and then shone like long, well-brushed hair. Very big grey rocks, cone-shaped, some the size of hills, rose abruptly out of the earth, each rock cone isolated, a landmark on its own. They turned off into a dirt road. The bush was as high as the car and the villages they passed were more crowded than on the asphalt road. The dirt road was red and dry but there were old puddles that splashed spots of black mud on the windscreen. They left this road and began to climb a noticeable slope towards the house. The road here was corrugated when straight; where it turned it was trenched by the rains, water making its own way down. The house was in the middle of an overgrown old garden and in the shade of a great, branching rain tree. Bougainvillaea screened the verandah which ran on three sides of the lower floor.
The air was hot and stale inside. Looking out from the bedroom window, through wire netting and dead insects, at the rough garden and the tall paw-paw trees and the land falling away past groves of cashews and clusters of grass roofs to the rock cones which in the distance appeared to make a continuous low pale-blue range, Willie thought, “I don't know where I am. I don't think I can pick my way back. I don't ever want this view to become familiar. I must not unpack. I must never behave as though I am staying.”