Breen spotted Ezeoke on the dance floor, in the middle of a circle of women, dancing with one hand on his belly and the other in the air.
“I am sorry. You are a policeman. You are not interested in politics. Come and sit with me while I eat,” said Okonkwo. He took a chair against the side of the room. Breen looked around for Tozer, but she was still talking to the young African man, so he found a seat beside Okonkwo under a large handmade red, black and green flag, fixed to the wall with drawing pins.
“I do not enjoy parties anymore,” said Okonkwo. “I am too old. The music is too loud and you can never hear people speak properly.”
It was hot. Condensation ran down the walls. Behind the bar a middle-aged woman hoicked the tops off bottles of beer and laid them out on the counter.
“And tonight is to raise money for the Pan-African Committee for a Free Biafra?”
“It was Mrs. Briggs’s idea. She believes that all causes must throw parties.”
“She is on the committee?”
“She is a friend of Ezeoke’s. Her husband is the Senior Registrar at the hospital. She is the Secretary, of course. I am the Chair and Sam is the Treasurer. It helps to have someone respectable on board.” He smiled. “And she is in love with Sam, of course.”
Breen looked around for Frances Briggs. She had been standing by the entrance, welcoming guests, but now she was on the dance floor with the others.
“You are an art dealer, I seem to remember,” said Breen.
“Art, artifacts, antiques. I sell the culture of Africans to Europeans. It is very fashionable. And to men like Sam Ezeoke, who want to become more African.” He laughed.
“How could Ezeoke be more African?”
“You see? It works.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am sorry. I am teasing you. You did not know that Ezeoke was raised in Britain? That is why he is my best customer. I sell him African paintings and African masks so he can become more African.” Okonkwo was picking at his plate of food, taking delicate mouthfuls.
Tozer came by with two bottles of beer and handed one to Breen. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “My admirer over there bought it.” She turned and waved to the young man in the suit. Breen raised a hand in thanks.
“How come Ezeoke was raised in England?”
“He was adopted. His father was a chief, a friend of the British Colonial Governor. He died before Ezeoke was born, and his mother, thinking she was doing her child a service, asked the Governor to adopt him. So he did. They took him to England to civilize him. He went to Rugby and Cambridge. We grew up hunting snakes and birds,” Okonkwo said. “He hunted foxes. Why do you think he is the most successful man amongst us? You English adore a black man who talks the Queen’s English. They wouldn’t let an ordinary African man become a consultant in your hospitals.”
“He doesn’t talk about it.”
“He does not advertise it. He did not have a happy childhood. He once told me he did not even know he was black until his parents sent him to an English boarding school. Can you imagine not knowing what you are? That is why he is desperate to be African. Can you blame him?”
“How terrible.”
Okonkwo looked at Breen. “You have sympathy for a man who feels out of place?”
“I suppose I do,” said Breen. He watched Ezeoke, bending at the knees, descending lower and lower as the others danced around him.
“He is a great man. This committee would be nowhere without him. He has given more to the cause than any of us. Of course, he was much richer than any of us to start with.” He laughed again. “But perhaps he won’t be soon. He sold his house for the cause, you know. I don’t think his wife has quite recovered from it.”
“I wondered. When we visited them they had far more packing cases than seemed to fit into the house.”
“I shall have to be careful of you. You are a very observant young man.”
Breen looked across the room. Mrs. Ezeoke was standing by the food table still, watching her husband buying drinks for a large crowd, passing the bottles around to eager young men. Her arms were folded, a look of intense disapproval on her face. “Mrs. Ezeoke. She was born in Biafra?”
Okonkwo smiled. “Oh yes. She is African. One hundred percent. Sam wanted to be African, so he went and got an African wife. My niece, you know.”
“She is very beautiful.”
“Isn’t she? The most beautiful girl in the world,” said Okonkwo.
Now Tozer was on the dance floor, led there by the young man she had been speaking to earlier. The young man’s face remained serious as he danced, his motions much less effusive than Ezeoke’s; Tozer danced around him like a teenager on Ready Steady Go. Ezeoke was wiping the sweat from his forehead, grinning, as five women danced around him. One of them was Frances Briggs, who danced closer than the others, pushing her body against his.
“See. Now he is a very modern African,” Okonkwo said drily.
Breen looked around to find Mrs. Ezeoke. She was leaning against the wall, glowering at her husband as he danced with Mrs. Briggs and the other women. Breen looked from one to the other: Frances Briggs flirting with Sam Ezeoke while his wife watched. Ezeoke saw them looking at him and broke away from the dance floor, pushing through the tightly packed crowd. He leaned down towards Breen. “Your girlfriend is a good dancer,” he shouted.
Breen said, “She’s not my girlfriend.”
Ezeoke reached down and took Breen’s arm. “Why are you talking to this old man? You don’t come to parties to talk. Come and dance with her.” He took Breen’s left arm and yanked him up, away from Okonkwo.
Tozer was grinning broadly, sweating on the dance floor. “I didn’t think you could dance,” she said. The brass and drums were deafening. Compared to this, Irish dancing at the Garryowen looked like croquet.
“What was Eddie Okonkwo talking to you about?” Ezeoke leaned in towards him.
“You,” said Breen.
“His favorite topic of conversation.”
“He admires you.”
Ezeoke began to dance as Breen stood woodenly on the dance floor. “He was telling you that I was not a true Biafran, I expect.”
“He said you were raised in England.”
“The mother country,” he said, unsmiling.
A cheer went up from the Africans as a new record started. “Do you like high-life music?” shouted the dapper young man dancing with Tozer. Above the polyrhythmic tumble of guitars and drums Breen could hear a chorus singing in a language he did not understand.
“Be careful of Okonkwo. He is a wily old devil,” said Ezeoke. “Come on. Dance. I will teach you.” He took Breen’s hands and started to pull him one way and then the other.
“You don’t like him?”
Ezeoke was shouting so Breen could hear, but the words were indistinct. “Of course I like him…” Ezeoke talked on, but his words disappeared into the roar of voices and the pulse of the music around him. The dance floor was full now with people jostling for space, bumping into each other, not seeming to care. If it had been sweaty before, the air was now thick. Breen’s shirt stuck to him.
Breen had hardly ever danced. He tried to follow the movements of the Africans, making small, quick movements with his feet, but despite their encouraging shouts he was conscious of looking absurd. He tried copying Tozer’s wild gyrations, but that was worse. He caught sight of Okonkwo grinning from his seat at the side of the small room. Was that an encouraging smile, or was he laughing at him?
Frances Briggs was leaving the dance floor. Breen followed her.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mister Policeman?”
“This is not like any other fund-raiser I’ve been to,” he shouted above the music.
“It’s not exactly a village fete, is it?” She laughed. “The Biafrans are marvelous people. Africans still have the connection. It’s like being set free. You should do it more often.”