After three months of living together Bat decided to organize a party for Babit. He watched as she moved among the guests. She seemed too aware of herself, afraid to make mistakes, like an apologetic caretaker explaining herself to the residents. The Professor’s wife had made a rare public appearance and looked well, if only a bit too skinny. The Professor kept her at his side all the time, as if afraid that she might develop a renewed attack of the disease at any moment. The Kalandas mingled with everybody, and Mrs. Kalanda looked very seductive in her expensive clothes, which two of her sisters sent from Kenya and Britain. Bat followed her with his eyes on a few occasions, remarking on how she resembled Victoria. Her athletic body triggered langourous fantasies in his mind, especially when he thought about how infrequently she and her husband made love. She was aware of his attraction to her, but it never bothered her. She enjoyed admiration from the right corners.
Sister had come the day before, belly swollen, feet burdened by the new pressure of pregnancy, her face beaming with the approaching joy of motherhood. Her husband looked even fatter. He had given up planning towns doomed never to leave the drawing board and flower into real houses with walls and roofs and had gone into the cattle trade. He travelled a lot, and Bat wondered if he was faithful to Sister, who looked very much in love, following her husband’s wide body around with adoring eyes, speaking of him as if he were a prince on a royal visit.
Bat’s younger brother had put in an appearance and Bat was glad to see him, although he was worried about his excessive drinking.
“Why do you drink so much at your age?”
“It is an act of resistance. I am resisting the violence of a regime drunk on blood and chaos.”
Bat did not know whether to take him seriously or not.
“How long are you going to continue exploding fireworks?”
“If you mean that I should take a job, forget it, brother. I earn enough repairing cars. If I need more, I know where to get it.”
“Do you still want to drive in the East African Safari Rally?”
“I am not fast or steady enough to drive. In fact, there are many better drivers. All I can do is navigate, but I hate map-reading under such pressure. I decided to wait. I am happy with what I have,” he said nonchalantly, as if he were talking about somebody whose prospects did not interest him a jot.
At the party he exploded some spectacular fireworks which climbed the sky in a noisy rush, unfurled and dominated the air in short piercing intervals. Bat couldn’t get enough of the sight, even if Babit was worried about drawing attention.
Amidst the explosions, a Euphoria 707 full of Bureau agents parked one house away from them. The men got out and spied on the proceedings. They anticipated action, the turning of tables, emptying of wallets, maybe even the abduction of a woman. Unfortunately for them, they had to stop their salivating; it was one of those untouchable houses, with untouchable guests. They swore and cursed. One of the most frustrating aspects of Bureau work was having to show restraint, and being careful not to get into shoot-outs with the Public Safety Unit or the notorious Eunuchs, even if you were in the mood. With gallons of adrenaline and testosterone to jettison, the men drove away looking for some fool to fall into their itching hands.
At one interval Bat was called away to the phone. He swore under his breath, thinking that it was General Bazooka, who had the habit of calling him at awkward times, sometimes on Saturday or Sunday, sometimes deep in the night, on ministry business, but really to test him.
“Why didn’t you invite me?”
“What happens in this house is none of your business,” he said firmly.
“It is my business. You are the father of my child, my first love.”
“I don’t remember seeing any virginal first blood that night.”
“You don’t understand. Maybe you don’t know how to love.”
“I have no intentions of taking lessons. Stop calling my house for no reason.”
“Your daughter wants to see you.”
“I will come round. Now get off the phone. My guests are waiting.”
“One day you will beg me to return. I am the rightful lady of the house.”
“Keep on dreaming. Good night,” he said, replacing the receiver.
Half an hour later the phone rang again.
“Is that the housegirl speaking?”
“It is the lady of the house speaking,” Babit replied curtly.
“I am the lady of the house, child.”
“I am not your child, woman. Stop bothering us. Get yourself a man.”
“Bat is my man. You are the intruder. Before you brought your fat face into the house everything was fine. You are responsible for my child’s suffering, my suffering, everybody else’s suffering. Why don’t you just leave?”
“Bat made his choice. Live with it. He will never take you back.”
“Wait and see. You are barren as a stone. You will not last. Save yourself the humiliation and leave with some dignity. Leave before something happens to you.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me. You are going to remain where you are. I am staying here, with or without a child,” she said, and replaced the receiver. The phone rang immediately after. She picked it up and replaced it. It rang again and again. She unplugged it.
When most of the guests had left and the two of them were sitting on the sofa before going to bed, Babit told Bat about the phone calls.
“She called me earlier. Why should she have bothered you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I told her to stop calling. I will have a firm word with her.”
“She said that you don’t like barren women.”
“Who said you were barren?”
“I have not yet conceived, have I? How many months is it since. .?”
“I am not thinking about children, dear,” he said, squeezing her and pulling her into his chest.
“It would be nice to give you a son.”
“What has brought this on? Are you in the mood to compete?”
“A man needs an heir though,” she said pensively.
“To need an heir you have to be dead first, and I am alive. I am going nowhere,” he said, holding her hand and stroking her palm suggestively.
“It was a very nice party. It made me feel special.”
“One day I will take you to England. I want you to see Cambridge and meet my friend Damon Villeneuve. We will stay in luxury hotels and enjoy the best of everything.”
“It all sounds fantastic, but how will you pay for it?”
“There you are, worrying again.”
“I am sorry.”
“A good woman checks the nuts and bolts.”
Bat kept thinking that everything he wanted was in his house that night. It felt as complete as a fortress, a moated castle. Outside, the guard kept an eye on the night. In one room, his sister and her husband slept. In another, his brother and his exploding dreams. In the master bedroom, he lay next to Babit, feeling her hot skin as she slept. The room itself was cool, the smell of wildflowers stealing in with the wind. Two colonial administrators had slept here. Two white kings; top members of the elite, as the Saudi prince would have put it; two brothers, in other words. The brotherhood of veiled threats, blackmail, brutal arm-twisting, humiliation and guilt? Or something more subtle? He himself felt like royalty of sorts. Kingship had become democratized by money and power. Soldiers and the elite were the new royalty, with new rituals and hierarchies. Mimicking the princes of old by stabbing, poisoning, and burning each other in a quest for a little more power and money and prestige. The lucky losers went into exile, the unlucky ones died. I have no intention of going into exile. I want to die right here in this country but in due course. I want dictators to come and go, leaving me behind to run new ministries. My friend Villeneuve has only recently had his own coronation. He is now a Member of Parliament in the House of Commons. I am happy for him. The Conservative MP he replaced was found dead in his flat with a garbage bag over his head, his stiff bluish dick in his hand, a pornographic movie in the video deck, pornographic magazines strewn around his feet like autumn leaves. Royalty, eh?