He realized that he was not fulfilling any useful purpose in these areas. He seemed to be getting in the way of his myth. His departure served everybody better. He would then love them because he would not have to deal with them. They would love him more because his myth would become more malleable, easier to forge into different shapes. They could then turn him into a politician, a fighter, whatever they wanted.
BAT SPENT his time preparing for his return to Britain. He had got his XJ10 back, even though he felt uneasy about driving it. Jobless, he felt he did not deserve to drive such a prestigious machine. He continued to use it only because soldiers still let him pass roadblocks unchecked.
Babit was both scared and excited by the journey. She wanted to see the other world, and thank the man who had helped free her husband, but she was afraid of losing the familiar. Uganda was still the font of her fondest memories, the cradle of the people she loved, the source of the hopes she cherished.
Her parents, on the other hand, wanted the pair to go away and get over the shock, and cement their love. They were afraid that if Bat stayed in the country he might get into more trouble. “Every evil wind has to be given an outlet to pass,” her father had said.
Bat spent an evening with Babit’s family. They were farmers cultivating tea. They had been in the business for decades. From their earnings they had built a brick house, educated their children, and put something aside for their old age. They kept most of their political views to themselves, but let it be known that they had supported a progressive party and were ready to do so again when things changed. They expected Babit to set a good example for her younger sisters by marrying. Bat liked the contrast between Babit’s parents and the people of his village. These people listened to his story carefully, asked questions, sympathized and were not out to create heroes. He left feeling quite close to them.
“Are we going to come back?” Babit asked that night, worried that like many people these days they might be embarking on permanent exile. They slept at a neighbour’s house because traditionally it was improper for them to share her parents’ house.
“We are going for a holiday, not to settle there, dear.”
“Won’t you be tempted to stay?” she asked, thinking that normally only rich people travelled or went for holidays. Finding herself in those circles frightened her.
“I know Britain quite well. I have no plans to spend the rest of my life there.”
“But last time you had no money.”
“Stop worrying, you will love it.”
“I will start looking for a job when we return. What if the government throws us out of the house?”
“Don’t worry about money. I will get a job when we return. If not, I can always borrow from Kalanda.”
BABIT HAD BEEN RIGHT. Britain felt different this time. It had lost its power to bully and intimidate him. They had travelled to Kenya and caught a plane to London. Bat loved the luxury; Babit felt uncomfortable, always worried how much it all cost. She was not used to being served by white people and she felt insecure about her English.
“We are paying for everything, service inclusive,” Bat explained. “If you want anything, just ask, even if it is something to vomit in.”
This was the first time he noticed the difference in their academic backgrounds; before, it had been a joke. It did not bother him at all because he separated work from home, and if Babit was vulnerable, it was his job to take care of her. She seemed to believe that people noticed that she had never been on a plane before, that she did not know London, that many English accents baffled her. At this Bat laughed.
“The British don’t understand their own accents. When the Irish talk Irish English or the Scots Scottish English, nobody understands them. You speak ten times more clearly than those people, dear.”
The luxury and magnificence of the city sat in her mind like a bull in a hut. A taxi had driven them through the city to the Grand Empire Hotel, a magnificent affair with marble floors, glittering lifts and cathedral-like rooms. All traces of havoc wreaked by the IRA bomb were gone, blown away by money and technology. Anyone who did not know the story of those killed or injured there could never guess. It was the Western way: tragedy erased and carted away into library files where it lost bite, later coming off the page like a shadow, bland in its weightlessness, almost a figment of the chronicler’s imagination.
“But you are paying a fortune for this!” Babit gasped in horror. “How are we going to relax in the midst of this?”
“Close your eyes and think. A few weeks ago you were looking for me in a heap of bodies. Right now we are moving in top circles. It is just life, dear,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Everything is happening so fast! Captivity! This! I guess I am too happy for words.”
“That is what happens when a girl finds a good guy, and a guy finds a good girl. Leave it all to me. If you see a dress you want, we buy it. We are here to enjoy the best that is available.”
During the first week, they did nothing but eat, drink, go out for walks and luxuriate in their surroundings. They loved cruising through the city in big cars, neon lights gliding by like a string of coloured balloons, lighted jewellery shops flashing icy diamonds. They loved the feeling of insulation from the city’s mundane problems. It felt wonderful not to have to worry about their security.
During the second week, Damon Villeneuve got the time to see them. He was a Labour politician representing a poor London borough. He was a tall, thin, small-headed man with green eyes in a serious face. They found him in the hotel’s restaurant. When he saw them, he rose, stretched out his hand and said, “Mr. Bat Katanga, I presume.”
“You must be Damon Villeneuve, the rogue MP found with a crocodile purse on his head and a pipe in his hand,” Bat joked, smiling from ear to ear. He gripped the proffered hand, embraced the man, and patted him on the back.
“And this must be. .”
“Please meet my girlfriend.”
Babit and Villeneuve shook hands, exchanged polite words, and the trio sat down. Babit found Villeneuve’s accent hard to understand and wondered if he was Irish or Scottish. He seemed to swallow letters where she stretched them out. He understood her well, but the exchange remained laboured. This is our saviour, this is our saviour, this is our saviour, she thought. Before, it had been a faceless person, without a voice, without human qualities; now he sat in front of her, and she did not know what to do. She wanted to embrace him, to kneel in front of him, to rub his feet, but felt it would be highly improper.
Bat felt grateful, as grateful as he had ever felt in his life. For a moment he felt very close to Villeneuve. It seemed amazing that his only real friend at Cambridge had turned into his saviour. He remembered him in his house captain days. He had always been steady, reliable, capable. Nothing seemed to bother him. He lacked the charisma of a born leader, but he got things done. It felt strange to be this deep in debt to somebody. He felt incapable of repaying him. The words that came to his mind felt limited in range, jaded. “You saved my life, Damon. The noblest thing you will ever do. The biggest debt I will ever have. Thanks.” At that moment he remembered that Damon used to love “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” He started singing it, right there in the restaurant, clapping his hands for time, putting in quite a bit of soul, stretching the “ooohs and aaahs.” Damon first listened as if he could not believe his ears, then he joined in singing the higher notes. Babit looked on for some time with her jaw hanging open till she started clapping. Bat seemed totally free, floating, all inhibition gone. At the end, with Bat sweating and smiling and feeling very happy, they sat down.