From the bus station they walked to the old hotel that had been so thoroughly diminished by Butler's, and she took a room for the three of them, expecting comments, but there were none: in the hotels of Zimlia a room may have half a dozen beds in it to accommodate a whole family.
She went with them to the lift, knowing that they had never seen one, nor, probably, heard of them, explained how they worked, walked along a corridor where a dusty sun was laying patterns, and in the room showed them the bathroom, the lavatory: how to turn taps and cistern handles, open and shut windows. Then she took them to the restaurant and ordered sadza for them, saying they must not use their fingers to eat it, and then a pudding, and with the aid of a kindly waiter, they managed that too.
Then it was two o'clock and she took them back upstairs, and telephoned the airport, booking seats for the following evening. She said she was going to get them passports, explained passports, and said they could sleep if they wanted. But they were too excited, and were bouncing on the beds when she left, letting out cries that could have been joy, or a lament.
She walked to the government offices and as she stood on the steps wondering what next, Franklin stepped out of his Mercedes. She grabbed his arm and said, 'I'm coming in with you and don't you dare say you have a meeting.' He tried to shake her off, and was about to shout for help when he saw it was Sylvia. He was so astonished he stood still, not resisting, so she let him go. When he had seen her weeks ago she had been an imposter who called herselfSylvia, but here was what he remembered, a slight creature, whose whiteness seemed to gleam, with soft golden hair and enormous blue eyes. She was wearing a white blouse, not that horrible white madam's green suit. She seemed positively transparent, like a spirit, or a gold-haired Madonna from his long-ago schooldays.
Disarmed and helpless, he said, ' Come in. ‘And up they went along the corridors of power, up stairs, and into his office where he sat, sighing, but smiling, and waved her to a chair.
‘What is it you want?'
‘I have with me two boys from Kwadere. They are eleven and thirteen. They have no family. Everyone has died of AIDS. I am taking them back to London and I want you to arrange passports for them. '
He laughed. ‘But I am the wrong Minister. It is not my department.'
'Please arrange it. You can.'
'And why should you steal away our children?'
'Steal! They have no family. They have no future. They learned nothing in your so-called school where there aren't any books. I've been teaching them. They are very bright children. With me they'll be educated. And they want to be doctors.'
‘And why should you do this?'
'I promised their father. He is dying of AIDS. I think he must be dead by now. I promised I would educate his sons. '
' It is ridiculous. It is out of the question. In our culture someone will look after them. '
‘You never go out of Senga, so you don't know how things are. The village is dying. There are more people up in the cemetery than in the village now. '
‘And is it my fault their father has AIDS? And is this terrible thing our fault?'
‘Well, it's not ours, as you keep saying. And I think you should know that in the country districts people are saying that AIDS is the fault of the government because you've turned out to be such a bunch of crooks. '
His eyes wandered. He took a gulp of water. He wiped his face. ‘I’m surprised you listen to such gossip. They are rumours spread by South African agents. '
' This is wasting time. Franklin, I've booked seats for tomorrow night's flight to London.' She pushed across a piece of paper with the boys' names on it, their father's name, their birthplace. ' Here you are. All I need is a document to get them out of the country. And I'll arrange for them to have British passports when we get to London. '
He sat looking at the paper. Then he cautiously lifted his eyes and they were full of tears. ' Sylvia, you said a very terrible thing.'
‘You ought to know what the people are saying. '
' To say such a thing, to an old friend. '
'Yesterday I was listening to... the old man cursed me, to make me take his sons to London. He cursed me ... I am so full of curses that they must be spilling out of me.'
And now he was really uneasy. ' Sylvia, what are you saying? Are you cursing me too?'
‘Did I say that?’But between her eyes was the deep tension furrow that made her look like a little witch. ' Franklin, have you ever sat beside an old man dying of AIDS while he curses you up hill and down dale? – it was so terrible his sons won't tell me what he was saying. ' She held out her wrist, that had around it a black bruise, like a bracelet.
‘What's that?'
She leaned across the desk and gripped his wrist, in as tight a hold as she had felt yesterday. She held it, while he tried to shake her away, then released it.
He sat, head bowed, from time to time giving her panicky glances.
' If your son wanted to go tomorrow night to London and needed a passport, don't tell me you couldn't fix it.'
' Okay, ' he said at last.
‘I shall wait for the boys' documents at the Selous Hotel. '
‘Have you been ill?'
'Yes. Malaria. Not AIDS.'
‘Is that meant to be a joke?'
' Sorry. Thank you, Franklin. '
' Okay, ' he said.
When Sylvia rang home from the airport before boarding she said she was arriving tomorrow morning with two boys, yes black ones, and she had promised to educate them, they were very clever – one was called Clever, she hoped it wasn't going to be too cold because of course the boys wouldn't be used to that, and she went on until Frances said that the call must be costing a fortune and Sylvia said, 'Yes, sorry, oh, I'm so sorry,' and at last rang off saying she would tell them everything tomorrow.
Colin heard this news and said that evidently Sylvia intended the boys to live here. ' Don't be silly, how can they? Besides, she is going to Somalia, she said. '
‘Well, there you are. '
Rupert after some thought, as was his way, remarked that he hoped William would not be upset. Which meant that he too thought the boys would be left with them.
Neither Frances nor Rupert could be there to welcome Sylvia, they would be at work, but Frances suggested a family supper. This family conference was handicapped by lack of information. ' She sounded demented,’ said Frances.
It was Colin who opened the door to Sylvia and the boys. In his arms was his daughter and Sophie's, Celia, an enchanting infant, with black curls, black flirty eyes, dimples, all set off by a little red dress. She took one look at the black faces, and howled.
'Nonsense,' said her father, and firmly shook the boys' hands, which he noted were cold and trembling. It was a bitter November day. ' She's never seen black faces so close, ' explained Sylvia to them. ' Don't mind her. '
They were in the kitchen, then at the faithful table. The boys were evidently in a state of shock, or something like it. If black faces can be pale, then theirs were. They had a greyish look, and they were shivering, though each had a new thick jersey. They felt themselves to be in the wrong place, Sylvia knew, because she did: too fast a transition from the grass huts, the drifts of dust, the new graves, at the Mission.
A pretty young woman in jeans and a jolly striped T-shirt came in and said, ' Hi, I'm Marusha, ' and stood by the kettle while it boiled. The au pair. Soon big mugs of tea stood before Sylvia and the boys, and Marusha set biscuits on a plate which she pushed toward them, smiling politely. She was a Pole, and absorbed in mind and imagination in the disintegration of the Soviet Union, which was in energetic process. Having gathered Celia on to her hip, she said, 'I want to see the News on the telly,' and went up the stairs singing. The boys watched Sylvia putting biscuits on to her plate, and how she added milk to her tea, and then sugar. They copied her exactly, their eyes on her face, her movements, just as they had watched her for the years at the hospital.