During those days Rose finally understood something painfuclass="underline" she had backed the wrong horse with Comrade Matthew. She was going to have to climb down, retrack, do something to recover her reputation. It was too soon for her to write an article describing the Comrade Leader as he deserved: after all her last eulogy had been only three months ago. No, she would sidetrack, find a little diversion, use another target.
From Bill Case's house she moved to Frank Diddy's, the amiable editor of The Zimlia Post, a friend of Bill's. The easy hospitality of Africa appealed to her: it was winter in London, and she was living free. The Post, she knew, was despised by anyone of intelligence – well, most of the country citizens. Its editorials all went something like this: 'Our great country has successfully overcome another minor difficulty. The power station failed last week, due to the demands of our rapidly growing economy, and, it is being said, to the efforts of South African secret agents. We must never relax our vigilance against our enemies.
We must never forget that our Zimlia is the focus for attempts at de-stabilisation of our successful socialist country. Viva Zimlia.'
Frank Diddy, she discovered, regarded this kind of thing as a sop thrown out to appease the government watchdogs who suspected him and his colleagues of 'writing lies' about the country's progress. The journalists of The Post had not had an easy time of it since Liberation. They had been arrested, kept without charges, released, rearrested, threatened, and the heavies of the secret police, known in the offices of The Post simply as 'The Boys', dropped in to the newspaper'soffices and the journalists' homes threatening arrest and imprisonment at the slightest signs ofrecalci-trance. As for the rest, the truth about Zimlia, she heard the same as at Barry Angleton's and at Bill Case's.
She was trying to get an interview with Franklin, not daunted, though she intended to ask him something like, They are saying you own four hotels, five farms, and a forest of hardwoods, which you are illegally cutting down. Is this true? She felt the worm of truth must come wriggling out of the knotholes of concealment. She was equal to him. He was a friend, wasn't he?
Though she always boasted of this friendship, in fact she had not seen him for some years. In the matey days of early Liberation she had arrived in Zimlia, telephoned and was invited to meet him, though never alone, because he was with friends, colleagues, secretaries, and on one occasion his wife, a shy woman who merely smiled and never once opened her mouth. Franklin introduced Rose as 'My best friend when I was in London'. Then, telephoning him from London, or on arrival in Senga, she heard that he was in a meeting. That she, Rose, could be fobbed off with this kind of lie was an insult. And who the hell did he think he was? He should be grateful to the Lennoxes, they had been so good to him. We had been so good to him.
This time when she telephoned Comrade Minister Franklin's office, she was amazed to hear him come on the line at once, and a hearty, ' So, Rose Trimble, long time no see, you are just the person I want to talk to. '
And so she and Franklin sat together again, this time in a corner of the new Butler's Hotel lounge, a fancy place designed so that visiting dignitaries should not make unfavourable comparisons between this capital city and any other. Franklin was enormous now, he filled his armchair, and his big face overflowed in chins and shiny black cheeks. His eyes were small, though she remembered them as large, winsome and appealing.
'Now, Rose, we need your help. Only yesterday our Comrade President was saying that we need your help. '
Professional nous told Rose that this last was like her own ' Comrade Franklin is a good friend' . Everyone spoke of Comrade Matthew in every other sentence, to invoke or curse him. The words Comrade Matthew must be tinkling and purring through the ether like the signature tune of a popular radio programme.
‘Yes, Rose, it is a good thing you are here, ' he said smiling and shooting at her quick suspicious looks.
They are all paranoid, she had heard from Barry, from Frank, from Bill and from the guests who flowed in and out of the Senga houses in easy colonial – whoa there! – post-colonial manner.
' So, Franklin, you are having problems, I hear?'
'Problems! Our dollar fell again this week. It is a thirtieth of what it was at Liberation. And do you know who is responsible?' He leaned forward, shaking his plump finger at her. 'It is the International Community. '
She had expected to hear, South African agents. ‘But the country is doing so well. I read it only today in The Post'
He actually sat energetically up in his chair, to confront her better, supporting his big body on his elbows. ‘Yes, we are a success story. But that is not what our enemies are saying. And that is where you come in. '
' It was only three months ago that I wrote a piece about the Leader.'
'And a fine piece it was, a fine piece.' He had not read it, she could see. But there are articles appearing that damage the good name of this country and accuse our Comrade President of many things.'
'Franklin, they are saying that you are all very rich, buying up farms, you all own farms and hotels – everything.'
‘And who says that? It is a lie. ' He waved his hand about, dispelling the lies, and fell back again. She did not say anything. He peeped at her, raising his head to do it, let it fall back. ' I'ma poor man, ' he whined. ' A very poor man. And I have many children. And all my relatives... you do understand, I know you do, that in our culture if a man does well then all his relations come and we must keep them and educate all the children. '
'And a very fine culture it is,' said Rose, who in fact did find this concept heartwarming. Just look at herself! When she had found herself helpless all those years ago, where had her family been? And then the rich son of an exploiting capitalist family had taken advantage of her...
'Yes, we are proud of it. Our old people do not die alone in cold nursing homes, and we have no orphans. '
This Rose knew was not the truth. She had been hearing of the results of AIDS – orphans left destitute, ancient grandmothers bringing up children without parents.
‘We want you to write about us. Tell the truth about us. I am asking you to describe what you see here in Zimlia, so that these lies do not spread any further. ' He looked around the elegant hotel lounge, at the smiling waiters in their liveries. ‘You can see for yourself, Rose. Look around you. '
‘I saw a list in one of our newspapers. A list of the Ministers and the top civil servants and what you all own. Some own as many as twelve farms. '
‘And why should we not own a farm? Am I to be barred from owning land because I am a Minister? And when I retire how shall I live? I must tell you, I would much rather be a simple farmer, living with my family on my own land. ' He frowned. ‘And now there is this drought. Down in the Buvu Valley all my animals have died. The farm is dust. My new borehole dried up. '