The Temptation of Jack Orkney: Collected Stories Volume Two. Doris Lessing
a look like a nod, while Mr Mafente tactfully held out his right forearm to receive the hand of Mr Devuli. After a moment the leader steadied himself, and said in a threatening way that managed also to sound like a grumble: ‘I, too, know all the implications of the proposed constitution, Mr Chikwe.’
‘I am surprised to hear it, Mr Devuli, for Mr Kwenzi, who has been locked up in his hotel room for the last week, studying it, says that seven men working for seventy-seven years couldn’t make sense of the constitution proposed by Her Majesty’s Honourable Minister.’
Now they all three laughed together, relishing absurdity, until Mr Chikwe reimposed a frown and said: ‘And since these proposals are so complicated, and since Mr Kwenzi understands them as well as any man with mere human powers could, it is our contention that it is Mr Kwenzi who should speak for our people before the Minister.’
Mr Devuli held himself upright with five fingers splayed out on the forearm of his lieutenant. His red eyes moved sombrely over the ugly façade of the Ministry, over the faces of passing people, then, with an effort, came to rest on the face of Mr Chikwe. ‘But I am the leader, I am the leader acknowledged by all, and therefore I shall speak for our country.’
‘You are not feeling well, Mr Devuli?’
‘No, I am not feeling well, Mr Chikwe.’
‘It would perhaps be better to have a man in full possession of himself speaking for our people to the Minister?’ (Mr Devuli remained silent, preserving a fixed smile of general benevolence.) ‘Unless, of course, you expect to feel more in command of yourself by the time of – he brought his wrist smartly up to his eyes, frowned, dropped his wrist – ‘ten-thirty a.m., which hour is nearly upon us?’
‘No, Mr Chikwe, I do not expect to feel better by then. Did you not know, I have severe stomach trouble?’
‘You have stomach trouble, Mr Devuli?’
‘You did not hear of the attempt made upon my life when I was lying helpless with malaria in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele?’
‘Really, Mr Devuli, is that so?’
Yes, it is so, Mr Chikwe. Some person bribed by my enemies introduced poison into my food while I was lying helpless in hospital. I nearly died that time, and my stomach is still unrecovered.’
I am extremely sorry to hear it.’
‘I hope that you are. For it is a terrible thing that political rivalry can lower men to such methods.’
Mr Chikwe stood slightly turned away, apparently delighting in the flight of some pigeons. He smiled, and inquired: ‘Perhaps not so much political rivalry as the sincerest patriotism, Mr Devuli? It is possible that some misguided people thought the country would be better off without you.’
‘It must be a matter of opinion, Mr Chikwe.’
The three men stood silent: Mr Devuli supported himself unobtrusively on Mr Mafente’s arm; Mr Mafente stood waiting; Mr Chikwe smiled at pigeons.
‘Mr Devuli?’
‘Mr Chikwe?’
‘You are of course aware that if you agree to the Minister’s proposals for this constitution civil war may follow?’
‘My agreement to this constitution is because I wish to avert bloodshed.’
‘Yet when it was announced that you intended to agree, serious rioting started in twelve different places in our unfortunate country.’
‘Misguided people – misguided by your party, Mr Chikwe.’
‘I remember, not twelve months ago, that when you were accused by the newspapers of inciting to riot, your reply was that the people had minds of their own. But of course that was when you refused to consider the constitution.’
‘The situation has changed, perhaps?’
The strain of this dialogue was telling on Mr Devuli: there were great beads of crystal sweat falling off his broad face, and he mopped it with the hand not steadying him, while he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
‘It is your attitude that has changed, Mr Devuli. You stood for one man, one vote. Then overnight you became a supporter of the weighted vote. That cannot be described as a situation changing, but as a political leader changing – selling out.’ Mr Chikwe whipped about like an adder and spat these two last words at the befogged man.
Mr Mafente, seeing that his leader stood silent, blinking, remarked quietly for him: ‘Mr Devuli is not accustomed to replying to vulgar abuse, he prefers to remain silent.’ The two young men’s eyes consulted; and Mr Chikwe said, his face not four inches from Mr Devuli’s: ‘It is not the first time a leader of our people has taken the pay of the whites and has been disowned by our people.’
Mr Devuli looked to his lieutenant, who said: ‘Yet it is Mr Devuli who has been summoned by the Minister, and you should be careful, Mr Chikwe – as a barrister you should know the law: a difference of political opinion is one thing, slander is another.’
‘As, for instance, an accusation of poisoning?’
Here they all turned, a fourth figure had joined them. Mr Kwenzi, a tall, rather stooped, remote man, stood a few paces off, smiling. Mr Chikwe took his place a foot behind him, and there were two couples, facing each other.
‘Good morning, Mr Devuli.’
‘Good morning, Mr Kwenzi.’
‘It must be nearly time for us to go in to the Minister,’ said Mr Kwenzi.
‘I do not think that Mr Devuli is in any condition to represent us to the Minister,’ said Mr Chikwe, hot and threatening. Mr Kwenzi nodded. He had rather small direct eyes, deeply inset under his brows, which gave him an earnest focussed gaze which he was now directing at the sweat-beaded brow of his rival.
Mr Devuli blurted, his voice rising: ‘And who is responsible? Who? The whole world knows of the saintly Mr Kwenzi, the hardworking Mr Kwenzi, but who is responsible for my state of health?’
Mr Chikwe cut in: ‘No one is responsible for your state of health but yourself, Mr Devuli. If you drink two bottles of hard liquor a day, then you can expect your health to suffer for it.’
‘The present health of Mr Devuli,’ said Mr Mafente, since his chief was silent, biting his lips, his eyes red with tears as well as with liquor, ‘is due to the poison which nearly killed him some weeks ago in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Kwenzi mildly. ‘I trust the worst is over?’
Mr Devuli was beside himself, his face knitting with emotion, sweat drops starting everywhere, his eyes roving, his fists clenching and unclenching.
‘I hope,’ said Mr Kwenzi, ‘that you are not suggesting I or my party had anything to do with it?’
‘Suggest!’ said Mr Devuli. ‘Suggest? What shall I tell the Minister? That my political opponents are not ashamed to poison a helpless man in hospital? Shall I tell them that I have to have my food tasted, like an Eastern potentate? No, I cannot tell him such things – I am helpless there too, for he would say – black savages, stooping to poison, what else can you expect?’
‘I doubt whether he would say that,’ remarked Mr Kwenzi. ‘His own ancestors considered poison an acceptable political weapon, and not so very long ago either.’
But Mr Devuli was not listening. His chest was heaving, and he sobbed out loud. Mr Mafente let his ignored forearm drop by his side, and stood away a couple of paces, gazing sombrely at his leader. After this sorrowful inspection, which Mr Kwenzi and Mr Chikwe did nothing to shorten, he looked long at Mr Chikwe, and then at Mr Kwenzi. During this three-sided silent conversation, Mr Devuli, like a dethroned king in Shakespeare, stood to one side, his chest heaving, tears flowing, his head bent to receive the rods and lashes of betrayal.
Mr Chikwe