Morgan Oxford introduced Craig to the host and hostess. The ambassadress was at least thirty years younger than her husband. She wore a bright Pucci print with Parisian chic. Craig said, En chaW madame," and touched the back of her hand with his lips; when he straightened, she gave him a slow speculative appraisal before turning to the next guest in the reception line.
"Pickering warned me you were some kind of cocks-man," Morgan chided him gently, "but let's not have a diplomatic incident "All right, I'll settle for a glass of bubbly." Each of them armed with a champagne flute, they surveyed the lawn. The ladies from the central African republics were in national dress, a marvelous cacophony of colour like a hatching of forest butterflies, and their men carried elaborately carved walking-sticks or fly-whisks made from animal tails, and the Muslims amongst them wore embroidered pill-box fetes with the tassels denoting that they were hadji who I-ad made the pilgrimage to Mecca.
"Sleep well, Bavr'u"
"Craig thought of his grandfather, the arch-colonist. "It is best that you never lived to see this."
"We had better make your number with the Brits, seeing that's your home base," Morgan suggested, and introduced him to the British High Commissioner's wife, an iron jawed lady with a lacquered hair style modelled on Margaret Thatcher's.
"I can't say I enjoyed all that detailed violence in your book," she told him severely. "Do you think it was really necessary?" Craig kept any trace of irony out of his voice. "Africa is a violent land. He who would hide that fact from you is no true storyteller." He wasn't really in the mood for amateur literary critics, and he let his eye slide past her and rove the lawn, seeking distraction.
What he found made his heart jump against his ribs likea caged animal. From across the lawn she was watching him with green eyes from under an unbroken line of dark thick brows. She wore a cotton skirt with patch pockets that left her calves bare, open sandals that laced around her ankles and a simple T-shirt. Her thick dark hair was tied with a leather thong at the back of her neck, it was freshly washed and shiny. Although she wore no make-up, her tanned skin had the lustre of abounding health and her lips were rouged with the bright young blood beneath.
Over one shoulder was slung a Nikon FM with motor drive and both her hands were thrust into the pockets of her skirt.
She had been watching him, but the moment Craig looked directly at her, she lifted her chin in a gesture of mild disdain, held his eye for just long enough and then r turned her head unhurriedly to the man who stood beside her, listening intently to what he was saying and then showing white teeth in a small controlled laugh. The man was an African, almost certainly Mashona, for he wore the crisply starched uniform of the regular Zimbabwean army and the red staff tabs and stars of a Brigadier-General. He was as handsome as the young Harry Belafonte.
"Some have a good eye for horse flesh," Morgan said softly, mocking again. "Come along, then, I'll introduce you: Before Craig could protest, he had started across the lawn and Craig had to follow.
"General Peter Fungabera, may I introduce Mr. Craig Mellow. Mr. Mellow is the celebrated novelist."
"How do you do, Mr. Mellow. I apologize for not having read your books. I have so little time for pleasure." His English was excellent, his choice of words precise, but strongly accented.
"General Fungabera is Minister of Internal Security, Craig, "Morgan explained.
"A difficult portfolio, General." Craig shook his hand, and saw that though his eyes were penetrating and cruel as a falcon's, there was a humorous twist to his smile, and Craig was instantly attracted to him. A hard man, but a good one, he judged.
The general nodded. "But then nothing worth doing is ever easy, not even writing books. Don't you agree, Mr. Mellow?" He was quick and Craig liked him more, but his heart was still pumping and his mouth was dry so he could concentrate only a small part of his attention on the general.
"And this," said Morgan, "is Miss Sally-Anne Jay." Craig turned to face her. How long ago since he had last done so, a month perhaps? But he found that he remembered clearly every golden fleck in her eyes and every freckle on her cheeks.
"Mr. Mellow and I ha! met though I doubt he would remember." She Turn%d back to Morgan and took his arm in a friendly, familiAr' gesture "I am so sorry I haven't seen you since I got back from the States, Morgan. Can't thank you enough for arranging the exhibition for me. I have received so many letters-2
"Oh, we've had feed-back also," Morgan told her. "All of it excellent. Can we have lunch next week? I'll show you." He turned to explain. "We sent an exhibition of Sally Anne photographs on a tour of all our African consular Pr 11[
offices. Marvellous stuff, Craig, you really must see her work." (Oh, he has." Sally-Anne smiled without warmth. "But unfortunately Mr. Mellow does not have your enthusiasm for my humble efforts." And then without giving Craig a chance to protest, she turned back to Morgan. "It's wonderful, General Fungabera has promised to accompany me on a visit to one of the rehabilitation centres, and he will allow me to do a photographic series-" With a subtle inclination of her body she effectively excluded Craig from the conversation, and left him feeling gawky and wordless on the fringe.
A light touch on his upper arm rescued him from embarrassment and General Fungabera drew him aside just far enough to ensure privacy.
"You seem to have a way of making enemies, Mr. Mellow."
"We had a misunderstanding in New York." Craig glanced sideways at Sally-Anne.
"Although I did detect a certain arctic wind blowing there, I was not referring to the charming young photographer, but to others more highly placed and in a better position to render you disservice." Now all Craig's attention focused upon Peter Fungabera as he went on softly. "Your meeting this morning with a cabinet colleague of mine was," he paused, "shall we say, unfruitful?"