46| MATTHEW

I THINK IT WAS PRU who had said that England smelled of tar and it was the first thing I noticed. There was a tincture of coal smoke on the air as I arrived at Liverpool Street station after spending a sleepless night on the ferry. The vessel had been crowded and, just as Pru had described so vividly, the lounge was taken up by passengers either wrapped in sleeping-bags lying every which way on the floor between the café tables and those who had decided to drink it out. A large group of Swedish teenagers, members of some sporting team, who fell into the latter group, put paid to anyone getting any rest. With the windows sealed against the icy spray of the sea, the air was close and the smell of cigarette smoke and the sickly sweet scent of body odour made me nauseous.

I positioned myself at the bar, where I sat drinking whiskies with morbid intent. By three in the morning I could drink no more. Over the speakers the inane, invasive drone of piped music made my temples ache. I leaned my head on the bar counter and dozed. The ship rocked on the sea, the power of the waves pounding under the hull. Real sleep would not come.

Finally freed from a confined space, I walked the early morning streets of London. It was cold but I didn’t mind. The autumn light was pale, lending softness to the lines of the buildings.

I had no way of finding Mandla. I had no contact details for him. All I knew from what he’d shared with me was that he had been assigned a small flat somewhere behind King’s Cross. I did have an address for the movement’s office, however, and I had resolved to go there when it opened and enquire after him.

The place wasn’t difficult to find. I rang the bell at the street door to a four-storey terrace, indistinguishable from its neighbours except for the sturdy iron bars over the street-level windows. Behind the glass the curtains were closed. I pressed the bell again. A video camera bolted to the wall inclined towards me. I imagined the blur of my face on an internal screen as someone took the measure of me. Then the speaker above the bell came alive with a static crackle.

“Can I help you?” The accent was unmistakably South African. I felt the pang of its familiarity and anxiety settled about me. Would I be let in?

“I’ve come to see Mandla,” I said firmly.

There was a long silence. Under the speaker’s static hiss I could hear muted conversation, the shift of furniture, perhaps a chair being pushed back. Then the speaker went silent. I stood on the doorstep, the autumn chill invading my clothes. I closed my arms about me, about the too-thin jersey I had pulled over my head that morning as I disembarked from the ferry. After a few minutes I rang the bell again. This time there was no response.

I stood uncertainly on the pavement. A glance up at the windows revealed nothing. On this deserted street in a neglected, inauspicious corner of North London, with litter tumbling about my shoes in the stiff breeze, I realised I had no other plan. What should I do? Pigeons picked at scraps on the opposite pavement, unearthing tainted morsels from between the cracks of the grey concrete paving stones. I watched distractedly as they fought each other for scraps, a flurry of feathers and aggressive cooing. Was there no escaping these birds?

Hot tears burned in my eyes and I felt like an idiot. I leaned down and picked up my tote-bag. A black cab passed in the street, sending up a spray of filthy black water from a puddle that caught my clothes and face. I stood there gasping at its coldness. I wiped my face with my sleeve.

Then suddenly I was consumed by a white-hot anger. It swept over me, my heart beating so hard beneath my rib-cage that I trembled. I stepped back to the door and pressed the bell once more. This time I held my thumb on the buzzer. I could hear its insistent electric shrill deep inside the building.

The door opened. I caught a glimpse of the office interior – a flag above the reception counter and alongside it a black and white portrait of Oliver Tambo.

A large, stately woman confronted me, the impressive heft of her body in her breast and buttocks. She did not move aside to allow me in.

“Brother,” she said, “Comrade Mandla no longer works here.”

I heard her tone as maternal, perhaps because I had now given myself up to an exhausted sobbing and was sorely in need of comfort.

“Give me his address? Please. I am his friend,” I said. “I need to see him.”

The woman contemplated me. There was a light from the interior of the office intruding under the door frame. Then she reached out and touched my forearm. Her grasp was a warm confusion of suspicion and possibly maternal instinct. “Wait here,” she said.

The door closed in my face. I stood trying to regain control of my emotions. I felt exhaustion washing over me. Then the door opened again and the woman thrust her hand towards me. In it was a slip of paper torn from a legal pad.

“Here,” she said, and then she was gone.

I knocked on the door. First there was silence and then the confused shuffling of someone who had been suddenly woken. His face registered shock when he opened the door.

“Mandla,” I said. “You look terrible.”

Mandla reached out his arms and pulled me to him in a tight embrace. A shudder like a live current running under muscle and skin made me keep holding him.

Dressed in track-suit pants and a not too clean T-shirt, Mandla had a sour, unwashed smell and there was liquor on his breath. I imagined ruefully that I might smell much the same. Inside the flat was as dishevelled as he was. There was dirty laundry under the window in one corner, and I saw piles of newspapers and discarded pizza boxes on a coffee table. Images – a football match – flickered on the TV screen. On the floor beside an armchair were two empty vodka bottles and a third one half full.

“I have been redeployed,” he told me, as he removed a pile of books and a sock from the sofa so that I could sit down, “to the Communications Division.”

I tried to find the ironic tone but all I heard was bitterness.

“What do you suppose I am to do there?” he continued. “I am not suited to disseminating propaganda.”

A light slur to his speech revealed that Mandla, at midday, was already a little drunk.

“Henk sends his best,” I said. “They miss you at the Paramaribo.”

He flicked his hand at my words, as if he was brushing away an irritating fly. I noticed that he had not shaved and his skin looked unhealthy. There was a rash of eczema on his chin. I felt weary and displaced, understanding now that if it had been succour and sympathy I’d come looking for, mine was not the greater need. I looked helplessly around the room, wondering if I should tidy it up, collect the garbage, shepherd my mentor into a shower.

“For a soldier,” Mandla said suddenly, looking up from where he had been gazing at a spot on the floor, “I am decidedly out of step.”

“And who decided that?” I asked.

“Ah, Matthew,” he replied. “It is good to see you.”

He got up and stretched, then walked to the window and stood staring out of it for a long time. Then he turned and gave me an appraising look. “This is your first time in London?”

I nodded.

“Well then. We must go for a walk.”

Outdoors a brisk wind was blowing. Actually, it was freezing. It cut across the bridge of my nose like a knife, making my eyes water. I dug my hands into my pockets and wished I’d brought a scarf or a heavier jacket. Mandla did not seem to notice the cold and he strode out boldly. I had to walk fast to keep up with him but soon I matched his pace and we got into a steady, companionable rhythm. I had no idea where we were going. We seemed to be walking in a pattern but the streets disorientated me and I had no feel for direction – which way was north or which was south. I wondered whether we were close to the famous River Thames, which I had never seen except in books and movies and on several of Mandla’s postcards to me announcing his next visit to Amsterdam. We walked up one crowded street and down another, but Mandla didn’t seem lost. He seemed to have a purpose and a destination in mind. He did not talk but occasionally pointed out a landmark or a blue plaque beside the door of a building where someone famous had once lived.

Finally, we came out into an open square and instantly I recognised where we were.

“Yes,” Mandla beamed, clapping me on the shoulder. “Trafalgar Square, Matthew. You can tell it by the pigeons.”

We sat on the steps of the National Gallery with cups of strong coffee Mandla had insisted on, bought from a fast food place, and watched the people go by – clutches of tourists posing for photographs beside the lions, a group of schoolchildren being herded into the gallery behind us, a man with wild hair making a huge drawing on the paving stones with different coloured chalks. Off to one side across the square I noticed what appeared to be a bunch of protestors, complete with placards and folding chairs, and I thought I heard some singing. I was about to point them out to Mandla, when he laughed and said, “Oh, they’re always there. Doing their bit for the struggle.”

“Our struggle?” I asked, then immediately wondered why I’d said that. It felt presumptuous.

Mandla smiled at me. “You are too used to Amsterdam, my friend.” He pointed. “That’s the South African embassy – see the flag?”

I followed the line of his finger and there it was, fluttering, faded. I could barely make out the colours.

“Looks like we could do with a new one,” I said.

Mandla put back his head and laughed. “You could say that, Matthew. You could say that.”