HE ALWAYS dressed well: short-sleeved white shirts of the finest cotton, tailored white shorts, white stockings, and brown shoes specially made. That morning he wore his best. He took longer showering and shaving. He applied his delicately scented aftershave. He might have been a bridegroom getting ready for his wedding. All this for a woman who probably despised him as a drunken clown. All this for a woman who was dark-skinned.
Driving to the Old Town he passed the British Resident’s palatial house, with the Union Jack flying over it. The flag was slightly smaller than that of Suva which flew a little above it, on the same mast. This was intended to signify that it was really the Sultan who ruled the country and not the British Resident, but no one was deceived. It was generally assumed that His Highness took no decision of any importance without having consulted and getting the approval of Sir Hugo. The Sultan might pay for the upkeep of the battalion of Gurkhas stationed in the country but their commander, Major Holliday, took his orders from Sir Hugo who took his from Whitehall. Dr Abad’s People’s Party wanted not only an elected Parliament but also an end to the British connection. His daughter, a more fervent politician, no doubt wanted that too, even if she was half-Scottish.
He kept telling himself he was mad going to meet her. He should drive straight to the College and telephone her from there, apologising for not keeping the appointment. He would point out that it was a condition of his contract not to engage in political activities.
But when he came to where he should have turned right for the College he drove on towards the Old Town. If he associated with her in this affair of the students he would put himself in danger not only of having his contract cancelled but also of destroying his peace of mind forever. If he let himself fall in love with her he would never again be content. But wasn’t he already in love with her? Wasn’t the prospect of seeing her, perhaps of touching her, if they shook hands, causing him greater joy than he had ever felt before, even if at the same time greater unease?
He parked his car near the fruit market, under a frangipani tree. Petals would have fallen on it when he returned. It was a pleasant spot, with the shining heaps of fruit and the smiling faces of vendors and buyers. There was, though, a stink of durians in the air: that fruit of horrible smell and sweet taste. Was it symbolical?
He walked slowly. The temperature was already in the eighties and he did not want to arrive in her office sweating. Two native girls, colourful as flowers in their sarongs and kebayas, passed him, with admiring glances and giggles. He often received such homage. It hadn’t needed Jean to call him a ‘good-looking big bugger’ for him to know that he was attractive to women. The whores at the Shamrock had played a game of pretending to be in competition with one another for the honour of serving him; but it hadn’t all been pretence. The one he had chosen, a grave beauty from Hong Kong, had handled him as if he was a prince. He had been a little embarrassed but also a great deal flattered. He liked to prove to himself – indeed, it was why he’d visited the Shamrock – that though he was still a bachelor at thirty-six, it was from choice and not because he wasn’t attracted to women or women to him. He would marry within the next two years, say, while he was still young enough to have a family, though to be honest the thought of having a family was one of the reasons that he had preferred to stay single. He never felt comfortable with children under the age of five.
These thoughts, though, shrivelled in his mind as he stood outside the Chuu-Chuu tailors. There was an entrance next to the shop. Or a close to use the Scottish term. On a brass plate were inscribed two names: Mrs L. Azaharri, solicitor, and Mr H. Chin, dentist. This was where the poor came for legal help or to have their teeth fixed. It was also where Sandilands might meet his doom.
He hesitated, he thought of turning away, he warned himself that in this close, up these narrow stairs, could lie disillusionment and heartbreak, but still he went in and up, grimacing at the faint smell of excrement. He imagined himself saying to her that this was no place for a woman as fastidious and beautiful as she, she must go with him and find more suitable premises. What he did do was knock nervously on a door that had her name on it.
As he waited he heard what he decided was the noise of a tooth drill and he felt a pang of sympathy for whoever it was, undergoing the ordeal. But had he himself in front of him an even greater test of courage?
He thought of Jean Hislop. At the Golf Club they called him a lucky bastard having a handsome and high-spirited woman like Jean keen on him. His mother would welcome her as a daughter-in-law. He could take her to any restaurant in Edinburgh without having to endure insolent or hostile or, worst of all, pitying stares.
He opened the door and went in. It was an outer office. A chubby young Chinese girl in a yellow cheongsam was seated at a desk typing. She looked up and smiled. Her scent was strong. Was it to overcome the stink of the drains?
‘Mr Sandilands?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Azaharri is expecting you, sir. Please go in.’
He went in.
Leila was seated at a desk, writing, with her left hand, he noticed; it did not have a wedding ring. She was wearing spectacles. She looked up at him with a smile that, in his confusion, reminded him of the moon shining on the sea. Her hair, black as midnight, would, if let down, fall below her waist. The beauty of her body, he now realised, would be added to and not detracted from by the colour of her skin, not white but far from black; a very delicate shade of brown. She was wearing a white blouse.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Sandilands,’ she said. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ He sat down.
On the desk was a colour photograph of her, a little girl with a pink ribbon in her hair, and a dark-faced man, no doubt her husband. Azaharri was smiling happily. How soon after that photograph was taken had he sickened and died?
Sandilands did not feel jealous. He felt sad. Here was a man who had had everything to live for and yet had died young.
‘I believe you play golf with His Highness,’ she said.
‘Yes. Sometimes.’
‘On his private course?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite a privilege.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘My husband played golf. He was quite an enthusiast.’
The man in the photograph did look as if he would have enjoyed a game.
‘Do you play yourself?’ he asked, somewhat fatuously. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at the Golf Club.’
Dark skins were no longer barred but they still weren’t welcomed. If he were to turn up with her, there would be astonished and indignant stares. Some of the stupider women might even try to insult her.
‘I have played,’ she said, with a smile, ‘but not recently. I am also told that you go sailing with Mr Maitland, the Deputy Commissioner.’
‘We shared a boat once.’
‘I used to love sailing. I take it, Mr Sandilands, you agree that these three students have been unjustly treated.’
‘If what they say is true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean if all they were doing in Cheng’s shop was reading books like Animal Farm.’
‘What else could they have been doing? I myself sometimes took part in their discussions. They are members of the People’s Party, as I am. We need clever young men to help us spread our message and recruit members. We are not revolutionaries, Mr Sandilands. We simply wish to bring democracy to Savu.’
He saw then that, for all her lovely smiles, for all that soft voice, for all those fine brown eyes and that splendid bosom, she could be formidable.
‘We have reason to believe His Highness is in sympathy with our objectives.’
He doubted it. The Sultan liked to think of himself as an upholder of human rights, such as free speech; but he was in no hurry to introduce them.
‘From what I have been able to find out so far,’ she said, ‘it appears that Mr Maitland consulted neither the Commissioner nor the Chief Minister.’
‘I don’t think Alec would act on his own.’
‘Not on his own, no. Perhaps in collusion with the British Resident?’
Sandilands could easily imagine Sir Hugo saying: ‘No need to bother His Highness with such a trivial matter.’
‘I understand Mr Cheng has been deported,’ he said.
‘And others. Yet I have the impression that His Highness knew nothing about it.’
That was possible.
‘I have arranged a meeting with one of His Highness’s private secretaries. I would like you to accompany me, Mr Sandilands.’
A part of him wanted to cry out that he would go with her to hell if she asked him to, but another part, one more familiar, warned him not to be a bloody fool. If his reward was to win her as his lover it might be worth the risk, but what if she wasn’t even at the airport to see him off after he’d been flung out?
She was waiting for his answer.
‘When is this meeting?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow morning at eleven in the Secretariat.’
‘Would my being there do any good?’
‘I gathered from the secretary that His Highness admires you very much.’
‘As a golfer.’
Others besides the Sultan admired him for his golfing prowess and for nothing else.
‘All right. I’ll go.’ But he didn’t want to have to wait till tomorrow – so long a time – before seeing her again.
‘The students are at my house, Mr Sandilands. They would like very much to talk to you. Why not join us all at dinner this evening?’
Strangely, it occurred to him that he would meet her little girl; more strangely still, he wanted very much to meet her.
‘I’d like that,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘What time?’
‘I usually eat at seven but come when you like.’
‘Thanks.’
He got up. His legs were shaky.
She accompanied him to the door. How gracefully she moved, compared with Jean’s sturdy swagger. It must be because she sometimes wore saris. How would it be if she appeared with him in one of those Edinburgh restaurants wearing a sari of red and gold? The stares would not be insolent or hostile or pitying; no, they would be envious.
She put out her hand. He took it and held it longer than was polite, but she did not seem to mind. He squeezed, very slightly, but more than was seemly. Did she squeeze back? Yes, she did. But why? She was no simple soul. In her there were many discoveries to be made. It might take a more intrepid explorer than he.
It was a Scottish custom to bring a present when you were invited. He would bring his most beautiful orchid.
He was going down the stairs when he realised that he did not know where she lived. He had forgotten to ask and she had forgotten to tell him.
He hurried back. The Chinese girl cheerfully gave him directions.
As he went out into the street he found himself wondering what qualities he had that would appeal to a woman like her. She devoted herself to helping others; he’d always looked after himself. ‘That’s what I like about you, Andrew,’ Jean had once said. ‘You don’t give a fuck for anybody but yourself.’ That had been unfair. In his time he had made as many magnanimous gestures as most men, provided always that they had not cost him too much, not in money but in commitment. There in the crowded street, in the warm sunshine, he stood and shivered. Better to stop it now. Better to make up his mind never to see her again.
That was sensible advice, so why did he want to tell these strangers, smiling at him curiously, for he must have looked glaikit standing there, that the greatest joy he could look forward to was holding Leila Azaharri in his arms?