Waiting for Dinamaula to arrive at the Residency, Andrew Macmillan found that he could concentrate on nothing – not even drinking coffee, or smoking a pipe. He knew what he wanted to say to the chief-designate, he knew how he wanted the interview to develop; but the events of the previous night, and the woman’s screams, and Crump’s stricken face, and the general sense of guilt which, however unfairly, affected every white man in Gamate on that morning – all these things were working fatally against composure and control.
He believed Crump’s story implicitly; indeed, there could be no other feasible explanation of the chance pistol-shot which had killed the Maula boy. But it was the second death that had visited the tribe in two days, and it was the sign manual of total confusion in his own area of rule. There could be no gainsaying the ugly fact of disorder.
When the police jeep stopped at the front gate, and Dinamaula, unattended, climbed down and walked across the lawn towards him, he still did not know how best to treat this young man who was now divided from him by so many thoughts, and so much blood.
Dinamaula spoke first. He came to a stop at the foot of the steps leading up to the stoep; a young man withdrawn and self-contained, his eyes showing nothing, his face a mask of aloof inexpression. He looked up at Andrew, and said, ‘You sent for me, Mr Macmillan.’
‘Yes.’ Andrew Macmillan nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you, Chief … I don’t like the way things are going.’
Confronted by so swift a declaration, Dinamaula said nothing. His face continued expressionless and controlled. It was as if, having fulfilled a dutiful formality by speaking first, he need make no more contribution.
After a moment of silence: ‘Come in,’ said Macmillan heavily. He opened the door of the stoep, and motioned Dinamaula forward. ‘We can talk better in here.’
Macmillan, vilely depressed by the previous night, had hoped for a smoother beginning to their meeting. But when they were indoors, sitting opposite each other in the worn armchairs, it was no easier; Dinamaula refused coffee, and a cigarette, and appeared to be reconciled to unpleasant duty. He had no choice – so his whole bearing proclaimed; he was waiting, in formal resignation, for what the Resident Commissioner had to say.
‘I hoped to see you at my aboura,’ said Andrew after a moment.
‘I was unable to be present,’ returned Dinamaula formally. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You know what I said to the tribe?’
Dinamaula inclined his head. ‘I have been informed.’
‘Did you agree with it?’
Dinamaula looked almost theatrically surprised. ‘It is not for me to agree or disagree. I am not yet the chief. I have no position at the moment. What the Resident Commissioner says in his aboura is not my affair.’
‘What are you getting at?’ asked Macmillan roughly. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Chief,’ said Macmillan, leaning forward, ‘I knew your father, and two of your uncles who were senior headmen. They were all fine men, as everyone in Gamate remembers. We were able to work together for the good of the tribe, I hope to be able to work the same way with you.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘Then what’s it all about?’ asked Macmillan, striving for a smile.
‘I do not understand,’ said Dinamaula again. His eyes gave nothing away, and his face still wore the mask of wary, expressionless disinterest. ‘What is what all about?’
Macmillan sighed. ‘Let’s begin at the beginning, then … There’s a lot of unrest in the tribe. There have been two riots, and two deaths already. There are a lot of rumours flying about … When you first arrived here, you talked a lot of hot air–’ Dinamaula’s eyes narrowed briefly at the words, and then grew coldly negative again, ‘–a lot of hot air about reforms. Later on you talked to the Press about marrying a white girl … Those two things,’ said Macmillan hardly, ‘have led directly to all the trouble we’re in now.’
‘I do not agree,’ said Dinamaula, with cool decision.
‘But it’s obvious. You can’t deny it.’
‘I do not agree.’
‘Then what is the trouble?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps the tribe is disturbed by these – deaths.’
‘What caused the deaths?’
‘A knife and a revolver,’ answered Dinamaula succinctly.
Macmillan looked at him for a long moment. If Dinamaula would not even meet him halfway, it was going to be impossible to make any progress, any dent in the surface of their difference. At the moment, he had no other weapons save words – or none that he cared to use.
‘I want you to answer some questions,’ said Macmillan, after a moment.
Dinamaula inclined his head.
‘What are these reforms that you have in mind?’
‘Until I am proclaimed chief, I cannot say.’
‘You said enough when you talked to the Press.’
‘I am still considering the details.’
Macmillan swallowed. He was getting nowhere, and this cool young man was making the fact plain. Bloody Oxford double-talk, he thought, and gripped the arms of his chair. It was a mistake to teach these people to read and write … Then he took a fresh pull, aware of foolish thoughts which he did not really believe: aware also that he must take command now, or lose it altogether.
‘Then there’s the question of your marriage,’ he said, as if they were progressing easily from subject to subject. ‘Are you planning to marry a white woman? Who is she?’
‘I do not wish to discuss it.’
‘You must discuss it!’ said Macmillan roughly. ‘You know it affects the whole tribe, the whole country.’
‘When I am chief,’ answered Dinamaula, ‘I will announce my marriage plans, and the reforms I have in mind.’
Macmillan looked at him straightly. ‘You will never be chief if you talk like that.’
Dinamaula smiled faintly. ‘So you told my people. I understand that it was not well received.’
‘I don’t give a damn how it was received!’ returned Macmillan angrily. ‘I know what’s best for this country. You are splitting the tribe from top to bottom.’
‘I shall know how to bind them together again, when I am chief.’
Macmillan sighed, leaning back in his chair. Weariness assailed him, and a feeling that history was passing him by, and that his day was done. Perhaps Dinamaula and Gamate and all the Maulas would leave the old paths, and march off into the evil future, leaving him defeated, with all his years of work vanished, and his hopes in ruins.
Without looking at Dinamaula, he said, more gently: ‘Chief, please understand that I’m asking you to help me. I don’t want to quarrel, I don’t want to use force … The whole tribe is split, as we know. We haven’t seen the last of this unrest – in fact we may only be at the beginning of it. I want you to come in on my side, and use your influence to smooth things out again.’
‘What influence have I, Mr Macmillan?’ Dinamaula’s voice was faintly bitter – the first sign of his true thoughts. ‘You know what they call me in Gamate? The Resident Commissioner’s dog … It will always be so, until I am proclaimed chief.’
‘I’m asking you to help me,’ said Macmillan again. ‘Drop all this talk of reforms, drop the marriage … Work with me, for the good of the tribe as a whole.’
‘I am working for the good of the tribe.’
‘Then what is it they want? What is it you want?’
They were staring at each other again. ‘I would like to be able to tell my people,’ answered Dinamaula slowly, ‘that you have agreed to my plans, and that when I am chief I shall be free.’
‘Free for what?’
‘To rule as I wish. To marry as I choose.’
‘A white woman?’
‘I will discuss that when I am chief.’
Macmillan shook his head decisively. ‘You know it’s out of the question. This country has never been run like that. You’ll destroy everything.’
‘I will build everything afresh.’
They were making no inch of progress; their cleavage was absolute; the time had come for decision and plain speaking. Macmillan leant forward again, his heavy shoulders hunched and square.
‘We’re getting nowhere,’ he said curtly. ‘Perhaps I was a fool to hope that we would … You’d better understand this. I’m not giving you a free hand, either now or in the future. You can forget that idea, for a start … If there are to be any reforms, they’ll be worked out by you and me together, and they won’t come with a rush. The marriage, of course, is out of the question … Whatever you do or say, Gamate is my responsibility, and I have the last word. I’m going to run it my way.’
Dinamaula rose. His bearing was suddenly icy, his face set. ‘I must ask you to excuse me,’ he said, with glacial formality. ‘I have to attend a funeral.’