Julia,’ in a different tone, which made Julia stop on her way out of the room to examine her, as if she was prepared to be touched, reached: even to reach out herself.
But downstairs a door slammed, and Frances exclaimed, in despair, ‘There he is, it’s Johnny.’
‘Yes, it’s Comrade Johnny,’ said Julia, departing upstairs.
Frances went down into the kitchen and found Johnny in his usual position, standing back to the window, and with him was a handsome black man wearing clothes more expensive than anyone else’s, smiling as Johnny introduced him, ‘This is Comrade Mo, from East Africa.’
Frances sat, pushing the novel across the table at Rose, but she was staring in admiration at Comrade Mo, and at Johnny, who resumed his lecture to impress Comrade Mo, on the history of East Africa and the Arabs.
And now Frances was in a dilemma. She did not want to ask Johnny to sit down. She had asked him – though Julia would never believe this – not to drop in at mealtimes, and to telephone before he came. But here was this guest and of course she must …
‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked, and Comrade Mo rubbed his hands together and laughed and said he was starving, and at once sat down in the chair next to her. Johnny, invited to sit, said he would just have a glass of wine – he had brought a bottle. Where Andrew and Sylvia had sat, minutes before, now sat Comrades Mo and Johnny, and the two men put on their plates all that was left of the pie, and the vegetables.
Frances was angry to the point where one is dispirited with it: what was the point, ever, of being angry with Johnny? It was obvious he had not eaten for days, he was cramming in bread, taking great mouthfuls of wine, refilling his glass and Comrade Mo’s, in between forkfuls from his plate. The youngsters were seeing appetites even greater than their own.
‘I’ll serve the pudding,’ said Frances, her voice dull with rage.
On to the table now went plates of sticky delights from the Cypriot shops, concoctions of honey and nuts and filo pastry, and dishes of fruit, and her chocolate pudding, made especially for ‘the kids’.
Colin, having stared at his father, and then at his mother: Why did you let him sit down? Why do you let him … ? now got up, scraping back his chair, and pushing it back against the wall with a bang. He went out.
‘I feel this is a real home from home,’ said Comrade Mo, consuming chocolate pudding. ‘And I do not know these cakes? Are they like some cakes we have from the Arab cuisine?’
‘Cypriot,’ said Johnny, ‘almost certainly influenced from the East …’ and began a lecture on the cuisines of the Mediterranean.
They were all listening, fascinated: no one could say that Johnny was dull when not talking about politics, but it was too good to last. Soon he was on to Kennedy’s murder, and the probable roles of the CIA and the FBI. From there he went on to the American plans to take over Africa, and in proof told them that Comrade Mo had been propositioned by the CIA offering vast sums of money. All his teeth and gums showing, Comrade Mo confirmed this, with pride. An agent of the CIA in Nairobi had approached him with offers to finance his party, in return for information. ‘And how did you know he was CIA?’James wanted to know, and Comrade Mo said that ‘everyone knew’ the CIA roamed around Africa, like a lion seeking its prey. He laughed, delightedly, looking around for approval. ‘You should all come and visit us. Come and see for yourself and have a good time,’ he said, having little idea he was describing a glorious future. ‘Johnny has promised to come.’
‘Oh, I thought he was going now – at once?’ said James, and now Comrade Mo’s eyes rolled in enquiry to Johnny, while he said, ‘Comrade Johnny’s welcome any time.’
‘So, you didn’t tell Andrew you were going to Africa?’ asked Frances, to elicit the reply, ‘Keep them guessing.’ And Johnny smiled and offered them the aphorism, ‘Always keep them guessing.’
‘Who?’ Rose wanted to know.
‘Obviously, Rose, the CIA,’ said Frances.
‘Oh, yes, the CIA,’ said James, ‘of course.’ He was absorbing information, as was his talent and his intention.
‘Keep them guessing,’ said Johnny. And, in his severest manner to his willing disciple, James, ‘In politics you should never let your left hand know what your right hand does.’
‘Or perhaps,’ said Frances, ‘what your left hand does.’
Ignoring her: ‘You should always cover your tracks, Comrade James. You should never make things easy for the enemy.’
‘Perhaps I shall come to Cuba too?’ said Mo. ‘Comrade Fidel is encouraging links with the liberated African countries.’
‘And even the non-liberated ones,’ said Johnny, letting them all in on secrets of policy.
‘What are you going to Cuba for?’ asked Daniel, really wanting to know, confronting Johnny across the table with his inflammatory red hair, his freckles, and eyes always strained by the knowledge that he was not worthy to lick the boots of – for instance, Geoffrey. Or Johnny.
James said to him, ‘One should not ask that kind of question,’ and looked to Johnny for approval.
‘Exactly,’ said Johnny. He got up, and resumed his lecturer’s position, back to the window, at ease, but on the alert.
‘I want to see a country that has known only slavery and subjection build freedom, build a new society. Fidel has done miracles in five years, but the next five years will show a real change. I am looking forward to taking Andrew and Colin, taking my sons, to see for themselves … Where are they, by the way?’ For he had not noticed their absence until now.
‘Andrew is with Sylvia,’ said Frances. ‘We are going to have to call her that now.’
‘Why, has she changed her name?’
‘That is her name,’ said Rose, sullen: she continually said she hated her name and wanted to be called Marilyn.
‘I have only really known her as Tilly,’ said Johnny, with a whimsical air that momentarily recalled Andrew. ‘Well, then, where’s Colin?’
‘Doing homework,’ said Frances. A likely story, though Johnny would not know that.
Johnny was fidgeting. His sons were his favourite audience, and he did not know what a critical one it was.
‘Can you go to Cuba, just like that, as a tourist?’ asked James, evidently disapproving of tourists and their frivolity.
‘He’s not going as a tourist,’ said Comrade Mo. Feeling out of place at the table, while his comrade-in-arms stood in front of them, he got up and lounged there by Johnny. ‘Fidel invited him.’
This was the first Frances had heard of it.
‘And he invited you too,’ said Comrade Mo.
Johnny was clearly displeased: he had not wanted this to be revealed.
Comrade Mo said, ‘A friend of Fidel’s is in Kenya for the Independence celebrations, and he told me that Fidel wants to invite Johnny and Johnny’s wife.’
