My Name is N. Robert Karjel

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      ‘This isn’t going to be a row but…’

      ‘I’ve noticed that when one of us isn’t drinking we don’t row.’

      ‘When I’m not drinking. You’re never not drinking.’

      ‘If it’s not going to be a row why’s it already sounding like one?’

      ‘I don’t want it to be a row but…’

      ‘No more “buts”. You’ve softened me up. Ask your question.’

      ‘What’s the attraction?’

      ‘Of the work?’

      ‘It’s not the money, is it?’

      ‘Why do you think Bagado likes the work?’

      ‘Note,’ she said, pointing at the imaginary stenographer, ‘he didn’t answer the question. Bagado, well, Bagado has different motives. He has a sincere belief that he’s acting for the force of good against evil. He’s on a mission, a crusade.’

      ‘And I just like rummaging in drawers.’

      ‘Maybe that’s it.’

      ‘I’m not as cynical as you might think.’

      ‘Most of the time you seem to be acting for the good.’

      ‘That sounds like Bagado talking,’ I said.

      Silence.

      ‘You never told me very much and nowadays even less,’ she said.

      ‘I don’t tell Bagado either. He’s a policeman. I can’t. And anyway, you don’t want to hear.’

      ‘True.’

      ‘So what does Bagado say about me?’

      ‘You won’t like it.’

      ‘Maybe I’ll withdraw the question then. I get enough unpalatable stuff rammed down my neck all day without having to hear what my friends say about me, behind my back, to my wife.’

      ‘Not yet, Bruce.’

      ‘Not yet what?’

      ‘I’m not yet your wife.’

      ‘I said wife?’

      ‘Your slip’s showing. The Freudian one.’

      I reached over. She leaned back. I ran my hand up the back of her neck. She resisted. I forced her into a kiss until she broke away.

      ‘I won’t take that as a proposal. If it’s subliminal it doesn’t count,’ she said. ‘It’s still in the head.’

      ‘And you want it from the heart.’

      ‘I didn’t want it to sound too much like romantic trash.’

      ‘Leave that to me, I’m good at the pulp end of things.’

      I got an inadvertent look.

      ‘What else has Bagado said to you?’

      She shrugged and sipped her glass, which was empty.

      ‘You two’ve been going through my school report again.’

      ‘He doesn’t think you’re bad…’

      ‘I know, I know…he thinks I’m “morally weak”.’

      ‘He thinks your only guiding principle is your own fascination.’

      I called Helen in with the Red Label. She dragged it in kicking and screaming. I poured a finger and brimmed it with water.

      ‘One thing you might want to remember is that if Bagado hadn’t come along, I wouldn’t be involved in any of this. I was doing fine until…’

      ‘He embroiled you in his crusade?’

      ‘Yes, I think that’s fair. He’s the one who involved me in bigger things. People killing and getting killed and sometimes for no other reason than a base human emotion like…jealousy.’

      ‘Jealousy?’ she said with mock outrage, not rising to the bait. ‘Jealousy’s a very strong emotion.’

      ‘Especially sexual jealousy…so I’ve heard.’

      ‘Maybe for men.’

      ‘No, no, women too. How’d you like it if I told you I’d been sleeping with somebody else, you pregnant and all.’

      Her face stilled in an instant and she started in on me, eyes jutting.

      ‘See what I mean?’

      She sat back, caught out.

      ‘You and I are different,’ she said.

      ‘No, we’re not.’

      ‘Our relationship is based on sex.’

      ‘Is it?’ I asked.

      ‘That’s how it started, remember the desert?’

      ‘The ground,’ I teased.

      ‘Piss off.’

      ‘There is more than just sex…isn’t there?’ I said, reaching for her hand.

      ‘Sometimes,’ she said, allowing me a fingernail. ‘And if you did sleep with someone else, whether I was pregnant or not, I’d…I’d…’

      ‘I believe you.’

      ‘How did we get on to people killing each other…?’

      We laughed and I gulped some Johnnie Walker.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘An example of my overfascination, how I get over…No, I know what I was going to say. Africa. What I’ve learned from Africa, from this work, is that I’m not indifferent any more. My life’s not set in aspic like it was in London. I don’t just work, play, sleep. I’m not protected from ugliness by my job. Reality isn’t TV. I see the limbless poverty at every traffic light, the fat people in bars eating money sandwiches which, as you’ve probably gathered, means I don’t totally and unequivocally love the place. It drives me crazy. I go mad when the Africans decide not to do things, when they tell you everything except the one thing you want to hear, when they disappear off to their village without a word, but then I’m charmed by their innocence, the way they join their lives to ours. That’s Africa for me – not a whole lot between those two mood swings – wild anger and happy delirium.’

      ‘Have I ever seen you on one of those deliriously happy days?’

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