Cold Coffee in Asmara by Andrew Goss

Author:Andrew Goss
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary fiction
Publisher: Troubador Publishing
Published: 2024-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

They said any party only really started with the arrival of Sir Charles. He had the ability to draw a crowd to him like a magnet. Yet he was different things to different people. To some, he represented the British presence in Asmara. To the locals, he was an unusual government official; a Westerner who understood and embraced their culture.

To those who knew him best, he was reliable, a good sort, always charming, ever gregarious and a useful chap to have onside in a tight spot. Fewer still counted on him as a friend and really knew what lay beneath. McKenzie was among them. They had known each other since Sir Charles had first arrived at the British residence in Maryam Gmbi Street. By then, the Scot was already part of the established Asmara expat scene. So, they had known each other more years than either man cared to count. Walters too, along with several other long-term aid workers, including Mancini, the Italian, were part of his inner social circle. Indeed, the party was not an official engagement.

It was why Sir Charles was due to arrive without his wife, when he was at his best and worst. Those who were close to him knew he was flawed. But he was fun. He was loyal to his closest friends, that small number of people he spoke to openly and took into his confidence. And they adored him. Johnson too had come to view the charismatic diplomat as more than an acquaintance. The feeling was mutual; he had taken quite a shine to the English nurse. Perhaps because there was no pretence. She was honest and open with all she met. He liked that, especially in the world in which he operated.

She and Cousins arrived together, sharing a vehicle which had brought them across the city under grey skies as the cloud began to gather and thicken once more. Neither were quite sure what to expect from the party. McKenzie rarely entertained, and it was the first social event at his private residence either had attended.

The old villa was grand, colonial in style, of the kind wealthy Italian merchants had built before the end of the nineteenth century, when Eritrea lay at the heart of trade with the outside world. The heavy wooden front door was ajar as they approached from the driveway on foot. Some blue and white balloons fixed beneath a sign on the house which proclaimed ‘Dun Roamin’ told them this must be the place. As they stepped inside, they were greeted by McKenzie’s Eritrean housekeeper, who smiled faintly in welcome.

She wore a stunningly colourful full-length dress that was not untypical of the women from the city. Her dark, slightly greying hair was drawn back to frame a high forehead and delicate face with fine features that suggested a mixed Arab-African heritage. There was no denying she was a handsome woman.

“Welcome,” she said. “You must be Hannah the nurse.” Johnson nodded.

“And I’m John…”

“Ah yes, the writer.”

“I guess,” Cousins replied.

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