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“I see,” Richard said, and as he went back indoors he made sure not to let his dejection show; he walked straight and reminded himself that he was, after all, the master.

Harrison was standing outside the front door, pretending to polish the glass. “Is there something that Jomo is not doing well, sah?” he asked hopefully.

“I was just asking Jomo some questions.”

Harrison looked disappointed. It was clear from the beginning that he and Jomo would not get along, the cook and the gardener, each thinking himself better than the other. Once, Richard heard Harrison tell Jomo not to water the plants outside the study window because “the sound of water is disturbing Sah writing.” Harrison wanted Richard to hear it, too, the way he spoke loudly, standing just outside the study window. Harrison’s obsequiousness amused Richard, as did Harrison’s reverence for his writing; Harrison had taken to dusting the typewriter every day, even though it was never dusty, and was reluctant to throw away manuscript pages he saw in the dustbin. “You are not using this again, sah? You are sure?” Harrison would ask, holding the crumpled pages, and Richard would say that, yes, he was sure. Sometimes he wondered what Harrison would say if he told him that he wasn’t even sure what he was writing about, that he had written a sketch about an archaeologist and then discarded it, written a love story between an Englishman and an African woman and discarded it, and had started writing about life in a small Nigerian town. Most of his material for his latest effort came from the evenings he spent with Odenigbo and Olanna and their friends. They were casually accepting of him, did not pay him any particular attention, and perhaps because of that he felt comfortable sitting on a sofa in the living room and listening.

When Olanna first introduced him to Odenigbo, saying, “This is Kainene’s friend that I told you about, Richard Churchill,” Odenigbo shook his hand warmly and said, “‘I have not become the king’s first minister in order to preside over the liquidation of the British Empire.’”

It took Richard a moment to understand before he laughed at the poor imitation of Sir Winston Churchill. Later, he watched Odenigbo wave around a copy of the Daily Times, shouting, “It is now that we have to begin to decolonize our education! Not tomorrow, now! Teach them our history!” and thought to himself that here was a man who trusted the eccentricity that was his personality, a man who was not particularly attractive but who would draw the most attention in a room full of attractive men. Richard watched Olanna as well, and each time he glanced at her he felt renewed, as if she had become more beautiful in the preceding minutes. He felt an unpleasant emotion, though, seeing Odenigbo’s hand placed on her shoulder and, later, imagining them together in bed. He and Olanna said little to each other, outside of the general conversation, but a day before he left to visit Kainene in Port Harcourt, Olanna said, “Richard, please greet Kainene.”

“I will,” he said; it was the first time she had mentioned Kainene.

Kainene picked him up at the train station in her Peugeot 404 and drove away from the center of Port Harcourt toward the ocean, to an isolated three-story house with verandas wreathed in creeping bougainvillea of the palest shade of violet. Richard smelled the saltiness of the air as Kainene led him through wide rooms with tastefully mismatched furniture, wood carvings, muted paintings of landscapes, rounded sculptures. The polished floors had a woody scent.

“I did wish it was closer to the sea, so we could have a better view. But I changed Daddy’s décor and it’s not too nouveau riche, I pray?” Kainene asked.

Richard laughed. Not just because she was mocking Susan—he had told her what Susan had said about Chief Ozobia—but because she had said we. We meant both of them; she had included him. When she introduced him to her stewards, three men in ill-fitting khaki uniforms, she told them, with that wry smile of hers, “You will be seeing Mr. Richard often.”

“Welcome, sah,” they said in unison, and they stood almost at attention as Kainene pointed to each and said his name: Ikejide, Nnanna, and Sebastian.

“Ikejide is the only one with half a brain in his head,” Kainene said.

The three men smiled, as though they each thought differently but would of course say nothing.

“Now, Richard, I’ll give you a tour of the grounds.” Kainene gave a mocking bow and led the way out through the back door to the orange orchard.

“Olanna asked me to say hello to you,” Richard said, taking her hand.

“So her revolutionary lover has admitted you into the fold. We should be grateful. It used to be that he allowed only black lecturers in his house.”

“Yes, he told me. He said that Nsukka was full of people from USAID and the Peace Corps and Michigan State University, and he wanted a forum for the few Nigerian lecturers.”

“And their nationalist passion.”

“I suppose so. He is refreshingly different.”

“Refreshingly different,” Kainene repeated. She stopped to flatten something on the ground with the sole of her sandal. “You like them, don’t you? Olanna and Odenigbo.”

He wanted to look into her eyes, to try and discern what she wanted him to say. He wanted to say what she wanted to hear. “Yes, I like them,” he said. Her hand was lax in his and he worried that she would slip it away. “They’ve made it much easier for me to get used to Nsukka,” he added, as if to justify his liking them. “I’ve settled in quite quickly. And of course there’s Harrison.”

“Of course, Harrison. And how is the Beet Man doing?”

Richard pulled her to him, relieved that she was not annoyed. “He’s well. He is a good man, really, very amusing.”

They were in the orchard now, in the dense interweaving of orange trees, and Richard felt a strangeness overcome him. Kainene was speaking, something about one of her employees, but he felt himself receding, his mind unfurling, rolling back on its own. The orange trees, the presence of so many trees around him, the hum of flies overhead, the abundance of green, brought back memories of his parents’ house in Wentnor. It was incongruous that this tropical humid place, with the sun turning the skin of his arms a mild scarlet and the bees sunning themselves, should remind him of the crumbling house in England, which was drafty even in summer. He saw the tall poplars and willows behind the house, in the fields where he stalked badgers, the rumpled hills covered in heather and bracken that spread for miles and miles, dotted with grazing sheep. Blue remembered hills. He saw his father and his mother sitting with him up in his bedroom, which smelled of damp, while his father read them poetry.

Into my heart on air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content

/> I see it shining plain,