ith all the venom of a possible rival and disappeared, no doubt to go and gossip with the others.
It has started, Beatrice thought. She has already come to assess me. I am a woman and I understand.
Lajide sipped the fluid. ‘Welcome, Madam. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a room.’
‘Oh. What happen to the ol’ one?’
‘I’m not happy there . . .’
‘Finish? You’re not happy there, so you want to leave? Come on, tell me the truth! You have quarrelled with your husband, not so? Omashe-O!’ He shook his head.
‘Not that,’ Beatrice protested. ‘It is not healthy for me. I’m always sick there. I suspect somebody is trying to poison me, so I wan’ to leave the place.’
In his eyes she saw the brightening glow of desire. His face looked crafty; his lips twisted with a smile. ‘If I give you room, you will be my woman?’ He rose, opened a nearby cupboard, produced a bottle and two small glasses. He walked to the centre of the room, poured and downed a drink; then poured her one. ‘I like you; I like you very much.’
She took the drink, but his hand trembled so that it spilled on the floor. The fire in his eyes had settled into a steady glow, undisguisable. She could feel the almost boundless passion of the man: an insatiable lust that made him lord of eight women.
‘You like me . . . what of your wives? I don’t want any trouble.’ She sipped her drink and found it was whisky, very welcome in her present mood.
‘Never mind about them. You have your room. I won’t stop you from anything, but you must be my woman. You will be free, and live outside. You hear me. I will keep you outside; you won’t mix with the others – here. Don’t bother about the rent . . .’
The terms were worth considering.
Lajide moved closer so she could smell his thick whisky breath. He must have been drinking the whole day. ‘When I say a room, I mean a good room. You see, is no good living in a hole; no, not girl like you. One Lebanese is coming to see me this night about my fine house at Clifford Street. I will give you a room from there. What say you?’
‘Do you want a reply now?’
Lajide shrugged. ‘As you like. People are rushing for the house . . . I can reserve one room for you, but if you waste time —’ He waved his arm, the arm of the giver and the taker.
‘Reserve a room for me, Lajide. But I’ll think of the other part.’
‘What you have to think about? Is not many women I will say, I want you to be my woman, and they begin think. Fancy that!’
‘Perhaps my husband will like to see you about the room first.’ Beatrice smiled very sweetly.
Lajide’s face drained of colour. ‘Your husband! That’s all right! That’s all right, I don’t worry. Come, I take you home in my car.’ He reached for his bunch of keys.
Beatrice hesitated.
‘Come now —’
‘Just a minute, Mr Lajide. That young man downstairs, Mr Amusa Sango. What did he do to you?’
‘Leave him alone. He’s a very bad young man. I give him notice long time, then he want to put me in trouble. He bring C.I.D. men here. Better for him to go now in peace before big trouble meet him in my house.’
‘Can’t you give him a room in your new house?’
Lajide’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Me?’ and he laughed.
Down the stairs Beatrice went, with the man in the voluminous robes trailing close behind her. She noticed that the corridor was now clear and that Sango was gone. Lajide was talking incessantly, about his wealth, his influence in the city, and the stupidity of certain tenants.
At the door of Twenty Molomo a maroon car of American make, streamlined, with chromium streaks, glided to a stop nodding proudly. The door opened and a Lebanese in a white shirt and shorts slid out.
Lajide whispered to Beatrice: ‘Tha’s the man who want to buy my new house.’ He raised his voice: ‘Hello, Muhammed Zamil . . . I just goin’ out.’
‘Lajide, is the house ready?’