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white-plumed close to the house, the nagging complaint of a tethered goat, some potato plants, withered cabbages like severed heads and a few plump orange pumpkins. The sun was fierce; they moved into shade. Green handgrenades hung from the branches of the avocado tree.
    This was, after all, her outing; she rose, smiling.—Gladwell, I think I’m going to go for a walk. Up to that hill over there, see the view.—
    He broke off what he was saying to his uncle, head vehement. —No, no. You can’t walk around out there, there can be land mines still not cleared. No.—
    It was as if the queer image that had come to her—fruit in the guise of weapons had been a warning. In countries where not long ago there had been one of those civil wars supplied with such weapons for both sides by foreign countries with ‘agendas’ of their own, the violence lies shallowly buried. The Agency had had enough experience of that. So the stout rubber-soled hiking boots were not to be put to use.
    As the honoured guests were about to leave, he brought the plastic bags from his car and carried them into the house. Only then. She found this unexpectedly delicate, certainly in this man; he hadn’t wanted the old couple to start insisting that the guests share what was meant for themselves. The old man and
woman followed him, protesting happily. The woman came back with a knife in her hand and cut down two avocados, presented them to the woman from the aid agency.
    She weighed them, heavy, one in either hand, thank you, thank you.
    Now they were fruit.
    In the car she placed them on the rear seat. He seemed to contemplate a moment on the suitability of the gift.—They will get ripe.—
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    She forgot to take them with her when he dropped her at her house. It was dark, she’d had to shout for the houseman Tomasi, who ignored the horn, to come and unlock the gates.
    On Sunday she went with Flora to fetch Alan Henderson from the airport, back from New York. He was elated.—We’ve a whole new allocation of funds!—
    â€”Tell, tell!—
    â€”One-and-a-half million more.—
    His Assistant and his wife celebrated him: you’re a wizard, a Midas, how’d you do it, what’d you tell them.—We-e-ll—this country is stable, right—by standards of the newly emergent economies, it’s ditto democratic, on the way there, anyway, and if we want to help keep it on its feet, we must do more to promote good governance, while projects must be totally co-operative, real money must be put into them, theirs and ours—
    His colleague knows that ‘specific project choices’ are what they’ll have to adapt, finagle, beyond fine intentions.
    â€”And how’d they receive our ‘well-documented’ doubts about funds for IT?—
    â€”That was the tough one. They came up with their solution:
funds to supply generators for community centres and so on where we know there’s no local power plant. How feasible that is … we’ll work on it. They still see this continent left behind to be the Dark Continent again, Mister Kurz he dead, unless IT comes first —even before houses, schools and clinics. Maybe they’re right … On line into the world and what’s missing will follow. And there’s enthusiasm over our AIDS education strategy. They’re waking up over there in AmeroEurope to see if the new Plague isn’t stopped nothing much else we do will matter … that’s what’s going to bring about a Dark Continent in our age of globalisation.—
    Over lunch he asked what she’d been up to.
    As if he hadn’t been kept only too well informed:—Minding the store for you. Plenty of problems I didn’t trouble you with, though.—
    Flora was carving a leg of lamb.—Not now, not now, in your office on Monday.—
    â€”But I did have a break. Out in the country yesterday. The Deputy-Director of