PART I :/v £;,

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CHAPTER ONE ^ -

THE WAY TO AFRICA ^^^
Harvest Festival

THE tall black door in the narrow city street remained
closed. I rang and knocked and rang again. I could
not hear the bell ringing; to ring it again and again
was simply an act of f aith or despair, and later sitting
before a hut in French Guinea, where I never meant
to find myself, I remembered this first going astray,
the buses passing at the corner and the pale autumn
sun.

An errand boy came to my help, asking me whether
I wanted the Consul, and when I said yes, that was
what I wanted, the boy led me straight to the entrance
of St. Dunstan's Church and up the steps and into the
vestry. It wasn't the sort of beginning I'd expected
when I was accumulating the tent I never used, the
hypodermic syringe I left behind, the automatic pistol
which remained hidden underneath boots and shoes
and bags of silver in the money-box. They were pre-
paring for the harvest festival; the vestry was
crowded with large dressy yellow blooms and litters
of vegetable marrow; I couldn't see the Consul any-
where. The errand boy peered among the flowers in
the dim light and at last pointed to a little intent
woman bent above the blooms. "There she is," he
said, "that's her. She'll tell you."

I felt very self-conscious, tricking mv way among