Wings of the Morning (21 page)

DAVID HEAVEN — 1973

David’s birthday in May was a bright and breezy in London and he was all thirty and enthusiasm as he strode up Piccadilly with Martin Kirchoff, puffing at his heels with
a developing fretfulness. They were on their way to inspect some property which just might be an answer to the difficulty which was threatening the expansion of Kirchoff and Son. Ever the optimist,
David was seeing the problem as a glass half full and for him, the future was entirely rosy. Their business was booming and he was now both a director and a prime mover of its affairs. He enjoyed
an excellent relationship with Sol and especially with Martin. They were indeed foils for each other. Martin was the guardian of their commercial security. No detail of a proposed new deal or
expense ever eluded his watchful eye, but he was content to leave to David what they both referred to as the ‘visionary stuff’, which encompassed all the marketing of their services to
European based exporters.

David and Martin were good friends but outside of the office they saw little of each other. From time to time, David would spend an evening at Martin’s house in outer Highgate. His wife
Ruth combined an aura of charm with a mischievous sense of humour, and David enjoyed her company. During these comfortable occasions, they didn’t talk about the business, but David would tell
them more of the places he had seen and the people he had met. The conversation would run to Ruth’s agenda. In truth, she had more interest than her husband in the ways of the worlds which he
encountered across Africa. David had lost none of his enthusiasm for travel, but now most of his trips were return visits so there were sights and sounds which he took for granted until prodded by
astute questions from Ruth. She made him describe the experience of arriving in Mogadishu or hitching a lift on a decrepit old DC3 aircraft between Kinshasa and Bujumbura. She tried to tease out of
him news of where and when he might have met a suitable woman to make an honest man of him. He would laugh and try to brush her off, but when it was time to leave, Ruth would tell him that she must
check out any girl whom he might have in mind. And kissing her goodnight, David would insist that he could not risk such a thing. There was no lady out there up to Ruth’s high standards. And
Martin would laugh with them, the contented laughter of a man who had the life and companion that he wanted.

Sol Kirchoff remained very active, if a little quieter. He was more distant from the transactions of the moment but his sense for strategic development remained sure. Six months previously, he
had started to tackle a major problem. They had long outgrown the modest offices in Westbourne Grove and rented overflow premises with the inevitable result that they were too often in the wrong
place for each other. They looked for a single base into which they could consolidate, but all the possibilities proved too much, too far or too difficult.

And then from somewhere, Sol had managed to conjure up a contact who knew someone who needed a favour and he in turn knew of spacious accommodation at a prestigious address which was going
unaccountably cheap. David never did establish the full background story and he knew better than to ask. But on that morning, it didn’t seem to matter much as they were shown around the top
two floors of a building with which he and Martin fell instantly in love. The interior on offer had fallen on hard times, but as ever in property, location and potential is all and they were
persuaded by their hearts over the doubts which persisted in Martin’s head. For David, this place was the best birthday present which he could have imagined.

It took them over three months to complete the deal, to legalise their tenancy agreement and to move in with bag and baggage. At the beginning of September, the business of Kirchoff and Son was
relocated to the lofty, higher floors which were reached by an ancient lift or muscle-building stairs. But they were in a magnificent building which was reflected in its imposing address —
100 Piccadilly, London.

Ten days later, David flew into Lisbon having spent the previous week in Mauritania and Mali. He was there to meet Alves Gomes, a charming, cultured man in his mid-forties with whom they were in
partnership for the market of Angola. David had found him on a visit to Luanda the previous year, and they got on well. Alves was now taking a holiday to catch up with family and friends in
Portugal and had invited David to call by.

They spent most of two days together, discussing the business potential in Angola which was significant but difficult. David worried about getting an adequate infrastructure in Luanda and Gomes
agreed, confirming that recruitment down there was hard, with endless red tape imposed by the colonial authorities. They worked out a plan and agreed that David would visit Luanda in four months.
In the meantime, good luck and go with God as Alves told David as he left him in his hotel for an evening on his own before flying back to London in the morning. David continued to sit in the bar,
and ordered himself another gin and tonic, wondering how he could get himself on south to Mocamedes. It would be over three years since his trip through South West Africa to meet Jonas Savimbi at
his bush camp. He smiled happily at his memories as the waitress came up with his drink.

David lit a cigarette, twisting in his chair to prevent the breeze from the window extinguishing the flame of his old Dunhill lighter. Suddenly, he was transfixed. There was a man standing at
the entrance to the bar and David could hardly believe his eyes. But the guy smiled knowingly at him and there was no doubt: here was Rafa again. David waved in welcome as Rafa strolled over to his
table.

‘Wow. What a pleasure to see you again, Rafa,’ he said, getting up and stretching out his hand, ‘this is a huge and happy coincidence. Sit down and let me get you a
drink.’ He noticed that the waitress was already on her way.

‘It’s huge and happy, David, but no coincidence. You’ve been set up by our mutual good friend, Mr Alves Gomes!’ And he beamed his familiar grin.

‘Who cares? It’s just so good to see you. But how come anyway?’

Rafa ordered himself a mineral water and sat down before he replied.

‘It’s simple really. Alves and my Dad go way back together. Alves is a bit older but they were both studying at the same time here in Lisbon and they became friends. They still meet
when they can which is not too often. The last time was down in the bush outside Lobito somewhere. Alves was talking business and mentioned the name of your company. My father forgets nothing, so
said that he knew of Kirchoff and remembered your visit. Then Alves said you guys are working together and my Dad sent a message to say hello. I’m living here right now, at Med school like he
was.’

He paused and smiled before going on, ‘there’s someone else you’ll want to see more than me and she’s right here too.’

Rafa put out his hand in a theatrical gesture and David turned again to the door of the bar. Standing there was Aischa: or was it Ouye? Whichever, David stood as the girl walked over to join
them. She put an arm around his neck and pulled him into a welcoming embrace.

‘It’s lovely to meet again,’ she said softly, and then added with a mischievous twinkle, ‘and I’m Aischa.’

The three of them laughed simultaneously and then the loyal waitress was running back to take another order. Soon they were deep in chatter. David was transported back to that magic evening in
Mocamedes with the atmosphere of fun and relaxed companionship. They both plied him with questions. How was the business going? How was life in London? Where had he been travelling? Had he been
back to Angola? Why had he not been in touch?

All this, David sensed, was lovely and gentle sparring. He had the certain feeling that they already had the answers and knew more of his recent life then he knew of theirs. He signalled for
more drinks and while he was occupied, brother and sister jabbered companionably at each other in Portuguese, speaking too quickly for David to follow. He thought he picked up that Rafa was working
a night shift at the hospital and would shortly have to leave. David felt a guilty pleasure that he would be left alone with Aischa. He took a moment to sit back in his chair, fumbling to light a
cigarette as he studied her in profile.

She and Ouye must be twenty-two now, no longer the twinkling teenagers of Mocamedes but poised young women, at least to judge from the sister who sat beside him. Aischa was looking fabulous, a
picture of composed elegance. In contrast, her brother bounced around in his chair, a bundle of nervous energy and gloriously rumpled in his casual shirt and shorts, large feet thrust into tennis
shoes without laces. Aischa was alluringly smart in a lightweight beige dress, deceptively simple, fashionably short so that it rode up on her deep golden thighs. The top two buttons were undone
and the third struggled against the swell of her breasts when she leant forward to pick up her glass. David reflected that they were not obviously brother and sister except in that marvellous deep
honey colour. Then Rafa was leaping to his feet, bending over to give Aischa a kiss and turning to David with his hand outstretched.

‘Great to see you again, David and sorry I’ve got to dash off. Aischa will give you my number and on your next trip, promise that you’ll leave time for us to have a whole
evening together.’

‘For sure, I will Rafa, I’ll look forward to it. But good luck and take care of yourself for now.’

‘Well I can’t get into too much trouble right now,’ Rafa chuckled as he turned, ‘being a medical student doesn’t leave much time for anything else, let me tell you.
Still, I’ll be qualified in a year’s time which will be good news for everyone except my patients’.

David and Aischa laughed with him as he left the table and they caught a last glimpse of his arm waving as he left through the hotel doors. Then they were alone together.

David glanced at his watch. It was just 9 pm and although still early by Lisbon standards, a reasonable time to go to dinner. David signed for the drinks bill and they set off from the hotel
together, Aischa’s arm thrilling as it slipped through his and guided him down a maze of side streets to a discreet restaurant which appeared rather small and cramped on entering, but opened
out at the back into a spacious garden in which tables were set out at random. They chose one near to a fountain which was gurgling softly. They ordered an aperitif and sat back to study the menu.
David hadn’t noticed that the establishment was Italian but he couldn’t have been less worried by what he was to eat. Aischa evidently knew the place and he was just relaxed and happy
with the ambience, eager to pick up the thread of their earlier conversation, to find out more of what she was doing with her life, to get news of her father and her sister.

The garden tables were far from full and quite shortly, the maitre d’ appeared. He was a saturnine man of medium build, smart in a dark blue dinner jacket. He had a welcoming smile for
Aischa and he gave a slight bow as he greeted her.

‘Good evening, Senora Gomes. How nice to see you again. And good evening Sir. What may I bring you. Our veal is particularly excellent today.’ He spoke in English with a heavy
accent.

Aischa smiled calmly back at him as she made her choice from the menu. David felt as if he had been kicked by a mule, but he pulled himself together and completed their order, adding a bottle of
white wine which he chose almost at random. Then they were alone again and David hitched himself forward on his seat trying to think of words to cover his confusion and embarrassment. But Aischa
leaned forward across the table, putting a finger to his lips.

‘Just relax while I explain a few things to you,’ and as David froze in anticipation she went on, ‘it’s true. Alves and I are married. We have just celebrated our first
anniversary and we’re in Lisbon for me to meet some of his friends and family members. We return to Luanda next week and soon after I will go south to spend time in Mocamedes at my
father’s house which you may remember kindly.’

She said this with arched eyebrows and heavy meaning. You little minx, the thought raced across David’s mind as he struggled to find a suitable reply, but he was still speechless as she
waved her forefinger gently at him and continued,

‘David, things are not so straightforward. Alves Gomes is a person of substance in Luanda. He’s a a man of some wealth and status. He’s a good friend of my father, although
that’s a relationship which remains discreet. But he is also over twice my age and while I enjoy his company, he’s not what you could call a romantic figure for me.’

She paused long enough for David to interrupt and he spoke stiffly.

‘That may well be, Aischa, but he is now also my business partner in Angola. It’s really not proper for me to be squiring his wife around town on the quiet.’

Aischa burst out laughing, holding a hand to her mouth and shaking her head.

She said, ‘Oh Lord, what an Englishman you are and what a marvellous, old fashioned expression. How lucky am I being — squired around!’

There was flirtation in her voice as she laughed at him.