Angelica's Grotto

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‘What happened to your nose?’ said Dr Mzumi in his beautiful lilting English. He was handsome, he was fit. His mountain bike leant against the wall behind him and above it were his framed certificates and degrees. On the other walls were photographs of Kenya and a red, black, and yellow kikoi. ‘You look as if you’ve been in a fight.’

‘Oxbridge wogs,’ said Harold Klein. ‘Oh shit.’ He fanned the air in an effort to make the words go away. ‘Terribly sorry, Dr Mzumi. That’s not me, really — words come out of my mouth and I don’t know what they’re going to be until I hear them.’

Dr Mzumi tilted his head to one side. ‘If it isn’t you, who is it?’

‘What I mean is, I’m the one who said it but it’s not the sort of thing I’d ever say. Or think. I’m not that kind of person.’

‘Of course not. Was it something like this that got your nose … what, broken?’

‘Yes. Two ribs as well.’ Klein was a small man of seventy-two with a small beard, no moustache. He was not fit, not handsome. ‘I was on my way to the shops when I saw this big guy coming towards me, total stranger. Union Jack tattoo on his right arm and a dragon with a banner that said MOTHER on his left. H-A-T-E on the knuckles of his right hand and the same on the left.’ Klein touched his nose carefully.

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