A Hero for Leanda

place, if he’d had to be shipwrecked at all.
    He drifted around for an hour or so, postponing the first drink as long as he could because the later he left it the less the night would cost him. Then, about seven, he turned into a bar called the Come to Heaven. It had a cement floor with strips of worn coconut matting over it, and wicker chairs round beer-stained tables, and fairy lights over the bar counter, and sections of green-painted plywood to screen it from the rowdy street. The whitewashed walls were decorated with pin-up girls tom from Western magazines. It was a tawdry place, but it suited his pocket. He ordered a double Scotch at the bar and took it to a table near the entrance, where there was air of a kind. The place was about half full. There were four young Negroes in a corner, drinking iced beer and arguing fiercely about politics. There was a very old man reading a newspaper, and two other men trying to arrange a deal of some sort, and a few laughing couples in gay shirts and tight cotton frocks. Conway was the only European, but no one took much notice of him. He drank his whisky slowly, making it last. Perhaps after all, he thought, he should have called on the Irish consul and tried to borrow a few pounds, sinking his pride. Anesthesia cost money, even in Heaven—he wouldn’t get far on one double. He thought of the almost full bottle of Jameson that was lying in Tara ’s cabin, three fathoms down, and made a mental note to tell the Aqua-Lung chap about it. He’d barely touched it in weeks at sea, he’d never felt the need of it, but he could have done with it now—he could have sozzled it quietly on his own, instead of sitting in this lousy bar. A blast of syncopated music from a gramophone almost deafened him. He moved away from it, over to the other side of the doorway, but it didn’t make much difference. You couldn’t hope to get away from gramophones in Accra , anyway. As he settled down again, a blood-lusting mosquito stabbed at his ankle. Outside the entrance, a couple of children groveled in the gutter and a mangy dog nosed for scraps.
    He finished his drink and counted his money. He could manage only one more double, if he was to pay his way at the Rest House. He was about to get up and go to the bar when another European came in—a little, elderly man, very dapper and prosperous-looking in a cream tussore suit and a cream Panama hat. He wore pince-nez and carried an ivory-topped cane. Conway had a feeling he’d seen the man somewhere before—perhaps at the European Club. The Come to Heaven was surely off his beat?
    The newcomer glanced around. His eyes met Conway ’s. He turned and ordered a glass of brandy, and then came toward Conway ’s table. He had short legs and small feet and his gait was mincing. At the table he raised his hat and gave a courtly little bow. What with the hat and the stick and the brandy, he seemed like a very polite juggler.
    “Please forgive my intrusion,” he said, “but are you not Mr. Michael Conway, the yachtsman?” His English was precise, but he had a slight accent which Conway couldn’t place.
    “I was!” Conway said ruefully.
    “Ah, yes... I heard this afternoon that the remains of your boat had been found. A total loss, they say. That is very bad luck.”
    Conway nodded.
    “May I introduce myself? My name is Venizelos. I manage the General and West Coast Trading Company here....” The little man put his glass down on the table. “Would you, perhaps, allow me to buy you a drink, Mr. Conway?”
    “I would indeed,” Conway said, “if you’ll forgive me for not returning the compliment. I’m as near broke as makes no odds.”
    “I understand.... Let me see, Scotch whisky, is it?”
    “It is.”
    The drink, when it came, was huge. Conway lifted the glass gratefully. “Your very good health, sir!”
    “And better fortune to you in the future!” Venizelos said. He produced a case of cheroots, offered one to Conway, who declined, and put them away again. “It was, of course, an accident in a thousand. But so final. As soon as I read that your boat had gone from the harbor in the storm, I feared she must have ended up on the reef.”
    “It always seemed likely,” Conway said.
    “She was not, I suppose, insured?”
    Conway shook his head. “There’s no insurance for single-handed ocean yachtsmen—not at a premium I could ever afford to pay. If you travel that way, you have to take the knocks yourself.”
    “You seem to