That Old Black Magic
We were watching the ten o’clock news, Vee beside me on the sofa, when I thought I saw him. Just a group shot on the red carpet at the Cannes Festival. The camera didn’t linger and in a few seconds the image had disappeared. Vee, aware that something had caught my attention, raised an eyebrow. I said, “Ntombe. There was a suggestion about the south of France, wasn’t there? When he went into exile.” “I think so,” she said, “but it was a long time ago. Why?” “I thought I saw him. ...