Swing Time

by Zadie Smith

Carrapichano I didn’t know very well and the only time we’d spoken before I’d made a fool of myself. It was on the plane to Togo, six months earlier, back when Togo was still on the shortlist, before Aimee had offended that tiny nation by suggesting, in an interview, that its government did “nothing for their people.” “What’s it like?” I’d asked, leaning over him, looking out of the porthole window, and meaning, I must admit, “Africa.” “I have not been,” he said coldly, without turning round. “But you practically live here—I read your résumé.” “No. Senegal, Liberia, Côte d’Ivoire, Sudan, Ethiopia, yes—Togo, never.” “Oh, well, you know what I mean.” He’d turned to me, red-faced, and asked: “If we were flying to Europe and you wanted to know what France was like, would it help if I described Germany?”