by Ishmael Beah
It was even more chaotic outside. Those carrying the loads had to make sure they weren’t pulled in the wrong direction by the crowd and forced to set down the merchandise at the wrong spot. They struggled to stay close to the owners while they dodged reaching hands and pushed their way through the throng.
So transfixed was Namsa by the melee that she nearly missed Elimane’s approach until he was directly in her line of vision. Startled, she looked up. This wasn’t the way they did things in public. They never addressed one another directly or even acknowledged that they were acquainted. Uncertain about what to do, she simply stood there, her feet seemingly planted on the riverbank.
“Hello, little girl. Can I send you to get me some water over there?” Elimane called out loudly. He reached into his pocket and, lowering himself so that his face was in front of Namsa’s, deposited a few coins in her hand as he whispered hurriedly, “When you return with the water, I will give you our cash, and you stay right here with it. Understand?” Although Namsa was staring right into his mouth, she could barely see him move his lips.
She ran to get the water, marveling at this latest magic. How did he do it? She knew to go for the water tied in plastic bags, not the bottled kind. Weaving between people’s legs as their eyes stayed locked on the ferry and the possibilities it brought, she ran left and then right to avoid the movement of the crowd that registered from the multitude of their dusty feet and tattered shoes. At times, unable to find a way through, she had to double back, moving a bit farther from the sea to reach the periphery of the market.
She surveyed the sellers, with their coolers and buckets, and decided to go to a girl a bit older than herself, wearing a large red shirt and yellow skirt that she kept pulling up and twisting to make it stay on. She was carrying plastic bags of water on a tray on her head and calling out, “Cold water, cold water here.” Impressed with her balancing skills, Namsa approached and handed over the money. The girl lowered herself without touching the tray so that Namsa could pick one of the packets, then stood up and tied the money into the waist of her skirt.
When Namsa returned with the water, Elimane took it, and in the same swift motion deftly slipped her a slender packet wrapped in paper. He bit off the edge of the plastic bag so that he could gulp down most of the water, then held out the remainder to Namsa, muttering, “Your pay,” with the same ventriloquism as before, and walked away. Namsa watched as he got closer and closer to the crowd, then, turning sideways, squeezed his shoulders into the writhing, shouting mass, and was swallowed up. Try as she might, Namsa could no longer make him out.
She sat down on the ground and anxiously glanced around. Ndevui and Kpindi were a bit farther down the slope, attentively expecting something from the chaos, and off to the side she once again sensed Khoudi’s shadow; she had returned from the market. Namsa searched for a better place to sit, feeling their attention on her even as they fixed their eyes elsewhere. She found a heap of sand piled against an unfinished wall and sat down on it, so that she could see who was coming toward her. She savored the cold water, taking slow sips, as she watched the crowd grow more numerous and more restless. She sensed that something untoward was imminent. She could feel the disappointment and anger rising on the faces before her, while the day continued to deny them everything.
* * *
—
Elimane did not want to drag himself into the gathering madness at the ferry landing, but he knew that he had to become part of it to show a little of his desperation. The traders standing nearby, or really most anyone doing just well enough to pay for the services of people like him, needed to be reassured that those they were considering hiring were in a state of sufficient wretchedness that they could be paid as little as possible for their labor, and never succeed enough to pull themselves up from that state. Thus, the boss men reassured themselves of their own importance. Pull-down-and-keep-down syndrome was how Elimane thought of it.
This was something he knew not only by observation but from experience. Once he had lived on the other side of the unnatural human divide. He knew what it was to have a driver, a cleaner, a cook—so many people to do everything for him that the only nonnegotiable burden he carried was emerging from and returning to sleep. Oh, to be so beautifully idle once again! But all that had gone up in flames one night, quite literally, and he had been lucky to escape with his life—luckier than the rest of his family. Since then, he had learned how to pretend to be vulnerable, in order to attract those who wanted to take advantage of him, so that in turn he might live. From his reading, he knew that this was the way of the world, all over the world, even where the syndrome was cleverly disguised. Here at the ferry, it existed in its rawest form. In that, at least, there was a semblance of honesty.
He circled the perimeter of the crowd, looking for an advantageous entry point. In most human endeavors, he had learned, there was one. Today, it opened to him thanks to the movement of a beautiful young woman. Nearby, a young fellow with muscles built strong by daily labor was distracted by her, the rest of his body following his eyes and temporarily abandoning the resoluteness required for the chaos at hand. Elimane easily pushed by, taking up a more advantageous position. When the young fellow regained himself, his determination to reclaim his position carried Elimane much farther to the front of the crowd than he would have been able to travel on his own.
Deep in the belly of the mass, Elimane was awash in the stench of other bodies that, like his, must sweat profusely every day to find a living. He was used to his own odor but not to that of such a multitude, whose clothing had soaked and dried on their very backs, under a scorching sun. But he knew that he had the ability to acclimate himself to such circumstances, and he bid his nose to accustom itself to such a smell. It was one of Elimane’s strengths, this ability to habituate himself to new circumstances, and he took pride in cultivating it.
It was Kpindi who had taught him not to rely on his strength when inside such a crowd, but rather to sail through it, positioning himself to ride its currents where he wanted to go. “Put yourself here if you want to be pushed there”—Kpindi had used his hands to illustrate the calculated trajectory. Arriving so at the front of the crowd, Elimane knew it was time now for a calculated display of vulnerability. Kpindi was the master at this as well, but it was Elimane’s turn to lead today, and they each tried to practice what they learned from the others.
All around him in the melee, people were shouting as they tried to draw attention to themselves. Pick me, sir! Madame, I am your help, so reliable! I swear I am! I won’t let you down! Elimane could not bring himself to do the same, but he knew he had to play the part somehow. So he opened his mouth wide to give himself the appearance of joining in the shouting, and waved his hands frenziedly.
Most of the people around him continued to focus on the offloading of goods from the ferry. Elimane scanned the fringes of the crowd for other possibilities. His eyes caught a man in a suit and tie—one of the traders, he assumed. He wore the suit completely buttoned up, not the way Elimane remembered it ought to be worn. He didn’t like remembering such things, but by now he was used to the way life was punctuated by such moments, which sent hooks into parts of the past one might prefer to forget. Elimane glanced away, as if to clear his mind, then turned back to the man with fresh eyes.
In his buttoned-up suit, the trader was sweating heavily, he could see. He repeatedly wiped his forehead and dabbed his neck with his handkerchief, which soon became so wet that he threw it away and pulled another from his pocket. How many were there in those pockets? He was wearing a cloth sombrero as well. Elimane wondered whether he had just returned from a meeting or other occasion where such attire was required or had retained it because it made him look important. Why else would anyone allow himself to be so punished by his clothes? William Handkerchief, he silently dubbed the man. Elimane and the others were in the habit of giving people nicknames when it benefited them to allow those indivi
duals to take up residence in their minds and be observed properly. Elimane suspected that William Handkerchief would prove worthy of becoming such a person.
Now the trader was pacing up and down and rubbing his fingers, his gaze nervously pointed toward the ferry. He must have goods of his own waiting to be offloaded. What else would a man of this sort be doing around here? In his right hand he clutched a leather bag so tightly that his veins were becoming visible through his skin. He stopped pacing and tiptoed to see what was going on beyond the crowd. He answered a call on his mobile phone with his free hand. The wind came for his hat, and it danced off his head, landing on the surface of the water. Following its path with his eyes as he held the phone to his ear, William Handkerchief was unwittingly moving closer and closer to the edge of the water. Elimane knew that the shoreline was dangerously hollow there, the earth eaten out from underneath by the water that constantly slammed against it, and also by the erosion from the recent rains. Something was bound to happen.
Elimane began to extricate himself from the madness, fighting against the tide. He searched for openings and forced his body through them, swaying to keep a body off balance where he needed to move next. Moving from opening to opening this way, he made his way out. He glanced up, found Kpindi, and pretended to wipe the sweat off his forehead twice. That was a signal to Kpindi to replace him in the crowd, which Kpindi acknowledged by rubbing his right eye. The others also noticed the response, and reshuffled their positions so that they could continue to look at and after one another.
The day sighed with another strong gust that upended a tray from a little girl’s head, sending roasted peanuts into the dusty red soil. She held the empty tray with both hands and began to cry, perhaps in anticipation of the punishment she knew was waiting for her.
Free of the crowd, Elimane made his way to William Handkerchief, slowing as he approached so as not to alarm the man or make him think Elimane was coming for his bag. On the very edge of the water, the trader raised himself on tiptoe again, craning for a look at his cargo, and just as his left foot departed the ground, his right foot lost its purchase, and he tumbled into the water along with clods of dislodged earth. No one was looking in his direction except Elimane. That is one way of cooling off! he thought, smiling to himself as he rushed forward to help.
In the water, William Handkerchief was fighting to keep himself afloat. Elimane was amazed to see that the man had managed to prevent his bag from getting soaked, holding it on top of his head with one hand while he thrashed at the water with the other. There must be money in that bag, and lots of it, Elimane thought. William Handkerchief was losing the struggle, however. His waterlogged suit was pulling him down, and the waves the ferry had created as it approached the high shoreline continued sending water into his face. Elimane lay flat on the ground and offered his hands, but William Handkerchief’s expression said he was not going to give up his bag so easily. Elimane knew that to insist would only feed the man’s suspicion. He hastily stripped down to his undershorts, laying his shirt and trousers on top of his shoes, and dove into the water.
Elimane was a strong swimmer, and he reached William Handkerchief with a few strokes. Signaling with his eyes, Elimane placed his arm around the man’s chest and, without dislodging his grip on the bag, began to tow him to shore, careful to keep his mouth and nose above water. When the water was shallow enough that the trader could find his feet, Elimane set him down, so that the man could walk to land by himself. He hurried out of the ocean, careful to keep his distance.
In Elimane’s days as an apprentice learning to navigate the blows of life, he would have been long gone by now, with William Handkerchief’s bag in his grip. But he had come to learn that he must always plan for the days on which his wits, cunning, and strength would be no match. For the days when nothing you did worked.
Back on solid ground, a sodden William Handkerchief angrily kicked at the water. He sat down on a nearby rock, his hand still clutching his bag to his head. Slowly he brought it down, but he did not relinquish his grip. He kicked off his shoes, and with his free hand managed to remove his jacket, and struggled to unbutton his vest. He left on his long-sleeved shirt and his tie.
Without a word, Elimane approached again. Requesting permission with his eyes, he took the jacket and vest and squeezed the water out of them. These actions seemed to win William Handkerchief’s trust. He removed his tie, shirt, and pants and threw them in Elimane’s direction. Elimane wrung them out too, then laid the clothing on the grass to dry. He noticed that the man was clutching his bag a little less tightly than before.
Now, finally, Elimane spoke. “It will take them a long time to dry.” He nodded toward the clothes. “Your body heat might speed it up. Besides,” he added, smiling, “they’ll be your own personal air-conditioning in this heat.”
His head in his hands, William Handkerchief did not respond. Then, just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he dropped his hands to his sides and spoke, the words coming out of him like the last puff of smoke from a dying fire. “I could have died, and no one would have noticed.” He nodded at Elimane, perhaps as an expression of gratitude, although his face plainly didn’t have the habit.
“Well, every time we wake from sleep that is a possibility,” said Elimane. “But you are alive.” Then, to push things along and not miss any opportunity, he added, “I am assuming you have things on the ferry. You better get back there, before they belong to someone else.” Without betraying any urgency of his own, he made his way back to his clothes. He wanted to retrieve them before they were stolen, but more important, before William Handkerchief could notice the holes in his shoes. If that happened, Elimane knew, he would lose what little edge he had over the man. Here was an occasion when it was important not to show desperation. If William Handkerchief realized that Elimane needed him just to survive the day, he would use him only for the day, if at all. And Elimane sensed that there was more to be had here.
He found his clothes and dressed, then sauntered back along the shoreline, as if on his way home.
“Where are you rushing off to?” William Handkerchief sounded less defeated already. “Perhaps I must not ask too much of someone who just pulled me out of the mouth of death. But since you did, you are now responsible for me. At least,” he added, “until I sleep and wake again and the possibility of death begins anew. So, a few more tasks before you abandon me, okay?”
At last he laid the leather bag on the ground, unzipped it, eyed what was within, and closed it again. Elimane glimpsed papers, but nothing more.
“So, are you now my boss, or are you asking me for help without drawing that line just yet?” As soon as he had uttered the words, Elimane regretted them, but William Handkerchief only laughed. This fellow was proving more complicated to figure out than some others. He seemed to have different personalities dancing within him, none staying put long enough to be deciphered.
As if he had read and mirrored Elimane’s thoughts, William Handkerchief said, “You are an interesting young man. There is some conflict about you. I am not sure what it is, but I like mysterious people. It shows that they know how to guard their secrets well and, therefore, that they will guard other things if they choose to.”
He paused for a moment. Then he went to his shoes, drying in the grass, and put his hand inside one of them, rooting around for something. “Can you please go buy me a mobile phone and some dry clothes? I need to make some calls. The fish must be calling their cousins with my other phone by now, so I should hurry before a smart one calls my customers and puts me out of business.” From inside the shoe he pulled an inner sole, along with a small plastic bag. He untied it and removed a stack of bills untouched by the water.
“Always wear shoes with laces,” he muttered to himself. But he looked at Elimane in puzzlement, evidently surprised that he did not seem more impressed by the money.
The truth was, Elimane was noticing that Will
iam Handkerchief kept his money in his shoes, not his bag. It was a good thing indeed that he had not pried the bag from the man’s drowning hands and run away with it. What did it contain, then, that was so important that he had almost drowned, holding the bag above the water? At the same time, Elimane was wondering how anyone could walk properly on a wad like that. Then he realized that it must not be as bad as walking in his own ruined shoes. If he, in his poverty, could pretend to be comfortable, he was sure William Handkerchief, with his little riches, could manage the same without any bother. At any rate, he did not want William Handkerchief dwelling too long on whatever was mysterious about him. Give no one complete access to your way of being, especially strangers, he had learned, and you may just taste freedom from time to time.
“You make a good point,” Elimane said cheerfully. “The least I can do is get you some clothes and especially another phone so that you can talk on it and fall in the water again.”
“Don’t you worry, young fellow. I have learned my lesson. Thanks for the reminder, though.” William Handkerchief handed him some bills. “Here, buy me the cheapest phone you can find, with a SIM card, some calling credit, and one of those clear tough plastic bags. You know the kind I mean?” Elimane turned to go, but the man called, “Wait! Don’t you have a phone that I can use in the meantime?” When Elimane made no motion to retrieve one, he said, “Aren’t you from this century?”
A strange feeling overcame Elimane, but he responded lightly. “Even if I do have a phone, why should I give it to you?”
“Ah, where am I going to go with it? I just gave you some money without asking any questions.” William Handkerchief opened his palms and raised them to the sky, in surrender to the battle to win Elimane’s trust.
“That was your choice,” Elimane said. “You don’t expect me to reciprocate, do you? I have my own measurement of trust. Have a smile now. You are alive! Even if I don’t return with your money, it isn’t nearly enough for pulling you out of the water.” He smiled himself, to show that he was making a joke. Then he jogged away, to make haste in case this whole episode turned out not to be worth his time.