A Life Elsewhere

by Segun Afolabi

  He hobbled across the road where the others were waiting for him. He looked behind once to see if he was being followed, but no one was there.

  ‘That was close,’ one of the men called and clapped him on the shoulder. They all laughed, but he did not laugh with them. He only smiled. His hands and arms were throbbing and the blood had soiled his clothes.

  When the mother saw him, she became very quiet. No one spoke. They only fussed around the wounds and the blood and the torn clothing. Their fear was like a fist of bread they could not swallow. The youngest boy began to cry. His brother, Ernesto, was frightened, but excited too. He went and told his friend what had happened. It was like an adventure for him; the blood, the daring escape.

  Emmanuel smirked; it only confirmed his thoughts. He said, ‘He is stupid, your father.’ He could not help himself. It was the way he was now. Angry.

  Ernesto looked at him, disbelieving, and then he walked away. It was too much, the injured father, the distraught brother, the hurtful friend. Too many things were happening at once and he could make no sense of it. When he returned to the room, his father was resting on his brother’s cot. He saw him there, a man who was not slender, a man who hardly spoke. He began to wonder about Emmanuel’s words. Was there any truth in them? A seed had been planted now.

  Alfredo sat beside his father looking from the carpet to his mother, back to the carpet again. The mother’s silence disturbed them all. She tidied the room and soaked the soiled clothes in the bath and seemed not to care about what had happened. Even the father eyed her cautiously, but he did not speak.

  ‘God will help us,’ the father whispered, so that only the youngest heard.

  The boy remained silent. At length he asked, ‘Where is God, Papa?

  The father sighed and looked at his son. ‘He is in the room. He is here with us. All around.’ He lifted his arms and waved his fat fingers to illustrate.

  The boy looked around the room, but he did not understand. Ernesto followed his gaze, but he did not know what they were looking at.

  ‘You are a chef, you are not a labourer!’ the mother shouted. ‘You cannot cook with your hands torn like this! Do you understand?’ She had gone from silence to blind rage in an instant. She shook her fist, but held the arm where her hand had been severed tight against her stomach. She did not care if other people heard through the thin walls. She was tired of holding everything in. ‘How can we make a new life if you cannot work because you are injured? Did you think what would happen if they caught you with no papers, what would happen to us, the boys? We cannot go back to that place where they are killing us! Soon they will allow us to stay and you can do what-ever job you like. But still you cannot wait! You are ready to risk everything.’

  The boys looked from their wounded father to their mother as she stood over him. They took in the damp walls, the orange carpet with the kink by the bathroom door, the window that overlooked the street where the girls walked at night and people roared sometimes in their misery.

  ‘I am going to see Emmanuel,’ Alfredo said after no one had spoken in minutes. He closed the door quietly and ran along the corridor and down the stairs. He did not stop running when he came to the street or to the busy road where the cars and buses clamoured. A tall man, wrapped in a soiled duvet, strode along the street peering into rubbish bins. Shrieking. Alfredo continued to run. He mingled with people as they waited for permission to cross the road. A woman moved away from him as if he were a street urchin. When he reached the other side he began to run again. He did not look behind for fear of seeing his father or his mother or anyone from the hostel. He ran and ran until he arrived at the hotel and when he was through its glass doors he stood still and breathed deeply.

  He had said he was going to see Emmanuel, but ten minutes later, the friend knocked at the door looking for Ernesto. All the anger in the room vanished. They searched the lounge where the television was, and the breakfast room, and the reception, but they could not find him. No one had seen him disappear. The mother was shaking now and the other son was mute with anxiety.

  ‘We must look outside. Alfredo!’ the father called. ‘He cannot go far from here. Where can he go? Alfredo!’ He was bellowing now. He was not aware of the strength of his own voice. Ernesto looked at him, his eyes wide with trepidation.

  The man at the reception desk said the staff would scour the hostel to ensure Alfredo was not hiding anywhere. ‘Where could a little boy go?’ he asked.

  Emmanuel thought suddenly he knew where he was. He said in English, ‘Maybe he goes to the hotel,’ and he pointed.

  They did not know the boy was already in the elevator of the glass hotel, rising above the street, looking out at the city they had recently arrived in. There seemed to be nothing between him and the world outside except a thin sheet of glass. When he peered down at the retreating traffic he found he was not afraid. He came out on the top floor and approached the long corridor. He began to try the handles of all the rooms he passed. He was looking for his own room, but he knew he needed a key. He did not know whom to ask. A man opened a door he had tried and squinted at him and closed it quickly. Otherwise it was quiet. He saw no people. He was anxious now and tired and he did not know what to do.

  A woman opened a door near the end of the corridor and a cloud of light fell across his path. She did not notice him. She removed some objects from a trolley and then re-entered the room. He came to the door and stood for a moment, waiting for her, but he was very tired now. He sat on the carpet in the corridor, trying to remain alert, but his head hung down.

  ‘Who are you?’ the woman said to him.

  He jerked his head up. He was not sure whether he had fallen asleep, whether time had passed – had she simply come out as soon as he had sat down? He looked at her, but he could not understand all the words she spoke.

  ‘Are you lost?’ she asked. ‘Are you looking for someone?’ She did not seem angry, but he did not know how to make her understand.

  He said, ‘The room,’ with all the English he could muster, but he knew it was not enough.

  The woman gazed at him and spoke some words in her own language and he was amazed he could understand her completely. He had thought his family were the only ones in this new place.

  ‘Come,’ she said. She pushed open the door of the room she had been cleaning and showed him in: the wide bed so perfectly made, the broad face of the television set, the gleaming marble in the bathroom. He walked to the window and knelt on a chair and looked out at the vast city. He could not hear the sounds of traffic far below, he could not see the river of people entering the railway stations, he could not see the lost ones shuffling to and fro on the street. He saw only rooftops and sunlight and all the space in the world between the earth and the sky that seemed like emptiness that was untouched and beautiful. He turned and climbed onto the bed. He did not worry about the woman or his mother and father or when he should return to the hostel. He was too tired for any of that. The boy slept. Again, he did not have bad dreams. He did not even dream of his own country. He saw the green grass in the park that Sunday afternoon, his mother’s five fingers searching for his face, his father and brother, even the angry friend, Emmanuel, sitting on the bed in the hotel room, looking for the face of God.

  PEOPLE YOU DON’T KNOW

  I’M MAKING CRAB meat and pickle sandwiches, peanut butter crackers for dessert. The bell rings and Bryant yells, ‘Get over here!’

  I hear them, three men including Bryant, speaking in low voices. Silence between the words. I spread the peanut butter over each cracker and arrange them in concentric circles.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Bryant cuffs me on the side of the head. ‘I said get over here.’ He sees the knife in my hand, eases it out, licks it. He takes a cracker from the plate, spoiling the display, throws it into his bottomless mouth. ‘Got some people to see you,’ he says, cracker crumbs spraying in my face. Two hundred and fifty pounds of him simmering, wishing I weren’t here. Thinking
he’s made a big mistake.

  They’re polite and still standing when I enter the living room. The tall one says, ‘Leon?’

  I nod, but I’m wondering how he knows my name. Bryant? I can see him opening the door to the two policemen. ‘You’ll be wanting Leon.’ No questions asked. Leading them in. ‘Coffee? Crackers?’

  The other one says, ‘There was a disturbance earlier today. Attempted burglary. One of the apartments on the other side. Owner says he ran this way. We’re checking all of the apartments in case, you know, someone saw something. Heard something.’

  I look up and knit my brow as if I’m thinking hard. I’ve always liked that expression, the knitting part. I knit some more and shake my head. ‘I heard some shouting in one of the poolside apartments this morning. But they’re always fighting, those two. They hate each other.’

  The tall one squints at me for a second longer than is polite. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

  I shake my head, but don’t respond.

  ‘What is that, English? The Islands?’

  I could say anything, elaborate some story, but I’m hungry and would like these two to leave. ‘Yes, the Islands. But not these ones; the ones on the other side, you know? Out on the periphery.’ I give a wave and the shorter one turns to look through the sliding doors as if he might be able to see where I mean. As if he’s swallowed the story.

  Bryant rolls his eyes, rams his fists into his shorts’ pockets.

  ‘Is there anything else, officer?’

  ‘No, I think we’re done here. Thank you.’

  The tall one says, ‘We’re going round all the apartments on this side; we’ve got a ways to go yet.’ He hands Bryant a card.

  When they leave, Bryant gives me a look, but he doesn’t say anything.

  ‘What? What did I do?’ I say. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  He wades into the kitchen, grabs a carton of milk, helps himself to the sandwiches and crackers, and takes his bounty to the balcony, closing the sliding doors. I eat a crab sandwich standing behind the glass, watching him eat as he gazes at the traffic below. It’s not the best view in the world – the highway, the railroad track, the hinterland beyond that. But that’s Bryant. Why enjoy life when you can live in squalor for half the price? My guess is it was cheap, cheaper than the poolside apartments or the places overlooking the park.

  I look at his tree-trunk neck and the way his jaw works from behind, the way his thighs balloon over the edge of the rattan chair. He knows I’m watching, but he’s too cool to look around. He shares our father’s nonchalance, but everything else he gets from his mother: the weight, the temper, the miserliness, the inability to lose control. He could sit there all afternoon and not look around. I could fall asleep, standing, and crash through the glass and his priority would be the cost of repair, not my lacerations.

  Next morning at six, I’m beside the pool. Even at this hour the air is sticky and warm. I sweep the net through the water and shake out the gunk from overnight, the day before: leaves, flies, sweet wrappers, frogs. I found a condom once. I wouldn’t dive into this pool to save a life. I’ve seen them at night, the party people, with their booze and music and goings on. Perhaps it’s just as well Bryant didn’t take one of those apartments.

  I pick up cans from underneath the white plastic sun loungers, sweep away cigarette stubs and bits of food. I make sure everything’s lined up neatly: the loungers, the chairs and tables, the floats in their container, the parasols. When everything’s clean and tidy and all I have to do is give the place one final sweep, a woman arrives. She stands in a corner, in the shade, surveying the area, then chooses the lounger she uses nearly every day. Occasionally she’ll sit in the sun, but soon enough she’ll move to her usual spot.

  ‘Morning!’ she calls. She doesn’t wave or look up. Just sets down her magazines and her flask of tea. She peels off her mulberry bathrobe and walks to the shallow end of the pool. She has a way of moving – head up, not a care in the world – that seems to camouflage her size. Even in her swim suit. Unlike Bryant who would stand out at a Weight Watchers’ convention. She hardly makes a splash as she slips into the water and pushes off to begin her laps.

  I lean on the broom, moving slowly around the pool, building little hillocks of rubbish along the way. It’s probably the least efficient way to clean, but I have the time and I like to drag it out. Besides, it’s quiet here and not air-conditioned for a change.

  Sometimes I stop to watch the moving head in the water, her sunglasses on, back and forth, the effort of the strokes hidden beneath the surface. I don’t talk to them, the residents. I’m simply here to clean. That’s why I prefer the morning shift. I like the way, sometimes, I can’t hear the traffic from this side, only birdsong and the breeze and the tinkle of water as the woman swims.

  ‘You missed a spot.’ She is standing in the shallow end. She points to a clump of dirt I haven’t reached yet, but I smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and continue my leisurely journey around the pool.

  When she’s finished she exits from the deep end and rests on a lounger in the sun for a while. I haven’t reached that section yet, but she only stays in the sun to dry off, so there’s no chance we’ll meet. I clean the area she highlighted and look around at all the piles of rubbish I’ve created. Seven in all. And still the woman is the only resident using the pool. She hasn’t moved from her sun spot.

  I could start sweeping the heaps into bags, but it would look odd not to complete the revolution. The woman lies still; I’m sure she’s fallen asleep so I try to be quiet as I clean around her.

  ‘Hi there.’ She looks up and shades her face with a hand, despite the sunglasses. ‘I’m sorry. I’m in the way. I’m still wet. Won’t be long.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘I’ve nearly finished anyway.’

  She pulls her glasses further down the bridge of her nose and peers. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. Three, four weeks.’ I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. ‘I can’t remember.’

  She does the peering routine again as if she is trying to make a decision about something. She says, ‘There was someone else, but he came at different times. And not every day, I might add. I hardly saw him.’

  ‘Well . . . I like the mornings,’ I say. ‘It’s quiet. It gives me time to think.’ I hold the broom in both hands and look out at the pool and the rest of the work ahead, and up at the balconies of the apartments. ‘I should clean this up now. It’s getting warmer. I don’t like the heat.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow. I’m Mrs Drexel, by the way.’

  I smile and go off to fetch the bag and dustpan. ‘I’m Leon,’ I call back.

  Sometimes Bryant has already left for work, but usually he’s still here. He says, ‘What are you going to do today?’

  I hesitate because most times there will be no plan. This gives him a chance to continue.

  ‘If you’re not booked up and all, I was thinking – I talked to my boss the other day about you, about maybe getting you some work. I thought you could come in tomorrow – next week maybe – maybe try out? We could get you some work clothes for when you talk to him? You could do that today. I’ll drive you downtown, show you some places. You can take it from there. How ’bout it?’

  I nod, but it doesn’t mean one thing or the other. Just words he’s saying and things to be getting on with. Filling time. ‘I’ll change and get my things,’ I say, and he nods too as if he’s satisfied.

  Bryant works in a nursing home south of downtown Tampa, in Hyde Park. He’s not a nurse, though; he sits in an air-conditioned office and takes calls and writes letters. When the sons and daughters of the residents complain, he has to deal with them.

  We leave the air-conditioned apartment and take the Land Cruiser – also air-conditioned – to the nearest mall. We try a number of shops and he shows me what he means by ‘smart’ – grey, styleless trouse
rs, button-down shirts, ties, shoes you have to shine – and then he leaves me to make my own decisions.

  ‘Don’t spend it all,’ he says, handing me a fifty and a twenty, and I nearly laugh out loud, but then I realise he’s serious. ‘Get something to eat for lunch. When you’re done take the bus back, okay? And if you need me for anything, you have the number, right? Don’t get lost now, you hear me?’

  I nod slowly as if it’s possible I might end up in Boca Raton by the end of the day. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I know the bus route.’

  ‘Good. Dad says I’m to watch you, but you have to help me too. You have to be careful, okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my behaviour will be munificent.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He frowns and wags the car keys and then he’s waddling out of the mall.

  I look in some of the better clothes shops Bryant ignored, but still nothing appeals. I buy perfume for Stella and spend the change on CDs. I take a bus across the river and head for the shops in Hyde Park. I have no idea where Bryant works, but there’s little chance we’ll meet. I find exactly what he wants me to wear: trousers, shirts, a pair of black shoes, a tie. It isn’t cheap, but I’m not paying. Bryant wouldn’t know Kenzo from K-Mart so I’m not worried about discovery.

  On the bus back to the apartment a scruffy old man sits next to me. I don’t think hygiene is his first priority. The smell is of old dog, unwashed and wet, and each time he moves I get a blast of it. I try holding my breath for stretches at a time, but it’s no use.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. I get up and move to the front of the bus, but the smell lingers. With the addition of the heat and humidity I can feel my head begin to swim. I’d rather walk than use the bus next time, but I’ve never been a walker and I’m not about to start.