The Memory of Love

by Forna, Aminatta

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry oh!’ I leaned across Saffia, smiled and touched my hat. I reckoned on a night like this he wouldn’t want to bother with us. It was a matter of speaking to him in the right way. I could make out nothing of his face, just a dark shape behind the glare of the torch. I was wrong. He was having none of it, irritated by the wet, I suppose, and the irksome nature of his duty.

  Saffia handed over her documentation, and finding no satisfaction there, the man next wanted to search the boot. I told Saffia to stay where she was and stepped out of the car. I told him I admired the job he was doing, and his thoroughness. I brought out my packet of cigarettes and offered him one, as well as a little something to buy some food. It’s easy when you know how, no more than the seduction of a woman who desires to be seduced. Soon enough we were on our way.

  In the passing lights, I caught glimpses of Saffia’s profile as she stared ahead, her brows drawn together. After a time she spoke.

  ‘Did you give him something?’

  ‘Just a few cigarettes.’ Actually, the best part of the packet.

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ I shrugged. I thought she was thanking me.

  Minutes later the rain eased. At the junction to my house she pulled over.

  ‘Elias, would you mind? I think maybe I should get home.’

  ‘Of course. It’s stopped raining. I’ll walk from here.’

  I stood and watched the tail lights of the car shimmer on the wet road, grow small and disappear. I felt exhilarated. At the same time I had a sense of having somehow mis-stepped. I lit a cigarette from what remained of my packet. And I set off towards the bridge and home.

  CHAPTER 9

  There are lawns and it is such a long time since Adrian has seen a lawn. True, there is lushness in the trees and the foliage, the hills behind the city are densely green, but the soil is cracked and the earth raw. Adrian craves the sensation of soft grass beneath his feet, the dampness of dew. He would like to take his shoes off and walk across the lawn, feeling the blades between his toes, the hems of his trousers grow heavy and damp. It is an illusion. The grass here is spiky, and sharp. Walking across it would be like walking on hot coals.

  And it is quiet. At first the silence, abrupt and arresting, pervaded everything. Now, as Adrian walks alongside the woman, he becomes aware for the first time of different sounds, murmurings and mutterings, muted sounds. He can hear the wind in the tops of palm trees, reminding him of spinnakers in the breeze. And he can hear the sea.

  They stop at the door of a long, low building. ‘OK. Ready?’ the woman, who is called Ileana and works here, asks. Adrian nods. She pushes open the door.

  The smell hits him and clots in the back of his throat – fermented and feral, the smell of hiding places and of stale fear. He begins to breathe in short, shallow breaths, drawing air in through his mouth. The room is in twilight. Presently he is able to make out two rows of beds and mattresses, each one with a figure lying or sitting on it. Ileana walks up the centre aisle. Adrian follows her, aware of the stark sound of his shoes on the concrete floor, looking from side to side, taking in the stained mattresses, the marks on the walls, shadows of those who have leant there. At their approach some of the patients begin to stir. In front of a tall iron bed Ileana halts and so does Adrian. A man lies on his side on the bed, his head resting upon a coverless pillow.

  ‘Hello, John, how are you?’

  At the sound of her voice, the man hauls himself around to face them both. ‘I am well, Doctor,’ he answers and begins to lever himself slowly up. ‘How are you, too?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, John. I have somebody with me today. Another doctor, from England. He’d like to know about us.’

  The man on the bed turns his head to take Adrian into view, at the same time as he pulls himself up into the sitting position. There is an intermittent scraping sound of metal upon metal. The noise seems tremendous in the quiet of the ward. Once he has righted himself, the man extends his hands and the noise starts again, as of something unravelling. For some reason it makes Adrian think of ships. He looks down at the man’s hands: wrists wrapped in rags, metal cuffs, hands clasped together in greeting. The sound stops abruptly, leaving a faint ringing in the air, as the man on the bed reaches the full extent of his chains.

  Wednesday. The call had come that morning from the police station. Adrian arrived to be taken to the same room by the same woman officer as when he had examined the young deaf boy. This time she stood some distance from the door and allowed him to go forward alone. Inside the room was a man, apparently sleeping, curled up with his back to the door, his hands tucked between his knees.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Adrian asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

  She shrugged. ‘The family brought him.’

  ‘Has he been violent?’

  ‘This is what they are saying,’ she said, in an offended tone. ‘They don’t want him there. They say they’re afraid of him. That he barricaded the door and wanted to attack anybody who came in. They worry he’ll break the whole place down.’

  ‘But the problem, exactly? Why did you call me?’

  She hadn’t even been bothered to look at him except for a fleeting glance, her eyes empty, face suffused with boredom. She tapped her temple with her forefinger.

  Adrian knocked on the door and entered the room, noting the rapid retreat of the policewoman.

  Once inside he closed the door and stood with his back to it. There was the sound of heavy breathing.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. At the sound of his voice the figure on the other side of the room moved an inch or so further to the wall. The breathing hastened, a stream of garbled words.

  Adrian paused, then continued moving forward, announcing each action. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I come a bit closer. I want to talk to you. Is that OK? I’ll keep coming until you tell me to stop.’

  The babbling grew in pitch and fervour with every step, but the man no longer seemed to be trying to move away. A few feet short of him, Adrian dropped down, so he was squatting almost level to the figure.

  ‘My name is Adrian. I’m a doctor. What’s your name?’

  A response, of sorts, in that the sounds grew quieter.

  Adrian waited.

  ‘I’m sure you must be hungry. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?’

  The murmuring quieted and ceased, silence but for the sound of breathing. The figure began first to strain and then to rock, until with a great effort it flopped over, like a fish. In front of Adrian lay a young man, bound hand and foot.

  They wanted rid of him. Adrian made it clear that the provision of water and some food might hasten that eventuality. Using his own money, he managed to secure a loaf of bread and a small plastic bag of water and drinking straw. Not one of the police officers would acquiesce to run the errand himself, so Adrian had to wait until a person of sufficient insignificance – one of the ubiquitous small boys of the city – could be found.

  Adrian agreed to accompany the prisoner to the mental hospital. With the help of two male officers, he bundled the young man into a taxi, propping him up on the back seat. By then he’d resumed his babbled discourse, as though complaining about his treatment, and was shivering violently. Adrian slid in alongside him. The young man flinched and huddled further away.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Adrian as he bent and undid the ropes that bound the young man’s feet.

  The taxi driver, reluctant and sullen, demanded double the fare. The policeman’s answering laugh contained not a trace of humour as he banged the roof of the vehicle with the flat of his hand. The thunderous sound reverberated around the inside of the vehicle, setting the young man off again. The taxi pulled away.

  Reluctant to leave his charge alone, Adrian waited inside the gates of the mental hospital, seated on a wooden bench. Next to him the young man drew his knees up to his chin and pulled his T-shirt up over his face. At an open window a woman, naked to the wai
st, stood shouting to unseen persons. There were people milling inside and outside the gates, though none appeared to be figures of authority. A couple of men were talking, bickering in the manner of long-term acquaintances. One had shown Adrian to the seat, but otherwise left him unattended. A bitch stealthily attempted to gain entry through the gates.

  Adrian was uncertain what to do next. He called to one of the pair of men. Yes, yes, said the man, smiling and holding up his hand, telling Adrian to wait. Adrian resumed his seat on the bench. The heat had risen, he was beginning to sweat. A man stood outside the gate, his ears and nose plugged with paper, and shouted, ‘Don’t talk to me like that! I am not a patient any more.’ Next to Adrian the young man rocked from side to side.

  In time a man in a white short-sleeved shirt and white trousers appeared from around the corner. A nurse. He called to the woman at the window to be quiet. The woman promptly disappeared. One of the men standing at the gate gave him a broad wave, encompassing Adrian in the same gesture. Finally, Adrian got to his feet.

  The nurse led the way, impassively, at a metronomic pace. To Adrian was left the task of coaxing the young man along. As soon as they left the gateway the silence began, which combined with the manner of the nurse seemed to quieten the young man, whose anxiety gave way to bewilderment. They were shown into a room, empty save for a desk, a chair and a glass cabinet containing a number of textbooks. The nurse fetched another chair from outside. He pointed first at the young man and then at the chair. Remarkably, the young man obeyed, shamblingly, sat keening from side to side. Adrian noticed how extraordinarily clean the nurse was, the evenness of his hair, the burnished skin. His clothes pristine. He watched him leave, closing the door behind him, all without a single word.

  A few minutes later and the door opened again. The nurse held the door open for a sallow-skinned European woman. ‘Thank you, Salia,’ she said. She wore a smocked top over a skirt, a pair of slip-on casual shoes, dark-red lipstick and carried with her the smell of fresh cigarette smoke. Adrian covered his relief at seeing another white person by explaining what he knew of the patient.

  The woman stood listening, her hands in the deep pocket at the front of her smock, and looked him up and down. ‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked.

  Together they watched as the impeccable nurse supervised the removal of the patient by two attendants in blue overalls, standing balanced on the balls of his feet, arms crossed, a consistent two paces away. Not afraid of the patient, afraid of getting dirty, thought Adrian. The woman introduced herself as Ileana. She was the second-in-charge, a psychologist.

  ‘We’ll check for malaria first,’ Ileana said. ‘Sometimes it’s as simple as that. The disease can cause hallucinations, as I’m sure you know. Though families usually recognise the symptoms for themselves. Then we’ll check for all the rest, starting with drug abuse. He seems to have calmed down at any rate and we can give him some haloperidol to keep him quiet.’

  Since Adrian had nowhere else to go, he’d asked to be shown around. Ileana glanced at her watch and then led the way outside. ‘The facility survived pretty well. None of the buildings were destroyed. Ah, Dr Attila!’

  Coming towards them, the senior psychiatrist returning from his rounds. Adrian recognised the name from a report in the International Journal of Social Psychiatry. And though he often imagined the authors of reports, imprecisely, in some vague way, invariably and archetypically as thin, colourless, reedy academics, of the man approaching them he had been able to produce no mental image whatsoever. A certain awe attached itself to Attila’s name. Adrian saw a broad-chested man, in a collarless shirt, slacks and open sandals, gesturing to his left and right with huge hands, flanked by a blue-clad attendant as well as a number of others, who from their demeanour Adrian judged to be patients.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ said Ileana, placing herself in the path of the psychiatrist, who had so far showed no particular signs of slowing. As she introduced Adrian Attila glanced his way briefly, but did not offer his hand.

  Finally he scratched his ear and said, ‘In whatever way we can help you, you’re most welcome.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Just let Salia know.’

  ‘Salia?’

  ‘Our head nurse.’

  Adrian thanked him again. Then added he’d wait until he had looked around, he wanted to know about services: occupational, psychotherapeutic, recreational. Perhaps he could talk to all the staff? He’d welcome the opportunity to come back. And the social workers, naturally. As he talked, Adrian wondered why he had never thought to come here before.

  ‘Of course. Ileana can deal with all that. Anything else you want, just ask.’

  Despite the generosity of the words, there was something faintly bullish about the man’s manner, in his posture perhaps, the broad body, which never inclined towards Adrian. He waved his huge hand, had already begun to move away. Adrian would have liked the opportunity to continue the conversation, though perhaps not so publicly. All those people listening in, even the patients, as though they were part of it. It bothered him, this absence of privacy.

  They walked on. ‘Sorry about that,’ said Ileana. ‘He can be that way sometimes. We’ll begin at Ward Three.’ She drew a packet of London cigarettes from the pocket of her smock, waved the packet at Adrian, who shook his head. She lit up and walked ahead, puffing. ‘As I was saying, and as far as I know, most of the inmates survived. There’s not a place in the world – rich or poor, frankly – where madness doesn’t make people afraid. Call it fear. Though part of it’s respect, too. After the invasion of the city the rebels left them alone. Attila was in charge all that time. They looted everywhere and set fire to people’s houses, burned hundreds alive. The poorest people, of course. Always. Forced them to march into the city, to act as a human shield for the fighters. There were atrocities on all sides. So when things turned even worse, especially during the occupation, people hid inside these walls, pretending to be crazy. Poetic, don’t you think? This is, after all, an asylum. There were a couple of peacekeepers in here as well.’

  ‘I didn’t read any of that in the reports.’

  ‘No, well …’

  ‘And what about you? I mean, how long have you been here? Which agency are you with?’

  She looked at him, threw her cigarette down, went to grind it with the toe of her shoe, but missed as the cigarette rolled away down a faint incline. She didn’t bother to pursue it. Nor to answer his question. They had reached the door, grey-painted, of a long, low building, the shape of a barn. She paused with her hand on the handle.

  ‘OK. Ready?’ she said.

  Adrian nodded.

  * * *

  He is not ready, though. For this. He isn’t yet able to make sense of it, but he will. Attila’s manner. The silence that overlays the entire place. They keep the patients drugged. Drugged and chained. The man in front of him has his hands out and clasped together; it is a way people here have of saying hello, a shorthand to an actual handshake. From the man chained to the bed the gesture looks remarkably like prayer.

  ‘Tell the doctor what brought you here,’ Ileana says.

  ‘I cut my father. My father brought me here.’

  ‘Why did you cut your father?’

  ‘He was sitting on the verandah. It was one night. A bad night. I was afraid. I didn’t cut him.’

  ‘So why do you say that you did?’

  ‘I saw the wound.’

  Afterwards, as they leave the ward, Adrian asks, ‘What’s his diagnosis?’

  ‘Psychosis. Drug-induced.’

  ‘And the drug of choice?’

  ‘Cannabis mostly. There isn’t much else anyone can afford. There’s a bit of heroin. Brown brown, it’s called here. But that’s a lot more expensive, obviously, and has to come in from elsewhere. Most of them on this ward are the same.’

  ‘All cannabis?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, turning to meet his gaze as she says the word. And then, ‘He was tran
sferred from the military hospital after Attila intervened. “Wounded in Action.” I think the father sought Attila’s help.’

  ‘So he saw action?’

  ‘I believe so, though I’m not sure of the details. You’d have to ask Dr Attila about that. John’s been in and out of here for the best part of a decade. The war began in ’91 and I’m not sure exactly when he was discharged. Certainly the army was where he began to use drugs. It was encouraged among the new recruits. They called it Booster Morale. As far as Dr Attila is concerned, he’s a casualty of war.’

  ‘So now his answer is to keep the man chained.’

  She regards him for a moment in silence, dips her chin and looks at the floor.

  ‘Looks like you dropped something,’ she says, pointing.

  His eye travels to the floor. There is nothing he can see.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right there.’ She points.

  Adrian sees nothing but a patch of lino, curled and broken. He frowns. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, about two million dollars, I think.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What it would cost to put in a proper security system: infrastructure, staff, training.’

  They are on the other side of the door. Ileana reaches into her pocket for her cigarettes and lighter. She turns away, trailing smoke.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just want to know about the treatment methods.’

  ‘We have a method,’ she says. ‘We call it cold turkey.’

  Ileana walks and smokes. Adrian, unsure of his response, walks alongside her, waiting for her to say something more, realising she does not intend to.

  ‘So why did Dr Attila say …?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says, laughs briefly and gives him a humourless smile. ‘Now you get it. You should have been here at the start. But of course you weren’t. Nobody was. You all turn up when it’s over. Shit!’ And throws her butt into a flowerbed.

  At her office Ileana unlocks the door with a key she draws from her smock pocket, crosses the room and plugs a kettle into the wall.