Once more she nods.
‘OK.’ He takes a breath and in a clear voice he says to Agnes, ‘Perhaps we can start by you telling me your name and where you live?’
To his surprise, in an equally clear tone, though in a quiet voice, she replies, ‘My name is Agnes. I live in Port Loko.’
‘Who do you live with there?’
‘With family.’
‘What were you doing in the city? Do you know?’
She shakes her head.
‘Do you know where you are now?’
This time she gives a nod and glances at Salia, as if for confirmation.
‘Can you tell me how you came to be here?’
She cannot remember.
It is slow going, with frequent low-voiced interjections from Salia, for the woman speaks so softly, and her words are heavily accented. Her voice drags on occasion and on others catches, as though tripping on uncertain thoughts. From time to time she steps out of English and takes several paces in her own language. Adrian wishes he could understand. He feels the air thick with his desperation. To get her to a certain place is all he needs to accomplish right now, to trust him a little. He continues with simple questions, lets her know they can stop any time, offers her a drink of water.
Gradually he returns her to the days before her last journey.
The end of the rains was in sight, she tells him. There hadn’t been as much to eat. She shopped for smoked fish and for the few vegetables available in the market, at least there was still rice and salt in sacks in the storeroom. She had been suffering aches in her joints. Her daughter had bought her some mentholated ointment and arranged for her to see the doctor, but he found nothing wrong with her. Anyway she was well enough to be able to do her work in the house, taking care of her daughter’s son and cooking on alternate days. She had help from a young girl who lived with them. One day she had a headache; she went and lay down on her bed, calling the girl to bring her a cup of water. The headache persisted, like the blade of a cold knife laid at the back of her skull.
Some days later she was heating a pan of oil to fry plantains. The next thing she knew the pan was smoking heavily and almost in flames. She managed to remove it from the fire just in time. The oil was burnt, she had to clean the pan and begin again. Her daughter was away from home for a few days, otherwise she would have called her to come and take over the cooking. She had no idea where the time went. One moment she was placing the pan upon the flame, next it was almost in flames.
‘Who else was in the house?’
She doesn’t know, she shakes her head.
‘Where was the girl? What about your grandchild?’
She shakes her head. She doesn’t remember. Perhaps they were outside.
‘What about your son-in-law?’
Silence. Perhaps she has not heard him. Adrian repeats the question. And then, thinking too that maybe the phrase has not translated well, he adds, ‘Your daughter’s husband, I mean.’
Agnes looks distracted. She puts her hand up to her throat, feeling with her fingers around the base of her neck. She seems upset about something.
‘What is it?’ asks Adrian.
‘Where is my gold chain? I cannot find my gold chain. Somebody’s taken it. Has this matter been reported? Why has nobody returned the chain to me?’ Her voice has acquired weight.
‘Tell me about the chain.’
‘It is gold. Somebody’s taken it.’
‘Was it a special chain?’
‘It was gold.’
Adrian listens. He reassures Agnes everything possible will be done to find her chain. He doesn’t want to let her stray too far from the path of their discussion. The mention of the chain may be significant, then again it may not. He makes a mental note of the detail, of where in the conversation it arose, like one of the pins he left upon the map of her travels.
‘What else do you remember? From before you left home.’
She shakes her head and turns her hands over in her lap. She seems to have lost her place.
He urges her gently on. ‘What do you remember? Tell me one thing you remember. Just one.’
A dog barking, over and over again. It woke her from her dreams. The sound was bothersome, adding to her headache. She was lying on her bed thinking she should get up, but couldn’t seem to rouse herself. She kept being drawn back into her dreams. Somewhere somebody was burning rice fields, even though it was the wrong time of the year. The smoke entered her room and her lungs. It tasted bitter, made her nauseous. Outside the sun was rising, the shadows shifted at the window. She knew she had to get out of the house, but she remained in the grip of her dreams.
‘What were the dreams?’
She cannot remember.
Adrian waits, not wanting to interrupt more than necessary. Sitting before him in the heat of the room, Agnes twitches slightly, her shoulders and head slump and her eyelids flutter. Adrian leans forward. Though he can’t be sure, it looks very much as though she is asleep.
‘Agnes?’ he says softly. At the sound of his voice she pulls herself up. ‘You can go back to the ward now.’
It is nearly time for lunch. Salia steps forward and helps Agnes to her feet. She seems very frail.
At the door, Adrian says, ‘Salia will see about your chain.’
Agnes looks at him.
‘Your chain.’
‘What chain?’ Her face is blank.
‘The gold chain you lost.’
She does not reply. She blinks and moves on.
Adrian watches her as she leaves, guiding herself around the desk and towards the door. She does not look back. There is no element of performance in her shuffling steps, the head that sways slightly as she makes her way down the corridor and out towards the women’s ward. He stands at the window and watches, sees Salia stop to talk to another staff member and Agnes shuffle on oblivious, Salia walk smartly to catch her up.
If she had been faking, Adrian would have to ask himself why. But he is quite sure what he saw was real. He watched her cross from one state to another, one in which she was concerned about the loss of a gold chain, the other in which she appeared to have no memory of the loss of the same item. He remembers the words of the man in the old department store, the one who had brought Agnes to the hospital. Salia had used the same words and tried to explain them to Adrian.
Agnes is crossed.
They are in the Patients’ Garden, the smoke from Ileana’s cigarette curling upward, entwining with the branches of the trees. Her elbow rests on the arm of the wooden bench, half an inch of ash droops from the end of the cigarette. Inside the pocket of her smock she fiddles with her lighter. Adrian can hear the rasping of the wheel against the flint. She is listening with her eyes upon him.
When he stops speaking she says, without taking her eyes away from him, ‘You are considering schizophrenia, of course?’
‘Of course,’ Adrian replies. ‘Though she’s clearly confused. And there are lapses. I don’t think I’m dealing with a psychotic. In fact, I’m as sure as I can be.’ And then, ‘You’ve never examined her?’
Ileana shakes her head, a movement which causes the ash to drop from her cigarette; she raises the remainder of it to her lips and draws deeply before discarding the butt among the fallen flowers.
‘What about Attila?’ says Adrian.
‘He tries to see all the patients, but there are so many. Besides, she doesn’t stay long. It would have amounted to an intake interview. Nothing more.’
Adrian picks a pod up from the ground and begins to pull it apart. The seeds fall out, clattering faintly on to the stones. He doesn’t want to say anything to Ileana just yet, about what he is thinking, the books he has been reading. He wants to wait until he is a little more certain. He needs to hold off talking to Attila, too. For now he is enjoying Ileana’s company, sitting here in the shade of the garden, the most peaceful place in the city. He’d like to carry on talking to her, to invite her for a beer. He realises he has no idea o
f her home life, whether she is here alone, married or single. He struggles to picture her anywhere else but here.
‘Where do you live? I mean here, in this place.’
‘A bungalow. By Malaika beach. I’ve been there about six months. Before that I had an apartment in town, a real dump. What I have now is so much better. You should come and see it.’
‘Are you there alone? I mean …’ He is fumbling a little now. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t prying. I was just thinking about safety.’ He finishes abruptly.
She laughs and looks at him; in her dark eyes there is genuine amusement. ‘I know what you mean. And the answer is yes, I’m on my own. And I feel safer here than anywhere in Israel, or Romania for that matter. I don’t suppose anybody back home would believe it if I told them.’ She laughs. ‘Last time I was in your bloody country I was followed round Haringey by some fucking pervert. I could have screamed my head off and nobody would have heard me.’
Ileana lights another cigarette and stands up. Together they leave the garden.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
On the way home he asks the driver to stop at the supermarket. Inside he moves up and down the aisles, perusing the imported products, savouring the air conditioning. The prices are almost beyond reach, the owners must be making a fortune. He selects two large packets of crisps, takes some beers from the cold cabinet and pays, counting out grubby notes. It is the end of the day, his mind is unwinding, he performs the task slowly, loses count and begins again.
Back in the taxi, heading out to the hospital, not across Julius’s bridge this time, but through the thick of the town. There is a song on the radio. Adrian can’t place it exactly, but it takes him back decades. The title track to a film, maybe. The rhythm lifts his mood. Not for the first time the face of the woman he saw talking to Babagaleh rises before him. This time he does nothing to suppress it, remembers the look she gave him, the way it touched his skin, leaving him exposed as he tried to slip past. He tries to focus upon the features of her face, but they elude him. He sees only the expression she wore, as if she knew exactly what he was doing as he tried to slip past Babagaleh. But then, all good-looking women possessed the same power, or so it seemed.
He presses a beer can against his forehead, feels the cool seep through his body. Six o’clock. The day is over.
CHAPTER 19
‘What’s the time, please?’
Elias Cole was asleep when Adrian arrived, his eyelids fractionally open. For once his breathing was inaudible, causing a momentary hesitation in Adrian accompanied by a double beat of his heart. Of death, he had no experience, except that of his own father. Pneumonia, the official version. It had been a slow death, an awkward lingering. Adrian knew enough to know how these matters were generally handled. A dose of penicillin withheld, the gentle, cold kiss of the morphine needle. By the time Adrian arrived the bed sheets had already been changed. All the time his father was in the home, Adrian chided himself for not visiting more often. Not for his father, who barely recognised him. Or for his mother, who believed, or maintained, that Adrian’s job was extremely demanding. But for himself. He knew he’d regret it. He chided himself. He’d done it anyway.
Adrian walks to the window and draws the curtain against the sunlight.
‘It’s two o’clock.’
He helps the old man to a glass of water. From elsewhere the sound of the expatriate medical staff singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a German colleague. Minutes before Adrian had stood with them in the staff room, sipping vinegary, dusty wine. He’d slipped away before the cutting of the cake.
Adrian sits, the other man’s eyes upon him. ‘You told me people often wondered what Julius saw in you.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that you yourself often wondered the same thing.’
‘I have no illusions.’
‘But what did you see in him, in Julius?’
‘I saw Saffia. Nothing but Saffia.’
*
20 July 1969. The Sea of Tranquillity.
It was all done for the Americans, of course. So they could take the afternoon off and watch at home with beer and barbecues. It was, after all, their money, their president, their rocket, their show. They were the winners. The rest of the world could but watch. The American Embassy on my way to the Ocean Club was alive with light and noise, dignitaries arriving by the score. The Soviet Embassy by contrast was closed and dark, a house of mourning. Winner takes all. The Soviets had even lost the loyalty of an insignificant state such as ours. Our Prime Minister – or was that the year he made himself President? Our President was at that moment rubbing shoulders with the Americans, basking in their glory, despite years of Soviet munificence.
The taxi I was travelling in came to a halt behind a long line of traffic. I took my chances and climbed down. Moments later it started to rain, but by then somebody had already claimed the empty taxi. No choice but to keep walking. I’d forgotten my umbrella. As luck would have it I passed a bar I knew and decided to stop for a drink to escape the rain. The bartender had the radio tuned to the World Service with all the preamble, the discussions and interviews, the expert opinion that would fill the hours up until the attempt. Who cared? Not I. I finished my first drink. I thought of Saffia and felt the familiar jolt of yearning.
My second whisky was followed by a third. They watered down the spirits in this place, I’d be hard-pressed to get drunk. So I stayed and drank. I drank to avoid the rain. I drank to avoid too early an arrival. I drank to keep my new shirt from getting wet. Most of all I drank to postpone, painfully, exquisitely, the moment when I would be in Saffia’s company again.
All talk in the bar was of the evening’s events. The same all over town, no escaping it. The mood of confidence was unshakeable; do you believe me when I say that? Men had died, it’s true. But America was the superpower. It was a time of gods and we in Africa were mere mortals.
‘I thought maybe you had forgotten me.’ A woman’s voice, soft and ingratiating.
I swivelled round. It took me a moment to place the young woman standing next to me. She spotted my hesitation, her eyes flickered in the direction of the barman, as if to check whether he was watching. Her smile though remained turned upon me. It was the girl from the bar, the one with whom I had spent the night the day of my first visit alone with Saffia. I had taken her home with me. I’d given her no thought from the moment I put her in a taxi and gave her a sum of money that amounted to somewhat more than the fare. Still, in my present state the thought of her company, the distraction it offered, was moderately appealing.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘How nice to see you.’
She replied, ‘I have thought about you. I hoped you would come and find me.’
‘Well, here I am. What would you like to drink?’ I didn’t bother with excuses, what was the point? We both knew what it had all been about. She could play coy all she wanted. I clicked my fingers for the barman.
Why I invited the girl to the Ocean Club, I don’t know. An anger licking at my insides. Perhaps I wanted to spite Saffia. Her love for her husband, her immaculate coolness, her honour that seemed designed to keep me at a distance and yet allowed her friendships with men as she pleased.
And then, of course, the sound of her, the day I went to deliver the chairs. It burned. It burned.
Kekura was leaning against the bar when we entered.
‘Cool shirt, man. I thought for a moment Julius had just walked in.’ He looked at the girl, waiting to be introduced. I had forgotten her name, if I had ever known it.
‘Hello, my name is Kekura. Kekura Conteh.’ He extended his hand to her.
‘Hello,’ she replied shyly. She didn’t proffer her name, so neither of us were any the wiser. Kekura slipped off his stool and the girl sat down.
‘Are the others here?’ I asked.
‘Only Ade. I won’t be staying too long myself. I need to get up to the house and make sure everything is working.’
I rememb
ered Kekura had been charged with providing the audiovisual entertainment because of his job with the state broadcasting station. I nodded. My head throbbed slightly. I was just considering what might fix it better, another whisky or a glass of water, when I saw Julius and Saffia.
The Ocean Club. Let me sketch it for you. A semicircular bar. A dance floor, vast and open to the sky. Sometimes they played live music there. Tables scattered all around. The sea was only a few yards away, you could walk straight on to the sand. The inside of the club was reached by a stairway of curved steps, which led almost directly on to the dance floor, so whoever had just arrived drew the eye of everyone in the room. Saffia was wearing a blue gown, the same dress as the day I first laid eyes upon her. I watched them descend, Julius one pace ahead, exactly as he’d been the day of the faculty wives’ dinner, when he was minded to skip the receiving line and she had drawn him back with the touch of her fingertips.
Kekura, too, stopped talking, and watched. I had the impression everyone in the room was engaged in the same act. Suddenly Saffia was standing next to me, greeting me, laying her hand upon my arm. No woman I knew had the power to alter my mood by such simple gestures. Where previously I had felt irritable, I was now elated.
‘Aren’t you excited, Elias?’ she said. I could smell her scent on the warm air, just for a moment.
‘Of course,’ I replied, taking the opportunity to look at her, aware of her hand still resting on my bare arm, the touch of her fingers. ‘It’s an historic moment.’
‘I wonder what the significance of this will be?’ Kekura said. ‘In ten years’ time, when we look back.’
‘I do, too,’ I said.
Saffia removed her hand. I was aware of her turning away to see who else was there.
‘Well, I pray it puts an end to this race between Russia and America. Perhaps the Americans will stop what they are doing in Vietnam.’
‘I doubt that,’ I said. I had no desire to be forced by Kekura into a discussion; my brain was slowly liquefying.
Saffia rejoined us. ‘Everyone else is wondering whether they’ll find men on the moon.’
The Memory of Love Page 17