They are silent while the girl opens the drinks, pours them, then places the bottles on the table and leaves.
‘Well,’ says Mary. ‘There’s no such thing as going back.’ She raises her glass to Kai, who clinks his against it.
‘No,’ says Kai. ‘Keep moving, isn’t that right?’ He takes a deep breath.
There is to be no hiding from Mary.
‘So anyway,’ she says. ‘Tell me your news. How come I’m getting to see so much of you?’
Perhaps he would not have told her if they hadn’t spoken of Nenebah, but now he feels differently. He tells her about his decision to leave, his appointment with Andrea Fernandez Mount.
When he’s finished speaking she says, ‘Well, you and Tejani never stopped talking about it. Remember me to him, won’t you? And since you’ve told me your big news, let me tell you mine.’ A pause. ‘I’m bringing my son back. I told my parents it is time. Enough. I want my two kids to live with me. Together. This one and that one.’ She pats her stomach and gives him a turned-down smile. ‘So it’s decided.’
Kai shakes his head. ‘I’m really pleased for you. How old is he now?’
‘A year the month after next. I want him back for his birthday.’
Half an hour later they say goodbye. People are beginning to arrive for lunch, Mary’s distraction grows and Kai stands up to leave. Her big belly bumps him again as she moves forward to embrace him. This time he cradles it in his hand, bends his head and presses his forehead against it, straightens and kisses Mary on the cheek. ‘You two take care of yourselves. I mean, you three.’ At the door he raises his hand and drops it. She has already turned away.
October 1999. So many children born in a single month. In Kai’s view Mary’s capacity to forgive seems, quite simply, immeasurable. Mary’s parents had taken her son away to raise in the village. Who knows how many children born in the same month in the same year are being raised all over the country like that? Children like Mary’s son who have one thing in common. They were all born nine months after the rebel army invaded the city.
Friday prayers and the streets are emptied of people. No poda podas, no taxis. A boy passes Kai pushing a load of jelly coconuts in a child’s pushchair. Kai stops him, buys one and waits while the boy hacks off the top then fashions a spoon for him out of the broken fragment. He stands scraping out pieces of coconut flesh and scooping them into his mouth, watching the people pass him on their way to the mosque. Three Fula money traders in long, pale djellebas and embroidered round hats. An elderly haja, white cloth wrapped around her head. A small group of office workers, heavy black shoes beneath their gowns. The boy stands watching Kai as intently as Kai watches the passers-by, as though he is watching a sideshow. The sun is beating down and Kai can feel the blood throb in the veins on his scalp.
He turns to his companion. ‘You want one?’
The boy’s eyes widen slightly, he nods sharply, neither speaking nor smiling, waiting to see what kind of joker Kai turns out to be. Kai hands him a coin. The boy takes it and serves himself one of his own coconuts, with all the care and delicacy he would a customer.
Somewhere, thinks Kai, there are towns and cities in a place called America. New York, Washington, San Francisco, Atlanta, Maryland.
He tries to imagine it, but this time he succeeds only in summoning images from films and advertisements. He cannot think how it will be, only that it is far away from all this.
In the final days of the invasion the rebels retreated from these streets. In their anger the residents discovered their courage and finally turned upon their oppressors. The doctors would sometimes leave the hospital to tour the city collecting corpses, issuing death certificates and stuffing the dead into the hospital mortuary. A vain effort at recordkeeping, imposing order on the unruliness of war. On this street Kai had seen a young girl, lying upon the road, angled in death. Fourteen, sixteen at most. Someone had tried to remove her clothing. She lay in the street in a scarlet bra and panties, doubtless at one time looted from an upmarket boutique. The people who lived there refused Kai and his team leave to touch the body. She’d been the commanding officer in charge of the attack. They would deny her the dignity of burial. The teenage commander, in stolen, silken underwear.
Kai stares at the spot where the girl had lain. Ripples of hot air rise from the tarmac. In the mirage he sees her, the brilliance of the underwear against the dark skin. He looks away. When he looks back the road is empty. The boy is watching him. Kai hands him the unfinished coconut and walks away.
The thing to remember, he tells himself, the thing to hold on to is this: that since he decided to leave he has been sleeping at night.
‘There will be a storm tonight, yes. I think so.’
Foday is the kind of patient the Western doctors complain no longer exists and for whom they yearn. He asks no questions and accepts whatever Kai tells him. Foday makes the foreign doctors nostalgic for the days before patient charters obliged them to shroud their work in secrecy and pronounce as little as possible. They like Africa. Africa is full of believers. Foday is a believer. Kai wishes Foday had a little less faith. He shifts Foday’s supper tray and leans his buttocks on the window ledge.
‘I know Mr Seligmann has already spoken to you, but I’m just reiterating what he said, so you’re clear. We’ll know more in a few weeks once the cast is off for good. You’ll have it changed in the meantime, we’ll shift the position of the foot so we can stretch that tendon. We’ll get an idea then, and of course, an even clearer picture once you begin physiotherapy. How does the foot feel now?’
‘It feels very well, thank you.’
It has something to do with gratitude, in Kai’s opinion, as though admitting to pain was somehow to demonstrate ungratefulness, and that in turn might jeopardise the doctors’ goodwill. The nurses seem equally to subscribe to the view that patients are undeserving, and are consequently reluctant to hand out as much as a single codeine tablet. Also because for years they’d had to guard precious supplies.
‘Ask the nurse for something if you feel any discomfort.’
‘I will do that, thank you.’
‘Good.’
‘Sometimes my leg itches,’ offers Foday, as though he has alighted upon a titbit to satisfy.
‘That’s normal. Try not to scratch it.’ Kai smiles. ‘How’s Zainab?’
‘Oh.’ Foday smiles in return. ‘Zainab has written to me again. My cousin brought the letter here yesterday. Now I feel sure she likes me.’
‘I’m certain she does,’ says Kai.
‘She says she’s travelling to the city, she would like to come and visit me.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Perhaps you would like to meet her? I’m sure she would like to meet you.’
‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ says Kai.
‘Good. I am happy. And, Doctor?’
‘Yes?’
‘May I thank you for the radio. I’m enjoying it.’
Kai had completely forgotten about the radio.
‘Yesterday I was listening to people talking about an army of soldiers made of clay in China and buried underground. They were placed there to guard an emperor in the afterlife. This is something extraordinary. Please pass me my book.’ Foday points to the window ledge.
Kai swivels around, finds the exercise book and hands it to Foday, who opens it and begins to read. ‘For the First Emperor. Eight thousand soldiers. Five hundred horses. More than one hundred chariots. And you know what else they say?’ He looks at Kai, who shakes his head compliantly. ‘Not one of the warriors has the same face. Every one wears a different expression. This is something the craftsmen ensured, in the way they carved them and then painted them. And then these very craftsmen, after all their labours, were buried inside. I found this story very interesting.’
‘It certainly is,’ says Kai.
Foday grins. ‘They said this emperor wanted to wage war in the afterlife, to found a new empire with another e
mperor who was already deceased. Either that or these soldiers were for his protection.’ Foday laughs out loud. ‘I think this man was either very ambitious or very much afraid.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Kai, laughing too.
‘Or maybe both.’
Kai is silent.
‘I would like to see it for myself,’ says Foday.
‘Maybe you will one day,’ lies Kai.
But Foday shakes his head. ‘No. But if you find a picture for me, I would like that. Do you wish me to return the radio?’
‘No,’ says Kai. ‘You hold on to it.’ He’d taken it from Adrian’s room several weeks previously. Difficult to return now. He has not seen Adrian, much less spoken to him. He directs every ounce of his energy to not thinking about him. Not thinking about Adrian and Nenebah.
Kai says goodbye to Foday and as he walks away down the ward the thought occurs to him for the first time: he may not be here for Foday’s final operation.
Eight hours later and Kai lies on his back watching a silver spear of moonlight trace across the ceiling from the gap between the curtains.
He is wide awake.
CHAPTER 48
A handful of the men are playing football, not enough to make a five-a-side team, but enough for a kick-about. The pitch is a scraggy patch of tough grass and dirt. Discarded chains serve as goal markers. The men play barefoot, shirtless and with intent. Attila had given permission for the football games on the proviso Adrian came in to supervise them. Ileana and Attila were too busy and none of the nurses were considered sufficiently qualified to be left in charge of the unshackled men. Nobody, though, doubted the benefit of exercise to the men. Now Adrian watches the game, alert to any change in mood. So far, so good. Their concentration is upon the ball. On the opposite path he sees Attila followed by Salia. The psychiatrist stops and watches the game, nods at Adrian, who nods back. On the pitch the men play on.
After the game, Adrian has a session scheduled with Adecali. The young man arrives looking exhausted and underweight and does not sit down until Adrian invites him to do so. For a few moments Adrian watches Adecali’s left knee jerking up and down. From time to time his neck, head and shoulders convulse in a massive shudder. He has not looked directly at Adrian once since entering the room. At first Adrian had been troubled by the consistent failure of most of the men to make eye contact. It was Ileana who told him that to look an elder in the eye is regarded as an act of defiance. Still, Adecali’s gaze, darting about the floor as though in pursuit of an erratically moving insect, is anything but normal.
‘Do you remember in class we talked about having a special place, somewhere you can go when you’re finding things getting on top of you?’
Adecali nods.
‘Have you been going there?’
There have been a number of disturbances involving Adecali recently, one in the canteen just yesterday. His progress in the group sessions, initially so promising, has taken a turn for the worse.
Adecali nods and then shakes his head.
‘What does that mean, yes or no? Speak to me.’
‘I cannot always remember what you told us.’
‘Well, shall we practise it now? Whenever you have a frightening memory, something that upsets you, you can make yourself feel better. What about the relaxation techniques, the breathing?’ Though the men come willingly enough to the sessions, hardest of all is to get them to carry out the exercises on their own. The question is one of trust. The men are beginning to have confidence in Adrian, but his methods are still beyond them. They are uninitiated in the ideas of psychotherapy. And to find the required peace and stillness on the wards can’t be easy.
Adecali shakes his head.
‘All these things will help you to feel less stressed and less frightened. They will help you cope. Shall we try it here together?’
Adecali nods.
Adrian stands and crosses to the window, where he looks out at the ruffled surface of the sea. A fishing canoe is returning to shore, dipping in and out of sight. Adecali’s knee has stopped jerking. Adrian says, ‘Now I want you to take a deep breath … hold it … exhale.’
One by one he takes Adecali through the exercises, has him clench and release his fists and then his forearms, his shoulders, roll his head around his neck, tense and relax the muscles of his face, where most of Adecali’s tics occur. Finally his chest, legs and feet. Adecali is entirely biddable, as are all the men. Adrian never fails to find it remarkable, even accounting for the sedative effect of the drugs.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Yes, sir. I feel better.’
Adrian takes a breath. He says, ‘OK. Close your eyes. Now think about your special place. You can tell me about it if you want.’
‘The place I chose is a tree outside my village where I grew up.’
‘Is it somewhere you used to go as a child?’
‘Yes, if my mother beat me. Sometimes I sat underneath it. Other times I climbed up.’
‘OK, I want you to sit there and remember how it felt. What could you see from up high? What could you hear?’ Adrian is silent for a minute, watching Adecali. Then he says, ‘What I want you to do now is to talk about one of those times when you remember something from the past, something bad. You are going to describe it to me and we are going to talk about it. And then I’m going to teach you something that will help you stop these memories from coming at unexpected times and making you upset. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Adrian knows now, from their previous sessions, from whence Adecali’s horror of fire derives, so too his dread of the smell of roasting meat. Adecali had belonged to the rebel Sensitisation Unit. The Unit’s task was to enter a town marked for invasion ahead of the fighting contingent of the rebel army and by their methods to ensure the villagers’ future capitulation. As a strategy it worked. It saved on casualties – among the rebel forces, that is. It saved on ammunition. The Unit’s planning was meticulous, the process merciless, the outcome effective. Adecali’s job, his particular job, was to burn families alive in their houses.
‘Shall we begin? Would you like to describe one of those moments to me?’
Adecali is silent. Words seem to fail him. This happens often. Without Adrian’s prompting, the men seem incapable of acting. Perhaps this is how it worked in the battlefield. Adecali’s spirit, broken in much the same way as he set about breaking villagers’ wills. Now, without the gang, the drugs and the drink, the spur of violence, out beyond the triumph of survival, the desolation steals up and surrounds them.
Adecali begins to rub his forehead with the palm of his hand.
Adrian says, ‘Some time ago I was called to the ward. You were very upset. Do you remember why?’
Adecali nods.
‘What happened?’
Another silence, shorter this time. When Adecali begins to speak his words come in between rapid, shallow breaths. ‘They came with meat.’
‘Who did?’
‘Them that are on my ward.’
‘And why did that upset you?’
‘It made me feel sick in my stomach.’
‘Go on. What else did you feel?’
‘I felt fearful.’ He is quiet. His eyes are open now, staring at the floor. ‘I heard noises in my ears. I saw visions.’
‘What were those visions? Tell me exactly what you saw, from the beginning.’
‘I saw thatch burning, the thatch of a house. The smoke is in my nose and my mouth. I hear people shouting and screaming. There is a lot of noise. Singing. The people gathered around to watch, we make them come to see what we are doing and to chant and sing. It was my job. That is what I remember. A welcome song. Sene-o. I feel drumming in my ears. We pass around palm wine. I am the conductor, I have a baton. I conduct them. A woman refuses to sing. She makes me very angry. She has a baby on her back. I tell myself it is time to teach this woman a lesson. What will other people think of me if she does not sing?’ His leg has begun to jerk again.
Bubbles of sweat pop out on his forehead. Adrian is aware of a rank odour rising in the room.
‘Keep going.’
‘I need to teach this woman a lesson. For refusing to sing. I take her baby and I throw it on the roof. The woman sings then, she sings. I make her sing.’ He is babbling now, rocking back and forth in his chair. ‘But now she is coming after me. She is in my dreams. She appears even when I am awake.’
‘What does it mean to you to see her?’
‘Her spirit sees me and is coming after me, for causing the death of her child.’
Adrian leans forward and touches Adecali on the shoulder. ‘OK, stop there.’
Adecali blinks.
Adrian comes to sit down opposite him.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Adrian fills a glass from the carafe on the table in front of him and pushes it across the table. Adecali drinks noisily.
‘What you’re experiencing,’ says Adrian, ‘are called flashbacks. A flashback is a memory of a bad thing that has happened, but sometimes these memories are so strong it makes it feel as though the thing is happening all over again, as though you are back in the same place. Sometimes you forget where you really are. The day in the ward, for example, when I came to help you, at first you didn’t recognise me, you had forgotten where you really were. Could I be right?’
Adecali nods. He is gripping the glass, resting it on his knee.
‘You can put the glass on the table now. What I want to do is to teach you some ways of coping with these flashbacks when they come, OK? We’re going to replay parts of that memory until you get used to it and it stops frightening you so much. You can learn to control it, just as though we had taped it and were playing it on a video player and you had charge of the remote.’
Adecali is looking at him with what appears to be intense concentration, biting his bottom lip.
‘You know what a video recorder is, don’t you?’
Adecali nods slowly once.
Thank goodness for that. ‘And so you know how to use one?’
Adecali shakes his head.
The Memory of Love Page 43