Redemption in Indigo

by Karen Lord

  Her colleagues gave her slightly anxious looks, but she stared directly at Kwame and pretended not to notice them.

  Kwame inclined his head in thanks. ‘I shall do as you say.'

  * * * *

  The village court of Makendha, like village courts the world over, was sometimes graced by the presence of an itinerant storyteller. Kwame found one sitting on a stool under the shade of the sandbox tree, muttering to himself. He knew the type. He found them to be excellent observers of humanity, professional harvesters of gossip and scandal.

  'Excuse me,’ he said, approaching the old man, ‘but I am trying to find a cook by the name of Paama.'

  The old storyteller ceased his muttering, turned his aged and weathered face to Kwame, and gave him a good look up and down.

  'Now, there's an accent that has walked far,’ he said.

  'I have no accent,’ Kwame replied.

  'Ah, that is how I know it has travelled so far, to have wrapped itself in so many layers that to everyone, no matter what region they hail from, it appears you have no accent. So, you are looking for Paama? Why?'

  Kwame had few qualms about lying for the sake of his profession, but something about the twinkle in the man's eye—little short of a leer, it was—made him embarrassed for no good reason. He scuffed his foot awkwardly in the dust and said, ‘A good cook is always in demand, and her fame has spread beyond the village.'

  The wrinkles on the old man's face assumed a less satyric aspect as he folded his hands and sighed.

  'I have heard tales of how magnificently she can cook. I could relate for you a description of a morsel of her honey-almond cake, a delicacy which is light enough to melt on the tip of the tongue and yet it lingers on the palate with its subtle flavours long into the dream-filled reaches of the night. I could sing the praises, second-hand, alas, of her traveller's soup, a concoction of smoothly blended and balanced vegetables and herbs guaranteed to put heart and strength back into the bones of the weariest voyager. I have heard of her pepperpot, wherein meat from the hunt simmers slowly all the day long in a fantastic chutney of seasonings, selected spices, peppers, and green pawpaw. And forgive my tears, but I have just this moment recalled a certain jar that sits in her kitchen, filled with dried fruit steeping in spice spirit, red wine, cinnamon, and nutmeg, patiently awaiting that day months or even years hence when it will be baked into a festival cake that will turn the head of the most seasoned toper.'

  He sighed again and stopped for a moment. They both swallowed at the thought of such culinary genius.

  'Pardon me for raising what must be a painful subject, but it sounds as if you have not tasted Paama's cooking for yourself,’ Kwame noted.

  'You are too perceptive. I have indeed missed the golden years of Makendha. My business requires me to travel, and it seems to me that whenever I am away, Paama is cooking here, and whenever I return, she is cooking elsewhere. It is a cruel trick of fate, but I pray it shall soon be ended.'

  'What is your business, if I may ask?’ Kwame inquired.

  It was best not to appear to pry too openly, and the subject of self was always a welcome change. As he expected, the storyteller was happy to talk about his work.

  'I am a storyteller. I travel to collect stories, and I return to tell the stories of one place to the people of another. That is the important part of the trade. You must never tell people their own stories. They have no interest in them, or they think they can tell them better themselves. Give them a stranger's life, and then they're content.'

  'But the court is empty now?’ Kwame pointed out.

  'Of course it is. Do you think that one simply spouts off before an audience, impromptu and unprepared? I was rehearsing for this evening's performance. But we digress. We were speaking of Paama and her cooking.'

  'Yes,’ said Kwame, glad that he had returned to Paama without being prompted. ‘Perhaps you could tell me where I could find her, so I could ask her about her experience.'

  'Haven't you been listening? These days, if I am in Makendha, it is almost a guarantee that she is not.'

  'But someone must know where she's gone,’ Kwame insisted.

  The old man shrugged. ‘I can tell you nothing about the matter.'

  'Then I am wasting my time,’ Kwame murmured, using the slightly forlorn look of a man who has travelled far only to waste his time.

  It seemed to work, for the storyteller continued. ‘Never mind. Keep searching for her; she is worth the finding. She will be an asset to any restaurant. Already she is accustomed to cooking for twenty at a time?'

  'How so? She has operated her own restaurant?’ Kwame asked.

  He chuckled. ‘Nothing as lucrative as that. She has had a huge mouth to feed, a real belly-beast to pacify. But surely you have already heard the tale of Ansige the Glutton?'

  Kwame shook his head, no.

  'Well, since you're a stranger and thus entitled to the tales of this village, I'll tell you.'

  And he told Kwame the entire tale of Ansige.

  * * * *

  The day after that, Kwame returned to the House of the Sisters. His face was very still, as if he had heard something that had provoked such a strong feeling in him that he could not risk letting any sign of it show in his features. When the Sisters saw him, they realised that something was very wrong.

  'Why didn't you tell me about what happened to her husband?’ he demanded.

  They looked a little surprised. They had not expected that the tribulations of Ansige were at all relevant to the search for Paama.

  'We didn't know it was that important,’ said Sister Carmis.

  Kwame closed his eyes as if gathering patience. ‘When a woman goes missing after first leaving her husband and then being left by her husband, no matter how strong her ability to face gossip and speculation, I think that it might be a factor in her disappearance. When the husband has been publicly ridiculed, I grow even more suspicious.'

  Eyes thus closed, he did not catch the frantic look exchanged between the Sisters, who knew just how off the mark he was.

  'I will go and question this Ansige,’ he declared.

  'But—'

  'I would not be at all surprised if he knew where she was.'

  'Wait a mo—'

  'In fact, I would not be surprised if she were with him right now,’ he continued.

  'There's more to it than—'

  But Kwame was already striding through the gate and back down the trail, his destination now certain.

  Sister Carmis was the only one who recovered herself in time to dash after him and say, ‘But there's more we have to tell you! There's more to this situation than meets the eye.'

  He stopped and smiled at her. ‘You're the one who dreamed me, aren't you?'

  She nodded shyly. She was the youngest of the Sisters, not yet confident in her skills, and hesitant to wield authority.

  He touched her arm gently in reassurance. ‘Trust your dreams. Perhaps there's more to me than meets the eye.'

  Waving a farewell to the House of the Sisters, Kwame set off to begin his hunt for Paama.

  * * * *

  21

  paama comes full circle and learns the djombi's lesson

  * * * *

  The village where Ansige lived was nearly large enough to be called a town. The main street was busy, but the crowd was not yet so anonymous that Paama felt comfortable with the idea of sauntering up to the front door. Respecting her desire for discretion, the djombi brought her to the back garden of Ansige's house. She stood for a while staring at the grounds in silence.

  'Do you want to go back, Paama?’ the djombi suggested gently.

  Pity from a being so pitiless made her feel angry, though she could not understand why. She muttered something about the herb beds being overgrown and then walked with a grim face towards the back door. As she raised her hand to knock, a loud voice came from inside the house.

  'You ate an hour ago! The doctor said you should not be eating so often—'


  'I pay you to prepare my meals, not to repeat some quack's words in my ear!'

  Paama's breath caught in her throat. The first voice was unknown to her, but the second voice was only just recognisable as Ansige's. It was weak and querulous, ten years aged in sound.

  The first voice, which was closer to the door, was heard to mumble that no amount of money could be worth the aggravation of standing watch over a man intent on eating himself to death.

  'Are you going to bring my food to me or not?’ Ansige demanded.

  Paama wondered if the servant could hear the edge of fear in Ansige's voice. He must really be in a bad way if he cannot even come to the kitchen himself.

  There was a cacophony of crashing, cursing, and stamping, and then the door flew open so suddenly that Paama had to leap back to avoid being struck. The person attempting to come through the door reared back in shock.

  'Who are you?’ he demanded.

  'His wife,’ Paama replied, startled into directness, giving an upward jerk of the chin to point in the direction of the unseen Ansige.

  The man's face went sombre. ‘God help you,’ he said bluntly, and pushed gently past her, striding to the back gate with the utter determination of a man who has reached his limit.

  'What is the matter with him?’ Paama called, but he only flapped a hand behind him in exasperation and went through the gate without bothering to turn around.

  She stepped inside the kitchen and looked around. Tumbled pots and broken dishes testified to the cook's last spasm of rage, but there was a large pot intact on the stove, its still-bubbling contents puffing out the scent of broth. Even beneath the recent destruction, the large kitchen appeared untidy, as if one servant had been forced to do the work of many. Paama cleared away some of the debris and searched the cupboards until she was able to put together a tray with a bowl of soup and a plate of bread.

  The passage was unswept, the bannister of the stairs dusty and laced with cobwebs. The door of the master bedroom stood ajar, and it resisted slightly when she pushed at it. When she entered, she saw why—clothes were strewn on the floor. Ansige was lying in bed, his face turned to the wall as if sulking.

  'Hello, Ansige,’ Paama greeted him.

  Ansige's head turned slowly until their eyes met. ‘Paama. You've come back to me.'

  She couldn't bear to correct him. She simply brought the tray over to the bedside table, set it down, and said, ‘I heard you weren't well.'

  She hated the sound of her own voice. It was a dead sound, lacking emotion, the kind of voice used when talking to someone so close to death that it makes no sense bothering them with details. She had heard doctors using that voice when visiting terminally ill patients. And Ansige was ill. For all his complaining, when he reached for the tray of food he moved slowly, as if in pain. Then he began to eat the soup, and Paama felt wretched. His mouth made hungry motions towards the spoon as it came closer, but his chewing and swallowing were feeble. Now she better understood the disarray in the kitchen. His mind was, as always, hungrier than his body, and it made him call incessantly for meals that he was physically incapable of finishing.

  'The house seems empty,’ she remarked.

  Ansige's mouth twisted bitterly. ‘Cheats and thieves and sluggards, all of them. I can barely get a housekeeper to come in twice a week, and the cook is just a disaster.'

  Paama said nothing, but she recalled that she had left a house that supported seven servants—five full-time and two part-time.

  At last his hand wearied, and he dropped the spoon into the half-full bowl with a sigh. She quickly took the tray from him as his body slumped tiredly.

  'Just a quick nap,’ he mumbled, and fell asleep in seconds, curled up tight like a foetus refusing to leave the womb.

  She put the tray down again and sat in a chair by the window. She had not noticed before that the djombi had left her, but now she thought about him and how vindicated he would feel to see Ansige's self-destruction. This was truly the bathos of human experience, a gift of life and opportunity squandered and spoiled. The image of the baccou crossed her mind, and she frowned. Why should she be so quick to blame Ansige? Not all the undying ones were altruistic in their actions. She braced her hands on the arms of the chair, about to get up, but fell back in surprise. The djombi was now in the room and standing beside her.

  'You do come when you're called, don't you,’ she said sourly, though softly, so as not to wake Ansige. ‘I have a question for you. What's wrong with Ansige?'

  He stared at her, not understanding. ‘He is dying.'

  'I know that,’ she snapped. ‘For years, until I tired of it, I told him he would wear out his body by eating so much. What I need to know is why. Why was he constantly eating? Was there more to it??id something influence him to behave as he did?'

  His expression was almost pained, as if she had asked something she shouldn't have, but he walked over to the bed, looked at Ansige, and then put his hands wrist deep into Ansige's belly. Ansige did not stir, not even when the djombi withdrew his hands with a sudden jerk. There was a small, shadowy blur cupped in his palm.

  'How long have you been here?’ he asked it.

  The blur flickered. ‘Not as long as one might think. Not as long as she thinks.'

  There was a slightly malicious tone in its words. The djombi looked sternly at it until its self-satisfied glow faded.

  'Who else has been here?’ he queried.

  'Several others,’ came the sullen reply. ‘None stayed for very long. I'm the only one lazy enough to enjoy this, and frankly it hasn't been fun even for me lately.'

  'What does it mean?’ Paama asked, careful to stay in her chair on the opposite side of the room.

  The blur seemed to perk up again. ‘I mean he's worse than weak. He's in love with his vices. One can't suggest anything to him. He has the thought already, and the mere idea that someone else is thinking it too is enough for him to act on it. Most of us can't stand that—no challenge—but, like I said, I'm lazy. I'm content to sit back and watch the show.'

  Paama turned her face to the open window and put her hand over her eyes. So much for her most recent theory on Ansige's gluttony. Poor Ansige; he was not even able to blame ill influences for his shortcomings. It seemed unfair that the djombi was right, that humans were largely responsible for their own misery. Even more than unfair, it was ironic that he had taken her the wide world over to prove his point when he could have simply brought her here and shown her what remained of the man with whom she had spent ten years of her life.

  When she looked back at the djombi, he was carefully rubbing his hands together, as if crushing something out of existence.

  'Could I use the Stick? Is there any chance that he might live?’ she asked. Even as she said it, she knew she was asking as a formality, for the sake of decency.

  The djombi dusted his hands and considered for a while before replying. ‘For how long? For days, definitely. For weeks, maybe. But longer? You know the answer already, Paama.'

  She stood up, took the Stick out of the cloth bag at her waist, and gave it to him. Although his hands reached for it automatically, he hesitated just before his fingers touched, his eyes questioning her.

  'I think you can take it safely,’ she reassured him, then added with a hint of bitterness, ‘Both my heart and my hands return it freely.'

  He nodded, and took it from her. The universe did not even blink at the momentous transfer.

  'I ask one thing only,’ Paama continued. ‘Go back to the town with the plague, and burn it.'

  His left hand briefly gripped the Stick, and then held it out to her again. For a moment she thought, afraid and bewildered, that he was refusing to do what she asked, but he said, ‘Take back the stick. I don't need it. I have taken the power that was in it.'

  She took it out of his hand. Did it feel different, lighter? She couldn't tell. She looked up at him, and realised something was different. Though not yet fully at peace with himself, he was whole now,
and if she looked closely enough, she thought she could make a guess at his name??'You won't come with me?’ he asked.

  She looked at the sheet-covered heap that was Ansige. ‘No. I will stay here and take care of him. He won't be as much of a bother to me as he was in the past. Go now, before the rains start again and it is too late.'

  'It won't matter. I can move in time as well as space when I am by myself.'

  'So, you could go back and do all your duty at the appointed time? You could come out of “retirement"?’ she hinted.

  'Yes, I could,’ he agreed, acknowledging only the possibility.

  He looked down at Ansige, apparently troubled about something, perhaps struggling with what was, in effect, good-bye.

  'If it is any consolation to you, he would not have lived any longer if you had stayed with him,’ he said awkwardly.

  Paama looked hard at him until he looked back at her, so that she could show him how her face was part smiles, part tears, part guilt, and part relief.

  'Now I believe you when you say you cannot read my mind. Hurry up and go. I think he is waking up again.'

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  22

  something positive from a grave mistake

  * * * *

  When he returned to the streets of the quarantined section of the town, someone was waiting for him, someone silver-haired.

  'Hello Chance,’ she said.

  'Hello Patience,’ he replied cautiously.

  Mere nicknames, shadows of the whole appellation even as their visible, tangible bodies were shadows of the self in its entirety. But I must do what I can for my human audience.

  'You are alone.’ It was a statement—it was clear she was alone; but it was also a question—why?

  'The others stopped hunting for you the moment you left Paama alone. I??ell, knowing the schedule of duty, I knew where you would be.'

  He said nothing. It was no surprise to him that his unconscious, untold decision should already have been announced to the universe.