“Omokehindegbegbon speaks! That’s your name. Omokehindegbegbon. Kehinde for short. Do you know what it means? ‘The child that came last becomes the elder.’” To Niké, “God, look at them. They’re perfect. She’s perfect. She’s her.”
At which all of them looked as on cue at the mantel, whence the woman in the portrait looked sullenly back.
Indeed, she was. Taiwo. A lighter-skinned Taiwo in ten, fifteen years, thinner lips, straighter hair. Femi aimed a silver remote at the face like a gun, whispered “Pow!” and the music went off. Kehinde half-expected the woman to fall, mortally wounded, slumping out from her frame to the floor. Or half-wished. As he stared at her, something else happened, the inverse illusion: an ugliness emerged. He found the woman ugly, overwhelmingly ugly; knew ugly things would happen on account of her face; and he hated her, her appearance, her milky-white pallor, he hated this woman, neither African nor white, who belonged to no People, no past he had heard of, who sat on the wall, cold with death, cut from ice, the only member of their family they had ever vaguely looked like, this pale, hateful beauty entrenched in wrought brass.
Femi said, presently, “That woman is your grandmother,” pronouncing that woman with pointed distaste. “The wife of my father Kayo Savage, your grandfather. The mother of Fola, your mother, their child.” He gestured to the painting, his voice growing softer and tighter, a raspy sound pushed through his teeth. “It was always in the bedroom just over his bed, always watching him fucking my mother, his whore. Somayina his wife. Folasadé his daughter. Babafemi his bastard. Olabimbo his whore.” He spread his arms, beaming, eyes bloodshot and shining, and laughed. “There you have it. The Savage family tree.”
Niké sucked her teeth. “Femi, please, oh—”
“Be quiet. I’m telling them a story. It’s clear they don’t know. One should know where one comes from, don’t you think? It’s important. They should know about our family, how we all came to be.” He laughed again, loudly, looking sharply at Taiwo. “And now here you are,” then at Kehinde, “my twins. You know what we Yoruba say about ibeji. You bring us good luck and great fortune, you twins. And you know what my name means, yes? Femi means ‘love me.’ I want you to love me, ibeji, you hear?” He bent down and kissed them now, slowly, on their foreheads, his hands and lips freezing. “I love you so much.” He looked at his wife. “Woman, what are you looking at?” Niké sucked her teeth. “Show our twins to their rooms.”
• • •
Would that he looked like his father, he’s thinking, while Sadie frowns, pitying. The silence abates. His ears sort of pop, and he hears himself saying, “I love your face, Sadie.”
“You can have it,” she says.
“Did you like it? The card?” He is blushing, embarrassed, aware that she, Sadie, must think him insane.
But she giggles, flushing deeply. “I loved it, I really loved it. You made me so… pretty.” She smiles, at her hands.
“I’m sorry. You were saying. About a bad part? What’s the bad part? You’re here, both my sisters. I’d call this part great.” He shifts his chair studiously to the left to face Sadie, as one does when one means now I’m listening; proceed. He is aware of his sister, of Taiwo, beside him, to his right, but can’t look at her, not quite, not yet. Sadie starts to say something, glancing at Taiwo. Eyes trained on Sadie, he doesn’t look right. Instead, he follows Sadie’s eyes following Taiwo, who’s left her chair, mute, for the back of the room.
“No!” he gasps, standing to stop her, “Wait. Taiwo.” Too late, and too softly. She reaches the wall. She stares at the paintings, her back to him, silent, her questions a hollow, a hole in his lungs. Loss of breath. “They’re not done yet…” a weak exhalation. She doesn’t stop staring, and Sadie stands up.
“Now what?” she calls down to Taiwo, who ignores her. Interest piqued, Sadie leaves her chair, goes to look.
He is watching himself springing into authoritative action, making comments and gestures that make them step back, turning the canvases over so the faces aren’t showing — while standing, immobile, unable to move. He is telling them, “No! They’re not done yet! They’re nothing!”—while watching them, silent, unable to speak. The thing that he does, that he hates himself for doing, the mute-and-immobile act, locked off in space. Why does this happen? he’d asked Dr. Shipman. Can you stop it? Can you fix me? I’m a coward, I’m a punk. I stand in the chamber behind the glass walls, I can see all the people there passing me by, but can’t get to them, can’t speak to them, can’t tell them I’m in here; I can’t break the glass, and they can’t hear me shout.
“Protection,” said the doctor.
“Protection from what?”
“From your fear, from your hurt, from your anguish, your rage.”
“I’m not angry,” said Kehinde.
“You are, and you should be. Allow it, your anger. Permit it to be.”
“But it’s not. I’m not angry.”
“You aren’t? With your mother? Your father? Your uncle? Your sister? Yourself?”
“Not my sister,” he’d say, but too sharply, too quickly.
The bushy white eyebrows uplifting, “You’re not?” And after a moment, “Then why did you say it?” That same wretched question, again and again. Half a year facing and painting a garden, and still he can’t answer it. Why the word whore?
He hadn’t felt angry. He hadn’t felt anguish. They were lying in comfort at the Bowery Hotel, he in town for his opening down the street at Sperone, she spending the weekend indoors, on the lam. Someone had seen her and the dean of her law school entwined in some kind of revealing embrace and had snapped a phone photo to send to the papers, specifically the paper at which the wife worked. Such that now, Taiwo said, she was stared at on campus; she’d stopped attending classes and intended to withdraw. Could she stay, for the weekend, eating popcorn in sweatpants and not seeing reporters wherever she went? Of course she could, longer, he’d pay for a hotel room; better yet, she could come back to London with him. No, just the weekend, she said. As per usual. She always said no to his money, his help. Of late he’d stopped offering, afraid that by pushing he’d seem to be bribing or buying her off. Just the one weekend. Alone with her brother. It was all that she needed, she said.
Here they were.
In night clothes. Near sleeping. New York out the window a low lilting chorus of laughter and cars horns, the suite looking incongruously (if comfortingly) like a room in a house on Nantucket: beige, florals and all. Friday night. Quiet. Then:
“K…,” she said faintly.
“Yes?” he said, turning to face her. She didn’t turn. She was lying on her back with her feet by his pillow, his feet by her head (how they always shared beds). She was looking at the ceiling, not turning to face him. He wiggled his toe by her forehead. She laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“About what?” He was laughing. She still didn’t look at him. “You only said K.”
“But that’s what I say when I’m about to be serious. You know what I’m asking. You still haven’t said.” Now he was quiet, his eyes on the ceiling. He could feel her peering down at him, over her toes. After a few seconds she set down her head, and they both lay in silence. “Just tell me,” she said.
“What do you want me to say?” he said softly, but knew what, and knew that she knew that he knew. She wanted to know what he thought about the pictures, her name in the papers slipped under their door, his twin sister, his Taiwo, embroiled in a “scandal,” embroiled in the World, and not the world in their heads but the real one, capital W, where people were ruthless, where stories were written about them, not by, where real men and real women had motives and bodies (and sex, which no longer existed in the world that they shared). He understood the question but didn’t have an answer. The girl in the photos was not one he knew, not his sister, his Taiwo; she was someone else, older, and harder, than the girl he had left in New York. To answer her question he’d have to face that one, the question of why he had left after school, won the Fulbright to Mali, waited tables in Paris, started showing in London, and never came home. She, too, got a scholarship to study in England, two years she had lived there, in Oxford, not far, but he never suggested she visit in Mali, nor the next year in Paris, never said he was there. She left, started law school; he never came to see her. Two years in East London and rarely flew home. “You’re busy becoming a world-famous artist,” she’d tell him, “don’t worry.”