What am I saying?
Where was I? On the street. With my grandfather. We walked beside a rise of black rock and sick-looking weeds. At the top of the hill we stopped. That’s when I noticed the passers-by, looking at me, not at my face but right into me. With my dark glasses and uneven gait it seemed they thought I couldn’t see. They stared brazenly, amusement on their faces. I was almost totally deaf, and the passers-by looked at me in the mistaken belief that I was blind! It began to rain. I guided Mr Rafferty to a bus shelter, and we sat on the red plastic bench. The passers-by were no longer staring but running for cover. Under the low grey sky, on the black, narrow street of few sounds, I watched them flee. After a while my grandfather said, ‘It’s getting dark.’ This I heard — I hear things a little more clearly when sitting — but not immediately. His words seemed to expire as soon as they left his mouth, before they made sense. It was like hearing a complex piece of music for the first time. I asked him to repeat. He did, a little louder. I shook my head, asked him to repeat himself once more. Finally he brought his lips up to my ear and shouted. My head rang. And yet I understood him. It’s getting dark. It had taken nearly ten minutes for him to convey the simple fact that the afternoon was drawing to a close!
How strange the human heart is! My condition was dismal. I was wet, cold, deaf, mistaken for blind, sitting at a bus stop sheltering from the rain, with a man who is not complete in the mind, myself of late having been feeling strange, bodily, and spiritless also, resigned to the knowledge that things are changing and ending — and yet my joy was limitless.
I asked my grandfather to lean forward and speak into my better, right ear. I held up my hand for him to stop, so that I might take in what he had said. And yet this time all I heard was a series of consonant-sounds and vowel-sounds, scattered, dissipated, each one isolated from the rest. They carried less significance than a sneeze, since I was absorbing only the physical or tonal quality of his words. I asked him to repeat himself once again, and, as he did, at certain moments, without being able to give the sequence any clear sense, I managed to collect, hold and finally reproduce, in my head, the sound of individual words; from these I managed to piece together a kind of meaning.
‘Yes!’ I cried, beside myself with joy. It was as if, after listening to the complex piece a number of times, I began to pick out a phrase or harmony. I wanted to be certain I had understood correctly, so I repeated what I thought he had said. Mr Rafferty stood up and began to wring his hands, a new development. What was he trying to convey?
‘Sorry?’ I said. He repeated. We repeated the process just described. Finally I understood that I had been shouting.
‘Ah,’ I said, as quietly as I could. And yet it was hard for me to judge the volume of my voice. In this the loss of hearing is like the loss of smell. The person who cannot smell may give off a strong unpleasant odour, and so it is with deafness; unable to hear the fullness of my own voice, I am prone to shout.
‘Now we have established I need to speak quietly,’ I said or shouted, ‘let’s go back to what you were trying to say originally.’ I repeated what I thought he’d originally said. Mr Rafferty concentrated hard, trying to string my words together, then smiled and nodded his head. Apparently my meaning matched his meaning. What a bother to understand the most basic things! It had taken ten minutes to establish that the afternoon was ending. A further ten for me to understand I had been shouting. Night was drawing in. The longer we talked the darker it became. Nevertheless, we proceeded. Word by word. Sentence by sentence. No syntax to speak of. Here is a part of our conversation.
Mr Rafferty: It’s getting dark.
Me: Let’s get along.
Mr Rafferty: Where to?
Me: Back home.
Mr Rafferty: …
Me: Sorry?
Mr Rafferty: …
Me: I can’t hear you.
Mr Rafferty: You’re shouting!
Me: I’ll try to speak quieter.
Mr Rafferty: Sorry?
Me: I said I’ll speak quietly.
Mr Rafferty: Night is drawing in.
Me: The longer we talk the darker it becomes.
Mr Rafferty: Where are we?
Me: I don’t understand.
Mr Rafferty: Who are you?
Between my grandfather’s words and my replies a greater or lesser interval passed. The problem was that in the interval he grew impatient, and often spoke again, so my replies did not always connect to what had gone immediately before. What is more, I tended to respond without taking the necessary time to make sense of his words, acting on what I believed he might have said, rather than what I thought he had said. And when I paused so he could absorb my response, we encountered further problems, for once he had strung together from my words the sentence I had pieced together from his, as far as I understood it, the original meaning was more or less changed, or altogether lost, according to I don’t know what principle. We were like deaf-mutes, signing in the dark. And indeed, as we talked, I saw pools of streetlight sparkling on the wet road. Dusk had turned to night. Soon after, we came to a halt. Not a conclusion, nothing so satisfying. Mr Rafferty stood, turned and in exasperation leaned his forehead against the bus shelter. I took my glasses off and rubbed my temples. His breath was steaming up the perspex. The little round of fog grew with each exhalation. I stepped forward and brought my right cheek close to his left cheek. I wanted to get a better look. He didn’t seem to notice me, so I leaned my forehead against the shelter. For a moment our breaths mingled on the perspex. There was no one else on the street. We remained side by side without moving. Now and then a drop of moisture, slipping down the perspex, cut a channel through the fog. We tried to converse again, this time with me talking and him tracing words in the fog, but without success, for it seemed that with each word we spoke we understood less, and the more we talked the darker it became.
30. Auto da Fé
Let me do away with my papers. I do not want to see them again. I will burn them, my personal papers I mean. The others I will keep. The Encyclopaedia Britannica? It will remain in the attic to help me with my work. As legs for my desk. As printed matter to transcribe. What else? Novels, histories, newspapers, books of poems and essays, testimonies, labels, handbooks, posters, timetables. These papers will also be saved from the fire. My objects? It is long past the time when I should have cleared out the attic.
In a moment I will carry my objects to the garden. I will descend the ladder with a succession of loads and assemble them into a heap by the marram grass. No, not a heap. By nature I have always been meticulous. So then. I will categorize them, according to their degree of inflammability. I will start with my own papers, Damaris’ diary, and my mother’s, and Ade’s letters, all those I have copied on to my computer. I will also burn the personal papers I have not transcribed. Yes, on to that pile I will throw Aunt Phoene’s letters, tickets from Damaris’ shows, ‘First Snow in Port Suez’, Taiwo’s Gideon Bible, my father’s magazines, as well as the mimeographed sheet depicting the bird’s-eye view of Lagos (whose street-names I had planned to type out). The sheets of my history? They ought to be the first of my papers into the flames; for, having been dried out by the sun, they are highly flammable. What is more, they are the most personal of all my papers. And yet I have decided to spare them, even though it pains me to corrupt my order, since I wish to continue to block the light. Objects to be spared. That is a category all of its own. It will include — let me see — the wardrobe door, my computer, printer, blank paper, heater, my supply of beans. What else? I will keep the hand-painted miniatures Mr Rafferty gave my mother (every now and then, as I work on my transcriptions, I may want to gaze on them, as others gaze on a view, you never know): the littoral with full tide and crab, the warship setting sail from an Eastern city, Scheherazade kneeling beside King Shahrayar, who is wrapped in the bejewelled blankets of his divan. Once my personal papers have been separated from the heap, I will set them alight. Then I will cast my collection of photographs into the fire. One by one will go pictures of Damaris — naked in Easdale, asleep on Route 61 — as well as group photos of Ben, Iffe, Ade and myself standing awkwardly on the lawn in Ikoyi, also the portrait of Hogan Bassey, glistening with sweat and holding aloft his champion’s belt, torn from the boxing magazine, and Father on his swing, and the drop spilling upward from the bowl of milk, together with the family album, Mother in her watch shop, the bagpiper with enormous cheeks, and all the rest. Next, I will feed the fire with the fabrics I own, including all my clothes (except my pyjamas and dressing-gown, which I am wearing): the patchwork quilt, the Indian dhurri, the seaweed-green chiffon scarf, the white dress I wore on the Royal Mile to mimic Damaris in mime. Next, animal matter: an elephant tusk, a fishing eagle Father shot during his tour with Mother, also the mouse’s tail, my whale-tooth necklace, a twist of hair from Riley’s pointer, and my collection of feathers, including those I kept from The Snow Queen, as well as the mappa mundi, I must not forget the mappa mundi, since it is made of vellum.