Kindermörderin.
I put the pieces together. Mörderin. Murderer.
Very slowly, I put the lasagne back. I wanted to do the right thing, to be seen as reacting properly. Perhaps I should cry, as I had done with Sergeant Caspary. Tears of grief. But I had the notion this wasn’t what they wanted. I kept my eyes straight ahead, careful not to inadvertently catch anyone’s gaze. At the door, I put my shopping basket back in the stack.
Outside, I checked for traffic as I crossed the road. I did not turn around, but I was certain they were watching me from the window, clustered like flies.
Magulu, May 2
He is white.
How shocking whiteness is. Having become accustomed to seeing only black skin, whiteness seems awkward — bleached. We were not meant to be white; it’s an adaptation. The dappling of freckles, the coarse crop of his red-gold hair. His eyes are bright blue. How did we ever convince black people that whiteness was preferable, more beautiful? His eyelashes are pale, like those on a golden retriever. I realize I am staring.
He extends his hand, ‘Martin Martins.’
A slight European accent, the origin difficult to discern.
‘Pilgrim.’ I take his hand; the surface of his palm is rough and surprisingly cold.
We are in the narrow hallway between the rooms. I stepped out and there he was, proximity forced by the small space.
‘Are your parents religious?’
‘Why?’
‘The name.’
The name, the curious name, the cocktail party banter. ‘They’re hippies,’ I say, as I always do. ‘The Journey of Life.’
‘Seriously?’ He laughs. He actually laughs in a ha-ha-ha way.
I consider the comeback, something about how his parents had no imagination and used the same name twice. But though Martin laughs, I already know he’s not a humorous man.
‘And here you are on your journey,’ he says. ‘Magulu. What a shithole, hey?’
I listen to his voice. Perhaps somewhere in the former Eastern Bloc. Poland or the Czech Republic. Possibly further east.
‘Magulu’s not so bad.’
‘By what standard? A Nigerian jail?’ Ha ha ha.
Tom spent two years writing a report on Nigerian jails. He came home from his research and interviews stinking. At first I thought it was the smell of the jail, but he said, no, it was him, how he came to smell, listening to the prisoners, seeing what he saw. It was a physical reaction to the suffering of others.
‘Sure, by that standard,’ I tell Martin.
He’s clearly not sure how to take this flat response, and he inspects me more closely. ‘Imagine the guidebook! The Rough Guide to Shitholes!’
‘Imagine.’
He takes a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and uses the act of offering me one to close again the space between us. The brand is Rooster, I notice, a retro design of a cockerel printed on the pack.
He lights up, turning his head to exhale the smoke. ‘I love Africa. Love it. You can still smoke anywhere you want. When they are chopping each other’s arms off and stealing billions in aid money, they can hardly say, “Oh, now we want to have stronger anti-smoking laws.”’
Is this amusing? I’m not sure. Something I read comes back to me: ‘You know, this Continent of Africa has a terrible strong sense of sarcasm.’ I do not remember the book, one of Tom’s. But this man has about him a feeling of dark experience, has taken the sarcasm to heart. He is not a tourist or a traveler. He has purpose and is explicitly unafraid.
‘And you,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Fuel pump’s fucked on my Land Cruiser. I’m trying to get a message to a mate in Mwanza. No fucking mobile service so I had to hire a guy on a bike. I’m here until I can get a replacement. There’s a bus or something. A week at least.’
I do not want him here.
I do not want his inevitable questions or his weird vibe or his cold North Sea eyes. I turn to move away.
‘You going out?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
I look at him. ‘Just out.’
‘Promenading?’
‘What?’
He taps ash casually onto the floor. ‘Promenading. You know, walking around and about for the purpose of being around and about.’
‘Yes, promenading.’
‘You’ve come to Magulu to promenade?’
‘It’s in the guidebook. Page sixty-three. “The Promenades of Magulu.”’
He laughs, ha ha ha, and wags his finger to let me know I’ve got one up on him. Then he taps on my door with his knuckle. ‘This you? Number four?’
I nod.
‘I’m just across the hall.’ He gestures to room seven, as if I want to know.
I start to walk away. ‘See you later, princess.’
Outside, I turn right, staying within the perimeter of the town. An old woman selling mandazis smiles and waves, and this feels like a blessing: a moment of normalcy, a simple, unguarded interaction. I wave back, but now she offers up a mandazi and I feel compelled to purchase one. Her smile vanishes, she’s focused on the coins in my hand. She gives me the dense, fried chunk of dough wrapped in newspaper, and the grease leaks onto my hands. I can’t possibly eat it, but I cannot throw it away because I keep thinking about the children, shameless and puppy beating, but certainly hungry.
So I walk on, holding the oily newspaper self-consciously. It grows heavier, and when I find myself back at the Goodnight my arm almost aches with strain.
The bar is quiet, the TV a cold, occluded eye without the generator’s power. I look but don’t see Martin Martins. Carefully, I walk down the narrow corridor to my room. I try to be silent, but the lack of ambient sound means every action is amplified: the key in the lock, the click of the lock, the grit on the floor scraping as I open the door. And the same in reverse as I shut the door, slicing through the still afternoon.
Sitting on my bed, the window framing a rectangle of light, I watch thunderclouds. Muscular and grand. Their shadows cast across miles, shifting the dominant tone of the landscape from green to deep purple. Almost every afternoon the clouds perform. But despite their baritone rumbles, there is no rain, only the damp and oppressive weight of expectation.
I can hear Martin Martins now. He must have been napping. Is that a real name? An anglicization of something unsayable? His bed creaks when he shifts his weight. I hear the sound of a match striking, a sigh, a page turning. I lie so still because I don’t want him to hear me. I believe he is listening.
My hands are still greasy from the mandazi, and I wipe them on my skirt. The mandazi itself sits on the small corner table, nestled in its newspaper, gleaming with oil. Quickly now I grab it and throw it in the bin.
Arnau, March 15
Tom stood awkwardly in the doorway. He offered up a bouquet of peonies and delphiniums.
‘Flowers?’ I said, letting him in as though he were a salesman.
‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right.’
‘You could have just called.’
‘The phone has been disconnected.’
‘Yes. So it has.’
‘Is there a problem with money?’
‘I forgot to pay the bill. That’s all.’
He sat at the table, holding the flowers. I turned away from him. I didn’t want him to see my swollen face, the bruises, how ugly I looked. And this appalled me. That my vanity held so fast.
‘How’s Elise? How’s the baby?’
There was a tic in his movement as he put the flowers on the table. ‘Fine. We’re all fine.’