‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘She’s resting.’
We returned as we had come. I kept my eyes on the road in front of me. One of the students banged on the top of the cab for us to stop; they had changed their minds about returning to campus and wanted to be dropped off in town. They bowed slightly as they thanked me and touched their fingers to their foreheads. I watched them go, the coins I had given them burning a hole in their back pockets. Ten minutes later outside the offices of the truck company, I dispatched the driver — I decided he could forgo his tip and derived some small measure of satisfaction from seeing the grin finally fall off his face. I went to look for a taxi or a bus to take me home.
A light, hot wind. As I walked the currents of air wrapped themselves around me, touching my face and filling my ears with sounds. I fancied I could hear the sea from a mile away, the sound of the waves thrashing the shore, clawing the sand as the water was dragged backwards. I walked on the road, there was no pavement. I could feel the soles of my shoes striking the tarmac, the hard ground sending shudders through my body. I walked fast, wanting to leave the events of the evening behind.
But I could not shake one sound from my head. Later that night, in the silence of my bedroom, it would torment and excite me, leave me sleepless, exhausted yet kept alert by the emotions that crackled through my being. The only relief I could find was physical, and afterwards I fell into a wretched sleep, which brought no respite. I woke early, the feelings of the previous evening as alive as ever.
CHAPTER 18
The first time Adrian sees the young woman, she is standing with Babagaleh at the gate. But it is Babagaleh he is focused upon. Only when he turns to nod at the manservant out of good manners and a little awkwardness — for he is on his way to the asylum and has postponed his visit to Elias Cole — he casts a nod in her direction, too. The gesture, seen from the outside, must seem oddly brisk, a dry gesture in this warm liquid atmosphere, where people move slowly through the day like long-distance swimmers. She is slim, with wide-spaced eyes, and a wry tilt to her mouth. Her hair is pulled back and hidden under a scarf knotted at the nape of her neck. Later, waiting for a funeral procession to pass, Adrian watches the mourners move, as unhurriedly as midday shadows. His mind returns to the woman at the hospital gates. Babagaleh’s daughter or niece, perhaps? Another servant? She hadn’t responded to his nod, only looked at him, her eyes travelling the length of his body. The physical impact of that look had left a mark upon his body as painful as a graze. As he walked away, he had been suddenly and shockingly aware of something fleetingly and exquisitely possible. So much so, he almost turned back, to say something to Babagaleh — anything — to find a reason to look at her again.
At the mental hospital Ileana greets him. ‘Hey, you! I’ve got good news for you. Your lady is back in the real world.’ She grins, showing dark-red lipstick on her teeth.
‘Christ! When did this happen? You should have called me.’
Ileana shrugs. ‘You’re here now. Do you want to see her?’
At the window, the silhouette of Salia, the sentinel. Agnes sits opposite Adrian. Her eyes rest on a point midway across the table. She will, he notes, look Salia in the eye, but still not him. His palms are sweating. He is nervous with anticipation.
‘Hello. My name is Adrian. This is Salia, who I think you already know. Salia is going to stay in the room for the duration of our conversation, in case we need help understanding each other. Is that all right?’
The woman glances at Salia and nods.
‘I’m going to make sure we aren’t disturbed. I’m going to switch off the telephones and Salia is going to lock the door — just to make sure nobody interrupts us. Is it OK if he does that?’
She nods again. Salia complies.
‘We have met before. Do you remember me?’
She looks at him, directly this time, and away again, frowns and shakes her head.
‘My name is Adrian. Do you remember that you came to see me? Not here. At the medical hospital?’
She looks up at him at that but her gaze wavers and drops. ‘A white doctor.’
‘Yes, that was me.’
In a low voice Salia says a few words, to which the woman responds keeping her eyes on the table.
Salia speaks. ‘Excuse me. She says she does remember. But not if it was you. It was a white doctor. For some of us it is difficult, you understand.’
‘I understand,’ says Adrian. Turning back to Agnes, he continues, ‘I would like to see if I can help you. Will you let me try to help you?’
Once more she nods.
‘OK.’ He takes a breath and in a clear voice he says to Agnes, ‘Perhaps we can start by you telling me your name and where you live?’
To his surprise, in an equally clear tone, though in a quiet voice, she replies, ‘My name is Agnes. I live in Port Loko.’
‘Who do you live with there?’
‘With family.’
‘What were you doing in the city? Do you know?’
She shakes her head.
‘Do you know where you are now?’
This time she gives a nod and glances at Salia, as if for confirmation.
‘Can you tell me how you came to be here?’
She cannot remember.
It is slow going, with frequent low-voiced interjections from Salia, for the woman speaks so softly, and her words are heavily accented. Her voice drags on occasion and on others catches, as though tripping on uncertain thoughts. From time to time she steps out of English and takes several paces in her own language. Adrian wishes he could understand. He feels the air thick with his desperation. To get her to a certain place is all he needs to accomplish right now, to trust him a little. He continues with simple questions, lets her know they can stop any time, offers her a drink of water.
Gradually he returns her to the days before her last journey.
The end of the rains was in sight, she tells him. There hadn’t been as much to eat. She shopped for smoked fish and for the few vegetables available in the market, at least there was still rice and salt in sacks in the storeroom. She had been suffering aches in her joints. Her daughter had bought her some mentholated ointment and arranged for her to see the doctor, but he found nothing wrong with her. Anyway she was well enough to be able to do her work in the house, taking care of her daughter’s son and cooking on alternate days. She had help from a young girl who lived with them. One day she had a headache; she went and lay down on her bed, calling the girl to bring her a cup of water. The headache persisted, like the blade of a cold knife laid at the back of her skull.
Some days later she was heating a pan of oil to fry plantains. The next thing she knew the pan was smoking heavily and almost in flames. She managed to remove it from the fire just in time. The oil was burnt, she had to clean the pan and begin again. Her daughter was away from home for a few days, otherwise she would have called her to come and take over the cooking. She had no idea where the time went. One moment she was placing the pan upon the flame, next it was almost in flames.
‘Who else was in the house?’
She doesn’t know, she shakes her head.
‘Where was the girl? What about your grandchild?’
She shakes her head. She doesn’t remember. Perhaps they were outside.
‘What about your son-in-law?’
Silence. Perhaps she has not heard him. Adrian repeats the question. And then, thinking too that maybe the phrase has not translated well, he adds, ‘Your daughter’s husband, I mean.’
Agnes looks distracted. She puts her hand up to her throat, feeling with her fingers around the base of her neck. She seems upset about something.