Watched by the stallholder, Abass is lingering over the cassettes in the manner of all small boys with no money of their own. Adrian decides to leave it a few minutes before he offers to buy one for him. Meanwhile he surveys the marketplace. He has no real idea of where they are.
Fifty yards away a woman and a young girl leave one of the stalls, and turn in his direction. The woman is tiny, the size of the girl. She is wearing a piece of light-coloured cloth wound around her body and over her head. The girl is wearing a cotton blouse and a denim skirt. Adrian watches them idly. The heat, the exertion of swimming, the beer, the recent illness have slowed him. Only when they are twenty yards from him does the realisation begin to trickle through his brain like a cold oil. The woman with the girl. The woman with the cloth covering her head, framing her face. It is Agnes.
Quickly he turns on his heel and returns to Abass. ‘Tell your uncle I’ll be two minutes.’ He holds up two fingers. Abass stares at him uncomprehendingly, his hands closed around a cassette. ‘Two minutes.’ Adrian turns to the stallholder, who inclines his head slowly in assent. Satisfied, Adrian sets off, walking quickly. Ahead of him he sees the two women turn down one of the streets off the square. He slows his walk and follows. From the end of the road he watches them climb the steps up to a house. The house is identical to all the others on the street: square, single-storey, with a deep verandah at the front, a concrete balustrade, stairs leading up from either side.
On the verandah of the house Agnes entered a man, dressed only in a pair of cotton trousers, sits upon an old car seat.
‘Hello,’ says Adrian.
‘Hello,’ the man answers. ‘What can I do for you?’ His English is excellent. If he is surprised to see Adrian it does not show.
Adrian gives his name, asks if the woman who came in is called Agnes.
‘She is Agnes, yes.’ The man rises and positions himself on the balustrade, the better to hear, it seems, only now he is leaning over Adrian. He is handsome, unsmiling, with even white teeth and heavy, slanted cheekbones. His hair is knotted into short dreadlocks. ‘What is your business with her?’
Adrian hesitates, unsure how to respond. He doesn’t want to appear uncooperative, on the other hand there is the matter of patient confidentiality.
‘I’m a doctor,’ he says.
‘Agnes is not sick.’ A statement.
‘Not exactly. I saw her some time ago. I just wanted to follow up. I didn’t manage to see her before she was discharged.’
The man is watching him closely, the eyes never leave Adrian’s face; his expression is indiscernible in the failing light. Adrian sees himself through the man’s eyes, a strange white man from off the street. Perhaps he shouldn’t have followed Agnes to her home, she had discharged herself. He just wants to talk to her. ‘It’ll take five minutes.’
The man eases himself off the balustrade. ‘You are a doctor, you say?’ He is still looking at Adrian, his speech is measured and deliberate, his manner unhurried.
‘That’s correct.’
‘One moment. Let me find her for you.’ He crosses to the door and enters the house, closing the door behind him. Adrian waits in the street. There are few passers-by, the day is over. In a short time it will be dark. Adrian hopes the young man is conveying the message accurately; for some reason he hesitates to trust him entirely, something in his manner. More curious about Adrian than concerned for Agnes. When after several more minutes the man doesn’t return, Adrian starts tentatively up the stairs. If Agnes sees him she’ll recognise him, he’s sure.
From behind him a woman’s voice, ‘Good evening.’
A young woman. A shallow, round pannier covered with a cloth and balanced on her head dictates her straight posture, the gentle rhythm of her steps. She walks past Adrian and up the stairs. ‘Can I help you?’
Adrian explains, once again. He is a doctor, here to see Agnes, he saw her in the square as he was passing. He doesn’t mean to alarm anybody over Agnes’s health, just to help if he can.
‘Agnes is my mother.’
Naasu. Agnes had told him she lived with her daughter and her son-in-law. That, presumably, was him.
The young woman who must be Naasu listens without interruption. ‘I didn’t know she had seen you. But if you can help her, it would be good. Let me go inside and find her.’
Adrian doesn’t mention to the young woman that he has already spoken to her husband. She clearly has her mother’s interests at heart.
She sets the pannier down on the floor. ‘Please wait here. I’ll bring her to you.’
Now Adrian is confident, clear-thinking. He knows where she lives. He’ll be able to follow up on her, even if it means driving out here once a week or so. There’s a lot he could do, especially with her daughter’s help. That will make a big difference. Somebody reliable. Maybe they could get to the root of the matter. Once he has that, there’s a chance. Everything else can follow.
The door opens and the daughter appears accompanied by Agnes. She has removed the cloth with which she had covered her hair. She is wearing a long cotton batik dress and a pair of slippers. Behind both women comes the son-in-law. He crosses to sit on the balustrade at Adrian’s right shoulder, sitting close and yet out of Adrian’s view. Adrian tries not to be unsettled by the man’s manner. What matters is Agnes.
‘Agnes,’ he smiles. ‘I’m very pleased to see you. I hope you don’t mind me coming to your home. I saw you just now in the market.’
Agnes doesn’t step forward or smile, but stands, hands clasped in front of her.
Adrian keeps talking. ‘I’m sorry, Agnes, I was ill when you were discharged. I had malaria.’ And then, ‘I want you to come back and see me. There are some things we can do. I think we can make some real progress. Will you do that? Will you come and see me?’
It would have been better to have this conversation alone, he thinks, aware he’s floundering. If he can just reach her. He waits for her response, but none comes. Perhaps she doesn’t recognise him after all.
Naasu turns to her mother and speaks to her loudly and in English, for Adrian’s benefit, as though Agnes is deaf. ‘Oya, a doctor. He says you have seen him. He wants you to see him again.’ She continues to speak, this time more softly and in another language. Agnes replies. There is an exchange of some sort. Adrian waits, looking from one to the other, listening intently to a conversation he cannot understand. He can sense the daughter’s husband motionless at his back. The daughter looks back at Adrian and shrugs. ‘She says she is better, she doesn’t need to see you.’
If he is honest he could have expected something of the sort. Shame attaches itself to these matters. To Agnes he says, ‘Agnes, I really think it would be a good idea. Just one session.’ Then to the daughter, ‘If you can tell your mother, just one session.’ Perhaps, if it came from her.
The young woman nods rapidly, translates. She appears to be genuinely trying to help. Agnes is shaking her head, actually shaking her head. He is anxious now. Naasu turns to him, frowning. ‘I’m telling her what you told me. She says no, she doesn’t want to.’
‘If you can just make her understand. I can help her. Some of the things we talked about …’ He turns to Agnes, but she interrupts him, speaking quietly and clearly in English.
‘I am better now. The problems are gone. Thank you, Doctor.’ She turns and steps inside the house, her daughter at her elbow.
Adrian remains where he is, standing on the verandah, utterly lost.
Agnes’s son-in-law walks him back to the petrol station. The chap is friendlier now, apologising for Agnes, asking Adrian questions: whether he has visited the town before, questions about London. Adrian’s responses are muted and automatic. He needs to get back to Kai and Abass. He’s thinking about the next step with Agnes. Even if she believes she’s better, she isn’t, she’ll go wandering again before too long. Who knew what the projection of her illness might be, or what harm could come to her? Perhaps he could return with Salia. Salia would be able to cross the divide.