Refuge (26 page)

They were driving through the city centre when she spoke again: ‘You must understand, Richard, that her story is not unusual,’ she said, still serious. ‘I think it is important that you remember this story I have told you.’ She paused, looking across Richard at the stone walls of the Castle. Searchlights were mounted on the corners. A bergie had finished washing his clothes in the moat and was stringing them out on the ornate balustrades to dry. Jaywalkers dashed across the street in front of him, laughing as they scampered across the lanes. ‘We do not know people’s stories,’ she added. ‘We don’t know why they have ended up where they are. We don’t know who they are.’

‘But I feel I know you.’ It was meant to sound tender, to lighten the conversation. But Abayomi only sighed and looked out towards the harbour. White-and-grey seagulls drifted above the massive tankers tied by delicate threads to the quayside.

‘Have you ever suffered a trauma, Richard?’ she asked. ‘Not something upsetting or maybe unpleasant. A real tragedy.’

Richard felt chastened, although her tone had been matter-of-fact. He shook his head: a myriad small incidents, no more than annoyances, sprang to mind. Minor car accidents, a broken toe, the death of his grandmother, a mugging where his cellphone had been taken. Once when he had been a student he was caught in a bar brawl and ended up with a split lip. But his life had never been subjected to the kind of injury that he knew she was talking about. His life, like that of his peers and friends, remained full of easy opportunity and choice.

The wasteland of District Six flashed past as they picked up speed. He glanced across to her, waiting for her to divulge something of her past, but she was silent. Though the mood in the car was grave, his senses were still heightened, and he wanted to reach across to her to lessen the distance between them.

A brown layer of smog hung over the suburbs as they rounded onto Hospital Bend. The familiarity with which Abayomi sat in the passenger seat, where Amanda usually sat, made the situation seem quite surreal. The presumptuousness of her forbidden presence next to him was unsettling. Is this how it is to have an affair, he wondered. Was he having an affair? He drove this route home every working day, and yet now it all seemed so different, seen with fresh eyes. The curve of the road was somehow exhilarating. The wildlife grazing on the slope made his heart ache with the joy of being in Africa. Svritsky, the trial, Quantal Investments – all were distant, unworried memories. Could it be this simple? To rediscover happiness, to stumble once more upon an invigorating life? To find euphoria, once seemingly forever lost?

They turned off the highway and into the suburbs of Mowbray, cutting back along the Main Road past the face-brick police station. The road was chaotic with taxis and university buses, all jostling and pushing in front of one another. A breweries truck lumbered along, taking up both lanes, the awning secured around the bottles of fresh beer. Richard was surprised at how busy the suburb was on an ordinary weekday. He had forgotten how life on the streets continued while he sat in his sealed offices. Abayomi gestured for him to turn down a side road. Cars were parked on either side, with young men lounging inside or sitting on the bonnets. They stared at the sleek car as it glided past.

At the stop street Richard became aware of a movement behind him. A police van pulled up, on the wrong side of the road, the passenger window level with his own. A policeman glared out from behind the glass, taking them in.

‘Just wait.’ Abayomi placed her hand on Richard’s arm as she spoke. ‘They are just looking.’ He let the car idle and looked back at the policeman, smiling. The man’s eyes moved slowly from Richard to Abayomi and back again. Then he snorted something unheard to his partner. Richard felt a sting of humiliation as the van pulled away, tyres screeching. My God, they think I’ve picked up a whore, he thought, suddenly aware of the obvious appearance of the two of them together in his smart car.

‘It doesn’t matter what they think, Richard,’ Abayomi said, reading his thoughts. ‘Perhaps they think one thing, perhaps another. But it doesn’t matter, does it?’ She did not wait for a response and gestured for him to drive further. They entered a slightly wider road, with small semi-detached houses on one side and larger freestanding houses on the other. Halfway down, the road became congested with parked cars and people crossing.

‘Looks like a big crowd,’ Richard said, driving further down the road until he found a safe gap to park his car.

Men were standing outside on the pavement, dressed in loose shirts that reached halfway down their legs. Some wore stitched V-neck tops that fell in a single sweep to their feet. Many wore tight white caps and long white trousers. The men greeted Abayomi warmly, kissing her on both cheeks and patting her head affectionately. Her mood seemed to lighten at once. She in turn smiled at them and answered with drawn-out vowels and exaggerated gestures. One of the men nodded his head towards Richard as he spoke. Abayomi half-turned to look at Richard as she replied in Yoruba, laughing. Richard stood, uncomfortable, waiting for the mirth to pass.

Then she gestured to Richard to join her, her smile genuine and uncomplicated. ‘This is my cousin Banyole,’ she said to him. ‘This is my friend Richard. He has come to see how we do things on the dark side. I promised him a human sacrifice.’

The man laughed in a deep voice, holding out his hand. ‘You are welcome with us, Richard,’ he said, holding his hand in a strong grip. He opened his arms in a show of hospitality, allowing them to pass and step down into the small garden.

The front door of the house was open and an elderly woman stood in the doorway watching them. Her skin was very wrinkled, repeatedly turned in small folds, each softly pushed against the next. But her eyes sparkled with youthful delight at Abayomi’s arrival, and her tongue moved like a fowl in her mouth. ‘
O! O! Okeke
,’ she clucked, before launching into an outburst of Igbo. The words ran across one another, popping and clicking like a rushing stream of glass balls.

Abayomi replied by leaning forward and wrapping her arms around the woman. They held each other for a long while, eyes closed, neither moving. For the first time, Richard thought he saw an unmasked reaction in Abayomi. He felt as if he was intruding and started to step backwards. But the old woman’s eyes quickly opened, like small shutters being released. She looked at Richard for a moment and then gave him a slow wink. He was taken aback, not sure whether to laugh or ignore the gesture and pretend it had been meant for someone else. The woman peeled off from Abayomi, stepping out towards him with her arm extended, a light fold of skin swinging beneath. Abayomi quickly launched into an earnest explanation in Igbo. Richard wished he could understand: the obvious need to justify his presence made him uncomfortable, but he hoped that she described him as a friend. The old woman nodded in acknowledgement, but kept looking Richard up and down unashamedly, as if appraising a potential purchase. Richard almost expected her to walk around him to get a better view of his form. Then she turned to Abayomi to make her judgement known.

‘Auntie!’ Abayomi’s mock-scolding only brought a naughty grin to the old woman’s face.

Richard smiled broadly, as if he was being complimented and took the woman’s hand in his. Her skin was soft – it seemed to have been freshly powdered – and her thin fingers clasped his with surprising energy. He had assumed that the woman spoke no English, but as he was about to ask Abayomi to translate, she switched: ‘You are welcome in this house. Please, come and make yourself comfortable. And do not leave my sight, for I shall watch you through the day. An old lady like me can only watch, not like our young beauty here, who likes to play like a young horse in the field.’

Abayomi stuttered a further complaint but the old woman ignored her, patting his arm fondly. ‘Let us go inside and we can begin.’

Richard looked at Abayomi for guidance. She nodded, and he took the old matriarch’s arm in his and walked into the house.

The first room was a large one, presumably the lounge, but all the furniture had been removed, save for a low coffee table in the centre. The space was already filled with people standing and talking loudly to one another. The old woman led him through the crowd. She had no need to push or ask to be let through; everyone stepped back to make a path for her and she walked as if oblivious to the surrounding throng. Richard smiled at the people around him and many smiled back. A number of men greeted him politely in English.

He looked back to the doorway to see if Abayomi would follow, but she was engaged in conversation with another woman at the entrance. The woman was holding her hand to her mouth, while Abayomi spoke in animated bursts, shaking her head in distress. He wanted to make his way back to her, feeling disappointed that she had not shared her problems with him, but the old woman tugged at his arm and he was powerless.

On the other side of the room, the woman introduced him to the father of the newborn baby. Smooth-skinned and slight, the man looked more like an adolescent than the father of a child. He greeted Richard with a slight bow, pressing his guest’s outstretched hand with both palms. ‘You are welcome,’ he said, bowing again. Slightly bewildered by the respect meted to him, Richard bowed back diffidently. Before he could engage the young man in conversation, his elderly companion pulled him further into the house. She led him towards the doorway of the kitchen. The smells were exotic, filling the passage with a swirling festivity of spicy aromas. Richard drew breath, as if he could feast on the air itself.

He relaxed a little and let himself be swept along. Inside the kitchen, the woman presented him to a particularly elaborately dressed man. Layers of white cloth, richly embroidered, were wrapped around his neck, and a headpiece pulled down on the sides of his head.

‘Good morning, sir,’ the man said. ‘My name is Babatunde. I am the pastor. You are welcome in this home. Please be comfortable among us.’ The man’s face was still young but his graceful demeanour was that of an older, wiser man. Richard’s reaction to religious figures was automatically one of suspicion, but the man’s gentle introduction disarmed him and he felt his cynicism dissipate.

‘Thank you,’ Richard said, trying to match the man’s gravitas. ‘I … I have certainly been made to feel welcome. It is an honour to be present today.’ He could barely believe that the words – so formal, so sincere – came from his mouth.

The pastor seemed pleased by this response, nodding sagely. Then he added: ‘So long as you are hungry, you will always be welcome among us.’ He stepped back, gesturing towards the feast. An array of pots, baskets and trays had been prepared, all burgeoning with reddish stews, bread rolls and rice flecked with tomato skins. ‘

Now come, let us begin,’ he said.

Richard’s companion nodded in agreement and escorted him back to the main room. He looked for Abayomi in the crowd, but the bony fingers would not leave his wrist and he was dragged to the centre of the room. The table was covered by a light white cloth; shapes pushed up at different places, suggesting the presence of containers beneath. He caught sight of Abayomi: she had her back pressed against the wall and looked distracted. There was nothing Richard could do and he resignedly took up his position close to the table, the old woman pressed against his side.

The pastor started to croon, first in low tones and then, as the crowd responded, rising in volume. The song was vaguely familiar, a hymn sung in a different language, but still identifiable. Richard remembered the tune from his childhood days in church on Christmas day, kicking his heels in the silent heat, impatient to get home to play with his new toys. The voices of the celebrants rose and fell together, as if long practised, and although not everyone could sing in pitch, the result was an upwelling of harmony. The hymn ended abruptly and the pastor nodded towards the young father.

Together the two men lifted the tablecloth up high, exposing the table beneath. Ceramic bowls and plates covered the surface beneath. The crowd murmured appreciatively, as the two men folded the cloth.

The pastor returned to the head of the table and announced in English: ‘These are the ceremonial foods.’ His voice resonated warmly in the room. Richard was concerned that the pastor felt obliged to explain the ceremony to him, though the man did not look at him as he spoke. ‘We have foods that are meaningful to us,’ he went on, ‘meaningful to the family and will become meaningful to our new child.’

The crowd nearest the doorway parted, a rumble of whispers breaking out. A young woman stepped into the room, carrying a small blanketed bundle. The woman’s features were as delicate as a skeleton-leaf, perfectly formed in diminutive beauty. Her skin shone as if catching sunlight and she moved like a sculpted fairy. Richard was aware that he was staring at her, but could not avert his gaze. She looked down at the peeping face of her sleeping boy, a Madonna beneath her simple garments. She padded barefoot until she was in front of Richard. He held his breath, as if breathing on her might take something from her.

She smiled shyly and Richard felt a rising blush. ‘You are welcome,’ she said simply. Before he could answer, she turned and walked with slow steps to join her husband. The young father leant forward and kissed her on the forehead. Then he put his hand on his newborn son’s head and pushed the blanket back, exposing the child’s face for all to see. Richard wondered vaguely whether he had ever looked at Amanda with such adoration or touched Raine with such tender wonder. He felt tears forming and tried to blink them away. When he looked up he saw Abayomi’s face focused on him, a slight frown creasing her forehead. For the first time since meeting her, he felt a full flush of guilt.

The pastor moved across to the couple, lifted the child and unwrapped the blanket, freeing the child’s left arm and hand. He slowly moved around the table, bending down as he spoke.

‘Here we have water, the beginning of all life.’ He touched the boy’s crinkled hand into the water. The boy did not stir and the pastor moved on.