The Girl in the Road (9 page)

You're looking at the women, aren't you? Francis said. So am I!

We pulled onto a road that bordered the sea, right up alongside a fish market at its busiest hour. All up and down the beach, men were loading and unloading trucks with crates of fish and sacks of rice. We parked on the curb. Muhammed had business downtown and the other drivers wandered off. I could see that Francis was frustrated to be left alone with me again but he acted like he wasn't. He just got quiet. He said, Follow me, and I followed him down to the beach, where he bought a bagful of prawns from a fisherman who gave them to his wife to grill. As we waited, Francis pointed to a long shiny dark fish, more like a snake.

What's this? he asked.

Something new, said the man. They started showing up two years ago. An invasive species.

Of course I recognized it, Yemaya. That bite of flesh still never really went down in me, and still smoldered in my solar plexus like a little tumor. I had come to call it the kreen, after the sound it made.

It's oily and tastes like metal, I said, and both men looked down at me, surprised that I'd spoken.

You've had this before?

Only a little bit, I said.

Should I try it?

No.

Francis laughed, and lightness returned to him. How can I ignore such a somber warning? he said. I'll take a lobster instead. If you don't like lobster, Mariama, you may not be human.

I first saw the woman at dusk.

I saw her from a long way off, because she was tall, and her tangerine headwrap caught the sunset light, crowning her with fire. Wherever she walked, space opened up around her, and she shimmered within it like a mirage. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a tangerine kaftan that matched her headwrap. She had no fewer than three bags strapped across her body, hanging off of her like children. She was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn't see her eyes. Imagine my amazement when she continued not only in our direction, but straight toward our truck, as if led on a path by the divine.

Francis saw her coming and jumped up to greet her. She answered in a language I didn't know. The words had fluid slants and sharp edges, like the curves of dunes. She seemed to be asking questions.

Francis answered, gesturing to the flatbed. I could see he was flustered.

The woman nodded and reached into one of her bags, and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

Francis took them and paged through them. The woman kept asking questions. She was demanding. He was tripping over himself trying to focus on her papers and answer her at the same time.

Then she noticed me. She stopped, whipped off her sunglasses. Oh, her eyes. They were huge. Black blooms on white leaves.

She called out to me in the dune language.

I looked at Francis, ashamed and scared.

He said something about me to the woman, who laughed in surprise. Then she called to me again and her words were clear.

Child, you speak Hassaniyya? she said. What's your name?

Mariama! I said it so quickly it that it sped ahead of me, a little goat that got away, no hope of return.

Where are you from?

I twisted up and pointed the way I think we came.

Francis said, We found her in the market in Nouakchott and she climbed onto our flatbed. A little stowaway. We didn't discover her until we were almost in Rosso.

The woman lifted an eyebrow. She's probably better off with you, she said.

Yes, that's what we thought, said Francis. Besides, even if she has a family, she doesn't want to go back. Something bad happened to her.

What happened to you? the woman asked me.

I looked down.

Maybe it'll be a while before she's ready, said Francis.

The woman nodded, eyes on me. She said, I'm going to be joining you, little girl. You're going to have to make room.

I was thrilled. I can make room, I said.

Good, said the woman. You don't have a choice!

You can have my bed, I said further. Or we can share it.

That's the plan, said Francis. Since she can't sleep with me.

The woman gave Francis a warning look. He giggled and then slapped his hand over his mouth.

But I, too, was struck dumb by the beauty of this woman. How she was clothed in sunset colors, blue and tangerine. I was afraid of her, and very shy at first.

I am sure you remember this, Yemaya, because of course, this woman was you.

That first time I met you, the kreen got very quiet, like a baby that sees its mother. Instead of shrieking, it started cooing.

Do you remember when we departed from Dakar the next morning? The very air felt warm and electric. I'd been too excited to sleep, and you'd been too agitated. You just paced the length of the truck as if you could make it go by force of will. When we finally started moving, you went to sit up with Samson in the cab, and I wanted to be near you and look at your beauty, so I just sat on my pallet and watched the back of your head. Your earrings dangled and danced.

On the way to Mbour, Francis and I hung over the side of the railing, calling to each woman we passed. Francis taught me to greet them in the dune language, which I later learned was French. I learned to say,
Bonjour, madame! Bonjour!

You make me legitimate, said Francis. The women see you, and then they like me.

I smiled. I thought I must be good luck.

I like Senegalese women, he said. They're more free. Ethiopian women are harder. They're like bronze, tough to crack.

What am I? I said.

You're a little girl, he said.

But what kind?

Haratine, he said. But I think it's up to you now to decide what kind you are.

What about the lady who—

I pointed to the back of your head, as you were still up in the cab and I didn't yet know your name.

Oh, Yemaya? he said.

Yemaya, I repeated. It was the most beautiful word I'd ever heard!

Yemaya is Senegalese, he said.

So she is “more free”?

I don't know, said Francis. I tried to find out, though! I said, You look so beautiful this morning, Mademoiselle Yemaya. But she gave me a mean look.

He made a sad face in a bid for my pity, but I was distracted and said, What is Yemaya doing with us?

I don't know. I think she comes from a wealthy family. I can smell her perfume and it's not the cheap stuff. But she's running like she's being chased.

Maybe she's running away.

Maybe. She wouldn't tell me anything except that she'd pay us in cash for passage to Ethiopia.

Tell me again where it is, I said.

Francis got up and slid the door open on the cab. For one thrilling second I thought he was going to ask you to join us, but instead he asked Samson for a map. He brought it over, unfolded it, and turned it around.

On the map there was a shape like a steak, and across the steak there were colored lines crossing up and down and left and right like marbles of fat. He pointed to the red line. This is the road we're on, he said, Dakar to Bamako. Right now we're on this tiny part of it, just from Dakar to Mbour, which is the last time we'll see the ocean. Then we'll keep following the red line to Ouagadougou (Yemaya, I made him repeat that one five times and it is still my favorite word in the world after your name), then to Niamey, where my friend Hussein lives. He has good pistachio ice cream. Why I'm obsessed with it, I don't know. I like creamy green foods. Then we'll leave for Kano in Nigeria, and then on to N'Djamena, in Chad, where this road called the Trans-Sahelian Highway ends. Then we'll follow this yellow line through Chad and Sudan until we hit this purple line, the Cairo-Gaborone Trans-African Highway, and follow it into Ethiopia, and make a detour to Lalibela, and then we'll make it to Addis Ababa. That's where we all part ways for the season. Muhammed will go to his family in Hawassa and I'll go back to my job as a tour guide. I do that half the year and then I do this the other half of the year.

I pointed to one of the dots on the map. What's this one, again? I asked.

Niamey.

What's—I pressed my finger and made the lamination crackle—this one, again?

Lalibela.

What's—

You can't read, can you?

I shook my head.

You need to learn to read. Then you can sound out all these names for yourself.

I didn't go to school, I said.

It's not your fault, he said. But now that you're with us we have to start making improvements.

At that moment, you slid open the cab window and out came your legs like some beautiful spider unfolding its body. You were still unsteady on your feet. Both Francis and I were transfixed at watching you move. You said, What are you looking at?

Nothing! cried both Francis and me.

You saw the map in Francis's hands.

Long way to go, you said.

It should be about three months, said Francis with much officiousness.

You said it would be six, I said to Francis.

Francis gave me a warning look.

Three on official time, six on African time, you said. So it goes.

I sensed that Francis was a little hurt, but he made the best of it, as he always did. He said, Mariama doesn't know how to read. I think three to six months is an excellent amount of time to learn to read, don't you?

You asked, What schooling have you had, Mariama?

None, I said. But I can cook and milk goats.

Francis said, She was probably a slave. Slaves don't go to school.

Some do, you said, but you were talking to yourself.

Then you looked out across the land as the sun rose. I was tentative at first, but then I shuffled over on my knees and joined you, just far enough so as not to crowd you. You, and me, and Francis—we were all quiet, all watching. The land was changing. The trees were thinning out, spindly and exquisite, and the earth was colored bronze and sage. I felt solemn, like we were passing into a more ancient country, whose history covered the ground like a fine gold dust.

Golden women gathered at wells with golden buckets to be filled with liquid gold. I tried to slow down each instant to an hour and commit each woman to memory. I made it a game of high stakes, telling myself that if I didn't remember them, no one would. One woman was wearing a dress with frills at the shoulder. One woman had skinny arms and teeth like those in a goat skull. One woman was tiny, her hair in plaits.

I memorized each one. I anticipated each one before I even saw her and then I thought, I know you. I've always known you. I knew you the moment before I saw you.

One woman waved, and so did the baby strapped to her back.

One woman was as beautiful as the sun and moon combined.

One woman slipped backward and I didn't see her rise.

I began to feel sleepy. I wanted to stay up so that I could keep seeing everything there was to see. But instead I crawled onto the pallet and my eyelids began to slide up and down of their own accord. I fell asleep.

I was woken up by your voice, saying, Child, child, as if you were disappointed in me. You told me to get up for a minute. In the bright daylight I saw you pull out a big green cloth, like a scarf but thicker, like a blanket, and laid it down on the pallet. You patted it down until the surface was even, like a mattress. Then you laid down on your side with your elbow cocked underneath your head, and said, Now it's better.

I said, Thank you, mademoiselle.

Something in my voice must have charmed you because you broke into a smile, a sort of smirk like you were trying not to laugh, and said, The pleasure is all mine. Now let's take a nap.

Yemaya, I wish I'd marked the moment we last saw the ocean, but I didn't remember to until after we'd left Mbour to turn east.

The farther we drove, the more dry it got. Francis told me there was bad drought in this area—the dry season was starting earlier and ending later, just like the Sahara itself was starting nearer and ending farther. I watched my skin turn red from the dust. I even fingered out pools of dust from the corners of the truck and smeared them on my arms because I wanted to be warmer-colored.

But this little game backfired. I got sick. That night I woke up with a hacking cough and my throat felt like it was barbed with spikes. When we stopped, Francis got Muhammed, who examined me. He made me drink five whole cups of water right in front of him. I had to get up to pee a lot all that night, but every time I woke up, I was surprised to see you were there, Yemaya, helping with even more water. After two days the barbs softened and faded into a gentle tickle that made me want to scratch my throat on the outside.

We stopped to refuel at a border crossing. I remembered the term from before and wanted to be sure I marked the event this time. I flopped into the front seat and asked Samson, Where are we crossing into? Samson didn't understand me very well, so it took many gestures and repeated words, but eventually he said the word
Mali
enough times that I assumed it was the name of the place we were going.