The Memory of Love (17 page)

I told Julius I was unable to stay as I must accompany the students back to campus and make sure the truck driver returned to his place of employment. At the door I asked him to give my regards to Saffia.

‘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.

‘What is it?’ asks Adrian.

‘Where is my gold chain? I cannot find my gold chain. Somebody’s taken it. Has this matter been reported? Why has nobody returned the chain to me?’ Her voice has acquired weight.

‘Tell me about the chain.’

‘It is gold. Somebody’s taken it.’

‘Was it a special chain?’

‘It was gold.’

Adrian listens. He reassures Agnes everything possible will be done to find her chain. He doesn’t want to let her stray too far from the path of their discussion. The mention of the chain may be significant, then again it may not. He makes a mental note of the detail, of where in the conversation it arose, like one of the pins he left upon the map of her travels.

‘What else do you remember? From before you left home.’

She shakes her head and turns her hands over in her lap. She seems to have lost her place.

He urges her gently on. ‘What do you remember? Tell me one thing you remember. Just one.’

A dog barking, over and over again. It woke her from her dreams. The sound was bothersome, adding to her headache. She was lying on her bed thinking she should get up, but couldn’t seem to rouse herself. She kept being drawn back into her dreams. Somewhere somebody was burning rice fields, even though it was the wrong time of the year. The smoke entered her room and her lungs. It tasted bitter, made her nauseous. Outside the sun was rising, the shadows shifted at the window. She knew she had to get out of the house, but she remained in the grip of her dreams.

‘What were the dreams?’

She cannot remember.

Adrian waits, not wanting to interrupt more than necessary. Sitting before him in the heat of the room, Agnes twitches slightly, her shoulders and head slump and her eyelids flutter. Adrian leans forward. Though he can’t be sure, it looks very much as though she is asleep.

‘Agnes?’ he says softly. At the sound of his voice she pulls herself up. ‘You can go back to the ward now.’

It is nearly time for lunch. Salia steps forward and helps Agnes to her feet. She seems very frail.

At the door, Adrian says, ‘Salia will see about your chain.’

Agnes looks at him.

‘Your chain.’

‘What chain?’ Her face is blank.

‘The gold chain you lost.’

She does not reply. She blinks and moves on.

Adrian watches her as she leaves, guiding herself around the desk and towards the door. She does not look back. There is no element of performance in her shuffling steps, the head that sways slightly as she makes her way down the corridor and out towards the women’s ward. He stands at the window and watches, sees Salia stop to talk to another staff member and Agnes shuffle on oblivious, Salia walk smartly to catch her up.

If she had been faking, Adrian would have to ask himself why. But he is quite sure what he saw was real. He watched her cross from one state to another, one in which she was concerned about the loss of a gold chain, the other in which she appeared to have no memory of the loss of the same item. He remembers the words of the man in the old department store, the one who had brought Agnes to the hospital. Salia had used the same words and tried to explain them to Adrian.

Agnes is crossed.

They are in the Patients’ Garden, the smoke from Ileana’s cigarette curling upward, entwining with the branches of the trees. Her elbow rests on the arm of the wooden bench, half an inch of ash droops from the end of the cigarette. Inside the pocket of her smock she fiddles with her lighter. Adrian can hear the rasping of the wheel against the flint. She is listening with her eyes upon him.

When he stops speaking she says, without taking her eyes away from him, ‘You are considering schizophrenia, of course?’

‘Of course,’ Adrian replies. ‘Though she’s clearly confused. And there are lapses. I don’t think I’m dealing with a psychotic. In fact, I’m as sure as I can be.’ And then, ‘You’ve never examined her?’

Ileana shakes her head, a movement which causes the ash to drop from her cigarette; she raises the remainder of it to her lips and draws deeply before discarding the butt among the fallen flowers.

‘What about Attila?’ says Adrian.

‘He tries to see all the patients, but there are so many. Besides, she doesn’t stay long. It would have amounted to an intake interview. Nothing more.’

Adrian picks a pod up from the ground and begins to pull it apart. The seeds fall out, clattering faintly on to the stones. He doesn’t want to say anything to Ileana just yet, about what he is thinking, the books he has been reading. He wants to wait until he is a little more certain. He needs to hold off talking to Attila, too. For now he is enjoying Ileana’s company, sitting here in the shade of the garden, the most peaceful place in the city. He’d like to carry on talking to her, to invite her for a beer. He realises he has no idea of her home life, whether she is here alone, married or single. He struggles to picture her anywhere else but here.

‘Where do you live? I mean here, in this place.’

‘A bungalow. By Malaika beach. I’ve been there about six months. Before that I had an apartment in town, a real dump. What I have now is so much better. You should come and see it.’

‘Are you there alone? I mean …’ He is fumbling a little now. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t prying. I was just thinking about safety.’ He finishes abruptly.

She laughs and looks at him; in her dark eyes there is genuine amusement. ‘I know what you mean. And the answer is yes, I’m on my own. And I feel safer here than anywhere in Israel, or Romania for that matter. I don’t suppose anybody back home would believe it if I told them.’ She laughs. ‘Last time I was in your bloody country I was followed round Haringey by some fucking pervert. I could have screamed my head off and nobody would have heard me.’

Ileana lights another cigarette and stands up. Together they leave the garden.

‘Tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

On the way home he asks the driver to stop at the supermarket. Inside he moves up and down the aisles, perusing the imported products, savouring the air conditioning. The prices are almost beyond reach, the owners must be making a fortune. He selects two large packets of crisps, takes some beers from the cold cabinet and pays, counting out grubby notes. It is the end of the day, his mind is unwinding, he performs the task slowly, loses count and begins again.

Back in the taxi, heading out to the hospital, not across Julius’s bridge this time, but through the thick of the town. There is a song on the radio. Adrian can’t place it exactly, but it takes him back decades. The title track to a film, maybe. The rhythm lifts his mood. Not for the first time the face of the woman he saw talking to Babagaleh rises before him. This time he does nothing to suppress it, remembers the look she gave him, the way it touched his skin, leaving him exposed as he tried to slip past. He tries to focus upon the features of her face, but they elude him. He sees only the expression she wore, as if she knew exactly what he was doing as he tried to slip past Babagaleh. But then, all good-looking women possessed the same power, or so it seemed.