The Memory of Love (9 page)

CHAPTER 8

Adrian and Elias Cole meet each week, at the same hour. Around them the hospital is in constant motion day and night. Adrian finds he has to think, when writing up his notes, consciously, of the day and date, to count forwards from the moment of his arrival. Even the month he forgets. In England, the days would have begun, tentatively, to reach out with silver fingers in each direction. Here, the patterns of the sky elude him.
Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning
. But what is one to make of a violet sunset? Or a white evening sun? The one thing of which he is certain is that it is getting hotter. Instead of becoming used to the heat, he is ever more tormented by it.

Adrian is still in the occasional habit of bringing something to each session. Once it was a novel, Huxley’s
Antic Hay
, from the collection in his rooms. A newspaper bought from a roadside vendor, two thin leaves of dense, smudged text. A radio. He forgets the man’s feelings about music. In time he removes it.

There are days when he must attend the Ministry to sort out his papers. The Labour Office is located on the sixth floor of a building without electricity and consequently no working lift. So far it has taken him several visits on different days to obtain the appropriate forms, establish who is the person who will process them. The man in question possesses a huge, shining bald head, is dressed, always, in a dark-blue safari-style suit and is never to be found in his office. Often he finds him sitting in the corridor talking with others of his kind, chewing matchsticks or cola nuts and watching people like Adrian come and go.

Thursday Adrian arrives back at the hospital exhausted and yet full of nervous energy. He sits down by the old man’s bed. Elias Cole turns and watches him, but doesn’t speak. Together they inhabit the amniotic stillness of the room, silent save for the old man’s breathing, the muted sounds from outside.

His private clients in England, from the moment they left the room they ceased to exist. He did not allow their lives to spill into his.

Here it is different. From the moment he enters the old man’s room it is his own, Adrian’s, life outside that seems remote and unreal. His life in England even more so.

*

Exams had begun. The campus was quiet. Behind the windows rows of students, heads bent, dressed in the obligatory black trousers or skirts and white shirts. Along with the other staff members I took my turn invigilating. I enjoyed the peace, walking the aisles, handing out extra paper, warning the passing of another hour.

In those periods of enforced idleness I thought often of Saffia. The smooth mask of her beauty in repose. The rapid succession of her expressions as she listened to a story, at such times her face had an extraordinary mobility. She was not much given to talking, a listener by nature and by marriage. Julius and Saffia were like the sun and the moon. Everything revolved around Julius, or he behaved as though it did, you were drawn into his orbit. But Saffia was the moon, emanating her own clear, magnetic energy. The one to whom all our stories were told.

Though when Saffia had something to say, it’s true she didn’t hesitate to speak her mind, which was a sufficiently unusual quality in a woman that I was unused to it. She chided me once, for my languor. It was during one of their Sunday-night suppers. We were discussing the price of commodities, of rice. It was a subject I knew little about, but Saffia was full of stirring opinions. She felt an affinity with the farmers, you know. I must have been slow to respond because she berated me. For being too comfortable, she said, like a cat with its own place by the fire.

A married woman. Now when I think of it, I wonder if that isn’t where the answer lay. It gave her a confidence other women lacked or better say ‘could not afford’. Women in those days accorded more readily with what was expected of them. This seemed less true of Saffia. Julius gave her everything. Those evenings we spent at their house, Ade, Kekura and I, she needed nothing from us, and so we were drawn to her all the more, competing among ourselves like performing monkeys.

Those days, in the exam halls, I let our conversations run through my mind like a looped tape. I rehearsed in its entirety my last visit, when she had taken my photograph, adding a remembered detail here and there. I turned over each moment, examining it from different angles, for new meanings. I wondered if she had taken the film to be developed, whether she was, at this moment, looking at my image. She had not told Julius of my visit, I felt certain. And that meant something. What possible reason could there be for her to keep the fact of it from him, but that she intended it to happen again.

In this way I indulged myself, exquisitely, achingly. I had never been in love before. I had no idea. Hopes building up, fragile and heavy as crystals upon a filament. I was without caution.

Outside the routine of exams I took the opportunity to pursue my efforts to see the Dean. What Saffia had said, about my languor, was not entirely true. I had submitted and had rejected my paper, ‘Reflections on Changing Political Dynamics’. That week I stopped by his office and spoke to his secretary, who guarded him like the Oracle at Delphi. I was apportioned a thin slot of time at the end of the day. I arrived with my arguments rehearsed and ready.

The Dean was a small man, dark-skinned, balding and possessed of a quicksilver energy, with tiny hands and feet, and high round buttocks which pitched him forward, so he appeared to approach the world at a trot. Stacked upon his desk were piles of papers, each wrapped around with a rubber band. The desk itself was a massive affair, dark wood with the high gloss of the reproduction, the surface of which was inlaid with green leather with a border of tooled gold. A green onyx paperweight and a pen in a matching stand, an ivory letter-opener and a brass nameplate, similar to the one on the door. Behind the Dean’s chair on a stand stood a massive globe of the world,
Typus orbis terrarum
scripted above the tropic of Cancer. A ship scurried across the line of the Equator to Africa, hastened by a puff of wind to its sails.

‘How is everything, Cole?’

I replied that everything was fine, as well as could be expected.

‘Good, good. All to your liking?’ He sounded like a hotel manager. I nodded and gave a version of the same reply.

‘Good, good.’

A pause. He offered me a drink. I accepted. He swivelled around in his chair and flipped open the top of the globe. Inside were several decanters, an ice bucket, tongs, highball glasses and tumblers.

‘What will you have?’

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I had read somewhere ordering the same drink as your boss was a sure way to impress, a tacit endorsement of their own choice.

‘Hmm?’ he said, as though he hadn’t been listening. His back to me, I couldn’t get a glimpse of his face. ‘Tell me what you’d like.’

Better perhaps to be my own man. ‘I’ll have a whisky, please.’

The Dean occupied himself in a search, lifting and replacing decanters, inspecting the contents inscribed upon silver plates suspended around their necks. Several were empty. He gave the impression of a child at play with a new toy. Finally he lifted out a decanter in which an inch of gold-coloured liquid swirled, removed the stopper, froze for a moment as though interrupted by a new and startling thought, shook his head slightly, replaced the stopper and returned the decanter to the globe.

‘I think I’ll send out for some soft drinks.’

I said, ‘Thank you.’

He picked up the telephone and called the secretary, who arrived momentarily with two bottles on a tray, opened them and handed us one each. The Dean raised a bottle to his lips and sucked reflectively at the top. I followed suit.

‘How are you finding the office? Comfortable enough for you?’

Again I nodded. Ten minutes had passed and all we had covered were the pleasantries. He leaned back in his chair and the leather squeaked beneath his buttocks. I imagined his feet, below the enormous desk, the tips of his shoes hovering an inch above the floor.

‘Good. Good.’ He placed his hands on the desk in front of him and spread his fingers. His next remark appeared to come out of nowhere.

‘It’s a real responsibility, you know, administration.’

‘Of course.’ What else but to agree?

‘Oh, it doesn’t attract the accolades of academia. You know that. I know that. And yet great societies are built on their administrators. We are historians. It’s not us who make history. Nor the generals. It’s the administrators. Who were the first administrators in this country, Cole?’ He had been staring dreamily out of the window. Now his neck snapped back and his gaze was redirected to a spot in the centre of my forehead. Before I could reply he was wagging his finger at me in warning, as though I was about to give the wrong answer. ‘Not the British, though they like to take the credit. It was the Fula! Yes. Cattlemen and shopkeepers. And, I know and so do you, Cole,’ that gimlet eye daring me to say otherwise, ‘once rulers of the largest empire in West Africa. I should say
arguably
the largest, because of course records as such are scant.’

He pushed himself back into his chair; the leather sighed again as it accommodated his movements. I waited, still perplexed by this turn in the conversation.

‘Their gift didn’t lie in superior fighting skills. Those they subjugated were mostly farmers, not warriors. Their gift, their trick,’ and here his voice grew louder until he shouted out, ‘their
brilliance
, was to leave an administrator in every town and village they passed through. Somebody to keep the local rulers in check, and to make sure the right taxes were paid at the right time. All without the benefit of a filing system. Less red tape that way. Ha!’ And he gave a bark like a cough. ‘Native administration, you see. The British didn’t invent it after all! But red tape, now that really was their contribution. Ha!’ He barked again. ‘Forget the politicians and the soldiers. Learn to respect the administrators!’ And he wagged a finger at me again, but less threateningly this time, as though to assure me of the levity of this last remark. Then he shook himself slightly. ‘But I don’t have to tell you that. Your father was a civil servant.’

I nodded.

In a relative frenzy of creaking the Dean swung himself out of his chair and went to the window.

‘You’re generous with use of your office space. Excellent. I feel I made the right choice in you. Not enough space, the university was never built for so many students. Nobody stopped to consider the consequences of all these decisions when they made them. Only how popular they would be.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, the only thing I had really said so far. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get around to the matter of my paper. I ventured, ‘I submitted a paper for the journal. I was wondering if we might …’

The Dean interrupted me with a wave of his hand. ‘Ah yes, yes. Not really your best. I’m sorry, Cole. And space in the journal was tight.’

‘I was hoping we could discuss the particular aspects you considered problematic.’

‘Are you sure you want to discuss it?’ I could see the reflection of his frown in the window. ‘Very well. You started with the wrong question, hence the argument was flawed from the start.’ He continued to stand with his back to me. I waited, but he added nothing more.

‘Your written comments would be very welcome.’

He turned from the window, without looking at me, and resumed his seat, spreading his tiny hands out on the table again, as though inspecting his fingernails.

‘My advice? The work it would take, you may as well start again. The journal committee are really looking for a different kind of thing.’ Everybody knew the journal committee and the Dean were one and the same. ‘Now if you were to take a look through the archives, we’re lucky to have them at the university and they’re an undervalued resource in my opinion. In Europe, as you know, modern history is taken to begin at the end of the Middle Ages. Not quite applicable to us here. Still, it gives one a lot of scope.’

And that, once I had finished my drink, was more or less where we left it. As I reached the door he made one more remark, with perfect casualness.

‘Dr Kamara, from engineering. A friend of yours.’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Though I haven’t known him for long.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Of course not. Well, have a good evening.’

That same week my old friend Banville Jones invited me to a party on campus, and though at first I demurred, after another night home on my own the idea struck me as more attractive. On the Friday in question I popped my head round his door and said I would join him. There were more parties in those days. Or perhaps it just seems so to me now. No, I believe it was a time of parties. We were happy, at least we thought so. Rushing headlong into the open space. The euphoria was a long time dying. We partied through the curfews, arriving late and staying until dawn. Even when the curfews were over, because by then we were in the habit of it.

The space was crowded by the time we arrived, the party in full swing; people spilled out on to the verandah and into the garden, moving in and out of the light and shadows. On a low table, open bottles of Johnnie Walker and Bacardi, a bucket of ice.