Esi Edugyan - The Second Life of Samuel Tyne

Ama spent her days trailing the twins, who were so eager to explore that they often forgot to eat. The hallways were lofty, with domed, pitted ceilings, and smelled of mothballs. They broke onto rooms as unique in character as the home’s various owners: the room strewn with cane prayer mats and altars for the dead; a hall closet smelling of aged tobacco; the antiquated study; the kitchen, with its pockmarked cupboards, its fridge haunted by the three generations of fragrant food. The main hall ended in a living room, whose bay window had misted with age, like a huge cataract. Central to this room was the old, coughing fireplace, sensitive to strong winds. The upper floor held three bedrooms, and a moulding bathroom smelling obscenely of urine. No one was brave enough to broach the root cellar. All of it amazed Ama. The entire house radiated not only another era, but another world.

The grounds, too, had a magic quality to them. Out front, mature firs shaded the yard. In the backyard, thrown into clear relief after Maud cleaned the window, a field of chin-high grass rolled in the wind. The nearest house, belonging to Saul Porter, who had apparently witnessed the will, stood a few acres away, only its decaying roof visible from the window.

Ignored by the twins, Ama often sat on the front stoop, watching the occasional person walk by behind the trees. Summer was beginning, with its fragile flowers. Ama ripped petals off their stems. Behind her stood a pair of polyester legs, screened by the storm door. Her heart quickened: Mr. Tyne. She wondered how long he’d been watching her, and drew her knees up to her chest.

Mr. Tyne giggled nervously and opened the door. He smelled of labour. Watching him navigate weeds to settle himself beside her, Ama was so startled that she did not rush away. His lack of balance, his sad wheezing at each step, didn’t rouse her sympathy; they only emphasized the impropriety of his age. Terrified, she gave him a disdainful look, flinching as his eyes ran over her face.

“Sure is a beautiful day,” he said. And with a kind of wonderment, he added, “Yes, yes, it certainly is a beautiful day.” He frowned, as though at a loss to convince himself. He began to pick the lint off his pantlegs, and the gesture was suffused with such sadness that Ama relaxed a little.

“It is beautiful,” she said. “The marigolds are already out.”

Her voice seemed to surprise him, as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Marigolds …?” he frowned, followed by a laugh at his own confusion. “Flowers, yes. Little girls do like flowers.” He paused, bringing his rough hands together in his lap. “I myself have always preferred mathematics. Computing machines, such things.”

Ama nodded, nervous. She didn’t understand the mechanics of his conversation, and was on guard in case it took an uncomfortable turn.

A gust of wind shook the trees, and they tossed a few needles near Ama’s and Samuel’s feet. Ama watched the marigolds nod. She said, “I like how they look like fire, their colours.” Ripping off a petal, she pinched it between her forefinger and thumb. Her gesture suddenly made her nervous, and she flicked the petal into the dirt.

Samuel toed it with his loafer. Watching people pass in the distance, he said, “‘The greatest visionary could not achieve world peace, but a single demented zealot could cause dozens of cities to burn.’”

“Sorry?” said Ama, perplexed.

He grimaced, as though pained by his own idiosyncratic behaviour. To Ama, he suddenly seemed nothing worse than a baffled old man, someone who’d had the misfortune to age before his time. She gave him a look of pity. “What were you saying about mathematics?”

Samuel assessed Ama uncertainly, as though making sure he had leave to speak about himself. Touching his bowler the way a beautiful woman reassures herself that every hair is in its place, he began to speak. “Well, I’ve always been a great lover of mathematics. From the first time I laid my eyes on figures — boof! — I was off like that. Numbers have always, always been my first love.” He looked bashfully at Ama, who, knowing there was no suggestiveness in it, nevertheless blushed. Mr. Tyne seemed to take it as condolence. “If I may speak truthfully with you, it is my deepest wish to own an electronics store. Not only to be my own boss, although”—he chuckled—“that would be nice. But because I think I could build something important. A computing—” he broke off, frowning a little, and Ama understood he regretted telling her anything.

“Sounds great,” she said.

“Does it?” he said, preoccupied.

His question was so sincere it touched Ama. It finally struck her that his attraction to her had nothing sexual in it; it had cleaner, sadder roots: estranged from his family, he was a deeply lonely man.

Ama looked compassionately at him. “You should really do it. It might seem impossible now, but my dad always says you won’t succeed if you’re too scared to try.”

Samuel felt a little of the amused condescension adults get when children give them advice. He patted Ama’s hair. “Well, let’s go in to supper.”

Feeling rebuffed, Ama trudged inside after him.

Ama dreaded dinnertime, because it made a show of allegiances. Mr. and Mrs. Tyne, with the usual childishness that plagues cold marriages, used the gathering to rile up support for their polar causes. They were like politicians at the quick of their campaigns. Mrs. Tyne was obviously dissatisfied with Aster, while Mr. Tyne had only praise. Samuel hadn’t told his wife of his plans to set up his own electronics shop. Meanwhile, she continued to berate him at the dinner table while behind her back he sold off or secretly fetched the valuables left in the Calgary house. He lied and said he was trying to find work in Edmonton. He’d also been seeking out a storefront, and had seen a few possibilities. Ama’s encouragement merely confirmed the importance of what he’d already put into action. Still, he knew he’d been a scoundrel. In the tiresome game of marriage, he hadn’t played an honourable hand. But what could he do? His newfound confidence left him confused as to how to use it. He’d already given notice on the Calgary lease, making a clean break of it. Now he’d only to tell his family.

Aster, Mrs. Tyne insisted, was backward; even the outskirts. As she placed the beets and beef on the rickety table, she said, “Sth , that beef cuts much cleaner at home. There’s not a decent knife to be found in this whole town, but … never mind. Like I say, it’s only a fool who runs back to the bush when the city is brimming with oil.”

And it was true, in the twenty years following the Leduc discoveries, oil had been spitting from every crack in Alberta. Every crack, that is, but in Aster. People rushed from farms and towns to share in the thirst, and it was a rare soul who left the city for something smaller. Like the Depression, the oil boom threatened to kill off the best towns. One couldn’t look anywhere without seeing fire geysers, steel towers, mud endlessly tumbling into flare pits. The Americans were frantic for it.

Samuel ate his beets, giving the children careful looks. “Are these beets not remarkable?” He turned to his wife. “These beets are quite remarkable.”

“Well, it’s nothing to call the papers about, but I guess so,” said Maud, not looking up from her plate. Her voice was thin, as if she were pinching the words back. “I read in the Albertan the Greeks had a good harvest. This might be from it.”

Samuel smiled. “What an inspiring mix of people this town has, isn’t it? The reports all prize the city’s diversity, but the only diversity you’ll find there is in its punishments.” Again he appealed to the children, who gave him cautious looks.