Aminatta Forna - The Memory of Love

In the passing lights, I caught glimpses of Saffia’s profile as she stared ahead, her brows drawn together. After a time she spoke.

‘Did you give him something?’

‘Just a few cigarettes.’ Actually, the best part of the packet.

‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘It was nothing.’ I shrugged. I thought she was thanking me.

Minutes later the rain eased. At the junction to my house she pulled over.

‘Elias, would you mind? I think maybe I should get home.’

‘Of course. It’s stopped raining. I’ll walk from here.’

I stood and watched the tail lights of the car shimmer on the wet road, grow small and disappear. I felt exhilarated. At the same time I had a sense of having somehow mis-stepped. I lit a cigarette from what remained of my packet. And I set off towards the bridge and home.

There are lawns and it is such a long time since Adrian has seen a lawn. True, there is lushness in the trees and the foliage, the hills behind the city are densely green, but the soil is cracked and the earth raw. Adrian craves the sensation of soft grass beneath his feet, the dampness of dew. He would like to take his shoes off and walk across the lawn, feeling the blades between his toes, the hems of his trousers grow heavy and damp. It is an illusion. The grass here is spiky, and sharp. Walking across it would be like walking on hot coals.

And it is quiet. At first the silence, abrupt and arresting, pervaded everything. Now, as Adrian walks alongside the woman, he becomes aware for the first time of different sounds, murmurings and mutterings, muted sounds. He can hear the wind in the tops of palm trees, reminding him of spinnakers in the breeze. And he can hear the sea.

They stop at the door of a long, low building. ‘OK. Ready?’ the woman, who is called Ileana and works here, asks. Adrian nods. She pushes open the door.

The smell hits him and clots in the back of his throat — fermented and feral, the smell of hiding places and of stale fear. He begins to breathe in short, shallow breaths, drawing air in through his mouth. The room is in twilight. Presently he is able to make out two rows of beds and mattresses, each one with a figure lying or sitting on it. Ileana walks up the centre aisle. Adrian follows her, aware of the stark sound of his shoes on the concrete floor, looking from side to side, taking in the stained mattresses, the marks on the walls, shadows of those who have leant there. At their approach some of the patients begin to stir. In front of a tall iron bed Ileana halts and so does Adrian. A man lies on his side on the bed, his head resting upon a coverless pillow.

‘Hello, John, how are you?’

At the sound of her voice, the man hauls himself around to face them both. ‘I am well, Doctor,’ he answers and begins to lever himself slowly up. ‘How are you, too?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, John. I have somebody with me today. Another doctor, from England. He’d like to know about us.’

The man on the bed turns his head to take Adrian into view, at the same time as he pulls himself up into the sitting position. There is an intermittent scraping sound of metal upon metal. The noise seems tremendous in the quiet of the ward. Once he has righted himself, the man extends his hands and the noise starts again, as of something unravelling. For some reason it makes Adrian think of ships. He looks down at the man’s hands: wrists wrapped in rags, metal cuffs, hands clasped together in greeting. The sound stops abruptly, leaving a faint ringing in the air, as the man on the bed reaches the full extent of his chains.

Wednesday. The call had come that morning from the police station. Adrian arrived to be taken to the same room by the same woman officer as when he had examined the young deaf boy. This time she stood some distance from the door and allowed him to go forward alone. Inside the room was a man, apparently sleeping, curled up with his back to the door, his hands tucked between his knees.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Adrian asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

She shrugged. ‘The family brought him.’

‘Has he been violent?’

‘This is what they are saying,’ she said, in an offended tone. ‘They don’t want him there. They say they’re afraid of him. That he barricaded the door and wanted to attack anybody who came in. They worry he’ll break the whole place down.’

‘But the problem, exactly? Why did you call me?’

She hadn’t even been bothered to look at him except for a fleeting glance, her eyes empty, face suffused with boredom. She tapped her temple with her forefinger.

Adrian knocked on the door and entered the room, noting the rapid retreat of the policewoman.

Once inside he closed the door and stood with his back to it. There was the sound of heavy breathing.

‘Hello,’ he said. At the sound of his voice the figure on the other side of the room moved an inch or so further to the wall. The breathing hastened, a stream of garbled words.

Adrian paused, then continued moving forward, announcing each action. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I come a bit closer. I want to talk to you. Is that OK? I’ll keep coming until you tell me to stop.’

The babbling grew in pitch and fervour with every step, but the man no longer seemed to be trying to move away. A few feet short of him, Adrian dropped down, so he was squatting almost level to the figure.

‘My name is Adrian. I’m a doctor. What’s your name?’

A response, of sorts, in that the sounds grew quieter.

Adrian waited.

‘I’m sure you must be hungry. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?’

The murmuring quieted and ceased, silence but for the sound of breathing. The figure began first to strain and then to rock, until with a great effort it flopped over, like a fish. In front of Adrian lay a young man, bound hand and foot.

They wanted rid of him. Adrian made it clear that the provision of water and some food might hasten that eventuality. Using his own money, he managed to secure a loaf of bread and a small plastic bag of water and drinking straw. Not one of the police officers would acquiesce to run the errand himself, so Adrian had to wait until a person of sufficient insignificance — one of the ubiquitous small boys of the city — could be found.

Adrian agreed to accompany the prisoner to the mental hospital. With the help of two male officers, he bundled the young man into a taxi, propping him up on the back seat. By then he’d resumed his babbled discourse, as though complaining about his treatment, and was shivering violently. Adrian slid in alongside him. The young man flinched and huddled further away.

‘It’s OK,’ said Adrian as he bent and undid the ropes that bound the young man’s feet.

The taxi driver, reluctant and sullen, demanded double the fare. The policeman’s answering laugh contained not a trace of humour as he banged the roof of the vehicle with the flat of his hand. The thunderous sound reverberated around the inside of the vehicle, setting the young man off again. The taxi pulled away.

Reluctant to leave his charge alone, Adrian waited inside the gates of the mental hospital, seated on a wooden bench. Next to him the young man drew his knees up to his chin and pulled his T-shirt up over his face. At an open window a woman, naked to the waist, stood shouting to unseen persons. There were people milling inside and outside the gates, though none appeared to be figures of authority. A couple of men were talking, bickering in the manner of long-term acquaintances. One had shown Adrian to the seat, but otherwise left him unattended. A bitch stealthily attempted to gain entry through the gates.

Adrian was uncertain what to do next. He called to one of the pair of men. Yes, yes, said the man, smiling and holding up his hand, telling Adrian to wait. Adrian resumed his seat on the bench. The heat had risen, he was beginning to sweat. A man stood outside the gate, his ears and nose plugged with paper, and shouted, ‘Don’t talk to me like that! I am not a patient any more.’ Next to Adrian the young man rocked from side to side.