Aminatta Forna - The Memory of Love

From behind him a woman’s voice, ‘Good evening.’

A young woman. A shallow, round pannier covered with a cloth and balanced on her head dictates her straight posture, the gentle rhythm of her steps. She walks past Adrian and up the stairs. ‘Can I help you?’

Adrian explains, once again. He is a doctor, here to see Agnes, he saw her in the square as he was passing. He doesn’t mean to alarm anybody over Agnes’s health, just to help if he can.

‘Agnes is my mother.’

Naasu. Agnes had told him she lived with her daughter and her son-in-law. That, presumably, was him.

The young woman who must be Naasu listens without interruption. ‘I didn’t know she had seen you. But if you can help her, it would be good. Let me go inside and find her.’

Adrian doesn’t mention to the young woman that he has already spoken to her husband. She clearly has her mother’s interests at heart.

She sets the pannier down on the floor. ‘Please wait here. I’ll bring her to you.’

Now Adrian is confident, clear-thinking. He knows where she lives. He’ll be able to follow up on her, even if it means driving out here once a week or so. There’s a lot he could do, especially with her daughter’s help. That will make a big difference. Somebody reliable. Maybe they could get to the root of the matter. Once he has that, there’s a chance. Everything else can follow.

The door opens and the daughter appears accompanied by Agnes. She has removed the cloth with which she had covered her hair. She is wearing a long cotton batik dress and a pair of slippers. Behind both women comes the son-in-law. He crosses to sit on the balustrade at Adrian’s right shoulder, sitting close and yet out of Adrian’s view. Adrian tries not to be unsettled by the man’s manner. What matters is Agnes.

‘Agnes,’ he smiles. ‘I’m very pleased to see you. I hope you don’t mind me coming to your home. I saw you just now in the market.’

Agnes doesn’t step forward or smile, but stands, hands clasped in front of her.

Adrian keeps talking. ‘I’m sorry, Agnes, I was ill when you were discharged. I had malaria.’ And then, ‘I want you to come back and see me. There are some things we can do. I think we can make some real progress. Will you do that? Will you come and see me?’

It would have been better to have this conversation alone, he thinks, aware he’s floundering. If he can just reach her. He waits for her response, but none comes. Perhaps she doesn’t recognise him after all.

Naasu turns to her mother and speaks to her loudly and in English, for Adrian’s benefit, as though Agnes is deaf. ‘ Oya , a doctor. He says you have seen him. He wants you to see him again.’ She continues to speak, this time more softly and in another language. Agnes replies. There is an exchange of some sort. Adrian waits, looking from one to the other, listening intently to a conversation he cannot understand. He can sense the daughter’s husband motionless at his back. The daughter looks back at Adrian and shrugs. ‘She says she is better, she doesn’t need to see you.’

If he is honest he could have expected something of the sort. Shame attaches itself to these matters. To Agnes he says, ‘Agnes, I really think it would be a good idea. Just one session.’ Then to the daughter, ‘If you can tell your mother, just one session.’ Perhaps, if it came from her.

The young woman nods rapidly, translates. She appears to be genuinely trying to help. Agnes is shaking her head, actually shaking her head. He is anxious now. Naasu turns to him, frowning. ‘I’m telling her what you told me. She says no, she doesn’t want to.’

‘If you can just make her understand. I can help her. Some of the things we talked about …’ He turns to Agnes, but she interrupts him, speaking quietly and clearly in English.

‘I am better now. The problems are gone. Thank you, Doctor.’ She turns and steps inside the house, her daughter at her elbow.

Adrian remains where he is, standing on the verandah, utterly lost.

Agnes’s son-in-law walks him back to the petrol station. The chap is friendlier now, apologising for Agnes, asking Adrian questions: whether he has visited the town before, questions about London. Adrian’s responses are muted and automatic. He needs to get back to Kai and Abass. He’s thinking about the next step with Agnes. Even if she believes she’s better, she isn’t, she’ll go wandering again before too long. Who knew what the projection of her illness might be, or what harm could come to her? Perhaps he could return with Salia. Salia would be able to cross the divide.

The darkness has settled in now and Adrian is forced to concentrate on placing his feet. There are no street lights, the road is uneven. They are taking a different route to the petrol station, he notices, one that passes through the streets around the square. His companion has stopped talking. He can no longer hear the other man’s footfall. He stops and turns.

The first blow pitches him forward. There follows the split-second delay before he realises he has been hit. The hot cold flush. Finally the pain, billowing through his body like ink in water. The blow to the back of his head is followed by a kick to the base of his spine, which forces the air out of his chest. A third blow lands on the back of his neck and his shoulders. Something hard, wood or metal. Adrian’s knees buckle. He staggers. His impulse is to run. He tries and fails, his legs give way. He’d like to call out, but his lungs are airless. His face hits the dirt. The dirt is soft and cool. Sharp kicks to his side. Please, no more pain. Adrian concentrates on trying to speak, to say something, but he can only gasp. He starts to crawl away, aware even in the moment of the indignity. He doesn’t care. He thinks of internal damage, his kidneys, his liver. Maybe whoever it is intends to kill him. If only they would say what they want he would give it to them. Nausea rises in the wake of the pain. His mouth fills with saliva. He wants to retch. Still on all fours, he heaves drily. The nausea overwhelms him. The last thing he sees, before he blacks out, is a street dog, watching from the side of the road.

He is dreaming. Swimming off a Norfolk beach, when he was a child. Except that there are black children fishing off the rocks. The dream has a soundtrack, the words of the song keep coming back to him. The harder they come, the harder they’ll fall, one and all . He smiles in his sleep. It’s funny.

Now Kai is in the dream, talking to him. What’s Kai doing here? He tries to answer but his lips won’t form the words. He can’t speak. Adrian doesn’t want Kai to go away, only he’s trapped on the other side of the dream.

I slept in the chair, unable — in both senses — to lower myself to the floor. I slept for perhaps two hours, doubled over myself. Nobody knew where I was except Johnson. I could see what he was doing. Leaving me to ruminate, to soften me up — the phrase they used in films.

I tried to focus on the facts at hand. I had not been arrested or charged with anything. So far I had cooperated. Johnson had trampled all over my goodwill. He was trying to drive me into a corner, provoke me into behaving as though I had something to hide. Well, there was nothing. So far Johnson had accused me of precisely nothing. Then again, how exactly do you prove nothing ? How do you fight nothing ? The thoughts turned over and over in my mind.

At one point, in the depth of the night, I had a sudden image of myself from the outside. A dark, untidy shape, hunched over itself on a chair in that small and empty room. My shape, my outline, in my mind’s eye, was devoid of detail. It was not me, but the shadow of me, of what remained. It was as though I had already disappeared. I am not one given to flights of fancy, nevertheless I could not control the thoughts that emerged, indistinctly, from sulphurous places in my mind.