Alastair Bruce - Wall of Days

I am out of breath now. ‘In spite of your best efforts I have gathered proof of my past, the most obvious being a portrait of me. You refuse to admit it for fear that you might have missed something, for fear that the past you buried has resurfaced. I come here, searching for the forgiveness I cannot live without,’ again my voice trembles but I plough on, ‘yet you will not look me in the eye and allow me to explain, allow me to say what it is I need to say.’

‘You have told your story, old man. You have taken up much of my time, much of our time, telling your story. We have given you charity and friendship but it is not enough for you. We have given you shelter and food but it is not enough. We have allowed you to be part of the present and the future of this town but that too is not enough. Instead you must have forgiveness as well. For what? For the story of your past? A past that implicates this town? Forgive you? Why would we forgive you if it makes us guilty? You have not accounted for that, have you? And indeed, how can we forgive you if we do not know who you are? Not knowing who you are we cannot forgive you for the crimes of which you say you and all of us are guilty.’ Abel’s voice has risen.

‘And your friend the General,’ he continues, ‘You go on about a General you have brought to us. Where is he? Is he at this table? I don’t see him. I have never seen him. A General who doesn’t speak?

We do not know of any Andalus. He does not exist for us either. He, the Axumites, gone.’

He is screaming now, leaning towards me, screaming. ‘Show him to me! Bring out your exhibits. Why isn’t he at this table, voice or no voice? Is he one of your ghosts, your stories, your lies?’

He stops. He is breathing heavily. The room is silent.

I go on, quietly. ‘We did not know what we were doing. It is important I am absolved. I have no life without redemption. You have condemned me to something beyond pain. You too need to atone.’

I take a deep breath.

‘Abel, the children were the worst. The sick, one born without a hand, one born simple. There was a boy aged seven. I went to his cell late at night while he was sleeping. I sat at the foot of his bed and wept. Why could I not say that before? Why could I not admit it? At dawn I left his cell, went to my office and gave the order for him to be hanged later that day. You may remember they had to carry him there because he was too weak to walk. You may remember the father bursting into my office, attacking me and the soldiers defending me. They hit him so hard, so hard, so many times that we had to hang him the day after his son. The soldiers carried him out and I locked the door. I pul ed my knife out, held it to my neck. I thought of what was happening to him, to his son. I thought of duty. I thought of the future. I put the knife away.’

Elba turns away, puts her hand to her mouth.

‘Why did we do that, Abel? Why didn’t we just allow the boy to die in his own way?’

Abel is silent for some time. He stares at me, then down at the table.

‘Never being able to be one thing completely, sometimes that is the greatest sin. Is that you, Bran? Somewhere in there a good man but one too concerned with ideas.’

‘Forgive me or execute me. I cannot go back to the ghosts. We used to be friends. I am asking this one thing of you.’

I am saying too much. I did not mean to lose control.

Speaking more softly now, Abel says, ‘We are not an unfeeling people.

My good friend Elba,’ he says, nodding at her, ‘tells me you have struck up a relationship with her daughter. She says she likes you too in spite of your strange ways. We will offer you another life. On one condition.’

I look at him. ‘You know she is my daughter.’

His face darkens and his fingers curl but he ignores me. He goes on, ‘On the condition, on pain of death, that you give up these stories for ever, that you give up trying to drag us down with you, that you embrace who we are now, not what you say we were.’

‘Why?’

‘I have told you. This is a new world. We will not begin it as killers.’

‘What am I if I am not who I say I am?’

The Marshal looks hard at me. He sighs and Elba looks away. He is silent for a while. Neither of us speaks. At last he says, ‘We will not remember you.’

With that he gets up from the table and walks out the door. Over his shoulder he says, ‘You have until morning to decide.’

I am left alone with Elba. I look over at her. She is silent. I sit with my head in my hands. Eventually I look up again and find her looking at me.

‘Why do you make everyone angry?’

I ignore this. Instead I ask, not looking at her, ‘What I said about Amhara. It’s true isn’t it?’

She is silent.

‘It is, isn’t it? She is Tora’s daughter by me. She is the right age. She has my eyes. She could have been conceived the last night we were together. Before she went completely over to Abel. And you are a friend of Tora’s and not the child’s mother.’

‘She is yours if you want her to be. You have a role to play here. You can be a father this time round. The condition still stands.’

I sigh.

She reaches over the table and takes my hands in hers. ‘Give this up.

Give up your search. Give up your stories about the past.’

‘Why do you say things like “this time round” if you don’t believe me, if you don’t know my story is true? Why can’t you admit it?’

She shakes her head. ‘Surely there are more important things than your guilt?’

I look down at the table. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You are very kind and I know you mean well.’ I pause. ‘If you’ll permit I would like to show you what I was going to show you earlier.’

‘What is it?’

‘We will need to leave. It is a short walk away.’ I stand up. ‘Come.’ I hold out my hand to her.

The night is cold. Elba shivers and I put my arm around her. I lead her into the alley.

‘Where are we going?’ She asks. She sounds frightened.

I do not answer but take her by the hand again. She holds back a little and I find myself walking slightly ahead, gripping her hand.

‘You’re hurting me.’

‘You must come here. You must come with me.’

‘Tell me what you want to show me.’

‘No. You must see it first. See it then judge.’

‘See what? It is dark. Black. There is no moon. What is there for me to see?’

She pulls and her hand slips out of my grasp. I turn back and reach for her arm. It is soft, thinner than I imagined. The bones of a bird.

I look at her. She has a grey face. Grey like the light. I pull her. She stumbles. I pick her up. She is so light in my arms. So light. I pick her up as I would a sack, place her on her feet again. My fingers are deep in her flesh. Her mouth does not move, hangs open in the light. I edge her along the alley wall, my hand on the skin, skin like paper.

‘What are you doing? Please.’

We are lovers in a dance. I hold her close.

I turn her around, still holding her arms. I pull away the canvas from the shelter and feel for the portrait. She slips away and begins to run. Three steps and I have her. Her arm behind her back. ‘You will look. You will look now.’

I kick away the rest of the tarpaulin and there it is. The paint, somehow, brighter. A glow from behind the skin, behind the eyes. I hold her with one hand, my grip tight. I reach down and pick up the portrait.

‘Look,’ I whisper. ‘Look at the man before you.’

I can see her face from the side. ‘What?’ She half turns. Her voice is frail.

‘What do you see?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you see?’ My voice changes. It is not mine.

‘Nothing.’

I take her jaw in one hand, squeeze. ‘Why do you see nothing?