by Ekow Duker
Soft, incongruous strains of operatic music came wafting out of a scuffed CD player on the edge of the desk. Faded orange curtains at the window rose and fell gently in time to the music, their frayed edges stroking the tops of the wooden cabinets below.
There was none of the clutter in here that André had come to associate with the Nsawam Prison. The files on the desk were arranged in precise interlocking piles and the pencils were all of equal length. But when Chief Superintendent Larbi stood up from behind the desk, he was so short that there was not much difference in his elevation from when he had been sitting. And unlike the other officers whose uniforms were a deep shade of mahogany, Chief Superintendent Larbi was dressed in green and brown camouflage. He made a delicate movement with his left hand and motioned for André to sit.
The officer who had accompanied André up the stairs saluted for the second time and cried out in a loud voice.
‘All correct, sah!’
Chief Superintendent Larbi winced with displeasure.
‘That will be all,’ he said. He had a quiet voice and spoke carefully, as if he did not ever want to be misquoted. He waited for the officer to close the door behind him, then turned his attention to André.
‘I must apologise,’ he said. ‘Many of our officers are cast-offs from the army.’
‘You mean bad soldiers make good prison officers?’ André asked.
He would not have been so forward when he first arrived in Ghana. But he had been in Accra for almost three weeks now and in that time had acquired a small but noticeable degree of spontaneity.
Chief Superintendent Larbi pushed his spectacles up on his nose. He stared across the desk at André as if seeing him for the first time.
‘I did not say they were bad soldiers. And I did not say they were good prison officers either.’
He left André to ponder this rather cryptic remark and bent his head to write in the exercise book that lay open on his desk. The top of his head gleamed as if he had polished it only that morning. His face, in contrast, was a dusty shade of grey.
‘I am listening,’ he said without looking up.
André cleared his throat and drew his chair a little closer to the desk. ‘I am here about the South African woman.’
‘There are many women in the prison, Mr …’ Chief Superintendent Larbi turned a page in the exercise book. He seemed to be looking for André’s name.
‘Potgieter,’ André said helpfully.
‘Yes, I see it here.’ Chief Superintendent Larbi tapped the page with the end of his pen. ‘From South Africa. Now which South African woman would this be?’
His gaze was guarded and André had the distinct impression the little man already knew who he was talking about.
‘Karabo Bentil. She was remanded almost a month ago. There was the matter of the stolen violin …’
‘You mean the yellow girl?’ Chief Superintendent Larbi sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers together. It was clear from the way he spoke that he had very little regard for ‘yellow’ girls and for Karabo in particular.
‘I suppose that is what they call her,’ André replied.
Chief Superintendent Larbi closed his eyes. He was so still that André was not sure if he had fallen asleep or was listening intently to the music. He recognised the piercing aria from Richard Strauss’s Salome.
‘I see you have a love of music,’ he ventured at last. ‘Is that why they call you Conductor?’
Chief Superintendent Larbi raised his hand as if to stop André’s question from advancing any further and only opened his eyes after the music had reached its chilling finale.
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘Unlike many of my compatriots, I had no desire to enter the army. I wanted to be a musician.’
‘Is that so?’ André said.
Chief Superintendent Larbi sighed. ‘I see you are afflicted by an abundance of politeness, Mr Potgieter. There is a question on your lips.’ He raised a finger to his lower lip and rubbed it to indicate the spot. ‘Don’t be afraid to ask.’
André flushed with embarrassment. There was a prodding perceptiveness about the small, uniformed man that made him uncomfortable.
‘Very well. I was wondering how you ended up in charge of a prison when your love is clearly for music.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi smiled and nodded. He looked like a man whose son had just mastered a difficult lesson.
‘My father would have none of it.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘I’m talking about the music. In his mind all musicians were wee-smoking band boys.’
‘Wee?’ André asked with a puzzled look on his face.
‘Marijuana. I believe you call it dagga. In Ghana, if you are not an engineer or a doctor, nobody has any time for you. Not even the groundnut seller at the side of the road.’
‘I’d have thought prison officers garnered a certain level of respect?’
Chief Superintendent Larbi plucked an errant cotton string off his lapel. ‘I suppose when you don’t have a degree, a uniform will do. But you are here to ask me about Karabo Bentil, not to discuss the vagaries of respect.’
André was relieved the conversation had returned to the purpose of his visit. ‘It was all a terrible mistake,’ he said quickly. ‘You will be aware that the court set Karabo free last Tuesday.’
‘I am aware of that. I have her release papers here.’ Chief Superintendent Larbi waved his hand at a neat pile of papers on his desk.
‘Then why is she still in prison?’
‘There are procedures.’
‘But the court …’
‘The court does not sit in this prison,’ Chief Superintendent Larbi said in a sharp voice. ‘Her father was here this morning and that is what I told him.’
He pulled the stack of papers towards him and peeled back the corners of the first few sheets with his finger. He took out one of the papers and began to read silently to himself. He frowned as if struggling with a difficult word and deep lines appeared across his forehead. Then he sighed and tossed the paper towards the pile as if it was of little importance.
It missed and fell to the floor beside André’s feet. André looked down at it and could see the small indentations and smudges where the keys of a typewriter had hurled themselves against the paper. It was Karabo’s release order. He picked it up and handed it back to Chief Superintendent Larbi without a word.
‘Thank you,’ Chief Superintendent Larbi said. He took the paper in one hand and slid it back into place.
‘We have more than three thousand prisoners here,’ he said. ‘It is very unfortunate but sometimes their papers get lost.’
He shook his head sadly and looked straight at André.
‘I hope we understand each other.’
André nodded slowly. He understood perfectly.
‘And when that happens?’ he asked. ‘When papers get lost, I mean.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi turned his palms outwards and his face was heavy with regret.
‘Then the matter is transferred out of my hands and into the hands of God.’
He smiled abruptly. His teeth were so sharp and numerous, André thought he looked like a small, camouflage-clad fish.
‘I didn’t just come to enquire about Karabo,’ André said. ‘Karabo had a violin with her when she was arrested. I understand you have it.’
The smile disappeared and Chief Superintendent Larbi gave André a quizzical look.
‘Who told you that?’
‘This is Ghana,’ André replied evenly. ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Or so I’m told.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi nodded gravely as if André had just said something profound.
‘It is the violin you have come for, not so?’
André opened his briefcase and took out a large, white envelope.
‘I have a signed affidavit here from Mrs Susan Summerscales, the owner of the violin. She has requested I return the violin to her in London as soon as possible.�
�
He placed the envelope on the desk and waited for Chief Superintendent Larbi to open it. But he merely glanced at the envelope, then slid it back towards André.
‘We have a saying here. We say, the wise are spoken to in proverbs, not in plain language.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi chuckled softly.
‘You have asked me for two things but you did not ask for either in plain language. First you asked for this Karabo’s release, although you are not her relative.’
He chuckled again like a teacher who, much to his amusement, has caught his pupil in wrongdoing.
‘Now you have asked me to give you the violin Karabo was arrested with. But once again your motives are unclear.’
His lips turned downwards in a steep frown. ‘Something about you puzzles me, Mr Potgieter.’
‘What’s that?’ André asked. Something unpleasant was about to happen but he did not know what it might be.
Chief Superintendent Larbi clasped his hands together and pressed his knuckles against his lips.
‘It puzzles me that your eyes are so lifeless when you ask about Karabo and yet they shine like a kerosene lamp whenever you speak of this violin.’
CHAPTER 49
André rubbed his eyes as if to erase the tell-tale gleam Chief Superintendent Larbi had observed.
‘I’m a violinist,’ André said simply. ‘I have played the violin all my life.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi looked surprised. It was as if to be a violinist was a very odd choice of profession.
‘Yes, I am,’ André said. He watched with bemusement as the chief superintendent hurried across to one of the cupboards next to his desk. He opened the wooden door with a key he retrieved from his pocket and took out a black leather case. André shivered despite the heat. It was the Guadagnini.
‘I was waiting for this day,’ Chief Superintendent Larbi said in a low, urgent voice, ‘and you, Mr Potgieter, are the answer to my prayers.’
‘I am?’ André asked, bewildered.
‘Why else would a violin end up here of all places? And an excellent violin at that.’ Then his shoulders sagged a little and he eyed André warily. ‘I’ve tried to play a little every afternoon before I go home,’ he said. ‘But of course I have no training. My posture is all wrong and my fingers are all over the place. But you …’ He gave André a sheepish look.
‘Here. Let me open it for you.’ Chief Superintendent Larbi flipped open the case and stood back with undisguised pride.
‘You can see how well I’ve looked after it,’ he said.
Indeed the Guadagnini looked as magnificent as ever. The wood glowed with a rare lustre that put the battered furniture in the office to shame. André stooped and lifted the violin carefully out of its case.
‘You’re right, it’s not damaged,’ he said after inspecting the violin. ‘Do you have the bow, by any chance?’
Chief Superintendent Larbi retrieved the bow from the cupboard. He gave it to André and said simply, ‘I am waiting.’
And, in response to André’s blank look: ‘To hear you play, Mr Potgieter. There is an undeniable symmetry to your appearance here today. I have a violin and cannot play while you have no violin but can.’
‘But it … it needs to be tuned properly first,’ André stammered. ‘I’ll have to take it away to do that.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not stupid, Mr Potgieter. If I were to give you the violin, you would never come back.’
‘You can trust me,’ André said.
‘Obviously, you haven’t been in Ghana for very long. Don’t be deceived by the legendary Ghanaian welcome they write about in travel brochures. You must have read one or two before you came?’
Andre nodded quickly.
‘You see, no one here trusts anyone else. It is as though all twenty-eight million of us live in a prison with walls built of mutual distrust.’ Then the chief superintendent snapped his fingers in a gesture of irritation. ‘I asked you to play something for me, Mr Potgieter.’
‘I … I can’t.’
‘What do you mean you can’t?’ The little man squinted at André with more disappointment than annoyance and as he looked at André, his voice grew low with wonder.
‘The light in your eyes …’ he said. ‘It is burning more brightly than ever.’
André looked around him despairingly. He longed more than anything to play the Guadagnini. He wanted to hold it close and feel the varnish tickle his nose. He yearned to caress the strings with the bow and draw the music out of it and send the notes soaring majestically into the sky where the engele lived. But he didn’t want to do it here. In the privacy of his hotel room perhaps, not with this strange man staring so intently at him. He’d seen the lust in the chief superintendent’s eyes. It made his mouth go slack and his body quiver in anticipation. It was grotesque to see and yet pitiful at the same time. If Chief Superintendent Larbi heard the Guadagnini played as it should, with compassion, verve and proficiency, he was certain the little man would never let it out of his sight.
‘Indulge me, Mr Potgieter.’
‘Very well,’ André replied. ‘But just a few notes. It will be out of tune and will not sound exactly right.’
‘I understand,’ Chief Superintendent Larbi said. He pushed his chair to the side of the desk and sat down where he could see better.
André closed his eyes and lifted the violin to his neck. He stood still and inhaled deeply through his nose as a smile spread across his face. He lifted the bow towards the violin and it had barely touched the strings when all of a sudden he heard a loud flapping. It was as if a large bird was trapped outside against the window. He spun around in alarm.
‘What was that?’
Chief Superintendent Larbi gave André a curious look.
‘I did not hear anything.’
Then a large shadow fell across the window and the thin cotton curtains grew dark.
‘Look!’ André whispered. He pointed urgently at the window. The shadow did not move; it remained pinned into place. And then the darkness lifted and he heard the sound of wings flapping again, powerful, slow and deliberate. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. As he watched, the curtains ballooned violently into the room, then fell back with a delicate tremor.
‘It was only the wind,’ Chief Superintendent Larbi said.
André’s hand tightened around the neck of the Guadagnini and his eyes were hunted and alert. ‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Yes,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘I’ll close the windows so we are not disturbed again.’
He was halfway out of his chair when André motioned for him to sit back down.
‘You are sweating,’ André said.
‘It is nothing. It is the heat.’
‘It was hot when I arrived. You were not sweating then.’
‘Are you interrogating me, Mr Potgieter?’
‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ André said softly.
‘I have no idea what you are referring to,’ the chief superintendent replied quickly.
André placed the violin back inside the case and crouched next to the little man.
‘I thought you looked fearful when I began to play. But it wasn’t the music you were afraid of, was it? It was the … shadow.’ He pointed at the window. ‘Has this happened before?’
‘I think you must leave, Mr Potgieter.’
‘You said you tried to play the violin every day, a few notes at a time. Why only a few notes? Why did you stop?’
‘I told you already. I was no good.’ The chief superintendent’s face contorted into a twisted mask of pleading. ‘Please, you must go now.’
‘I think you did not venture further because of what you saw, not because you could not play. This violin drives men mad with equal measures of fear and longing. You became like the boy who jabs a stick into a hole in the ground, simultaneously terrified by what might emerge yet intoxicate
d by the sheer thrill.’
The chief superintendent looked at André in astonishment. ‘How do you know this? It is as if you were here with me.’
André took a deep breath. ‘I know because I am like you,’ he said.
Chief Superintendent Larbi shook his head firmly. ‘No, I am not like you. I am a prison officer, while you are a trained violinist. I am black and you are white. Our lives could not be more different.’
‘And yet we share a unique gift,’ André said softly. ‘Tell me, does the engine oil in your car smell like D minor? Or your favourite cologne like A sharp? Do words or letters have their own special colour?’ André’s words gathered pace but his voice remained low and insistent. ‘Tell me, Chief Superintendent Larbi, what do you see when you hear music?’
The chief superintendent puckered his lips and contemplated this for a moment or two before answering.
‘I see shapes projected in the air.’ He took off his spectacles and mopped his face with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘They said it was the devil at work,’ he mumbled from behind the cloth. ‘So they prayed for me to be healed, to stop seeing these things that no one else could see. At one point everyone in our village was on their knees praying for me.’ A mangled cry tore its way out of his throat. ‘Can you imagine what all that attention does to a young boy?’
‘And did it work?’
Chief Superintendent Larbi blew his nose loudly and shook his head.
‘What happened after that?’
He looked up at André and tried to smile.
‘I grew up in Labadi,’ he said. ‘Have you been there?’
André nodded. He remembered the shimmering expanse of the sea and the near-deserted beach and Bediako’s excited cries that he had located the Guadagnini.
‘The men beat me until their arms grew tired. They were fishermen, you see, used to dragging heavy nets onto the shore. They were strong men. Very strong men indeed.’
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. The chief superintendent’s impish face had become lined and drawn.
