Speechless

by Anne Simpson

  Oh, we’re one short, said Caroline, rising. She went to the cabinet, but there were no more flutes, so she took a wine glass instead.

  Sophie was seated beside a journalist for the BBC, Fabian Beck. He listened to her talk about her work at The Daily Leader, and he asked one question after another, genuinely wanting to know more. There were tiny, scattered pockmarks on his cheeks, but when he smiled and his irregular features aligned — long nose, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes — he seemed less forbidding, not as old as he’d seemed at first.

  Are you working on a story? asked Sophie.

  Ah, he said, almost curtly, as if he didn’t want to talk about himself. It’s about a controversial verdict in a case —

  A’isha Nasir, said Sophie.

  Yes. That’s the one.

  There must be something that can be done for her, she said.

  It’s our job to tell the news, not change it, he said.

  She can’t just be abandoned.

  It was strange that Fabian Beck looked like exactly like the place he came from, thought Sophie. A field, blanketed in new snow, at the edge of the North Sea: white, blue, and slate grey.

  She’d picked up her salad fork absently and was pressing the tines into the palm of her hand. I’d like to cover that story. And so — ?

  They’ve given it to someone else, someone senior.

  George broke in. The Nasir case? Are you covering that one, Fabian?

  I’ll be going there.

  Paiko? said George. It’ll be a feat if you can get someone to talk to you. I mean, I’m Yoruba and I’d have a hard time. They’re all Hausa there — a reticent bunch. And A’isha Nasir would be protected from people like you, I imagine.

  Fabian shrugged. I’ll have to try.

  There’s been a great deal of talk, said Caroline. We’re wondering if this is a watershed moment. I cover up from head to toe when I leave the house now, she went on. Maybe soon I’ll never go out.

  Sophie clenched her salad fork. It’s different for A’isha, she burst out.

  Clare looked at her daughter.

  Well, it is different, Sophie said. She drew in a breath, put down her fork. I’m sorry, she said to Caroline.

  Caroline shook her head and her bright curls bobbed. She waved her hand.

  I don’t know about this case, said Clare.

  A Hausa girl in Paiko, Niger State — Thomas began.

  Yes, I know Niger State.

  This girl, A’isha Nasir, has been given a controversial sentence for adultery.

  Sentenced to death, added Fabian. There’s to be an appeal.

  I don’t know what sort of appeal it will be, said Thomas. The lawyers have dropped it like a hot potato.

  You see? said Sophie. She has no champion.

  Imagine waiting until the child is weaned.

  I don’t understand, said Clare.

  A’isha Nasir has given birth to a child, Monica explained. Evidence of her adultery, apparently. They’re allowing her to nurse it, so they’re waiting until the baby’s weaned before the sentence is carried out.

  Clare looked from one to the other.

  Her case was tried under shariah law, said Thomas.

  For so long it’s been one set of laws, explained Monica.

  Yes, said Clare. Nigerian common law.

  The British came and gave us the Great Gift of Law, Monica went on. Honestly. But now many of the northern states have instituted shariah law. Thomas has been studying shariah law for quite a few years now, just to understand it, but it’s completely foreign to me, all this. Anyway, the North is a country unto itself. As for Ibos — well, I truly believe we should secede from Nigeria.

  Thomas laughed. You’d have to secede from me, in that case.

  Monica smiled.

  He fingered the edge of his plate. It’s because my birth mother was Hausa that I want to understand shariah law. How will these two systems of law play out over the long term: Nigerian common law and shariah law?

  It remains to be seen, said George. I suspect there will be violence.

  Caroline stood up, brows furrowed, and went into the kitchen to see about the shrimp salad.

  But in this case, there’s a child, said Clare quietly. Doesn’t that change things?

  THE SALAD PLATES had been taken away and the main course of meat was set down before them, grilled to perfection, lightly drizzled in sauce.

  The eyes of the world are on this girl, said Fabian. I hope she is able to stand the attention.

  Indeed, said Thomas. By the way, it looks delicious.

  Good beef is hard to get, said Caroline. The price has gone up.

  Sophie pushed her rice into a hill, eating and prodding, eating and prodding, though the julienned carrots were tender and the sautéed mushrooms velvety. Carrots were grown in Nigeria, but they weren’t always easy to find in the markets. Mushrooms made her think of cool, damp forests. She hadn’t seen such an array of vegetables since she’d left Canada more than a year before.

  You’re a journalist now, Sophie, boomed George. Surely you’ll write something about A’isha Nasir.

  Sophie gathered herself. I’d like to, she said.

  She might relate to you, said Fabian.

  The conversation moved in another direction. Thomas told them a story about his friend who had been learning Swedish while going through his divorce.

  Swedish? said Caroline.

  You can imagine what he sounds like, laughed Monica.

  Ditt jävla ålahuvud, Thomas said, looking at Clare. Everyone at the table burst out laughing.

  What? said Clare.

  THEY WERE PREPARING TO LEAVE the motel in Pleasant Bay when Sophie saw her father fall, and she ran to him where he lay sprawled by the car. She pressed her hand to his neck trying to find a pulse, she shouted for help, but he’d walked out of his life into the blaze of morning. Her mother came outside, sank to her knees and called to him, called him back.

  Gavin. Gavin!

  He was going grey.

  Sophie got out of the way, standing up to see her grandmother at the open door of the motel room, small and frail and white, with the shadowy, boxy forms of the twin beds behind her, and on the wall the pale oblong of a mirror, which exactly outlined her form.

  Grandma, said Sophie.

  Her grandmother didn’t move, as if imprisoned in the silvery liquid of the mirror.

  My goodness, said Monica. Such food!

  A feast, said Thomas.

  Sophie went to her grandmother and put her arms around her, but all her grandmother did was to lift her waxy face to Sophie’s.

  We’ll get him to a hospital, Sophie whispered.

  A soft, strangled noise from her grandmother. Tears on her lined skin. Exactly like his father, she murmured. Like Malcolm.

  Oh, Grandma.

  Sophie held her grandmother like a child. She kissed her cheek, or tried to, and kissed her ear instead.

  She returned to her mother, who was sitting back on her heels, rocking slightly. Clare wiped her face on her sleeve, and kept on with the compressions, counting them under her breath.

  Now she’d tell Sophie what to do.

  I can’t begin to thank you, said Clare. You’ve been so good to us.

  5

  ___

  SOPHIE SCANNED THE LOBBY of the hotel, draped in white curtains, glittering with an oversized chandelier, and sighed.

  We’re doing this for Simon, remember. Felix took her arm.

  But they’re all so — that one in red. Can you see her heels? Does she have feathers on them?

  None of them hold a candle to you.

  Sophie laughed. She smoothed the navy-blue material of her dress. I’m the only woman here who doesn’t have foot-high heels.

  You’re the only woman who won’t fall on her face.

  I could. You could skate on that floor.

  The floor was glossy green marble with white streaks snaking through valleys and mountains, as if another country existed be
low their feet. A fountain in the centre of the lobby was made of the same marble, topped with a statue of a voluptuous woman holding a pitcher, out of which no water poured since the fountain wasn’t working.

  Don’t look at your phone — your mobile — okay? Sophie said. And don’t leave me too long.

  I won’t.

  But a woman in a creamy gown had already taken note of Felix, and she extended her neck the way a swan might, rising out of water.

  Felix. She didn’t waver on her heels as she approached; she balanced beautifully, spreading her arms. Oh, Felix!

  Sophie left them. Oh, Felix! she muttered, stepping outside.

  On the patio the mild air was thick with the musky fragrance of flowers: the pale shapes of lilies were almost invisible in the shadows. Tables had been covered with white cloths, small lanterns shed a soft light at the base of almond and banana trees, and the trunk of an acacia had been wound around with strings of diamond-bright glimmerings. A few of the hotel workers were busy putting chairs at the tables, and a man was methodically setting out cutlery at each place.

  Madam, said a crisply uniformed woman polishing glasses. It is not yet open for the awards banquet.

  I’d just like to sit. Do you mind?

  The woman nodded at a young man, who put a chair near a banana tree, out of the way of the tables.

  Sophie? Is that Sophie?

  Yes.

  It was Charles Oluwasegun, the editor at The Daily Leader.

  Oh, she said, jumping up.

  No, no. Stay where you are. I’ll get you a glass of wine — would you like something? White or red? White?

  He spoke rapidly to a young man, the same one who had got a chair for Sophie. Charles lifted a chair by its delicately wrought back, and swung it into place beside her, and within moments, the young man returned with two drinks. He gave a goblet of wine to Sophie and a tumbler of Scotch to Charles.

  Now I’ll be out of the way while my wife does her rounds. Charles unbuttoned his white jacket and relaxed against the chair. She likes these events, but I don’t.

  I don’t either, admitted Sophie.

  But you’re young. Young and —

  Young and — ? She laughed.

  Young and full of ideas. You should be mingling.

  A waiter had gone beyond his orbit and discovered them. He offered fried scallops wrapped in prosciutto.

  Ah, said Charles, snatching up several of them, together with a small square of napkin.

  I do have ideas, said Sophie.

  Charles quickly ate the scallops and leaned back. He pushed his glasses up onto his head where the light caught the lenses, turning them into miniature moons.

  Yes, young people always do, he said. They have many more ideas than middle-aged people like myself. Perhaps I should say old people like myself. He glanced around for the waiter. This dinner will not begin for hours, you know, and then there will be speeches that will make us fall asleep. He turned back to Sophie.

  My mother used to say that where you sit when you are old reveals where you stood when you were young, he went on. A Yoruba saying. She was reminding me that I could go away to college in Washington, but not to forget. He laughed, a deep bass laugh. First and foremost, she wanted me to remember her. The waiter passed by with more fried scallops and Charles beckoned him.

  Yet if we do not have those who love us, what do we have? He took a heaping portion of appetizers from the waiter, and now he tried to contain them on his small napkin. Your own mother and father, he said. Tell me about them.

  My mother’s visiting Nigeria for a month. She grew up here.

  And your father?

  My father died a few years ago.

  He smoothed his jacket. I am sorry. My sympathies.

  Sophie felt a stinging in her eyes.

  They sat watching a young woman hitch up the tablecloth skirt at the head table with a gold decoration, measure off a few paces and fasten another gold decoration, between which the white cloth drooped in a pretty arc. Another waiter, or perhaps the young woman’s supervisor, came along and twitched the cloth loose in one place, and spoke in her ear so she laughed as she fixed it.

  My own mother passed away, Charles said. She was full of joy, full of good humour. Many, many people came to our village for her funeral. In Nigeria funerals are significant events, you see, like weddings, or naming ceremonies. Everyone appears at funerals, even those who hardly knew the person, he laughed.

  He sat for a while without speaking. My mother died of cancer, and she was in pain, but the way she died didn’t make me a pessimist. If anything, she showed me how to die well.

  He ate the remaining scallops, one by one.

  I always think of my mother, and her good life, even though her husband had abandoned her to raise six children by herself. I hear her laughing — a big laugh. She’d cover her face. She couldn’t stop laughing.

  Sophie’s own mother sometimes laughed until tears ran down her face, rocking backwards and forwards mutely.

  He stood up, settling his glasses back on his nose. So I can’t believe we should live without hope.

  He held his glass tumbler by its rim, as if it were a ball he was going to drop and kick. I must leave you to look for my wife, who feels she must talk to everyone.

  Mr. Oluwasegun. Sophie leaned forward.

  Please, call me Charles.

  Charles. Mr. Oluwasegun, I have an idea.

  Oh ho, an idea! He put down his glass on the table, his gaze fixed on her. I am all ears. He cupped his hands on either side of his ears.

  She laughed.

  I will be serious, he said. Tell me your idea.

  I would like very much to do the story on A’isha Nasir. Sophie’s words spilled out in a rush.

  That assignment has been given to Maryam Maidoya, as you know. Charles became formal. She is one of our senior writers. And, of course, she speaks Hausa, which —

  Yes, I know, Sophie faltered. But A’isha and I are both young women. Maybe I could talk to her.

  He gave her a penetrating look. Do you think so? He swirled the remaining Scotch around the bottom of his glass.

  Sophie sipped her white wine, but her hand was trembling.

  Let me be blunt, he said. You came here from Canada on a plane. A’isha Nasir will probably never travel in a plane, not now, anyway. She is Muslim. You are not. You’re white; she’s black. You are worlds apart. He held up his empty glass as if to mark the close of the conversation.

  So you think —

  I think that your life is very different from A’isha’s.

  Does that mean I can’t do anything? I’m a woman. Surely I could do something on her behalf? You just said you didn’t believe we should live without hope, she said.

  You think you can give her hope?

  I didn’t mean that.

  You are young and idealistic. However, I will talk to Maryam. Maybe she will let you accompany her.

  Thank you, sir. Mr. Oluwasegun.

  He straightened his jacket, which was a little tight across his middle when he buttoned it.

  It’s not merely a story, you understand. It’s someone’s life.

  Sophie nodded.

  It was his white jacket that moved away from her through the gloom, as if the jacket did not belong to him and had floated free. Then he came to the lit doors and stepped inside.

  SOPHIE HAD LISTENED TO too many speeches and indulged in too much rich food, so that later, when she lay in bed, she felt nauseous. She lay straight and still as Felix slept beside her, and she waited for her stomach to settle. It was all she could do to turn her head so she could look at his back, solid as a wall. He was so worldly. He’d lived in the United States for years; he’d learned how to make films in California, and he’d become quite good at film editing before he turned to screenwriting. He’d lived in Paris for a while, and he spoke French, but he told her he spoke it badly. She was sure he spoke it well. He said things women wanted to hear, and she was certain he’d h
ad women coming out his ears.

  She was in an unknown country, and it made her think of the marbled green floor, with its rivers rushing white. It was strange to be here, altogether strange, but by coming here she had met Felix.

  And she trusted him. She’d moved in with him.

  After they’d returned from the banquet, Felix had taken off her dress and let it slide to the floor, the slippery navy-blue dress. He held her lightly by the shoulders and she shivered.

  Let me look at you, he said, as she made to bend and pick up the dress. Your shoes seem just right without the dress.

  No —

  Shhh. Perfect shoes. They don’t need feathers.

  She laughed.

  He touched her hips with his hands, gently, moving them up and down the curve of her waist. He traced the lacework that edged the top of her panties and messed her hair so it fell in front of her face, and then he put his hands on her buttocks and slid them down her thighs. He got down on his knees and let his hands travel down to her ankles. He unbuckled the straps of her high-heeled sandals. She watched him with the small buckles: his large hands. Left, then right. She stepped out of them and he stood up.

  Mmmm. He brushed back her hair and kissed her forehead.

  Sometimes I don’t know where you stop and where I start, he said. I disappear, you disappear.

  I don’t think I want to disappear.

  What I’m trying to say is that it’s larger than both of us.

  She felt it too, the largeness of it, the overwhelming sweetness of it. And she knew what he meant, though she couldn’t say it the way he could. It was vast, a galaxy, no end to it.

  He sighed and took her hand. I know it can be kind of thorny sometimes. Simon had something to say about it.

  He did? Tonight?

  Not tonight. He just asked if I knew what I was getting into.

  And what did you say?

  I said I thought I did.

  They’d talked about her. She moved away from Felix, got into bed. He got into bed, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table, and picked up his book. The tender moment between them vanished. She lay still on her side of the bed, arms at her sides.