by Anne Simpson
He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Come.
Yea, though I walk through the valley —
No more holification from that one, said B.B.
Danjuma hooted. Bibblebabble, ho ho!
Jacob stopped praying. Clare was taken to the car, to the open trunk.
No, she said.
It was one thing to kneel and wait to be shot, another to be put in the trunk of a car.
Get into the boot, said the voice behind her and she realized it was B.B.
No.
A shot was fired into the ground beside her foot and she leapt in surprise as dirt sprayed against her feet, ankles, legs.
He laughed, fired again. Again she leapt; it was involuntary. The sound of the gun was like a whip.
She yelped.
He yelped in a high voice, mimicking her. He walked around her. He’d put on a cap, taken off the sunglasses. He was drunk, but he was enjoying firing the gun.
It made her angry. You should have respect, she said, knowing she should keep quiet. I am your sister; you’re my brother. You should have respect for me.
He turned surly. He motioned for her to get in, as if his hand were an extension of the gun.
She scrambled into the trunk. He closed it, dropping it down so it clunked shut. There was hardly room for her, even though she had made her body as small as possible.
She must have shouted without knowing it, because the trunk lid was opened.
It would be a big problem for you, she said. Big problem. To have a dead person in the boot of the car. She saw herself as she must look, curled up, barefoot, in the trunk of a car.
He laughed, slammed the trunk.
She could hear him telling the other two. Big problem, she heard. Hoots of laughter. Big problem for you.
It was hot inside the trunk. A coffin. She willed herself to stay calm.
Now they were talking, no, Thomas was talking to them in a reasonable voice. He was steady; he just kept talking and so long as he talked, she knew he was all right. She shivered, she needed to pee, but she focused on his voice. Now the others were talking to him, back and forth, back and forth, an interminable argument. But whenever Thomas spoke she knew the men must be listening to him, because they didn’t stop him.
Silence. She could smell the leather of Thomas’s suitcase. Something was jammed into the back of her head, maybe a handle. She waited for Thomas to start speaking again.
A popping — poppity-pop-pop-pop — like popcorn against the side of a covered pot. Shooting.
It stopped.
There was nothing at all. No sound.
Clare thought of Sophie, of what she used to say to her at night, when the light had been turned out. I love you so much. How she took Sophie in her arms, her warm, chubby child body.
The trunk was opened. Wallai, big problem, here she is. Come now, big problem, said Danjuma. Get out.
15
____
WHEN FELIX CALLED, he told Simon they hadn’t had success at the border.
Sorry-o, said Simon. You can certainly stay with me when you get to Lagos.
If you’re at all worried about safety we’ll go somewhere else.
What? No, it’s not a problem. There are a few people coming over here anyway. You can join us.
Well, the deputy governor of Niger State was on the news. He said it gave anyone the right —
That whole business has been nixed by the president, Simon told him. Obasanjo. That’s the end of it, end of the fatwa.
I don’t know if that’s the end, but, yes, it’s better for Sophie.
Sophie could hear the exhaustion in Felix’s voice. How weary he sounded.
When they finally got to Lagos it was dark and by then Felix was making small mistakes, mistiming things so that a man on a motorbike almost clipped them in an intersection. They hadn’t really slept the night before, and they’d been in the car for hours at the border during the full glare of the day. They arrived at Simon’s to the thrum and din of music that had been turned up so the bass whumped inside Sophie’s head. Nothing was as she remembered. It didn’t seem like the same place, that spacious condo, painted yellow gold. Simon was having a party; he hadn’t just invited a few people over. Standing at the entrance, wobbly with fatigue, Sophie saw her own dazed self in the sunburst of a mirror, couldn’t figure out why she was wearing a potato sack of a dress and a scarf over her hair. She shivered. The air conditioning had turned the hallway into Austria in January.
Someone floated into the hall.
Hi, she said to them, Simon said you’d be coming. She put her hands up on either side of Felix’s face, and her chiffon sleeves slid down her slim dark arms. She kissed him on both cheeks, and did the same to Sophie, and Sophie felt grimy, unwashed, but somehow welcome, perfumed by her. The woman was a butterfly gliding out to the balcony through the French doors.
Who was that? murmured Sophie.
Aurora, said Felix. She’s with Simon.
He went to find Simon, but Sophie stayed where she was.
A man was speaking German or Dutch to a woman in the kitchen, and he leaned toward her under the pot rack that hung from the ceiling, with its gleaming copper pots. He was trying to make himself heard over the music. The bubble of his glass, with the garnet-dark wine tipped inside it, went up to his lips and back down to the counter. Sophie could smell a whiff of something good in the pot on the stove, maybe red wine sauce. The woman turned from the man and gave the pot a languid stir; he came from behind and kissed her bare shoulder.
A screech of traffic in the street, horns, someone shouting: the people on the balcony came inside and closed the French doors. The couple in the kitchen didn’t notice. The woman’s face was half-hidden, but she appeared to be smiling as the man kissed her neck. Sophie felt far from them, and close at the same time, as if the man were kissing her own neck. How easy and how strange it was to drift off from herself, from the woman reflected in the broad, round face of the hall mirror that would have made anyone happy, rimmed as it was by golden rays. But what was Sophie doing here? The odd part, the mystery, was that she was still in Nigeria, when she was supposed to be somewhere else. She was supposed to be in Cotonou in Benin, soon to fly to Frankfurt on her way home to Halifax, but she hadn’t gone anywhere, except around in a circle that went out of Lagos to Abeokuta and Imeko, and back to Lagos.
Then the man in the kitchen turned, saw Sophie. Maybe he was trying to place her.
Sophie stepped back, out of sight.
Soph, you’re here, said Simon, when he came into the hall. He wrapped her in his arms. I’m sorry about everything.
At least that’s what Sophie thought he said, but she couldn’t be entirely sure because of the music.
Oh, look what I’ve done, he said.
It’s all right, she said. I’m just tired. She wiped her eyes. It’s good to see you, Simon.
It was hardly what you’d call a border crossing, said Felix. It was a hole in the wall, but we thought she’d get through.
Those guys are from the bush, said Simon. Imeko bush. They were messing with you.
They said the number on my passport was a bad number, said Sophie.
They throw their weight around in places like that, thinking they can get away with it. He strode down the hall and opened a door. There, you can unpack, freshen up. Take your time.
The guest room had its own bathroom. Sophie kicked off her sandals and dropped on the bed. You go first, she said to Felix, waving a hand.
She drowsed for a few minutes, opened her eyes when Felix came out after showering. He put on his trousers.
She roused herself and sat up. You must be dead tired, she said.
I’m all right. You?
Everything seems strange, sort of unreal.
She rose and went into the bathroom, showering in a glassy cube under a warm-hot spray of water. When she came out, Felix had fallen on the bed without havi
ng put on a shirt. Sophie was still damp; she hadn’t dried her hair; she unwrapped the towel and left it on the floor, a swirled cream puff, and nestled next to him. He turned, pulled her close, not minding her wet hair. The music had stopped, and they basked in the silence.
Sophie relaxed in Felix’s arms. They’d pointed to the number in her passport, telling her something was wrong. No, nothing was wrong with that number. Her government had issued it to her. There was nothing wrong with her passport. Did they see? No, they didn’t, the number was wrong. Now somebody put the music on again; it woke Sophie. It was a tune she recognized, but couldn’t name; it was under her ribs, inside her head, reverberating. A woman was singing, Oh, you, electric eel, my electric eel, but that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t the right number. It was wrong. Sophie dozed against Felix’s body, his arm around her. She wanted only to be here, lying here, even though the song drilled through their heads.
They half-slept, half-woke, half-slept. Sometime later, Felix got up, put on a shirt, and padded down the hall, leaving the door a little ajar. Quiet. It was finally quiet. Sophie got up, hair still coiled and wet, leaving a dampness on the pillow. Cold from the air conditioning, she put on the fluffy, thick bathrobe that hung on a hook in the bathroom, though it was odd to put on such a thing in a tropical country.
When she appeared in the living room, it was just Aurora and Simon and Felix there, talking quietly. Aurora was on the brown leather couch with one foot in Simon’s lap. He was leaning over, talking seriously to Felix, one hand having paused in the stroking of Aurora’s foot. They were drinking brandy in belled glasses, except for Aurora, whose eyes were half-closed. Felix ran his hand down his face. I don’t know, he was saying. They didn’t notice Sophie until she came and sat in a chair next to the couch.
Soph, said Simon. Would you like something? Cointreau? Scotch? Brandy?
She hadn’t wanted anything, but now she asked for Scotch.
Simon drew Aurora’s foot away from his lap and got up. Neat or on the rocks? Or maybe a little water?
I don’t know — I never have Scotch, she said. Neat, I guess.
Neat it will be, said Simon. You have to catch the moment as it flies, wouldn’t you say, Soph?
Sophie looked at him, but he was hunting in a cupboard for the Scotch.
Felix said, Sophie doesn’t have any idea about your project.
It’s a hare-brained scheme, said Aurora unexpectedly. It was hard to imagine such a floaty butterfly having such a strong, willful voice.
What scheme? said Sophie.
I’ve been talking to Felix about my idea of going to Minna, said Simon, having located the Scotch. He put the tube-shaped box on the counter and pulled out the bottle. Don’t jump to conclusions.
Minna! exclaimed Sophie. That’s where the rioting is.
Simon handed her a very small tumbler of Scotch. She looked down at the liquid in the glass, the amber-dark colour of guilt. How could she drink it? It made her think of Charles Oluwasegun. Thank you, she said. She put the glass down on the coffee table made of a carved plank of teak, put it down carefully, firmly, to put Charles Oluwasegun out of her mind.
Simon’s doing a documentary, said Felix quietly.
It has the potential for people to take us seriously, Simon said.
No one would go to Minna, not right now, said Aurora.
Sophie was awake, fully awake, her heart tat-tat-tatting its assault. Aurora’s right. It’s crazy. Simon, it’s crazy.
Not entirely, said Simon calmly, reasonably. We’ll take precautions. We won’t go into the areas where they’re fighting.
We? said Sophie.
I need Felix’s help. I’ve been wanting to do a really good piece, something that is politically significant. This is it. This is the moment to do it.
Sophie looked at Felix. But you won’t go, Felix.
Felix didn’t answer, and for the second time that day she felt a jolt of anger. Her entire body was alight, incandescent.
I’ve got another mobile lying around, said Simon. You’ll have that, Soph, and we’ll be in touch with you. We’ll put Felix’s car in my parking place, in case you need it. You’re safe as houses in this place. Security cameras, the whole nine yards.
The way Simon said the whole nine yards made his proposal seem perfectly acceptable. As with the fatwa, he believed it was just a minor inconvenience, like having a fly in the room. It could be managed. She was in Lagos, after all, not Kaduna. He had a satin-smooth face, and a smile that set anyone at ease. Felix, on the other hand, could be inscrutable, his expression almost fierce at times, as it was now, so that he didn’t seem gentle even though he was the gentler, quieter of the two of them. They were so close they could have been brothers, and of course Felix had to accompany Simon on the trip into the madness. Of course.
Felix knows the code for the condo, Simon said. But I’ll be sure to show you before we leave — and we’ll just be gone for the day.
I won’t be going out, said Sophie.
BY EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning they were gone. Felix and Simon to Minna, Aurora to her own condo. She was the last to leave; she slung a huge orange purse over her shoulder and kissed Sophie. Come with me, she said. I’ve got room at my place.
Sophie shook her head.
Try not to think about them, Aurora said.
We had an argument.
It’s all right. You two will be all right. Felix adores you. Aurora kissed her again and went out the door, holding it open with her knee. Call me if — call me anytime. My number’s on that mobile Simon gave you.
It was impossible not to think about them. Sophie put away the dishes from the night before; she ran the dishwasher.
It’s stupid, she’d said to Felix. Goddamn it, it’s stupid to do this. She lay in bed, at two in the morning, raging at him quietly, in a non-screaming screaming voice. Nothing he said could placate her.
How can you go there? she said.
Simon needs me. He sighed. It won’t be for long, he added. You’ll be okay here.
This isn’t about me. I’ll be fine, she said. But I won’t be fine thinking of you there. You might not be fine.
She was too proud to say she was also worried about being left alone.
So it went on, and they grew more unkind with each other, until Felix said she was the one who — and bit off the rest of what he was about to say. Sophie gripped his arm. She turned on the light and leaned over him.
The one who what? Started all this?
Felix didn’t speak and rolled over to sleep, and after that he left with Simon, though first he gave her his car keys and told her he’d let her know when they got there, speaking to her as if she were across a river, somewhere in the distance.
He’d kissed her, Simon had kissed her, Aurora had kissed her. Twice. Told her not to think about them. But how could she not? Simon, Felix, Simon, Felix. Couldn’t they just let her know they were fine? But no. And Sophie would not, no, she would not call either one of them. She took out the phone Simon had lent her and called her mother instead. No answer — she left a voice mail. Call me. She paced the hall into the kitchen, around the blocky leather furniture of the living room past the French doors to the balcony. Call me — I’m not where you think I am. The large abstract painting in the living room was too brazen. And what was it, really? A vortex of yellow, orange, red, with a large indigo-purple smudge just off to the side. She began to detest it as she circled through the hall, kitchen, living room, hall. The painting in the living room, the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. Felix adores you. Painting, clock. Simon, Felix, Simon, Felix. Where was her mother? There was something in the painting. The smudge was not just a smudge; it was an animal, a shadowy creature deep in the yellows and reds of the canvas. She returned to the kitchen, opened the fridge; the light inside went off; she closed the fridge. No power. Off went the breezy air conditioning with a clunk, and the clock on the microwave began blinking in agitation. Do something, it shrieked. Do something
, do something.
Too much had happened all at once, and now, nothing. Nothing except the small sounds her body made, her stomach growling because she hadn’t eaten. When had she last talked to her mother? In Abeokuta. And when was that? She sat down in the kitchen on the pale, honey-blond of the flooring, maybe bamboo, and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. She wanted her mother beside her, explaining what to do next. Her mother was sitting next to her for an instant, stroking her hair, and then she wasn’t. And because her mother vanished, she wanted Felix’s arms around her, or just his hand on her shoulder. And where was Felix now? Simon’s phone would not ring no matter how she willed it to ring. She called Felix, but he didn’t answer. She was alone, alone, alone.
She called her mother again.
If she couldn’t talk to her mother, she could talk to her uncle, and her uncle would do something to put her in touch with her mother. She knew her Uncle Thomas’s number, didn’t she? She tried, but it was wrong. No, it was the three before the five — she tried again.
Hello?
Is that Aunt Monica?
Sophie?
I’m wondering about Mom —
Sophie, is that you? Where are you?
I’m in Lagos.
But we thought you were in Abeokuta.
I was, but —
Monica raced on. Your mother and Thomas have gone to meet you. You said you’d be with Felix’s sister, and we all thought you’d be better off with us.
I was with Felix’s sister, Sophie recalled. It seemed so long ago they’d discussed this. The truth was that she’d forgotten about her mother and uncle. At the border, she hadn’t remembered to get in touch with her mother as Felix suggested, and later it slipped her mind when they returned to Lagos. Now she felt sick.
— they left yesterday morning after church, Monica was saying. Thomas called last evening from Onitsha to say they would stop there for the night, but since then I haven’t heard from him.
And I can’t get hold of Mom to tell her I’m in Lagos, Sophie said. She doesn’t pick up, and she almost always picks up when I call.
No, and Thomas — the same. I’ve rung and rung him and still no answer.
