Butterfly Fish (22 page)

She put her hand on her head uncertainly and her lips curved realising it provided shade.

“See?” Sully continued. “Not so bad after all.”

She touched a braid poking out, rubbing the kinky hair that had somehow partially unravelled. “Why are you in Benin?” she asked, slapping away the fly she had one eye on, listening to the soft trickle of water, the gentle crackling of the surrounding bush. He turned foreign, cool green eyes at her. “Why is anybody in Benin? I'm a man of adventure. My travels led me here. I have to tell you, that hat looks much better on you than it did on the Chinaman, beautifully turned out fellow that he was. He looked like an Emperor, gave me opium too. I never did ask him how he got the hat.”

Adesua did not know who a “Chinaman” was or what “turned out” meant or what “opium” was. Some kind of seasoning for food maybe? She did not ask for fear of appearing ignorant. She knew this shifty stranger would add it to his arsenal of weapons, using it against her when she least expected. She took those funny sayings to be yet more unusual things from this strange man with the crooked smile and unsettling ways.

Later when they caught the silvery fish, Adesua was struck by how quick Sully was, striking with the spear while she was still trying to follow its movements. He made her hold it down on the riverbank.
It felt cool and smooth, a watery distance shrunk in its gaze. He tied it with some string. “For the palace cook! When you eat this tonight, you'll remember our time here,” he said, holding it up.

On the way back, she kept the hat on to stay cool, following his lead, his easy manner. He whistled, occasionally peppering their silence with bits of information about the forest's inhabitants; ladybirds, lizards, snakes, throwing curious, loaded looks her way. A molten heat began to spread through her body. She could hear each sound fully, intensely; his long strides eating through the ground, her damp wrapper dripping into the earth, watering the heads of creatures underneath, her breath lined with unspoken things. She watched the curve of the fish's mouth, remembered it bucking against the stones, struggling to breathe and at that moment, imagining it turning blind in one eye from the brightness of the light. She returned his hat just before they snuck back into the palace separately, their chests expanding with the weight of new secrets.

And all the way back to her quarters, she thought about her treacherous braid coming undone in the wide-brimmed brown hat.

Adesua responded to the call at night. It winged its way across the palace grounds and she sat up restless. Listening, she succumbed to it. It rumbled its intentions and she only paused to gather fragments of her resolve with a scented cloth laced with coconut oil. She followed the call. She counted out her steps to the rhythm of it, as it skirted along the empty trail that led to the main palace. She was so light; if someone laughed it would surely carry her away. She went on past the high iron gates abandoned by distracted guards and rounded the backside of the servant quarters brimming with people. Past the servant quarters, the call tested her, she came to a threshold, a low wall, and beyond it in the near distance was a small, familiar building surrounded by shrubbery. She could make out the outline of a man, and the building behind him was glowing amber approval. She could hear her breaths and the faint thrum of
hundreds of caterpillars hatching out of their cocoons and she was crushing them with each step towards Sully's quarters, leaving a trail of squashed, meshed, butterflies spilling colours.

Sully was waiting for her. The sky seemed wider, open with longing, the stars twitching in their ceiling. In that sweet darkness, with only the elegy of the grasshoppers nudging them on, in the clammy anticipation of the night air, she wilted as Sully's face close to hers, naked with intent, seemed to block all that surrounded her. Somewhere on the palace roof her caution plunged down. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, holding his head to the rise and fall of her chest. In the dark, his green eyes seemed bewitching, calming. His beard was rough on her skin. He kissed a trail down her firm stomach, then further down still, till his head was buried between her legs. His tongue softened the bud there. Then he caressed her belly button, running his tongue back up, murmuring her name in slow seductive chants. He held both breasts, chuckling; he named them.

Behind the curtain of a mist that made the palace dewy, as though it were floating in a giant watermark freshly wet, two ghosts peered through. The blurry figures of Oba Odion's father Oba Anuje and his hanged childhood friend Ogiso were keeping busy, spinning a curse so potent, it whipped through the grounds gathering momentum and snatching solace from its unwitting bearers.

Made up of bitter punishments, things left unsaid and repercussions that couldn't be undone, it continued to spin an invisible web over the walls. Between pillars and under the noses of the palace inhabitants, this was a curse that would travel on the back of time, out-shadow shadows and lie in wait at corners where really good fortunes rounded.

The two ghosts stilled their fading fingers and admired their handiwork. Now, there was a fine colourless film sticking to the palace that only they could see. Sometimes, they forgot what they were; there were holes where their hearts used to be. If you looked through them it would turn your eyes bloodshot with scraggly
thin lines darting across it. Red lightening in eyeballs, they began to whistle, a charming melody sounding both familiar and new. When dawn came, some people would wake up whistling it too, not knowing why. When the palace was like that, in that silence, it was beautiful. And there were things you could see in that light; like the servant girl who wouldn't live past twenty seasons, the small boy who couldn't stop chewing his thumb, he didn't know it but one day it would just fall off. And the dwarf court entertainer who couldn't stop dreaming of a certain councilman's wife. The ghosts stopped their whistling and paused, after they had cast words that would rain down woes, they savoured the moment because it was a joyous thing! The mist was starting to disappear. They listened to the snoring of the sleeping palace, yet to yawn out its share of crusty, smelly morning breath. And strangely, there was a comfort in that.

Footnote Parables

In Harlesden people milled about. It was a spring day and cocoa buttered brown skinned beauties were out in all their bare-limbed glory, ready to lure willing victims with the promise of their sweetness. I felt under dressed in my scuffed Converse trainers, ripped faded jeans and Betty Boo t-shirt. My head was full with revelations, family secrets that were severed fingers lying on my carpet crooking their way towards me.

Mervyn lived a walking distance away from his practice. On his road in full Technicolor, men sported versions of green, gold and white string vests, standing in groups outside gates catching blaring music beats. I was amazed; here were neighbours in London who spoke to each other. Mervyn's house had cobblestone-like walls. Stunted sprigs of grass with no ambition grew in the small, concrete jungle of his front yard and the oval black gate creaked. He answered on the third knock.

“Hey princess! I'm glad you made it man.” I was swallowed into his hug and immediately picked up the smell of grilled meats.

“Can't miss a good barbecue.”

I handed over a bottle of white wine that had been sweating in my cupboard for weeks. In the hallway, I stepped over children with missing teeth and mouths full of sweets. Armed with crayons, they huddled over drawing books. A Lover's Rock tune was playing on
the stereo. “Wha gwaan sis?” A man with a long beard dressed in an African print shirt said. He was holding a plate of curry goat and rice as if it was his last supper. I was impressed that he managed to peel his eyes off it to say hello.

“Leon, Joy,” Mervyn said by way of introduction. In the living room, more bodies were gathered on Mervyn's cream leather sofa. People were leaning on walls chatting between bites of crisp salad and patty. There were some elders sitting at a table talking about cricket and sipping rum. I nodded respectfully as Mervyn went to the kitchen to get me a drink, rum and coke for starters. You could smell the barbecue in the garden from the living room. I knew I only had to walk out through the kitchen door and into the neat, well-kept back garden to find succulent pieces of chicken browning on the barbecue flavoured with spices. Mervyn loved his food.

I sipped the drink Mervyn gave me casually but underneath, thoughts of Peter Lowon were cooking in my brain, sizzling and spitting. I couldn't quite get my head around the fact that my grandfather had participated in a murder, drunk or not. Maybe my family were cursed and it was just a matter of time before I got dragged down with everybody else.

Mervyn had a brand new fitted kitchen that didn't so much wow as comfort. A warm, homely space kitted out in wooden cupboards and grey marble-like countertops. There were trays of food spread out like elaborate Japanese fans. I grabbed a plate. Jerk chicken with barbecue sauce beckoned, ackee and salt fish in a big glass bowl, steamed fish and vegetables, plain white rice, salad, rice and peas and fried plantain. I served a good portion on my plate and tucked in. It was a nice day for a gathering; Mervyn was the sort of man who never lacked company. If I stopped by at two am I could guarantee there would be strays wandering in and out of the house. I parked myself on a stool at the counter; more rum and coke was needed.

In the garden, Mervyn stood at the barbecue comfortably flipping chicken sausages and lamb burgers, affably passing his laughter
around as if it were napkins. I happened upon him from the back, my shadow following his baldhead.

“You alright princess?” he turned to face me, still poking a sausage.

“Yeah, this is a nice do, great food, thanks for inviting me.” A few people bit into their hot dogs wholeheartedly.

“Hmm, but that's not why you came is it?” he smiled astutely. I made a show of feigning ignorance, wrinkling my nose and attempting the blank eyed look. “What? No.”

“Yes, I know you, can't get you down these ends on most days.”

“About my mother.”

“Ahah! I knew it.” He stepped away from the barbecue to give me his full attention. Now the Staple Singers were playing, waiting to do it again.

“Did she talk about her father much?” Internally I smoothed his puzzled expression as pieces slotted into place.

“Not really. You been reading that diary?” he said.

“I think I might need your help.”

“Oh yeah? What for?”

“I don't know yet, I'm just warning you in advance.”

“So you need my help but you don't know what for? You're a strange girl you know that.”

“What does “not really” mean? Just now when I asked about her and my grandfather that was your answer.”

He pinned me to the spot with a calm look, “Not really means not really.” I didn't believe him.

After that, I got a condensed education on the merits of chess from a bunch of black nerds. Somebody caught me on the video camera and I pulled a face Freddie Krueger would have been proud of. Then, I slunk away to relieve myself.

Mervyn's house had three floors and I went straight to the top. You would think that his house would be full of facsimiles of him and all the people he entertained, plastered everywhere, but especially as I climbed up to the top floor toilet the walls grew emptier and the house took on the feel of somewhere much more functional
and far less inviting than it had appeared down below. The walls were bare, painted a dull greyish white and the carpeted stairs held not so much as a stray hair, as if no-one really spent any time up here. In the bathroom I found myself wondering about Mervyn and his family and what made them tick.

I emerged from the toilet to the faint scent of perfume in the air. It was lightly exotic and sweet smelling. With each step I took, the smell grew stronger. It seemed to get stronger further along the hallway. I followed it to Mervyn's bedroom. The hairs on my arms stood up. The smell felt overwhelmingly familiar. The bedroom door was firmly shut. I opened it.

He'd had it redecorated after his wife died. It was a masculine room with dark oak panels and huge wooden bed made with a blue duvet. An un-emptied ashtray spilled old cigarette butts onto the dark nightstand while some big shoes frowned at their temporary neglect. I could have blinked and missed it. Peeking out from beneath the soft breast of Mervyn's pillow was a strip of light purple material. There was a searing, short sharp pain in my chest. I picked up the material. It was silky and light. It weighed nothing but felt heavy in my chest. I held it to my nose, inhaling the scent deeply. Now the smell was inescapable. White spots on the material polluted my memory. I recognised it instantly, my mother's Hermes scarf. She used to tie it into a bow at her throat. I pulled it out gently, touching it. It had the faded smell of Yves Saint Laurent
Opium
, her perfume. I was a low, grainy resolution of myself in that instant.