Eddie Signwriter (24 page)

At the dining room table he put down the parcel and went to the kitchen and got a knife to cut the string.

He unpeeled the brown paper.

There was a book, on it a note.

The note didn’t have a greeting. It was written, “When your nephew visited he departed so quickly and left this behind. Perhaps it may help you. You will know best what to do. JB.”

His mouth turned down. He put the note aside.

The book was upside down. Festus Ankrah turned it over to see its cover.

“What is this?” he said aloud.

The book was all in French.

Festus Ankrah flipped through the pages.

The book purred.

The pages turned halfway through, then stopped. There was a piece of paper, folded over, used as a bookmark.

Festus Ankrah took it out and unfolded and looked at it.

It was in handwriting, in blue pen—his nephew’s writing. It was divided into seven columns. Festus Ankrah recognized it as a calendar of some kind: S, followed by M, followed by T, W, T again and F—the days of the week, but no dates.

In each column were different combinations of letters, many repeated: RK, KQ, ET, AF, and strings of numbers.

Festus Ankrah studied them. Then put the paper back in the book, got up and put the book on top of the cupboard.

It was Friday night. Outside the streets were starting to become lively.

Festus Ankrah took his coat and went out to work.

WHEN FESTUS ANKRAH
went to visit his sister he thought it better not to call in advance.

It was Saturday afternoon.

When he arrived his brother-in-law, Simon Dankwa, was watching television. His brother-in-law had come back from Gaborone after his
contract expired. Now he was retired. He’d been back half a year. His son had left while Mr. Dankwa was still away. Mr. Dankwa hadn’t seen his son in three years and maybe now he never would.

Festus Ankrah let himself in by the front gate. Mr. Dankwa heard the sound of the gate opening from his front room. He got up and pulled back the lace curtain over the window and saw Festus Ankrah.

He came out onto the verandah in his socks.

Festus Ankrah latched the gate, then turned around. There were a few mangos in the grass, that had fallen from the tree growing over the gate. Festus Ankrah picked up two as he came up the path.

Mr. Dankwa shook his hand.

He said to Festus Ankrah what a nice surprise it was to see him, and that his sister wasn’t in.

Festus Ankrah gave his brother-in-law the two mangos.

Mr. Dankwa thanked him.

“Can I still come in?” Festus Ankrah said.

Mr. Dankwa said that of course he could, that he was glad to see Festus Ankrah, and that he was welcome.

Mr. Dankwa turned and went back in carefully, making sure not to slip on the polished concrete in his socks. Festus Ankrah followed.

“Kwabena,” Mr. Dankwa called out. A girl appeared at the door of the kitchen.

“This is Kwabena,” Mr. Dankwa said. “Kwabena is working here now. She’s from the church. Your sister is there now actually. Kwabena, this is Mr. Ankrah, my wife’s brother.”

The girl called Kwabena lowered her eyes. Festus Ankrah detected in her expression not only shyness, but suspicion.

“Kwabena, please bring Mr. Ankrah some soft drink and see what there is to eat. Biscuits, Festus? Biscuits. Please bring Mr. Ankrah some biscuits.”

“Thank you,” Festus Ankrah said.

Mr. Dankwa said, “So welcome. Sit down.”

The two men sat down on the sofa in front of the television. It was tuned in to the American channel.

“Do you watch the television much?” Mr. Dankwa asked.

“Not much,” Festus Ankrah replied.

“It is very interesting,” Mr. Dankwa said. “In America all the cities are clean. It takes years to execute a criminal. Not like here. A few months back two criminals came running down from the main road to Nii Boi Drop. The people caught them, beat them, then held them down and banged six-inch nails into their heads. Then they let them go. They got up and ran a few steps and then they died.”

Festus Ankrah noticed a mosquito coil burnt out on the floor at their feet, like a charred animal turned in on itself. His brother-in-law must be spending a lot of time in front of this television, he thought.

Mr. Dankwa said, “I’ve been watching the
Money Programme
. See—it’s still on. I see these two people every day. I don’t know them at all. Strangers from a strange place speaking about money I know nothing about. Do you have any stocks, Festus?”

Festus Ankrah laughed.

Mr. Dankwa continued. He said, “These two people—this lady and man, I watch them every day. Every day. What is this now? We know strangers better than our own family members.”

“I don’t know how much we really know them,” Festus Ankrah said.

“We know them pretty well,” Mr. Dankwa replied.

They were both watching the television now.

The male presenter was talking—talking and smiling and talking and smiling. The woman was nodding her head and smiling.

“It must hurt their lips to smile like that,” Mr. Dankwa said.

Festus Ankrah said, “It’s exercise. That’s why their lips are so thin.”

Mr. Dankwa smiled himself.

He said, “Let me tell you something very interesting I have observed. I’ve been watching three months. This man called Stuart Barney. Three months ago he was almost bald. Yes! His hairline had almost crept back behind his ears. It was hiding there. And now look at it—it’s almost tickling his eyebrows. Just look at this man in the space of three months. Festus, these people are truly powerful. You, incidentally, are looking fine. How are you?”

“Fine,” Festus Ankrah said.

The girl brought in a tray with soft drinks and biscuits and set it down before Festus Ankrah.

Mr. Dankwa opened the bottle of Coca-Cola and poured a glass for his brother-in-law, then watched him drink.

Mr. Dankwa said, “Your sister goes to church a lot.”

Festus Ankrah told him that he knew.

“I mean she goes to church a lot more. Me, I go a lot less. Actually, I don’t go at all.”

“Did you attend church in Botswana?”

“Yes, but since my boy disappeared … I hear you went to Akwapim.”

“Yes. In May.”

“Mary told me. Did you find anything?”

“I met the head teacher of the school. Mr. Bediako.”

“Did he tell you he and I were students together?”

“Yes.”

“I wrote to him. I asked him to take Kwasi in. And he did. I said to him, ‘Turn my son into a Ghanaian.’ I regret this now. Bitterly. I do.”

“We never know how things will end.”

“Yes, we never know. Me, I wanted Kwasi to be a Ghanaian. A proud African. But I don’t think he cared for any of that. And what was I trying to do anyway? Sending a boy halfway across the world to be what he already was.”

Festus Ankrah knew not to speak. He passed his brother-in-law the soft drink bottle.

Mr. Dankwa poured himself a glass. He said, “Did you learn anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know or you don’t know.”

“I learned that the memory of your son is very unwelcome on the ridge.”

“This I know without going there.”

“Yes. It is felt that your son was a very disruptive influence.”

“That is what shames us.”

“People say it. But how? Your son, this quiet boy. It’s hard enough for Kwasi even to cast his own shadow.”

“Yes. He was very quiet. Sometimes I didn’t even notice him. Most people never noticed Kwasi.”

“But some did a lot.”

Mr. Dankwa raised his eyebrows.

“The strong. The vain. Especially the vain. Such people—he drew them to him.”

Mr. Dankwa looked away then, his expression beginning to set, closing down his face to conversation.

“Because he never says no, Simon, he never resists, and such willingness—it liberates people’s inhibitions.”

“What people, Festus?”

“You said it yourself—sending your child back to be an African. And me too. All of us.”

Through all the time that Festus Ankrah was talking he had not been looking at his brother-in-law, but now he did.

“I do not mean to accuse you, Simon,” Festus Ankrah said softly, responding to the pained expression on his brother-in-law’s face.

“But you do.”

“No.”

“Yes, and in my own house,” Mr. Dankwa said.

“No. You’re the one I’m
not
accusing. You loved your son. Love him. Everyone else loved themselves. Especially that woman who drowned.”

“Nana Oforiwaa.”

“Nana Oforiwaa. Yes. He made her come apart at the seams. That woman. Shame. A lady of that age. And a boy of seventeen.”

Mr. Dankwa did not respond.

“Simon, your son has never done anything without permission.”

“Except leave.”

“Yes, except leave. Exactly. But perhaps it is the best thing he could have done. Who knows who he’ll be when he comes back.”

“But Festus, to go away in such a way … He told nobody. This is not how a man should behave. Do you know that he came to visit his mother before he went—the day before. He could have said goodbye.
Instead, as always, they fought. Well, I have told you she is at church. But do you know what she does there? Every day she begs God to forgive her for all the things she said and will never be able to take back.”

Mr. Dankwa looked at his brother-in-law and told him that he was sorry. For everything he had done, and for everything he did not do. He smiled sadly. He said that he thought his nephew would have listened to him if he had only tried to talk to him, but that he chose to believe that all Kwasi wanted out of life was to be as miserable and disaffected as himself.

Mr. Dankwa laughed at this.

They both laughed.

Mr. Dankwa said, “I think your sister should be coming back shortly.”

“Then let me go,” Festus Ankrah said.

“No, stay,” Mr. Dankwa tried to convince him. “In ten minutes, after the news, they’ll be interviewing the widow of the first man buried in space. Last week they sent some of his ashes up on a rocket.”

“Why do they tell us such nonsense?”

“They don’t realize we’re not interested.”

“But we are.”

“Because we have no choice.”

They were standing now at the door.

Festus Ankrah said, “Will you tell Mary that I stopped by?”

“I will,” Mr. Dankwa said.

The men shook hands.

“What are you going to do, Festus?”

Festus Ankrah said, “I was thinking of taking a holiday. I haven’t been traveling in a long time.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. I’ll let you know.”

“All right,” his brother-in-law said.

Festus Ankrah was about to leave when he remembered he’d meant to ask a question of his brother-in-law.

He said, “Simon, I didn’t know that Kwasi spoke French. Did you know that?”

“He started learning in Botswana. I didn’t think there was any reason for him to learn Tswana. Why?”

“I found one of his books in the house in French. I can send it if you want.”

“No, no, keep it there. We should keep all his things in one place for when he comes back.”

The two men embraced on the steps of the house. Festus Ankrah walked down to the Fish Pond Drop to find a taxi.

Simon Dankwa went back into his house to watch television, where the interview was about to begin with the woman whose husband’s ashes had just been sent into space in a metal container the size of a lipstick tube.

FESTUS ANKRAH
walked along Tudu Street past a row of stationery shops and communications centres. Beside a flight of stairs, on the side of a three-story building, was a mural for a travel agency—a large aeroplane, banking, all rounded shapes and uneven lines, as if in the hand of a child: windows open like portholes, passengers leaning out, waving. Birds in close, like pilot fish. A flotilla of hot-air balloons observed from a distance. The colours, bright in the shadow cast by the adjacent building, were faded where the light struck directly.

Festus Ankrah knew immediately his nephew’s work—thought he remembered him talking about it—the theme, the good site, but uneven light.

As he approached he recognized one of the figures in the window as a portrait of the stamp maker whose shop used to be beside his nephew’s. He recognized a prominent opposition politician. A character from a television serial. He laughed to see, in the very last seat, a portrait of himself. He was smiling too. Fingers waving like a bunch of bananas.

There used to be a travel agency up these stairs, Festus Ankrah remembered. Now the second floor of the building was closed, the fluorescent light bulbs under the eaves removed. He could see the boarded windows. He climbed up the stairs. In the window was an old sign.

From his pocket he took out the piece of paper that he’d found in his nephew’s book.

RK, KQ, ET, AF.

They were airline codes. Air Afrique. Kenyan. Ethiopian Airlines. Air France.

Where to and where from he could find out easily enough. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket, and headed back home.

Festus Ankrah got onto the floor and pulled out a suitcase from under the bed in what used to be the bedroom of his nephew and Celeste. Small silver insects fled for the skirting boards.

Run, my friends, run
, he thought.

He lifted himself up slowly so that the tendons in the back of his knees didn’t seize up. He removed a hanger from a chair and sat down. He clicked open the locks on the suitcase on his lap and opened it.

Inside there were papers. A few photographs. Some books. Whatever he’d found in the room after Celeste had left—though Celeste had been thorough. She’d filled the rubbish bin at the back of the house with everything else.

He found the notebook he was looking for. It had paint stains on the cover, a ring of paint from under a tin, like a welt over the cardboard cover.

Inside, the double-ruled pages were covered in Celeste’s neat print, which Festus Ankrah knew well from his own business ledgers.

He scanned through the pages, which listed commissions by date, price and brief description.