She leaned against him, bruised and shaken. There was nowhere he could take her to, for all the eating and drinking places had been closed.
‘You – you saved my life!’
‘Quiet, first. We must still get out of this madness.’
Far down the Marina, by the lagoon, was a little promontory over which the broad leaves of a coconut palm waved. It was quiet and deserted and the wind blew sweet and cool. Sango made her sit down. She looked at him gratefully, not saying a word, and he felt a pain in his heart.
She had unbuttoned her blouse so that the breeze caressed her young body. ‘I’ll soon be all right,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be an important speech at the graveside.’
‘You’re not strong enough now, Miss —’
‘Beatrice is my name.’
‘Beatrice!’ A thousand tunes hummed in his brain. ‘This is very odd!’ He took her hand and now the touch of her hand had a magic enchantment for him.
The fresh air had partly revived her. Slowly they walked for mile after mile, and for Sango it could have gone on for ever without his noticing, so strange was the pleasure which her company gave him and so elated his spirit.
When they caught up with the funeral procession it was still difficult to break through to the front row. And Beatrice the Second – as Sango called her – insisted on remaining till the end. She was indeed showing him what nationalism meant for the people of the city.
‘It’s like the death of Gandhi,’ Sango said. ‘De Pereira was, after all, our own Gandhi!’
There had never been anything like this. It was impossible to move one step in any direction. They were obliged to give up and stand about for an hour, rooted to the spot. From somewhere a movement of bodies started. The funeral was over. A new song was born at that moment. It rent the air. Sango, ashamed of his ignorance of the words, could only mumble the most conspicuous word, ‘Freedom . . .’ which seemed to be the recurrent theme.
‘Did you see the coffin?’
‘No, but they say it was an expensive one: covered with gold.’
‘I thought they said there would be a funeral speech?’
‘We’ll read it in the papers tomorrow.’
Beatrice the Second was holding a handkerchief to her nose. All about them people were weeping with genuine grief. Sango was disturbed. He felt out of step with the city. A lump rose in his throat and a mist came to his eyes. He turned away in shame, swallowing hard and blinking, embarrassed by a new and softer side of himself.
‘Don’t cry, Beatrice!’ He squeezed her shoulder.
But everybody was crying. Handkerchiefs were going to noses. And the sun was slowly setting on two hundred thousand mourners.
‘There must have been something about that graveside speech! It has stirred everyone to lament. Beatrice, let’s be going back now. Where do I drop you?’
Sango hailed a taxi. His conscience troubled him, as he thought: You have no home, Sango; you have no money; your goods are still at the railway station; you want all the money you can put aside for that six months’ rent in advance. He ignored his misgivings. Nothing must spoil the beauty of this moment. He tried to think of something to say, but no words could express how he felt. His response to this girl made him feel they had been friends all his life. He held her hand.
It was a slow drive through the chaotic city. Sango was irritated by the closeness and the dust, but he was pleased because he could talk to Beatrice the Second and get to know her. She was quite frank about herself.
‘I have a fiancé in England. He’s a medical student in his third year. I love him very much.’
The words hurt Sango.
‘I’ll join him soon,’ she said. ‘I’ll do nursing and midwifery. And when we return, we’ll have our own hospital in the remote interior. No city life for us! I think they have quite enough hospitals and medical attention here. We’ll go to the bush, where we are needed.’
‘Good idea,’ Sango said. ‘But you’ll not make much money.’
‘I agree. But that’s not all there is to it. We will be doing something, giving something . . .’ As she talked, she brightened. A new glow came to her cheeks. Her eyes danced. She became a new girl. Sango was full of admiration.
‘The city is overcrowded, and I’m one of the people over-crowding it,’ Sango said. ‘If I had your idea, I would leave the city; but it holds me. I’m only a musician, and a bad one at that. A hack writer, smearing the pages of the Sensation with blood and grime.’ He saw the interested way in which she leaned forward when he talked about himself.
Lights shone in the streets and long cars began to steal effortlessly through the night, freed at last from the traffic restrictions. The city was gradually recovering from its shock, exerting its everlasting magic.
‘I wish I could see you again!’