Sango saw her hesitation. ‘I’m grateful to you. I’ll tell my father all you did for me . . .’
‘I’m sorry, I have no address at the moment, except Crime Reporter, West African Sensation. I used to play at the All Language Club, but that road is now closed.’
The taxi pulled up before an old-type house, probably Brazilian. Beatrice the Second stepped gingerly down. She was much recovered now, and the shock was gone.
‘I’ll see you again,’ she said. He took her hand and squeezed it.
He watched her walk away and there was a sadness in his heart. There is the girl for you, Sango. If you could win her, you would find a foothold in this city and all your desires would focus on a new inspiration. How different she is from them all: Aina, Elina, Beatrice the First. Have you ever felt anything like this beautiful feeling before? But it’s hopeless. She herself told you she is engaged and loves her fiancé.
Sango thought of Beatrice the Second as he sat down in the Sensation office to write his report. His despondency filtered into the general tone of his account of the De Pereira funeral. He was poring over the typewriter, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, when he heard footsteps in the corridor. McMaster poked his head into the room and said to Sango:
‘A moment, please!’
The telephone was ringing as McMaster entered his office. All the Sensation telephones had been ringing incessantly throughout the day. McMaster had the telephone in his hand when Sango entered and with one hand he waved him into a seat.
Sango wondered what it was all about.
‘I’ve had my eyes on your work for some time,’ said McMaster when the conversation was over. ‘The coal crisis, the Lajide funeral, the election campaigns, and so on. But with the De Pereira affair, I think we’re set for your most important achievement. I’ve had it hinted that you might be offered the post of Associate Editor, depending what the Board of Governors thinks . . .’
Sango went deaf. He opened his lips and no words came.
‘Of course, it may be that you prefer the adventure of reporting. This will be an office-chair job. You may like to go and think the whole thing over . . .’
He was still sitting there after the conversation, and one thought was uppermost in his mind: Beatrice the Second. He was becoming a man, fit for a girl of her class. Beatrice the Second . . .
‘All right now, Sango.’
•
Lajide had not gone to the De Pereira funeral. He was alone; probably the only living being on Molomo Street. But his wives had gone. Nothing could keep them indoors these days. He lifted the glass to his lips, made a face, belched. Lately he had developed a habit of talking aloud to himself: ‘Since my wife died, everything has changed. Everything! Beatrice – she has no ear for my words. Kekere – she goes out openly to the street lamp on the corner. There she talks to young men. She thinks I do not see her. Ha, ha! Young men on bicycles! She must think I’m a fool. I know all, I see all; only, I don’t talk!
’
He drank more. That was another new development. The law called this liquor illicit gin, because it was distilled without licence. But the brewers who lived in timber shacks by the lagoon, they called it O.H.M.S. in honour of the Queen of England. The irony of it! Breaking the law to honour the Queen! Of course, they did not let the liquor mature like genuine distillers; that would take too long. But it was still alcohol. If you were not prejudiced you would not be able to distinguish the taste from that of pure gin.
He tossed the glass aside. No good would come of too much thinking. Alikatu – she was dead and gone. The five thousand from Muhamad Zamil was gone and he had not lived at 163B for three months yet. And this new four thousand from the timber deal? When you were in a prominent position and you lost your wife, four thousand pounds might see you through all the ceremonies and sacrifices – if you were the showy type like Lajide.
‘I must do something . . . I must do something. . . .’
The timber business? He had tried that. He was still on the list of the city’s exporters of logs. Everybody was timber-crazy and he might as well take his chance.
His gaze focused suddenly on the door. A strange woman was standing there, in a big-sleeved blouse, a velvet cloth about her waist. No, it could not be Alikatu. Alikatu was dead. Alikatu was dead . . . dead. She would not wear her cloth the wrong way round . . . She always dressed correctly. Alikatu! He stood up and reached for her. She was smiling.
‘Alikatu!’ His throat worked and his eyes bulged. She was smiling defiantly. She was beyond his reach. ‘What are you saying? Your lips are moving. I cannot hear you. I cannot hear — No! Not yet . . . I’ll join you when my time here is up. Truly, I’ll come . . . You have always been my favourite wife . . . I’ll come, in Olorun’s name, I will . . .’
She was no longer standing there, but instead Kekere was at the door and saying something. ‘I thought I heard you talking . . . Who was it? Who was it?’
Lajide crept back to his seat, not speaking. One by one his other wives were coming into the room, rigged and preened like courting birds. They were coming from the crowd, from the city and its noise.
‘What’s wrong, Kekere, tell us. You were here with him!’
‘No, I’ve just returned. I came in. As I was coming in, I thought I heard somebody talking.’
They looked at her suspiciously. She was the youngest of them all and completely frivolous. In her low-cut blouse, which showed far too much of her firm breasts, she seemed capable of anything.
‘Truly,’ she said. ‘I’m not lying. When I came in, I – I thought he was looking at – at me. I was standing there, at the door. And I asked him whether he was talking to somebody and he did not answer.’
‘If you have done nothing to him, why does he look so queer? Better speak the truth now!’