Чимаманда Нгози Адичи – Half of a Yellow Sun (страница 14)

She helped him find a small flat, buy a small car, get a driving licence, go to the Lagos and Ibadan museums. ‘You must meet all my friends,’ she said. At first, when she introduced him as a writer, he wanted to correct her: journalist, not writer. But he was a writer, at least he was certain he was meant to be a writer, an artist, a creator. His journalism was temporary, something he would do until he wrote that brilliant novel.

So he let Susan introduce him as a writer. It seemed to make her friends tolerate him, anyway. It made Professor Nicholas Green suggest he apply for the foreign research grant at Nsukka, where he could write in a university environment. Richard did, not only because of the prospect of writing in a university, but also because he would be in the southeast, in the land of Igbo-Ukwu art, the land of the magnificent roped pot. That, after all, was why he had come to Nigeria.

He had been in Nigeria for a few months when Susan asked if he would like to move in with her, since her house in Ikoyi was large, the gardens were lovely, and she thought he would work much better there than in his rented flat with the uneven cement floors where his landlord moaned about his leaving his lights on for too long. Richard didn’t want to say yes. He didn’t want to stay much longer in Lagos. He wanted to do more travelling through the country while waiting to hear back from Nsukka. But Susan had already redecorated her airy study for him, so he moved in. Day after day, he sat on her leather chair and pored over books and bits of research material, looked out the window at the gardeners watering the lawn, and pounded at the typewriter, although he was aware that he was typing and not writing. Susan was careful to give him the silences he needed, except for when she would look in and whisper, ‘Would you like some tea?’ or ‘Some water?’ or ‘An early lunch?’ He answered in a whisper, too, as if his writing had become something hallowed and had made the room itself sacrosanct. He did not tell her that he had written nothing good so far, that the ideas in his head had not yet coalesced into character and setting and theme. He imagined that she would be hurt; his writing had become the best of her hobbies, and she came home every day with books and journals from the British Council Library. She saw his book as an entity that already existed and could therefore be finished. He, however, was not even sure what his subject was. But he was grateful for her faith. It was as if her believing in his writing made it real, and he showed his gratitude by attending the parties he disliked. After a few parties, he decided that attending was not enough; he would try to be funny. If he could say one witty thing when he was introduced, it might make up for his silence and, more importantly, it would please Susan. He practised a droll, self-deprecating expression and a halting delivery in front of the bathroom mirror for a while. ‘This is Richard Churchill,’ Susan would say and he would shake hands and quip, ‘No relation of Sir Winston’s, I’m afraid, or I might have turned out a little cleverer.’

Susan’s friends laughed at this, although he wondered if it was from pity at his fumbling attempt at humour more than from amusement. But nobody had ever said, ‘How funny,’ in a mocking tone, as Kainene did that first day in the cocktail room of the Federal Palace Hotel. She was smoking. She could blow perfect smoke rings. She stood in the same circle as he and Susan, and he glanced at her and thought she was the mistress of one of the politicians. He did that with the people he met, tried to guess a reason for their being there, to determine who had been brought by someone. Perhaps it was because he would not have been at any of the parties if it wasn’t for Susan. He didn’t think Kainene was some wealthy Nigerian’s daughter because she had none of the cultivated demureness. She seemed more like a mistress: her brazenly red lipstick, her tight dress, her smoking. But then she didn’t smile in that plastic way the mistresses did. She didn’t even have the generic prettiness that made him inclined to believe the rumour that Nigerian politicians swapped mistresses. In fact, she was not pretty at all. He did not really notice this until he looked at her again as a friend of Susan’s did the introductions. ‘This is Kainene Ozobia, Chief Ozobia’s daughter. Kainene’s just got her master’s from London. Kainene, this is Susan Grenville- Pitts, from the British Council, and this is Richard Churchill.’

‘How do you do,’ Susan said to Kainene, and then turned around to speak to another guest.

‘Hello,’ Richard said. Kainene was silent for too long, with her cigarette between her lips as she looked at him levelly, and so he ran his hand through his hair and mumbled, ‘I’m no relation of Sir Winston’s, I’m afraid, or I might have turned out a little cleverer.’

She exhaled before she said, ‘How funny.’ She was very thin and very tall, almost as tall as he was, and she was staring right into his eyes, with a steely blank expression. Her skin was the colour of Belgian chocolate. He spread his legs a little wider and pressed his feet down firmly, because he feared that if he didn’t he might find himself reeling, colliding with her.

Susan came back and tugged at him but he didn’t want to leave and when he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what he was going to say. ‘It turns out Kainene and I have a mutual friend in London. Did I tell you about Wilfred at the Spectator?’

‘Oh,’ Susan said, smiling. ‘How lovely. I’ll let you two catch up then. Be back in a bit.’

She exchanged kisses with an elderly couple before moving to a group at the other end of the room.

‘You just lied to your wife,’ Kainene said.

‘She’s not my wife.’ He was surprised at how giddy he felt to be left standing with her. She raised her glass to her lips and sipped. She inhaled and exhaled. Silver ashes swirled down to the floor. Everything seemed to be in slow motion: The hotel ballroom enlarged and deflated and the air was sucked in and out of a space that seemed to be, for a moment, occupied only by himself and Kainene.

‘Would you move away, please?’ she asked.

He was startled. ‘What?’

‘There is a photographer behind you who is keen to take a photo of me, and particularly of my necklace.’

He moved aside and watched as she stared at the camera. She did not pose but she looked comfortable; she was used to having her photograph taken at parties.

‘The necklace will be featured in tomorrow’s Lagos Life. I suppose that would be my way of contributing to our newly independent country. I am giving fellow Nigerians something to covet, an incentive to work hard,’ she said, coming back to stand beside him.

‘It’s a lovely necklace,’ he said, although it looked gaudy. He wanted to reach out and touch it, though, to lift it off her neck and then let it settle back against the hollow of her throat. Her collarbones jutted out sharply.

‘Of course it’s not lovely. My father has obscene taste in jewellery,’ she said. ‘But it’s his money. I see my sister and my parents looking for me, by the way. I should go.’

‘Your sister is here?’ Richard asked, quickly, before she could turn and leave.

‘Yes. We’re twins,’ she said and paused, as if that were a momentous disclosure. ‘Kainene and Olanna. Her name is the lyrical God’s Gold, and mine is the more practical Let’s watch and see what next God will bring.’

Richard watched the smile that pulled her mouth up at one end, a sardonic smile that he imagined hid something else, perhaps dissatisfaction. He didn’t know what to say. He felt as if time was slipping away from him.

‘Who is older?’ he asked.

‘Who is older? What a question.’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘I’m told I came out first.’

Richard cradled his wine glass and wondered if tightening his grasp any further would crush it.

‘There she is, my sister,’ Kainene said. ‘Shall I introduce you? Everybody wants to meet her.’

Richard didn’t turn to look. ‘I’d rather talk to you,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’ He ran his hand through his hair. She was watching him; he felt adolescent with her gaze on him.

‘You’re shy,’ she said.

‘I’ve been called worse.’

She smiled, in the way that meant she had found that funny, and he felt accomplished to have made her smile.

‘Have you ever been to the market in Balogun?’ she asked. ‘They display slabs of meat on tables, and you are supposed to grope and feel and then decide which you want. My sister and I are meat. We are here so that suitable bachelors will make the kill.’

‘Oh,’ he said. It seemed a strangely intimate thing to tell him, although it was said in the same dry, sarcastic tone that seemed natural to her. He wanted to tell her something about himself, too, wanted to exchange small kernels of intimacies with her.

‘Here comes the wife you denied,’ Kainene murmured.

Susan came back and pushed a glass into his hand. ‘Here, darling,’ she said, and then turned to Kainene. ‘How lovely to meet you.’

‘How lovely to meet you,’ Kainene said and half-raised her glass towards Susan.