Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [141]
He thought he would be working with child soldiers. Or at the very least the limbless, the lipless, the eyeless, the tongueless. Instead he got me. But he was a good man, and determined to make the best of it.
I asked what his own opinion was, since he was the Spiritual Advisor.
‘I’m really a counsellor, that’s just a fancy title.’ He smiled when he said that.
So I told him, no, I wasn’t teasing.
March is the warmest month of the year, and this was the warmest March for many years to come.
We used to meet on Friday mornings, eleven o’clock. His office had bare walls and a concrete floor, a bare light bulb descended from the ceiling on a three-foot, brittle cord. Too low, so each time he passed it he was forced to duck slightly. A small pink burn showed on his forehead. A desk, five chairs, one of which was broken and pushed against the wall. One he sat on. The other three, of variable height, were placed in a row in front of his desk. The middle one was directly opposite him, soft but too low slung, it left you peering across the surface of the desk at him. Choosing either of the others meant you would be at eye level, but off-centre. I chose the one that was closest and sat down, looking at him sideways on.
He turned his chair to face me. My skin prickled under his gaze, so I stared straight ahead of me at the wall, or else out of the window. Sometimes he turned to see what I was looking at. But there was nothing to see. Just a badly built wall with dried concrete oozing out between the breeze blocks and a trail of withered bougainvillea.
He suffered in the heat, clawing at his collar; the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to the plastic chair. Still, he refused to give in to it. Every day a tie, a long-sleeved shirt, and a jacket that hung uselessly over the back of his chair.
Our sessions ended when the day was at its hottest.
‘Quick! What’s the first thing that comes into your mind.’ As if we were playing a game. So I told him about my niece, whose child had died. He asked me how I felt about that. I told him I was sorry for my sister’s daughter, she had wanted this child very much.
‘Some people believe these things are just God’s will, Mariama.’ Adrian said in his hushed voice.
I told him it was probably no such thing. It was the child’s will. She had changed her mind. For her one world was as good as the other. It is we who are so much attached to this one.
One morning, the sixth or seventh time we met, Mr Lockheart had another idea. He asked if he might visit my room, he had heard so much about it. I didn’t like to let anybody inside, not even the houseboy who cleaned the bedrooms of the other staff. On Mondays I left my waste paper basket out for him. On Tuesdays he left a dustpan and brush leaning against my door. But he, Mr Lockheart, Adrian, was quite insistent. He said it would help him to understand me.
I pushed open the door of my room. I crossed in front of him towards the window, unhinged the shutters. A ray of sunlight lit up the opposite wall, bouncing off the shiny surface of the magazine pictures. I opened the window and pushed the shutters all the way back, until they hit the outside wall with a bang. The room glowed with light. I had never seen it like this, it pleased me. Sounds from outside entered the room, mingling with the dust that played in the air, and set the colours of the pictures shimmering. The images sparkled and came alive. A shark swam towards me with red, gaping jaws. A shoal of silver fish swam by. A red starfish flashed, on and off. A blue sea horse reared. A conger eel hid in the darkness of his cave. A sleepy eyed turtle with wrinkled features glided past. A setting sun glittered upon the waves. All around me the sound of water, crashing and foaming on to the shore, trickling back down the sand to the ocean. The sounds filled my ears, I shook my head.
Adrian stepped across the threshold, and stood with his back against the wall, slowly crossing his arms in front of him. He tilted