Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [69]
He did not ask me my name. Instead he told me he would call me Josephine. He said I looked like Josephine Baker. I did not know who he meant. Only that it was easier for him to remember.
I liked my new job. Mr Blue had so many possessions. His brown leather belt with a brass buckle I kept polished with animal fat. The same with his boots, of which he had two pairs. I rinsed the dead bristles from his shaving brush, and wiped the bar of soap, set them both back out on a towel the way he showed me. I plucked the hairs from his comb. Long, transparent hairs the colour of sand.
Papers covered in something I thought looked like centipede tracks. Writing. How could I have known? I had never been taught to read or sent to school. A Thermos flask that kept coffee hot the whole day long. Maps. Magazines. Books. Other things I had never laid eyes on before, whose purpose I could not imagine. On the green felt table-top: an instrument made of brass, with numbers and letters and an arrow that swung around towards the same point, wherever you directed it. A glass you could hold in your hand that made everything bigger. I stared through it at the hairs on the back of my hand, at a silverfish crawling out of his trunk. I could even see the lice swarming along the vane of a chicken feather.
In that place I saw ice for the first time in my life. A great block delivered on the back of a truck. That evening Mr Blue told me to put chunks of it in his drink and in those of the others whom he invited around to his hut before dinner. While they were eating, I took a piece of it and sat at the back of the hut, feeling the unearthly coldness, holding it in the cups of my hands to try to stop it slipping away. Afterwards my fingers felt stiff, aching like I had been wringing clothes all day.
Mr Blue found me playing with the magnifying glass. He said nothing. But watched me as I replaced it and continued wiping as I had been. From then on I carried the cloth with me whenever I went to look at Mr Blue’s belongings.
Some days I watched Mr Blue. In the evenings, from the darkness outside the window while he was readying himself for sleep. He would sit down, his camp bed creaking under his weight, pull off his boots and his socks and throw them into the corner of the room. He would struggle with his braces and pull at the front of his shirt, trying to set the buttons free. His chest was covered in hair, like hog hair. Thick slabs of flesh on the sides of his body overhung his belt. He would loosen his trousers and lie down. There were times, when I was sure he was sleeping, I would creep in. The room was filled with his odour, even the walls sweated. Mr Blue slept on his back, one hand covering his penis. I stood in the darkness and listened to the sounds coming from him. Snorting as he breathed in, whistling as he breathed out. Sometimes I might stay there an hour or so. Before I went I moved his shoes, placed them neatly under his bed, picked up his shirt and vest and hung them on the peg.
One day I found some shillings and other coins in the pocket of Mr Blue’s trousers. I set them aside while I worked and from time to time I glanced at the little pile of money. There was quite a lot, enough to buy half a bag of rice. When Mr Blue came back I fetched his drink and stayed there while he took his first sip. He waved his hand at me, but I didn’t move. I bent in front of him, put my hand out to show him the coins.
‘Master,’ I said, ‘look at your money I found today.’
He took the coins and pocketed them, looking at me all the while. ‘Thank you, Josephine,’ he said. He reached out his hand and I stretched mine out to meet his. A coin dropped into the palm of my hand.