Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [71]
Mr Blue waved the bottle in the air, jangled the store keys in his other hand like a bell. ‘Where in the hell have you been? Can’t you hear me calling you?’
‘I’m sorry, master.’ Small Boy reached for the bottle and took it from Mr Blue’s hand. He ran to the store and returned a short time after.
‘And ice. Bring ice.’ The truck had not delivered ice since two weeks before.
‘The ice is finished, master.’
I heard Mr Blue throw curses at Small Boy. They bounced off the walls of the houses. Silence. Small Boy made no reply.
‘Dumb fuck.’
‘Leave him alone, Blue. How could it be his fault?’ The woman’s voice, soft as a moth’s coat. Another silence followed, a sort of stop-start silence. You could almost hear Mr Blue wanting to speak and thinking better of it. He told Small Boy to pour the drinks. The woman refused any more, saying she was tired. I listened as she wished them all goodnight and her footsteps faded away. Small Boy must have made a move to leave then as well, because suddenly came Mr Blue’s voice:
‘You stay right there!’ He said he was hungry and told Small Boy to fetch something for him to eat. Of course there was nothing. The food had been cooked and eaten. What was left was for Small Boy and me. There was no fridge. Small Boy replied he would have to light a fire. ‘Well do it, damnit.’ Then: ‘Jesus. Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid. Do you think I’m serious? Bring that bottle over here.’
By now I was listening carefully from behind the hut, on the other side of the darkness. I heard Mr Blue’s voice: slack, slurred and yet stitched with something hard, as he set about provoking Small Boy. The other men laughed, enjoying it. From the manner of their laughter, I could tell this was something that had happened before. He instructed Small Boy to provide some entertainment, since he could produce neither food nor ice. Small Boy replied there were no entertainers to be found in the camp either.
‘Then you’d better entertain us yourself.’
Small Boy asked how he was to do so.
‘Let’s have a song,’ said one man.
‘Yes. A song,’ came another and began to sing himself.
‘No, no. We’ll sing. He’ll dance.’ Mr Blue again. ‘You can dance, can’t you?’
‘No master.’
‘Oh, come on. You lot can all dance. You’re born jigging around. It’s in your fucking blood.’
I imagined Small Boy standing there alone in front of Mr Blue and the other men. Alone in the middle of the night, underneath the stars. I wondered what was going to happen next.
Mr Blue begin to sing and the other men joined in. I heard him order Small Boy to dance. There was a small sound. Thud. Thud. Like that, the double thud like a stone being thrown. The same sound again. And then a clatter as the stone ricocheted off something in the distance. I heard the sound of Small Boy’s feet shuffling in the dirt. Of his breathing. Of the men clapping and cheering.
I stayed awake listening, for as long as I could. By the time I fell asleep Small Boy still hadn’t come back.
The next morning I brought Mr Blue his second cup of coffee. His fingers trembled as he grasped the cup and raised it to his lips. The lump in the front of his throat moved as he swallowed, like a rat under a blanket. He leaned back in his chair and tilted his chin as Small Boy started to cover the bottom half of his face with lather. Sweat drops, glistening like insect eggs hung on his forehead. Small Boy jerked the leather strap tight across his forearm and stroked the blade of the razor against it. Then he stepped forward and drew the flat side of the sharpened blade across Mr Blue’s cheek.
* * *
Mr Blue complained the workers were always breaking things. The excavator in the first pit that scooped up giant mouthfuls of soil and rocks: three days’ work lost, he said. Just like that. Every day it was something. Shovels and hoes turned to chalk. Wooden handles snapped like dried grass stalks. Steel pick heads shattered. A sledgehammer cracked like an egg. The mining had continued through several seasons.