Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [98]
The figure below me moved, the slightness of his frame told me it must be a young man or a boy. I watched him idly for a few minutes. Something about him seemed familiar, something in his walk as he sauntered between one lamp post and the next, as though he had nowhere particular to go. Briefly he stepped into one of the circles of light. I caught a glimpse of his profile. The high forehead, the shape of the skull, the upturned edges of the lips, the man below me was an African. He looked up, straight at my window. Bobbio!
Yes, it was he. Oh, how happy I was to see him. I cannot tell you. I waved. I worried about making a noise, I don’t know why exactly — the place was so hushed, you know. But I knew Bobbio was there for me. All I needed was to tell him I had seen him. I tapped on the glass. Bobbio grinned at me. Waved back. Oh, Bobbio. I pressed the palm of my hand flat against the glass and I stayed like that for a long time, looking at Bobbio who clasped his hands together, held them up and looked right back at me.
I slept soundly, the bed like a big boat, bobbing on the waves of a warm, blue ocean. In the morning I jumped up and went to the window. At first I couldn’t see my friend, just a line of people waiting at the bus stop, shuffling in the cold. But I never doubted he would be there. I searched the line of people. The bus arrived. The queue inched forward. Ah, there! A glimpse. Behind the woman in the blue anorak and the boy with his hands stuck in the pockets of his striped blazer: bare feet and the hem of a duster coat. Other people came and stood, blocking my view. I didn’t know what Bobbio was doing or how he had found me, but none of that mattered. Bobbio was there. And while he was outside I felt safe.
I remember that time, because although it was supposed to be a bad time for me, in some ways it was a very good time. The big shadow of fear shrank and slipped away under the door. I lay there and thought of nothing at all. I forgot about what I was doing in England. I cared nothing for the passage of time, instead I watched the patterns of light on the ceiling. Sometimes I sat at the window looking for Bobbio, until somebody came to put me back to bed. At the time it felt like years were slipping by, but now I think perhaps it was only days.
‘Hello dear, visitor for you,’ the nurse put her head around my door. It was she who brought me my meals and made me understand I was in the college sanatorium. She tended to talk a great deal as she moved about my room, turning off the night light, rearranging the bedclothes. I had always been sure to reply politely to her enquiries, I didn’t want her to think me rude. Once the doctor with no teeth had been back, but had examined me only briefly and directed all his questions away from me.
‘Eating much?’
‘Yes,’ the woman had replied. ‘Nothing wrong with her appetite.’
‘Said anything?’
‘Nothing I understand. They’ve called. Apparently somebody’s on their way. Somebody who can translate.’
That afternoon a young woman followed the nurse into the room. She was black and slim, dressed in European clothes, though she moved easily in them as if she wore a simple kaftan; not at all the way I always felt: tight and trapped. She swung her hip on to the side of my bed, perched there. Leaning forward, she took one of my hands in both of hers and looked at me. I saw deep, brown eyes, tilted upwards at the corners. Buffed skin. When she smiled she showed all her teeth at once and a wrinkle appeared across the bridge of her nose. I let her hold my hand. I even smiled back at her, she seemed so kind.
‘Who are