Indigo (26 page)

At the boat the younger man took the other passengers' money, but it was not a naira fifty. Instead, each rider handed the man fifty kobo, one third the price that Jerry had been told. When it was his turn Jerry surrendered his five naira and then waited while the man counted out his change.

“Where you come from?” the younger man asked. He had handed back three naira fifty but Jerry stayed his hand, hoping to get another naira back. “Ethiopia,” he said, “East Africa, long way from here.”

The young man looked at Jerry and then at his father. The boat was already nearly full, the father working its nose off the riverbank once again, when the younger man nodded and handed Jerry back the rest of his change.

Jerry sat in the boat's middle, his bundle on his lap, and facing a woman who might have been one of the women on the bus. But the passengers on the boat were not talking among themselves, nor did there seem to be the potential for it that there had been on the bus. The woman stared at Jerry, but perhaps only out of a need for somewhere to rest her eyes, and the others looked into the brown water, at the ships and ferries that plowed past them without regard.

The boat landing on the far side of the Niger was identical to the one on the near side. There was a low bank, then a slightly higher one. There was even a stump on which a man might sit, looking back over to where he'd sat before. But when Jerry got to the stump he did not sit down. Rather he waited for the woman, then followed her past a line of merchants' stalls that also seemed a mirror image of what he had seen on the river's other side.

Jerry liked the idea of being Ethiopian, but the truth of the matter was that he had slowly begun to think of himself not as Ethiopian but as invisible to those who passed him by. He knew, of course, that he was not invisible, but the fact was that ever since Beany's mother had burned his hair and shoved this cap down on his head, he had been primarily ignored by other people. Only when he forced the issue, as in the glass store and with the two boatmen, as he somehow had with the passengers on the bus, did people respond to him at all.

Jerry suddenly remembered Parker Akintola, letting Parker's prison voice echo in his head: “… in de night you mus' exis' wit' quietude, like only de night go by. In de day you mus' blen' in, become de man anodder man don' see, like de invisible man. Dat is how to get by during de day.”

It had been one of the first things Parker had said to him and the memory of it stopped Jerry in his tracks. He was surprised when the woman he was following stopped too, turning to face him down.

“Wha's goin' on?” she asked. “You in need o sometin' down dis way?”

The woman wasn't smiling. What's more, she had taken her bundles from her head and placed them on the path, herself between the bundles and Jerry.

“I'm sorry,” Jerry said. “I'm just wasting time, waiting for the bus to leave.”

“Bus leave from de other side,” said the woman, “don' ask me why.”

It was true that Jerry had followed the woman, but it had been an aimless following, an exercise. What he was doing was just moving along, staying in the shadow of her size, letting her movement dictate the speed and direction of his own. “I'm just looking around,” he weakly said.

Slight as his answer was, it seemed enough. She picked one bundle up, and though she had immediately placed it back on her head, she somehow looked down at the other one. “Give a hand,” she said. “My shop ain' far.”

The woman then turned and walked on. The bundle she left was tied in red cloth and was about the size of the stump Jerry'd been sitting on. Though he had his own bundle to carry, he reached down, lifted this other one by its knot, and walked along behind her. The bundle wasn't heavy but its contents had sharp points and he got the idea that if he wasn't careful something might break. He carried the bundle at his side for a while but finally grasped the knot more tightly and lifted it to his head, where it settled onto his cap perfectly, as if it belonged there.

Perhaps the woman's shop wasn't far, but by the time they got there the river was no longer in view. They had crossed several streets, cut down several pathways, and had come to a broader, better-looking road, where, somehow, the river could be seen again.

“Thank you,” said the woman. “Wait please, jus' one moment more.”

Her shop was made of plywood and reminded Jerry of an American fireworks stand. She unlocked two big padlocks and swung the shutters up, laying them flat along the shop's roof. She then picked up both bundles and set them inside.

The shop was on a rise of good ground, its western exposure lighting it just a little as the sun went down. This was a shop that sold thorn carvings, of all things, and though it didn't seem to be located in a tourist spot, the carvings that Jerry could see, the ones that were already arranged on shelves, looked superior to the ones in his flat, those he had been thinking about all day.

“I thought only tourists bought these things,” he said. He had picked up a carving of a man in a palm tree. He had one like it in his office, but this one was better, the man's face had more dimension to it, more expression by far.

The woman unpacked her bundles, both of which contained more thorn carvings of the same superior quality as the one in Jerry's hand. One thing Jerry knew about thorn carvings was that they were fragile, but though these had not been packed particularly well, they were coming out of the bundles unharmed. And the subject matter was astounding: a wide variety of daily life was carved out and arrayed before him.

The woman put the new carvings on a low shelf against the back of her shop, and then stood straight. “OK brudder, tell me now, who you be an' why you followin' me along in dis way?”

She looked at him steadily as she spoke. At first Jerry thought to say that he was Ethiopian, but that seemed a tired response. When he didn't say anything, however, the woman stepped nearer and peered at him, first at his face, then at his filthy and wrinkled clothes. She said, “Befo' I tink you a high-tone man but now I ain' so sure. You got a bad look. Are you not feeling fine?”

She took his hand as she spoke to him, so Jerry finally said, “I am, in fact, an American. I come from the United States.”

The woman shook her head. She seemed grieved to hear it. “You know my one husban' Clarke, he come from dere,” she said. “Dat's why you look familiar, you look 'bout like Clarke, I suppose.”

By this time the sun had nearly left the store, sinking into the faraway trees and making the muddy river red, but letting Jerry see one particular thorn carving in the last corner of its light. This carving sat at the edge of the woman's highest shelf. Jerry had noticed it earlier, when the sun was democratic, but then it had remained subdued. Now, though, when Jerry picked it up the woman said, “Das de one for you. I was waitin' for you to get 'roun to findin' it youself.”

The carving, which was surrounded by carvings of boats and mammy wagons and men on motor bikes, was of a building on fire. It was a tall building, and from one of its windows up high a woman was leaning out and screaming, blond wood flames surrounding her face and hair and yellow dress.

“My God,” said Jerry Neal. He felt as if he were about to fall, and, in fact, he nearly sat on his tree of life before letting the woman direct him to a chair.

“Yes,” the woman said, “I tink ‘My God' too, when I see dis one sometime.”

Jerry asked about the artist, and then about what specific event the woman thought was depicted there, but she held up her hands.

“I dunno de carver or anyting else. Mos'ly I know but for this one I don',” she said. “My frien' work for me de day it come an now my frien' long time gone, so I dunno.”

“I want it,” Jerry said. “How much do you need?”

“Is de bes' in my shop,” said the woman.

He could see himself reflected in the woman's eyes and he knew that if this carving were for sale in Lagos it would be a hundred naira, many more. He'd had five five-naira notes in his pocket and he had spent fifty kobo of that. And he would need another fifty kobo to travel back to the river's other side.

“I'll give you ten naira for it,” Jerry said.

The woman laughed. “Please,” she said. “Make las' price firs'. Don' wais' my time.”

The woman stood between Jerry and that other woman, the carved one screaming from the window of the burning building. In Lagos he would have feigned disinterest—he knew how to deal with traders—but he couldn't walk away. “I don't have much money,” he said. “Make it fifteen.”

The woman looked at him and said, “Why you wan' make insult dis way? Now you soun' like Clarke for sure. Don' you know de price is high? I can get forty naira. I don' have hurry in my min'.”

“I know,” said Jerry, “but I don't have forty naira. Look…” He shoved his ashen hands into his pockets and pulled them inside out. When his rumpled money fell to the ground the woman picked it up and counted it. “Twenty-four naira fifty kobo,” she said. The tone of her voice was not that of one counting, but of one finalizing a deal. “OK,” she said. “Sol'.”

Jerry wanted to agree, but he needed fifty kobo to get back across the river. “Let me keep boat money,” he said, “and maybe another two naira for food.”

The woman had taken the carving from its place on her shelf, but she set it back down. “Twenty-four naira fifty kobo,” she said. “Don' change de price when de bargaining done.”

So though it was absurd, though his situation demanded nothing so much as the conservation of his resources and the clearness of his mind, Jerry Neal, filthy and hungry, lost in Onitsha and on the wrong side of the river as well, gave this woman all his money for a thorn carving of a woman screaming from the side of the building that housed the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Jerry had been keeping his bundle close beside him, the folded snapdragon inside the tree of life inside a tied-up piece of Sondra's discarded cloth, and he watched as the woman untied it and put his new carving down in there too, slipping the snapdragon around it for padding.

“Is nice,” she offhandedly said, “a man like you keep his fine collection no matter what.”

Before he left the shop Jerry asked for water and when it came he dipped his hands into it, washing his face and arms. After that he left quickly, not concerned with finding the way he had come but simply keeping the river in view and making his way toward it.

When he got to the river he was happy to see that stump again and to sit upon it, his eyes on the water, hoping to be able to discern the same boat. There was less traffic now than there had been earlier, but from many of the boats Jerry could hear the good-humored chatter of people at the end of their day.

When the boat arrived, Jerry got up and walked down toward it, his bundle in his hands. He would ask the boatmen to take him on good faith, promising to pay twofold the cost of the trip when he got to the other side. But at the edge of the water, with the two boatmen facing him, he spoke these words instead: “I am traveling alone and without resources; Beany Abubakar is my friend.”

He had not meant to say any such thing but when the words came out the older boatman nodded and the younger one helped him step inside, holding his elbow until he was safely sitting down. It was such an odd thing to have said, and so unpremeditated, yet the words had worked like a code, a mantra even, and to be used only once in a while.

The evening was peaceful, the river calm, and perhaps rush hour was over, for as the boatmen paddled away Jerry noticed that the boat was not nearly so full. He had his bundle by him and he thought of its contents: the tree of life, feet on shoulders and heads, men climbing toward the top; his snapdragon, an invitation, a soft abstractness, a female inner life; and that astounding thorn carving, proof of the existence of evil in the world. These were his possessions, all that he had, and for the duration of the boat ride he could not rid himself of the feeling that he was a traveling monk of some kind, the keys to the meaning of things tied up in a piece of cloth and sitting by his side.

When the journey was over Jerry stepped from the boat easily, but when he turned to thank the boatmen they seemed not to hear him, and when he walked toward the bus stop he did not greet those who did not greet him in return. It was not as late as it needed to be for the bus to depart, but when Jerry got to the bus stop the first person he saw was Sondra, dressed in indigo and leaning into the velvet night.

“Hi,” she said. “Where in the world have you been?”

He would have told her but in fact he did not know. And while he was searching for something to say, Sondra waved her hand in the air.

“Never mind that, let's eat,” she said. “I'm starving and we've plenty of time.”

Sondra had money in her purse and when she dug for it she found the bus tickets and handed them to Jerry. “If you really want to know what I think,” she said, “I think all of this is silly, unnecessary to say the least.”

She meant, of course, the intrigue, the cautionary travel, the idea that soldiers would actually be searching them out. When she spoke, however, Jerry momentarily got the idea that she was talking about life itself, and he nodded his head, though Sondra wasn't watching and though it was apparent that no one else was paying any attention to his movements at all.

Sondra and Jerry got seats in the middle of the bus, and though Sondra was supposed to sit alone, she moved in next to Jerry anyway, by the window, making herself look small against the glass. It was ten forty-five before the driver got on and the bus lurched away. “Benin City,” he loudly said.

But though the bus was late, after the first half hour most of the potholes moved over to the side of the road and everyone slept. Jerry and Sondra leaned into each other, unknown men and women found ways of sharing common ground, and far in the back those who didn't have seats slept on luggage or between the sacks of merchandise that took up the rest of the space.