Read Online Eddie Signwriter by Adam Schwartzman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Adam Schwartzman
Ads: Link
gate.
Though closed, Celeste had left it unlocked, and he went through alone into the garden, which the night had turned into a series of dark shapes retreating into the distance. It was cooler and only the sound of insect wings and wind in the leaves remained. He found his way to the bench and returned as quickly as he could.
When he came up the stairs ten minutes later, relieved to be back, the two of them were standing, waiting for him. He was happy, he could feel himself smiling as the two women watched him climbing the stairs. The expressions on their faces, he hardly noticed—whether they were smiling, or one was smiling and the other wasn’t, or whether something completely different was happening.
Only when he got to the top of the step did they begin to move: Celeste turned and walked into the house without looking at him or saying a word. Nana Oforiwaa stepped forward. And though it wasonly her hand that touched him—guiding him at his elbow as she turned him towards the driveway, and the waiting car—he felt her presence close round him like an embrace.
SOON HE BEGAN to receive regular invitations to join the teacher on his trips to the rest house. No reasons were given and he had no intention of questioning his good luck. At first there were messages from the teacher, which were brought to him wherever he was by a younger boy. Later Nana Oforiwaa started inviting him herself, always to join them for the afternoon, though inevitably the visits would extend into the evenings, or the whole day on a weekend.
As time passed he grew used to the routines of the rest house. The long slow afternoons when he usually arrived, when the tablecloths had just been laid out on the grass to dry—it was something to see, if you passed by from the main road, with the purple and green batiks covering the slopes of the garden leading to the forest.
Then, in the late afternoons, preparations would begin for the meals. Ingredients would be delivered, and the chopping would start, the tables were laid, and the smells of the spices and the sound of pounding and frying, and the gossiping and laughter of the cooks would drift over the empty balcony.
Guests started coming at six p.m. Often there were tourists. They came in busloads, with their foreign currency and their taste for soft drinks and local beer, which Nana Oforiwaa overpriced scandalously and became relatively rich by.
But most of the clientele were from the towns around, in which there were many prominent people with interests, and retired teachers, and civil servants with pensions. Or else—especially on the weekends—from Accra: the pleasure seekers escaping the heat, who came to visit the garden, stay in the hotels, drink the palm wine, and see the waterfallsand streams that were all around the region, and often would stay at the restaurant until after closing time, when Nana Oforiwaa had them pile up their dishes in the sinks out back as they left, leaving the rest for the lizards and birds.
And so the visits to the rest house were not for Celeste alone, but also for the world that she came from. The gardens. The verandah. The rest house, with its low eaves, and its polished concrete floors, the vines on the pillars and the cool afternoon breezes flowing down into the valley. The restaurant in the evening—watching from the pantry as the cooks prepared the meals, the clientele from Accra in their finery, the prominent citizens of the town, quiet and elegant, speaking in hushed tones, and the private table on the side where the four of them—Nana Oforiwaa, the teacher, he and Celeste—took their meals.
And also—he’d admit it freely—for the infectiousness of Nana Oforiwaa’s humour and confidence and her unashamed selfishness—the way she charged into the world and ordered it about, how she hustled it and cajoled until it did exactly as she pleased. It gave him confidence to stand behind such a person, to pass through the world in her wake.
Later,
Though closed, Celeste had left it unlocked, and he went through alone into the garden, which the night had turned into a series of dark shapes retreating into the distance. It was cooler and only the sound of insect wings and wind in the leaves remained. He found his way to the bench and returned as quickly as he could.
When he came up the stairs ten minutes later, relieved to be back, the two of them were standing, waiting for him. He was happy, he could feel himself smiling as the two women watched him climbing the stairs. The expressions on their faces, he hardly noticed—whether they were smiling, or one was smiling and the other wasn’t, or whether something completely different was happening.
Only when he got to the top of the step did they begin to move: Celeste turned and walked into the house without looking at him or saying a word. Nana Oforiwaa stepped forward. And though it wasonly her hand that touched him—guiding him at his elbow as she turned him towards the driveway, and the waiting car—he felt her presence close round him like an embrace.
SOON HE BEGAN to receive regular invitations to join the teacher on his trips to the rest house. No reasons were given and he had no intention of questioning his good luck. At first there were messages from the teacher, which were brought to him wherever he was by a younger boy. Later Nana Oforiwaa started inviting him herself, always to join them for the afternoon, though inevitably the visits would extend into the evenings, or the whole day on a weekend.
As time passed he grew used to the routines of the rest house. The long slow afternoons when he usually arrived, when the tablecloths had just been laid out on the grass to dry—it was something to see, if you passed by from the main road, with the purple and green batiks covering the slopes of the garden leading to the forest.
Then, in the late afternoons, preparations would begin for the meals. Ingredients would be delivered, and the chopping would start, the tables were laid, and the smells of the spices and the sound of pounding and frying, and the gossiping and laughter of the cooks would drift over the empty balcony.
Guests started coming at six p.m. Often there were tourists. They came in busloads, with their foreign currency and their taste for soft drinks and local beer, which Nana Oforiwaa overpriced scandalously and became relatively rich by.
But most of the clientele were from the towns around, in which there were many prominent people with interests, and retired teachers, and civil servants with pensions. Or else—especially on the weekends—from Accra: the pleasure seekers escaping the heat, who came to visit the garden, stay in the hotels, drink the palm wine, and see the waterfallsand streams that were all around the region, and often would stay at the restaurant until after closing time, when Nana Oforiwaa had them pile up their dishes in the sinks out back as they left, leaving the rest for the lizards and birds.
And so the visits to the rest house were not for Celeste alone, but also for the world that she came from. The gardens. The verandah. The rest house, with its low eaves, and its polished concrete floors, the vines on the pillars and the cool afternoon breezes flowing down into the valley. The restaurant in the evening—watching from the pantry as the cooks prepared the meals, the clientele from Accra in their finery, the prominent citizens of the town, quiet and elegant, speaking in hushed tones, and the private table on the side where the four of them—Nana Oforiwaa, the teacher, he and Celeste—took their meals.
And also—he’d admit it freely—for the infectiousness of Nana Oforiwaa’s humour and confidence and her unashamed selfishness—the way she charged into the world and ordered it about, how she hustled it and cajoled until it did exactly as she pleased. It gave him confidence to stand behind such a person, to pass through the world in her wake.
Later,
Similar Books
