Read Online Eddie Signwriter by Adam Schwartzman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adam Schwartzman
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as the months drew on, he would begin to travel to Aburi on his own, without the teacher. Nana Oforiwaa had mentioned that he had only to arrange the time with her driver. Any time would be fine with her and Celeste, she said, he was to come over whenever he wanted. And that is what he increasingly did, letting Celeste know in advance, and planning an hour or so in which they could be together, before they’d join Nana Oforiwaa.
Celeste never said no. Whatever he proposed they’d always do. Walking through the gardens. Doing homework together in the back of the rest house. And even in those days, traveling a little further afield—to another village by taxi, or by paths that she knew through the bush.
Sometimes he thought she was afraid. Not of him exactly, but of the mechanics of closeness. Of the claim that being wanted made on her. Not that he did anything wrong.
Him
she liked well enough.That he cared for her. That he made her laugh. That he was kind and respectful and listened to her and let her know the things she thought and said were important. And the fact of having a boy—that she liked too, in a childish, vain sort of way, which he didn’t mind. It only made him laugh and want her more. But being willful, desiring, wanting—these were not things that came easily out of her. Nor were they things he could easily draw out himself.
They were in Aburi town once, out and about walking on a Saturday afternoon. It was hot and the taxi ranks were crowded and the stalls were selling fast, and they came to a table where a man was trading in food—pineapples, bananas still on the branch, bush meat, dried fish, a sack of grain, and such things. The trader was young and shirtless, and he hated the trader immediately for his loud, commanding voice, and his obvious, brilliant strength. He wished Celeste would want to pass straight by. But she stopped at one corner of the trader’s table where oranges were piled up, and she turned to the boy and asked if he had money.
“Why don’t you just take it?” he said.
She rolled her eyes at him girlishly.
“Do you have money?” she repeated.
He didn’t have to look, since he knew he had nothing.
“Take it,” he replied.
She did what he said and slipped the orange into the pocket of her dress.
Afterwards they went back to the gardens and they ate that orange together at the back near the workers’ cottages, where the land slopes down into the forest, not saying a word, as the tall grass blew around them and protected them from view.
They were there a while, though he finished his half almost immediately. But she ate slowly, separating each segment, and stripping off the threads of rind. He knew there were thoughts working through her head, and so he sat quietly and let her be. When she finished her orange she put the rind by her side and folded her hands over her lap. He was sitting a little ahead of her, looking down on the forest.
Nana Oforiwaa had been talking about him, she said.
“What does she say?” he asked.
“That she likes you,” Celeste said, and that she thought he was smart and well-behaved.
He was glad, he told her, he liked her aunt too, even if, without his knowing why, it made him uneasy to say it.
Yes, Celeste said again, her aunt liked him, she would ask about him, and she laughed—so many things—not so many things, but—again she laughed and had to stop momentarily because she was talking out of nervousness really and needed to stop for air—but some things.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yes,” Celeste said. And then she starting telling him how she’d come back from the school—this was not long after the first time he’d visited with the head teacher—and Nana Oforiwaa was sitting in her chair on the verandah, even though it was still hot. Which was unusual, Celeste said, because normally Nana Oforiwaa would be sleeping at that time, and would only get up as the evening cooled and it was time for the guests to come to the
Celeste never said no. Whatever he proposed they’d always do. Walking through the gardens. Doing homework together in the back of the rest house. And even in those days, traveling a little further afield—to another village by taxi, or by paths that she knew through the bush.
Sometimes he thought she was afraid. Not of him exactly, but of the mechanics of closeness. Of the claim that being wanted made on her. Not that he did anything wrong.
Him
she liked well enough.That he cared for her. That he made her laugh. That he was kind and respectful and listened to her and let her know the things she thought and said were important. And the fact of having a boy—that she liked too, in a childish, vain sort of way, which he didn’t mind. It only made him laugh and want her more. But being willful, desiring, wanting—these were not things that came easily out of her. Nor were they things he could easily draw out himself.
They were in Aburi town once, out and about walking on a Saturday afternoon. It was hot and the taxi ranks were crowded and the stalls were selling fast, and they came to a table where a man was trading in food—pineapples, bananas still on the branch, bush meat, dried fish, a sack of grain, and such things. The trader was young and shirtless, and he hated the trader immediately for his loud, commanding voice, and his obvious, brilliant strength. He wished Celeste would want to pass straight by. But she stopped at one corner of the trader’s table where oranges were piled up, and she turned to the boy and asked if he had money.
“Why don’t you just take it?” he said.
She rolled her eyes at him girlishly.
“Do you have money?” she repeated.
He didn’t have to look, since he knew he had nothing.
“Take it,” he replied.
She did what he said and slipped the orange into the pocket of her dress.
Afterwards they went back to the gardens and they ate that orange together at the back near the workers’ cottages, where the land slopes down into the forest, not saying a word, as the tall grass blew around them and protected them from view.
They were there a while, though he finished his half almost immediately. But she ate slowly, separating each segment, and stripping off the threads of rind. He knew there were thoughts working through her head, and so he sat quietly and let her be. When she finished her orange she put the rind by her side and folded her hands over her lap. He was sitting a little ahead of her, looking down on the forest.
Nana Oforiwaa had been talking about him, she said.
“What does she say?” he asked.
“That she likes you,” Celeste said, and that she thought he was smart and well-behaved.
He was glad, he told her, he liked her aunt too, even if, without his knowing why, it made him uneasy to say it.
Yes, Celeste said again, her aunt liked him, she would ask about him, and she laughed—so many things—not so many things, but—again she laughed and had to stop momentarily because she was talking out of nervousness really and needed to stop for air—but some things.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yes,” Celeste said. And then she starting telling him how she’d come back from the school—this was not long after the first time he’d visited with the head teacher—and Nana Oforiwaa was sitting in her chair on the verandah, even though it was still hot. Which was unusual, Celeste said, because normally Nana Oforiwaa would be sleeping at that time, and would only get up as the evening cooled and it was time for the guests to come to the
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