Forest Gate (21 page)

Romao looked over at the great monument in the square below, sipped from his cup and then lit the cigar that he had held between his strong, calloused fingers. 'Do you believe in God?'

'No,' James said with an expression of contempt.

'You are not happy?'

'No,' said James.

'I can tell,' Romao said. He looked at James and laughed. 'It's good. You would not be a black man if you were happy all the time in life. When there is drought you look for rain. Maybe you never find it but you do not stop looking. This is life, my friend.'

James stared at Romao oddly for some time, almost with reverence. Romao gave him a patient smile while he undid a button on his damp shirt.

'Very nice,' said Romao. 'So we are two men of the devil.' He poured himself a glass of rum, and filled a short glass for me. We clinked and he took a sip. For a long moment he watched his cigar burn.

I
T WAS JUST AFTER
three when we arrived. The temperature had swelled well above ninety, like in the African sun. Inside the car the dashboard smelled as though it might be melting. I reclined my seat as far back as it could go, trying to withdraw from the fierce afternoon heat. I looked at Mr Bloom's flushed face.

'I'm roasting,' he said.

We travelled slowly from Esperantina to Santa Rosa in the highlands. Along the way I saw mules tied to wooden posts and wearing straw hats; I saw men carrying sacks on their backs. Black women walked with large water jars on their heads and men without shirts worked in the fields or rested their dusty boots against crumbling walls in the shade. I even saw a man with dead rats at his feet, selling poison; hawkers – some with stands, most without – sold roast corn and snake charms, just like home.

We pulled up across the street from the address Nathan gave in his letter. It was a large house with a narrow brick walkway on the left side. The walls were peeling, the gate rusted at the hinges.

'This is it. You're sure you don't want me to come with you?' asked Mr Bloom after he had parked the car.

'I'm sure,' James said and got out. 'Could you open the boot?'

Then Mr Bloom did a funny thing. He got out of the car too and offered his right hand. James took it and first Mr Bloom shook his hand firmly and then he pulled James close and hugged him.

'Let yourself breathe in there,' he said.

I didn't know what he was talking about.

James struggled free from his embrace.

'Where will you be?' I asked Mr Bloom.

There was laughter on his face when he said, 'I'm going back south. Maybe I'll check out the
mumita
at the car rental, maybe I won't. If you need me leave me a message at the hotel, I'll check in every few hours. Either way I'll be back here in a couple of days. You have money, call me if you need me.' He pulled away from the kerb and blasted the horn as he drove off.

I took one of the two heavy bags and the cake box and slowly James and I walked towards the iron gate. It creaked a shrill song when I opened it, the hinges scraping against their spring. Those across the street who seemed familiar with the sound looked up as I knocked on the brown door.

And then I saw a woman and a boy who was bouncing a yellow plastic ball, standing there watching. She carried two shopping bags full of fruit and cut flowers. Her soft, dark eyes reminded me of a leading lady in one of those old black-and-white African films: narrow neck, dark skin, slender legs, wide hips and small full breasts completed the illusion. She was dressed simply in a white linen dress, a wide-brimmed hat and sandals. I wasn't sure how long she had been standing there. She looked alarmed. I saw her turn to look at the plume of dust that hung in the air from Mr Bloom's car. She looked at James, at his trainers, at his new jeans.

'
Oi
,
Carla
,
tudo bem
,' shouted somebody from across the street. It was a postman, a fat man, well over six feet, in shorts and a blue shirt, holding a sheaf of letters. '
Tudo bem
,' said Carla. The postman paused to check through his handful of letters and then waved and continued on down the street. I looked up at the sky when I heard a flutter of bird wings. Four crisp leaves circled against a wall in the breeze and drifted to the ground.

I then found I could not take my eyes from the little boy. He had dropped his ball but still stood with his mother, fingering his pockets. He looked like James. He had inherited the prominent Morrison lips. He had the same shape of skull, the same broad forehead. He watched James closely. Then the boy peered at me as though he couldn't quite make me out and he huddled closer to his mother and nestled his face behind her dress, close to the back of her thighs.

James wiped away a tear as a great red truck shot past. It left a strong smell of fuel and a cloud of dust.

He paused and seemed to gather his strength. 'My name is James Morrison.'

The woman walked slowly, hesitantly, towards James and stopped when she was very close. She tilted her head as she stared at him and tears appeared in her warm brown eyes. She smiled at me and then she opened her arms and wound herself around James, holding him to her body. 'James,' she said. And then she turned to her son, Ricardo.

'Vocé é amigo do meu pai
,' said Ricardo.

James pursed his lips, straightened himself, making himself taller. His gaze fixed on his nephew.

James shrugged and looked at Carla. 'What did he say?'

Carla hesitated. 'He wants to know, are you a friend of his father?'

James smiled down at the boy. 'I am your uncle.'

Ricardo frowned indignantly at James and turned to his mother. '
Quem ou um uncle
?'

Carla laughed and then said gently, '
Esse é irmão do sev pai
.'

'
Irmão do meu pai
! . . . my father's brother!' He looked at James intently for a moment and then flung his arms around his neck and squeezed.

Carla turned to me. She shut her eyes when we embraced. She smelled sweet, flowery – rosemary or lavender, I couldn't decide which. Her arms, soft and warm, had a bluish hue from the sun.

James held Ricardo tightly for just a moment and when he released him he turned around, looked at me and then at the sun over the land behind the building.

'Please,' said Carla. 'Come inside.' She spoke as if the thought had just occurred to her.

James smiled at me and then breathed in deeply. He leaned back and put his arms around my waist.

'After you,' he said.