Sankofa(22)

“No, thank you.”

A herd of students walk past, braying at a joke. I bring out the diary and place it on the table. His eyes shift to the book. He leans forward but does not touch it.

“So you found this in your mother’s possession? What was your mother’s relation to Francis, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“He was a lodger. My grandfather was his landlord,” I say.

“Does Francis mention me in the diary? Is that why you contacted me?”

“Partly. And I read your book on Bamana.”

“May I?”

I nod, and he picks up Francis Aggrey’s book. He opens it gently, like it might crumble. I look around. In an opposite booth, a boy and girl eat hunched forward, watching a single screen.

“This is remarkable.” He is scanning those arresting opening lines. “How did you say your mother came by it?”

“They were friends.”

“May I take photographs? I’ll need more than a glance to make a judgment. I would not reproduce it, or even allude to it, without your express permission.”

I will have to trust Adrian because he knew my father both as a student and as prime minister. He can tell me more than I can tell him.

“Yes. That should be fine,” I say.

We take the lift to his office. It is a large box on the fourth floor. There are books on the shelves, on the carpet, on his table, even on the windowsill, blocking out the sunlight.

“Excuse the mess. Please have a seat. Now, where did I put my camera?”

I sit, and he moves around me, opening and shutting drawers, crouching to look under the table. His haunches are firm against his jeans but when he tries to rise from all fours, he falters and his knees stay on the ground. I look away until he stands.

“I’m so sorry. It must be at home. Will you wait while I go and look? Or perhaps you could come with me and have some tea. It’s only a ten-minute walk and it would be more comfortable there than here.” His manner is scrupulously polite. A gentleman, my mother would have called him. “A toff” would have been Aunt Caryl’s description.

I am surprised that he is so trusting. The diary might be fake, a trap to lure him to some disaster. But he is male. He ignored all those warnings about strangers.

“Sure,” I say.

Outside, it is cold but the sun has come out.

“Edinburgh is an ancient city. There have been people living here for thousands of years.”

He speaks like a tour guide projecting to the back of the group.

“This street is called Cowgate, because in the old days farmers used to bring their cattle to the city via this road.”

He has assumed that I am interested, and I am, in his obvious enthusiasm. I look at the street properly and see it is not meant for human proportions but for cattle, marching ten-deep, raising dust as they pass on their way to slaughter.

He lives in a town house behind a red door, the brightest one on the street. We step into a faint must of old paper. In the hallway there are shoes piled in a small pyramid.

“Shall I take off my shoes?” I ask.

“No, never mind that. Please. This way.”

The living room is south-facing and flooded with light. There are books here also, enough to run a small lending library. Logs are cut and stacked by the fireplace. An entire wall is lined with wooden masks. They should be seen by a steady procession of guests. Perhaps this is why he has brought me to his home, to admire his collection. He follows my gaze.

“Mostly from West Africa,” he says. “Some even from Bamana.”

“Which ones?”

“This one here.” He steps forward and touches it. I remember Francis Aggrey’s words about sacred objects handled by the uninitiated. “Harvest mask, circa 1940,” he continues, his fingers pale against the dark grain of the wood. “Look at the mouth, the deep ‘o’ for hunger that is about to be filled . . . and this is a wedding mask; same group that made it. Notice the eyes, the slits not so narrow, almost semicircles, happy eyes. They are very complex. Small movements in the wood can change the expression. This is what Picasso grasped immediately. Please, do sit down.”

I choose a leather armchair that seems perfect for reading.

“What was Francis like?” I ask, before Adrian can launch into another lecture.

“I knew him better as a student. He was reserved back then. Obviously intelligent, but almost shy. When I met him again in Bamana, after he had become prime minister, I was surprised by how outgoing he had become. It made me wonder: which was the real person?” he says. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

He is a practiced host. He offers tea, biscuits, and serves them on a tray. The teacup matches its saucer; the biscuits are arranged on a gold-rimmed plate and there are silver tongs for the small, white sugar cubes. These are feminine details, but there has been no mention of a wife. He forgets his search for a camera and sits by a desk in the corner. There is a notepad and a pen already set out, and as he turns the pages of the diary, he jots things down.

There is no television in the room. When my tea grows cold, I walk to a shelf that touches the ceiling and read the titles. African books by African authors: One Man, One Machete, The Joys of Motherhood, God’s Bits of Wood. I stop at Bessie Head because the name sounds English. When Rain Clouds Gather. I read the introduction. She was like me. White mother, black father, but in a worse place to be colored. The opening pages are strong so I take the book back to the sofa.