Half of a Yellow Sun. Чимаманда Нгози АдичиЧитать онлайн книгу.
homesick here,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so at all,’ Richard said.
‘Well, the British have just decided to control immigration from the Commonwealth, haven’t they? They want people to stay in their own countries. The irony, of course, is that we in the Commonwealth can’t control the British moving to our countries.’
He chewed his rice slowly and examined the bottle of water for a moment, as if it were wine whose vintage he wanted to know.
‘Right after I came back from England, I was part of the Fourth Battalion that went to the Congo, under the United Nations. Our battalion wasn’t well run at all, but despite that, I preferred Congo to the relative safety of England. Just because of the weather.’ Major Madu paused. ‘We weren’t run well at all in the Congo. We were under the command of a British colonel.’ He glanced at Richard and continued to chew.
Richard bristled; his fingers felt stiff and he feared his fork would slip from his grasp and this insufferable man would know how he felt.
The doorbell rang just after dinner while they sat on the moonlit veranda, drinking, listening to High Life music.
‘That must be Udodi, I told him to meet me here,’ Major Madu said.
Richard slapped at an irritating mosquito near his ear. Kainene’s house seemed to have become a meeting place for the man and his friends.
Udodi was a smallish, ordinary-looking man with nothing of the knowing charm or subtle arrogance of Major Madu. He seemed drunk, almost manic, in the way he shook Richard’s hand, pumping up and down. ‘Are you Kainene’s business associate? Are you in oil?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t do the introductions, did I?’ Kainene said. ‘Richard, Major Udodi Ekechi is a friend of Madu’s. Udodi, this is Richard Churchill.’
‘Oh,’ Major Udodi said, his eyes narrowing. He poured some whisky into a glass, drank it in one gulp, and said something in Igbo to which Kainene replied, in cold, clear English, ‘My choice of lovers is none of your business, Udodi.’
Richard wished he could open his mouth and fluidly tell the man off, but he said nothing. He felt helplessly weak, the kind of weakness that came with illness, with grief. The music had stopped and he could hear the far-off whooshing of the sea’s waves.
‘Sorry, oh! I did not say it was my business!’ Major Udodi laughed and reached again for the bottle of whisky.
‘Easy now,’ Major Madu said. ‘You must have started early at the mess.’
‘Life is short, my brother!’ Major Udodi said, pouring another drink. He turned to Kainene. ‘I magonu, you know, what I am saying is that our women who follow white men are a certain type, a poor family and the kind of bodies that white men like.’ He stopped and continued, in a mocking mimicry of an English accent, ‘Fantastically desirable bottoms.’ He laughed. ‘The white men will poke and poke and poke the women in the dark but they will never marry them. How can! They will never even take them out to a good place in public. But the women will continue to disgrace themselves and struggle for the men so they will get chicken-feed money and nonsense tea in a fancy tin. It’s a new slavery, I’m telling you, a new slavery. But you are a Big Man’s daughter, so what you are doing with him?’
Major Madu stood up. ‘Sorry about this, Kainene. The man isn’t himself.’ He pulled Major Udodi up and said something in swift Igbo.
Major Udodi was laughing again. ‘Okay, okay, but let me take the whisky. The bottle is almost empty. Let me take the whisky.’
Kainene said nothing as Major Udodi took the bottle from the table. After they left, Richard sat next to her and took her hand. He felt as if he had disappeared, as if that was the reason Major Madu did not include him in the apology. ‘He was dreadful. I’m sorry he did that.’
‘He was hopelessly drunk. Madu must feel terrible right now,’ Kainene said. She gestured to the file on the table and added, ‘I’ve just got the contract to supply army boots for the battalion in Kaduna.’
‘That’s nice.’ Richard drank the last drop from his glass and watched as Kainene looked through the file.
‘The man in charge was Igbo, and Madu said he was keen to give the contract to a fellow Igbo. So I was lucky. And he’s asking only for a five per cent cut.’
‘A bribe?’
‘Oh, aren’t we innocent.’
Her mockery irritated him, as did the speed with which she had absolved Major Madu of any responsibility for Major Udodi’s boorish behaviour. He stood up and began to pace the veranda. Insects were humming around the fluorescent bulb.
‘You’ve known Madu for very long then,’ he said finally. He hated calling the man by his first name; it assumed a cordiality he did not feel. But then he had no choice. He would certainly not call him Major; using a title would be too elevating.
Kainene looked up. ‘Forever. His family and ours are very close. I remember once, years ago, when we went to Umunnachi to spend Christmas, he gave me a tortoise. The strangest and best present I ever got from anybody. Olanna thought it was wrong of Madu to take the poor thing out of its natural habitat and whatnot, but she didn’t much get along with Madu anyway. I put it in a bowl, and of course it died soon afterwards.’ She went back to looking through the file.
‘He’s married, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. Adaobi is doing her bachelor’s in London.’
‘Is that why you’re seeing him so often?’ His question came out in a near-croak, as though he needed to clear his throat.
She did not respond. Perhaps she had not heard him. It was clear that the file, the new contract, occupied her mind. She got up. ‘I’ll just make some notes for a minute in the study and join you.’
He wondered why he could simply not ask if she found Madu attractive and if she had ever been involved with him or, worse yet, was still involved with him. He was afraid. He moved towards her and put his arms around her and held her tightly, wanting to feel the beat of her heart. It was the first time in his life he felt as if he could belong somewhere.
1. The Book: The World Was Silent When We Died
For the prologue, he recounts the story of the woman with the calabash. She sat on the floor of a train squashed between crying people, shouting people, praying people. She was silent, caressing the covered calabash on her lap in a gentle rhythm until they crossed the Niger, and then she lifted the lid and asked Olanna and others close by to look inside.
Olanna tells him this story and he notes the details. She tells him how the bloodstains on the woman’s wrapper blended into the fabric to form a rusty mauve. She describes the carved designs on the woman’s calabash, slanting lines crisscrossing each other, and she describes the child’s head inside: scruffy plaits falling across the dark-brown face, eyes completely white, eerily open, a mouth in a small surprised O.
After he writes this, he mentions the German women who fled Hamburg with the charred bodies of their children stuffed in suitcases, the Rwandan women who pocketed tiny parts of their mauled babies. But he is careful not to draw parallels. For the book cover, though, he draws a map of Nigeria and traces in the Y shape of the rivers Niger and Benue in bright red. He uses the same shade of red to circle the boundaries of where, in the Southeast, Biafra existed for three years.
Ugwu cleared the dining table slowly. He removed the glasses first, then the stew-smeared bowls and the cutlery, and finally he stacked plate on top of plate. Even if he hadn’t peeked through the kitchen door as they ate, he would still know who had sat where. Master’s plate was always the most rice-strewn, as if he ate distractedly so that the grains eluded his fork. Olanna’s