“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.
“I don’t believe this,” Adrian says.
“What?”
“I think I was present at this lecture. Listen.”
“Yesterday, I heard Margery Perham lecturing on decolonization in West Africa at the Royal African Society. There were a few other Africans in attendance and afterwards they clustered around her. She is a collector of African students, Thomas tells me. Nkrumah, Kenyatta, Danquah, Appiah: she knew them all when they were ambitious young men in London and, even now, can call the state house in Accra and ask for a favor. I don’t care for the Margery Perhams of this world. My maternal great-grandfather was a sheikh who walked from Togo to Mecca and, on the way home, stopped in Segu and never left. It is he who should be lecturing here, explaining West Africa to these obroni. I said this to Thomas and he replied, ‘Finally. You are waking up.’”
“I was there,” he says. “I was in the room. Incredible. And who knew Thomas Phiri was so important to Francis.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, Thomas was rather a second-rate fellow. Pompous, a bit of a hanger-on really, but I suppose Francis, as a newcomer to our circle, wouldn’t have been able to tell.”
“Your circle?” I ask.
“Yes, the British left. Socialists. A few Communists.”