“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the opposite sofa.
“Feel free.”
“How are you? How’s your stay with Papa been?”
“Good,” I said.
“I hope our weather is not too hot for you?”
“No.”
“And how’s your family in England?”
“Fine, thank you.”
She fiddled with the clasp of her gold bracelet. She wore a matching necklace and a gold watch on her other wrist. Her lips were painted, her eyebrows were drawn, and every finger, except her thumbs, was ringed. There was a knock on the door. It was the maid with my lunch tray.
“Aunty Afua.” She curtsied and set down the tray. “I didn’t know you were around. What will you eat, ma?”
“Actually, I was hoping to take you out for lunch,” Afua said to me.
“That’s kind.”
“I should remove this?” the maid asked, looking at Afua, the recognized authority.
“Yes, please, Angela. If that’s fine with you, Anna?”
“Sure.”
Angela left with my tray. I had never thought to ask her name and she had never thought to curtsy to me.
“Shall we?” Afua said, rising.
Afua’s car was a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a siren on the roof. TV screens were buried in the leather headrests and a glazed panel separated us from the driver. He was dressed in police uniform, navy shirt and trousers with one silver star sewn to each epaulette.
“Bagatelle,” Afua said over the intercom.
The engine started and the car moved off, sealed from outside. Her perfume clogged the air, floral with bitter undertones. When the car slowed, hawkers swarmed. At a red light, a child flattened his face against the glass. Afua slid down the window, startling him.
“Don’t dirty my car,” she said.
“Sorry, mama. Please give me something.”
She brought out a two-hundred-cowry note.
“Mama the mama.”
It was a lot of money, a performative amount. We drove off.
“The thing about Papa is he doesn’t keep secrets from us,” she said, picking up a conversation that had never begun, “which is why it was such a surprise to find out about you. I’m not that good with surprises so you must excuse my initial reaction, but we’ll talk more in Bagatelle.” She gestured at the driver.
Bagatelle was set back from the street, with a large fountain in its front garden. A plaster cherub spouted water from pursed lips, like a projectile of spit. The interior was more modern: plants growing up an exposed brick wall, sleek dark-wood tables, black leather booths. There was no lunch crowd—only a few solitary diners, eating with their phones and laptops.
“Your Excellency.”
A man approached. The top buttons of his white shirt were open and his chest hairs sprouted black and silver.
“Amir.”
They clasped shoulders and pressed cheeks.
“Amir, this is my friend Anna.”
He turned and shook my hand. He was short. The crown of his head would slide neatly under my chin.
“Welcome to Bagatelle, Anna. The oldest first-rate restaurant in Bamana.”
“Hello,” I said.
“I detect a British accent.”
“We came here to eat,” Afua said.
I slipped my hand out of Amir’s grip.
“Where would you like to sit, Your Excellency? Anywhere you want, even in my office.”
“I’ve told you. It’s ‘my lord’ for a judge.”
“‘My lady,’ surely,” Amir said.
“I prefer to think of myself as a man when I administer justice. Your private booth. Don’t seat anyone near it.”
I followed in Afua’s wake and she led us to a booth screened off by wooden panels. Inside, it was faintly claustrophobic. There was a half-melted candle in the center of the table: a space perhaps reserved for romantic assignments.
“I went to school with Amir. He’s from an old Lebanese family. Very wealthy. They’ve been in Bamana for almost a century, but the Khourys still ship their brides from Lebanon—to keep the blood pure.”
“I’m your friend?” I asked.
“I would like us to be despite our not-so-promising start. It’s we Adjeis against the world. What you must first explain is why you left your life in London to find Papa if it wasn’t for money?”
“I have some.”
“Then what?”
“I wanted to meet my father.”
“Couldn’t you at least telephone, give us some warning?”