The Gloaming by Melanie Finn Read Free Book Online

shopping lists, they attended to me.
    Kindermörderin
.
    I put the pieces together.
Mörderin
. Murderer.
    Very slowly, I put the lasagne back. I wanted to do the right thing, to be seen as reacting properly. Perhaps I should cry, as I had done with Sergeant Caspary. Tears of grief. But I had the notion this wasn’t what they wanted. I kept my eyes straight ahead, careful not to inadvertently catch anyone’s gaze. At the door, I put my shopping basket back in the stack.
    Outside, I checked for traffic as I crossed the road. I did not turn around, but I was certain they were watching me from the window, clustered like flies.
    Â 
Magulu, May 2
    He is white.
    How shocking whiteness is. Having become accustomed to seeing only black skin, whiteness seems awkward—bleached. We were not meant to be white; it’s an adaptation. The dappling of freckles, the coarse crop of his red-gold hair. His eyes are bright blue. How did we ever convince black people that whiteness was preferable, more beautiful? His eyelashes are pale, like those on a golden retriever. I realize I am staring.
    He extends his hand, ‘Martin Martins.’
    A slight European accent, the origin difficult to discern.
    â€˜Pilgrim.’ I take his hand; the surface of his palm is rough and surprisingly cold.
    We are in the narrow hallway between the rooms. I stepped out and there he was, proximity forced by the small space.
    â€˜Are your parents religious?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜The name.’
    The name, the curious name, the cocktail party banter. ‘They’re hippies,’ I say, as I always do. ‘The Journey of Life.’
    â€˜Seriously?’ He laughs. He actually laughs in a ha-ha-ha way.
    I consider the comeback, something about how his parents had no imagination and used the same name twice. But though Martin laughs, I already know he’s not a humorous man.
    â€˜And here you are on your journey,’ he says. ‘Magulu. What a shithole, hey?’
    I listen to his voice. Perhaps somewhere in the former Eastern Bloc. Poland or the Czech Republic. Possibly further east.
    â€˜Magulu’s not so bad.’
    â€˜By what standard? A Nigerian jail?’ Ha ha ha.
    Tom spent two years writing a report on Nigerian jails. He came home from his research and interviews stinking. At first I thought it was the smell of the jail, but he said, no, it was him, how he came to smell, listening to the prisoners, seeing what he saw. It was a physical reaction to the suffering of others.
    â€˜Sure, by that standard,’ I tell Martin.
    He’s clearly not sure how to take this flat response, and he inspects me more closely. ‘Imagine the guidebook! The Rough Guide to Shitholes!’
    â€˜Imagine.’
    He takes a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and uses the act of offering me one to close again the space between us. The brand is Rooster, I notice, a retro design of a cockerel printed on the pack.
    He lights up, turning his head to exhale the smoke. ‘I love Africa. Love it. You can still smoke anywhere you want. When they are chopping each other’s arms off and stealing billions in aid money, they can hardly say, “Oh, now we want to have stronger anti-smoking laws.”’
    Is this amusing? I’m not sure. Something I read comes back to me: ‘
You know, this Continent of Africa has a terrible strong sense of sarcasm.’
I do not remember the book, one of Tom’s. But this man has about him a feeling of dark experience, has taken the sarcasm to heart. He is not a tourist or a traveler. He has purpose and is explicitly unafraid.
    â€˜And you,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’
    â€˜Fuel pump’s fucked on my Land Cruiser. I’m trying to get a message to a mate in Mwanza. No fucking mobile service so I had to hire a guy on a bike. I’m here until I can get a replacement. There’s a bus or something. A week at least.’
    I do