hard. The crowd showed no signs of dispersing; they stood patiently in their group beneath the cotton tree, as though awaiting the arrival of some VIP, obsessed by this sign of Shango’s displeasure that the god had dropped in their back yard. Morgan called Isaac over. “Isaac,” he said gently. “It is against the law to leave a body in the open like this. I
have
to call an undertaker. Now, will you let them remove the body?”
“They will not,” Isaac said equably.
“Pardon?”
“When they see that Shango has strock this woman. They will nevah lift her.”
Morgan smiled. “Well,” he said. “We’ll just have to take our chances on that.”
An hour later Morgan sat disconsolately on the concrete surround of the wash-place. Innocence still lay untouched half a dozen yards from his feet. He had phoned the police who claimed that as no crime had been committed it was nothing to do with them. Then he had phoned a firm of undertakers in Nkongsamba who said they would be out within the hour.
They had just left. Isaac and Ezekiel had spoken to them and the two undertakers, lugubriously dressed exactly like their European counterparts, had flatly refused to disturb the body until the fetish had been done. They even became quite angry for a while, accusing Morgan of trying to hoodwink them into offending Shango.
In the east the tree tops were silhouetted against a thin gash of pale lemon. It was ten to four. Innocence would be stiffening up now, he thought queasily, her eyes and mouth for ever open, her body permanently twisted round. He had tried to appeal to the servants’ Christianity—they were all Christians, this was no pocket of paganism—but their polite and unconcerned referencesto tribal protocol, the required summoning of the fetish priest, the various necessary rites, the obligatory slaughter of a goat, only confirmed to Morgan what he’d always expected: that they could shed their Christianity as easily as a pair of trousers. He stood up and went over to stare down at Innocence. Her death stirred nothing in him now. The fact that he was standing looking down at a dead person, someone whom he had known, raised no emotions in him. She wasn’t a person anymore, she was an object—a thing—effectively deified by that lightning bolt—a thing, moreover, that was turning into a bloody great problem.
He felt very tired and rubbed his jaw, rasping the bristles on his face. It was still quite dark but through the nim trees he could see the corner of Fanshawe’s house. He pictured the family: father, mother and daughter sleeping soundly in their beds. While he stalked about this gloomy compound like some demon insisting on the body that was due to him. It made him sick, he hated every fucking one of them, their stinking bourgeois affectations, their ghastly fake chinoiserie, their prim enclosed little minds.… He felt his face going hot. This was no good, he told himself; there was no point inveighing against the Fanshawes now. Calm down, he advised, calm down. He walked over to the cotton tree. Only half a dozen maintained their vigil now, sitting on the high tangled roots that spread out from the base of the trunk like grotesque varicose veins.
“Isaac?” Morgan said hopefully.
A tall, stooped figure rose up. “I am Joseph, sah. Joseph the cleaner. Isaac ’e done go for sleep.”
Wise man, Morgan thought. “OK, Joseph,” he said firmly—it was like dealing with a gang of Old Testament prophets. “You savvy dis fetish thing?”
Joseph nodded. He had a shaven skull and was very black, almost Nubian in appearance. In the crepuscular light he looked two-dimensional, a hole cut out of the environment. “Yes, sah,” he said. “I go savvy am.”
“Fine,” Morgan said, maintaining his businesslike tone. “Great. Go and get the juju man and we’ll do the fetish.”
“Please, sah. I no fit do it,” Joseph said simply. “The family of this dead woman must do it.”
Oh bloody hell, swore
have
to call an undertaker. Now, will you let them remove the body?”
“They will not,” Isaac said equably.
“Pardon?”
“When they see that Shango has strock this woman. They will nevah lift her.”
Morgan smiled. “Well,” he said. “We’ll just have to take our chances on that.”
An hour later Morgan sat disconsolately on the concrete surround of the wash-place. Innocence still lay untouched half a dozen yards from his feet. He had phoned the police who claimed that as no crime had been committed it was nothing to do with them. Then he had phoned a firm of undertakers in Nkongsamba who said they would be out within the hour.
They had just left. Isaac and Ezekiel had spoken to them and the two undertakers, lugubriously dressed exactly like their European counterparts, had flatly refused to disturb the body until the fetish had been done. They even became quite angry for a while, accusing Morgan of trying to hoodwink them into offending Shango.
In the east the tree tops were silhouetted against a thin gash of pale lemon. It was ten to four. Innocence would be stiffening up now, he thought queasily, her eyes and mouth for ever open, her body permanently twisted round. He had tried to appeal to the servants’ Christianity—they were all Christians, this was no pocket of paganism—but their polite and unconcerned referencesto tribal protocol, the required summoning of the fetish priest, the various necessary rites, the obligatory slaughter of a goat, only confirmed to Morgan what he’d always expected: that they could shed their Christianity as easily as a pair of trousers. He stood up and went over to stare down at Innocence. Her death stirred nothing in him now. The fact that he was standing looking down at a dead person, someone whom he had known, raised no emotions in him. She wasn’t a person anymore, she was an object—a thing—effectively deified by that lightning bolt—a thing, moreover, that was turning into a bloody great problem.
He felt very tired and rubbed his jaw, rasping the bristles on his face. It was still quite dark but through the nim trees he could see the corner of Fanshawe’s house. He pictured the family: father, mother and daughter sleeping soundly in their beds. While he stalked about this gloomy compound like some demon insisting on the body that was due to him. It made him sick, he hated every fucking one of them, their stinking bourgeois affectations, their ghastly fake chinoiserie, their prim enclosed little minds.… He felt his face going hot. This was no good, he told himself; there was no point inveighing against the Fanshawes now. Calm down, he advised, calm down. He walked over to the cotton tree. Only half a dozen maintained their vigil now, sitting on the high tangled roots that spread out from the base of the trunk like grotesque varicose veins.
“Isaac?” Morgan said hopefully.
A tall, stooped figure rose up. “I am Joseph, sah. Joseph the cleaner. Isaac ’e done go for sleep.”
Wise man, Morgan thought. “OK, Joseph,” he said firmly—it was like dealing with a gang of Old Testament prophets. “You savvy dis fetish thing?”
Joseph nodded. He had a shaven skull and was very black, almost Nubian in appearance. In the crepuscular light he looked two-dimensional, a hole cut out of the environment. “Yes, sah,” he said. “I go savvy am.”
“Fine,” Morgan said, maintaining his businesslike tone. “Great. Go and get the juju man and we’ll do the fetish.”
“Please, sah. I no fit do it,” Joseph said simply. “The family of this dead woman must do it.”
Oh bloody hell, swore
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