thick, soft night above her and no one to witness her going. She’d fallen asleep earlier in the evening whilst waiting for Sylvan to return from some meeting or other and woken up drenched in sweat. The electricity had gone off and the air-conditioners had stopped. Nothing other than a swim would cool her down. She was out the door before she could change her mind.
She stumbled, brushing her calf against one of the wiry bushes and drawing blood with a sharp sting. She didn’t stop to look. She reached the tiled edge of the pool, shrugged her dress over her head and kicked off her flip-flops impatiently. She walked to the edge, sat down, and then slowly slid in. The pool drank her in: feet, ankles, thighs . . . she sank gratefully into its cool, wet mouth with a relief that brought tears to her eyes. She submerged herself again and again, feeling the rush of water around her ears as it swallowed her up. The night air, which had been so hot and oppressive up there in the bedroom, was now cool against her burning cheeks.
Half an hour later, her midnight swim was over. She hauled herself out of the water, droplets falling like diamonds all around her. She was stark naked. It was nearly ten years since she’d come to Lomé and she
still
hadn’t got used to the heat. She never would. The heat. The heat. An oppressive, never-ending refrain. It was the first thing she thought about in the morning when she opened her eyes and it was invariably the last thing she thought about at night, lying in that enormous circular bed of theirs, praying the electricity would last through the night. Heat and electricity. Electricity and heat. In her entire life she never thought she would think of either, let alone in the same breath. And yet, here she was, First Lady of Togo, wife of the
Président de la République
, dreaming of the cold, of autumn and winter and of France, her breath scrolling before her like a signature on frosty December mornings. Some mornings she woke up parched, her skin stuck to the drenched bed sheets, and she could have wept for the realisation that she
wasn’t
at home, in Paris, somewhere where the lights always worked and the air wasn’t as thick and hot as soup. Here in Africa, the heat stuck to everything; it turned her make-up to sludge, her hair into a damp, frizzy cloud and although there were noisy air-conditioners installed in practically every room, a constant supply of electricity was required for the damned things to work. Another of life’s essential commodities she was learning to live without – electricity. It was enough to make you weep, she thought to herself bitterly – and she frequently did.
She bent down to pick up her dress. A sudden rustle in the bushes made her pause. ‘
Est-ce-qu’il y a quelqu’un?
’ she called out, her voice strong and clear in the night air. There was no answer. It didn’t occur to her to be afraid. She slipped the dress over her head, fastening it and felt her way into her flip-flops. ‘
Est-ce-qu’il y a quelqu’un?
’ she called again. There was still no answer. Probably one of the guinea fowl that wandered in and out of the gardens all day long, she thought to herself as she made her way back up the garden path. Every now and then she would hear a loud squawking as one or other of the guards managed to catch one; she didn’t like to think how they were killed. Women at the roadside grilled them over open charcoal fires with a spicy pepper sauce that made the eyes water. Sylvan claimed it cooled you down. She wasn’t so sure. Whatever the case, she drew the line at eating
there
, by the side of the road. Dirty, she said, wrinkling her nose. And common. Not for him. He said it was good for the local people to see him eating just like them.
‘You mean, not like some bourgeois Frenchman?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But you
are
a bourgeois Frenchman,’ she said innocently.
He glowered. ‘
Je suis Togolais
,’ he said, displeasure showing around his
She stumbled, brushing her calf against one of the wiry bushes and drawing blood with a sharp sting. She didn’t stop to look. She reached the tiled edge of the pool, shrugged her dress over her head and kicked off her flip-flops impatiently. She walked to the edge, sat down, and then slowly slid in. The pool drank her in: feet, ankles, thighs . . . she sank gratefully into its cool, wet mouth with a relief that brought tears to her eyes. She submerged herself again and again, feeling the rush of water around her ears as it swallowed her up. The night air, which had been so hot and oppressive up there in the bedroom, was now cool against her burning cheeks.
Half an hour later, her midnight swim was over. She hauled herself out of the water, droplets falling like diamonds all around her. She was stark naked. It was nearly ten years since she’d come to Lomé and she
still
hadn’t got used to the heat. She never would. The heat. The heat. An oppressive, never-ending refrain. It was the first thing she thought about in the morning when she opened her eyes and it was invariably the last thing she thought about at night, lying in that enormous circular bed of theirs, praying the electricity would last through the night. Heat and electricity. Electricity and heat. In her entire life she never thought she would think of either, let alone in the same breath. And yet, here she was, First Lady of Togo, wife of the
Président de la République
, dreaming of the cold, of autumn and winter and of France, her breath scrolling before her like a signature on frosty December mornings. Some mornings she woke up parched, her skin stuck to the drenched bed sheets, and she could have wept for the realisation that she
wasn’t
at home, in Paris, somewhere where the lights always worked and the air wasn’t as thick and hot as soup. Here in Africa, the heat stuck to everything; it turned her make-up to sludge, her hair into a damp, frizzy cloud and although there were noisy air-conditioners installed in practically every room, a constant supply of electricity was required for the damned things to work. Another of life’s essential commodities she was learning to live without – electricity. It was enough to make you weep, she thought to herself bitterly – and she frequently did.
She bent down to pick up her dress. A sudden rustle in the bushes made her pause. ‘
Est-ce-qu’il y a quelqu’un?
’ she called out, her voice strong and clear in the night air. There was no answer. It didn’t occur to her to be afraid. She slipped the dress over her head, fastening it and felt her way into her flip-flops. ‘
Est-ce-qu’il y a quelqu’un?
’ she called again. There was still no answer. Probably one of the guinea fowl that wandered in and out of the gardens all day long, she thought to herself as she made her way back up the garden path. Every now and then she would hear a loud squawking as one or other of the guards managed to catch one; she didn’t like to think how they were killed. Women at the roadside grilled them over open charcoal fires with a spicy pepper sauce that made the eyes water. Sylvan claimed it cooled you down. She wasn’t so sure. Whatever the case, she drew the line at eating
there
, by the side of the road. Dirty, she said, wrinkling her nose. And common. Not for him. He said it was good for the local people to see him eating just like them.
‘You mean, not like some bourgeois Frenchman?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But you
are
a bourgeois Frenchman,’ she said innocently.
He glowered. ‘
Je suis Togolais
,’ he said, displeasure showing around his
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