The Bridgetower Sonata by Emmanuel Dongala

Author:Emmanuel Dongala
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Schaffner Press, Inc.
Published: 2021-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

XXII

They entered the London suburbs via Kent Street, a crudely paved street that had changed over from the sand and gravel road they’d been on so far. It was dark and narrow with steep sides between two rows of dilapidated buildings with ash-colored walls, and it stank of horse manure. The first contact of the coach’s steel-rimmed wheels with the irregular stones of the pavement was brutal, almost ejecting one of the passengers seated in the center next to George. His hands tightly gripping the bar of his seat, his nostrils and face contracting in the hope of smelling the fetid odor as little as possible, the boy was watching the vista go by, which he found particularly gloomy. Nobody spoke, each preoccupied with the worrisome grinding caused by every jolt of the axles, afraid they might break, the wheels come off, and send the carriage careening.

After what seemed like an eternity to George, the stagecoach left Kent Street and entered a wider street jammed with pedestrians moving about every which way, running the risk of being knocked down. It drove on for almost another fifteen minutes before stopping in front of an inn where other coaches, a few carriages, and many handcarts were parked. George knew they’d arrived when he saw the coachman get down from his horse. Not a minute too soon!

They arrived exhausted, covered with dust, their fine clothes crumpled and grimy, even though they’d been seated inside the compartment. On the way, they had changed horses several times, the coach had repeatedly gotten stuck, and on one occasion they’d even been made to get out of the vehicle to push one of the wheels out of the mud.

Frederick de Augustus hailed a carriage and gave the coachman the name of a hotel on King Street, which he vaguely recalled. The driver asked him which one, for there were more than a dozen King Streets in London. King Street in the East End, Frederick de Augustus replied firmly to give the impression that he knew where he was going. After all these years, the East End was the area he remembered best, it’s where he’d lived the entire time he worked on the docks. Again the coachman asked which one, for if there were a dozen King Streets in London there were at least half a dozen in the East End. Frederick de Augustus looked at him, a bit confused. He got tangled up in his explanations, but with the driver’s help, finally managed to locate the place where he wanted to be dropped: near the warehouse where they used to store freight from the cargo ships coming from the West Indies. There should be a hotel nearby, one that was considered to be the best in the area at the time.

Not taking his eyes off his father, George was a little disconcerted by his lack of assurance; it was the first time he’d ever seen him like this. And yet, in the coach from Paris to

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