The Names of the Dead by Wignall Kevin

Author:Wignall, Kevin
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781542000000
Published: 2020-01-31T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Five

The boy led them into a narrower street and then through a door into a garden courtyard at the back of a house. Four trees provided dappled shade for the entire courtyard. There were more children, and two women sitting at a large table preparing food. One was older and wearing traditional African dress, the other—presumably the mother of the children—was dressed in Western style.

They smiled and spoke a greeting, but then a rotund man stepped out of the house, smiling broadly.

“Please, welcome.” There were more chairs in a small circle closer to the house and he waved his hands toward them. “You are Wes?”

“Yeah, and this is Mia.”

The man bowed his head to Mia, as if he sensed her otherness even without being told, then shook Wes warmly by the hand.

“I am Emmanuel. Please, sit. You are welcome, always.”

“Emmanuel? Patrice’s friend from his village?”

“Yes.”

They sat, but Wes stared at the man, mesmerized. For one thing, he yet again looked older than Patrice, and yet Wes knew they were about the same age. But he’d also assumed that Emmanuel hadn’t survived. He thought back to that story Patrice had told, their baptism of fire. Wes had asked what had become of Emmanuel and Patrice had told him he hadn’t ended up in prison. Wes laughed at his own misunderstanding, at the possibility Patrice had deceived him intentionally.

“Please excuse. My English is not so good, but Patrice, he is . . . ?”

“He’s very well. He’s happy.”

Emmanuel nodded, still smiling, but with tears in his eyes, the only indication of the enormity of the history between him and Patrice.

A pretty girl of about ten came out of the dark of the house carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade on it. She approached Mia first.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said the girl, then moved on to Wes and finally Emmanuel.

They all sipped at their drinks, cold and sharp and refreshing, and then Wes said, “Are these children all yours, Emmanuel?”

“No, no. The girl and boy there, they are from Michel. The other three, all mine—Cristiano you already met.” He gestured to the table. “My wife. My wife’s mother. They prepare food. You will eat with us.”

Even as Wes made ready to reply, Mia said, “Thank you. Will it be African food?”

“Oh, some African, some Portuguese.”

“Thank you.”

Wes looked at Emmanuel, as happy in his own way as Patrice was, though carrying something darker in those smiling eyes.

“How did you come here, Emmanuel? Patrice told me about how you were captured by God’s Own Army, but . . . did you come when Michel came?”

“No, I come a long time before. Michel came because I am here already.” He looked out at the children playing among the trees of the courtyard, then across at his wife and mother-in-law, working quietly. “Patrice was always stronger. In the body, a little, but in the head, very strong. He always protected me. Many times. He became more powerful and he believed because we all believed, but he always kept me close, and when bad things must be done .

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