Speechless Read online

  © ANNE SIMPSON 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical — including photocopying, recording, taping, or through the use of information storage and retrieval systems — without prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright), One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5.

  Freehand Books acknowledges the financial support for its publishing program provided by the Canada Council for the Arts and the Alberta Media Fund, and by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  Freehand Books

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  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Speechless / Anne Simpson.

  Names: Simpson, Anne, 1956– author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190214058 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190214198

  | ISBN 9781988298627 (softcover) | ISBN 9781988298634 (EPUB) |

  ISBN 9781988298641 (PDF)

  Classification: LCC PS8587.I54533 S64 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Edited by Naomi K. Lewis

  Book design by Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Cover photo © Sean Locke / Stocksy.com

  Author photo by Kate Waters

  Printed on FSC® recycled paper and bound in Canada by Friesens

  For the strong women in my life.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Notes and Acknowledgements

  1

  ___

  ARE YOU THERE?

  Yes.

  I can’t see you.

  I’m right here. I’ll kiss you and then you can go to sleep.

  I’m not going to sleep. Not the whole night.

  It’ll be a long night.

  ____

  Are you still there?

  Yes.

  ____

  If you stay there I’ll go to sleep.

  I’m here. Don’t be afraid.

  2

  ___

  AT HER TRIAL, the fans overhead slowed and creaked and stopped when the electricity was cut, and people fanned themselves with pieces of folded paper, but A’isha, seated on the wooden bench, was entirely still, and soon her neck, arms, and thighs were damp. She was used to holding Safiya, used to her exact weight, but Safiya wasn’t there.

  The judge returned and took his seat on the platform, holding out his robe, a riga, so it wouldn’t get bunched up underneath his legs. A’isha couldn’t look up; she waited in that dense, stifling quiet, gripping the edge of the bench.

  She heard her name — A’isha Nasir.

  She heard the verdict without hearing it; she heard the word zina.

  When she rose from the bench, her lawyer Fatima took her arm, and the other lawyer, the young one, the man who had spoken in court since Fatima was not allowed to speak, followed with the briefcases.

  It’ll be appealed, Fatima whispered in A’isha’s ear.

  What did it mean to appeal something? How long would it take to appeal it?

  Unfortunately, Fatima continued, I won’t be here to lead the appeal since I’m taking up a fellowship in Pennsylvania. But Gambo will appeal. She motioned to the young man.

  A’isha heard the word won’t. She heard Gambo. She heard the long, drawn-out syllables of Pennsylvania, and wished she could say it in the same easy way. Pennsylvania, in the United States of America. A’isha would never go to Pennsylvania. Life was short and full of difficulties; she would be dead soon. At that moment, she wanted to go back to her uncle’s, where she was allowed to stay until Safiya was weaned. She wanted desperately to hold Safiya in her arms.

  Fatima was asking her something, and A’isha looked at her, but saw only that her lips moved.

  A’isha simply nodded. Fatima wanted some sign that A’isha had understood, but she didn’t understand. She walked to the door as if she were sleepwalking, but she could see the reporters waiting for her, and half-turned, hesitating; there was the junior lawyer behind her, blocking her way. Gambo, that was his name. Gambo Ibrahim. She turned back to the door and Fatima tugged her by the arm.

  Come, said Fatima. We’ll get you to the car.

  The reporters were everywhere, pressing close, jostling, shouting; they wouldn’t let her through, but Fatima pulled her.

  A’isha, said one reporter, a white man with a face as sharp as a machete. A’isha, were you expecting this verdict?

  A’isha, cried another. They say you will be buried up to your shoulders and —

  A’isha!

  They were like flying termites. She wanted to reach out and swat them, but instead she found herself separated from Fatima. She stood still and didn’t look at them. Could there be any dignity in silence? There was hush among the crowd; she knew they could see she was of two minds, that she might be persuaded to talk.

  A’isha, tell us.

  She found that she did want to speak about her fate, a fate that was now out of her hands, even though Fatima had told her, repeatedly, that it was better not to speak.

  I’m — began A’isha.

  She scanned their faces, so many ready to take her words and toss them out to the world, and found she was unable to go on. What did they know of pain? Her mother knew pain, and in thinking of her mother A’isha was pierced, as if someone had taken a sharp knife, thrust it between her ribs, and twisted it. She put her hand on her breast and bowed her head, because it was impossible to speak.

  I will say something on behalf of my client, interrupted Fatima. Her thoughts are for her daughter.

  But were you expecting this? A’isha Nasir, were you —

  Tell us how you feel, said one of them. He had pushed himself into the front ranks and now he shoved a microphone in her face. It had begun to rain, a spattering of drops, but the others gathered beside the first man. One of them scratched her cheek, pushing to get close.

  Soon the rain would be more than a light drizzle. How could she put into words the way she felt? It was beyond her.

  A’isha, don’t you think capital punishment should be abolished, especially this particularly brutal form of capital punishment? We’re living in 2004.

  A’isha Nasir, tell us your —

  A’isha, when you compare your case to that of Halima Hassan, the one who received one hundred lashes for adultery, do you think —

  One of them playfully smacked the other over the head.

  This girl does not read or write, he said, and you are asking her about the case of Halima Hassan? She has probably never heard of Halima Hassan.

  He was speaking of her, of A’isha. He was really saying that she was stupid because she couldn’t read or write. But she could. She could read a little, write a little. The slow burn of fury. She knew nothing of Halima Hassan? The fo
urteen-year-old girl who had been sentenced to a hundred lashes for adultery though she had told the authorities she had been raped, or maybe because she had told the authorities she had been raped? That Halima Hassan?

  A’isha, what is it like to be sentenced to death?

  Are you angry?

  You will have until the child is weaned, but why is the court not specific about the date for your execution?

  The man, A’isha, the father of your child —

  The fury turned to a drumming in A’isha’s chest. Or maybe it was the rain, now beginning to pelt down.

  That is all, said Fatima firmly, putting up her umbrella and taking hold of A’isha. That is all.

  Somehow they made it to the island of the car, the cool, air-conditioned shelter, where A’isha was safe from them, even though they were all around her, buzzing, flying, landing — hundreds of termites.

  WHEN A’ISHA RETURNED from the courthouse with her uncle, her auntie had asked him to explain what had happened, since A’isha was under the protection of her uncle and auntie now, as was her mother, Nafisa. A’isha had to stand beside her uncle while he went over what had happened.

  There will be an appeal, he concluded. They will make an appeal soon.

  Her auntie turned her face away and spat juice from the kola nut she’d been chewing. The reddish fluid landed on the ground not far from a chicken that squawked and scuttled off.

  A’isha went to her mother, waiting outside her hut, while the hot, chubby body of Safiya squirmed in A’isha’s arms, wanting to be fed. A’isha sat by her mother on the worn bench outside the hut, bracing herself against the wall and unbuttoning her blouse for Safiya, welcoming the breeze that lifted the leaves of the acacia tree. There, she could rest; the child had latched on to her breast.

  You are tired, said Nafisa.

  A’isha nodded. It was easier not to speak.

  It took many hours, said Nafisa.

  Safiya sucked and sucked, sating herself. Occasionally, there was a soft gurgling.

  Her mother’s feet were worn, A’isha saw. She still went out to work as a trader every day, though she was growing thin and gaunt. A’isha hadn’t noticed, had been too taken up with her own problems; it was only later, much later, that she realized her mother must have been sick for months. Nafisa didn’t mention the blood in her stool, and by the time she did mention it, and went to a clinic in Paiko, it was too late. It was most likely bowel cancer, she was told. A biopsy would give definitive answers, though it could not be done at the clinic, and she was instructed to buy pills for pain. She didn’t buy them.

  This isn’t the end of it, she told A’isha now.

  They will appeal, said A’isha dully, repeating what her uncle had said to her auntie. It didn’t seem that an appeal would work. Nothing would work. The lawyer was leaving for the United States.

  They will surely help you, said Nafisa.

  A’isha watched the leaves of the acacia, as they lifted up and fell gently down. Up and down, as if they were breathing.

  Nafisa put her hand on her daughter’s arm.

  A’ISHA COULDN’T SLEEP, and then she dozed because she was exhausted, but it wasn’t the same as sleeping. Night after night, she would see it happen, how she would feel the rocks: the first, the second, and each time her eyes flew open into the blackness, deep black, blacker than a black-crowned crane. And the way it would come, in jolts, in shocks. A rock on her shoulder, a rock at the back of her head, a rock breaking the bones of her cheek. No one should have to die in such a way. Yet she couldn’t stop herself going over it and over it, dying so many times. When it finally came, she knew she would want them to get it over with quickly, and there was no way of knowing exactly when it would come, which made it worse. It would come sometime after the weaning of Safiya, and so, if Safiya refused her milk, it might be sooner rather than later. Or it could be drawn out, month after month after month.

  Now she was thirsty; she got up, drank water, lay down, turned to one side, then to the other and back again. It rained hard, then abated. She could hear the music again from the bar down the road, a singer howling, unendingly and raucously, about getting love and losing it. Whyyyyyyyy? cried the singer. Why did you leave meeeeeeeee?

  Are you angry? they’d asked.

  She wasn’t angry; she was frightened. She’d been frightened the whole time the prosecutor had asked her questions.

  She lay on her sleeping mat with Safiya beside her, Safiya sleeping the sleep of infants, that long, uninterrupted sleep that A’isha could only imagine. How she longed to drop down into that well of quiet, but then Safiya would wake, wanting milk, and A’isha would feel the draw of another human being, as if she were being pulled inside out. Yes, it had all happened because of Musa, but A’isha could not prevent herself from loving Safiya. She’d wanted to at first, but Safiya was too small, too innocent. If anything was pure in this world, it was Safiya. Sometimes, feeding her, A’isha couldn’t help thinking that this child, so newly part of the world, had no say in any of it. It was because of Safiya that A’isha was frightened. A person could die, could die any which way, whether people threw rocks or whether they didn’t, but Safiya was the one who would suffer.

  3

  ___

  FELIX TOOK SOPHIE AWAY for a few days. He said it was because he wanted to mark eight months of living together, but Sophie thought it was because he needed a holiday. They flew from Lagos to Lomé, in Togo, where Felix had booked a hotel room on the fourteenth floor of an elegant tower with a swimming pool encircled by women from France, or maybe from other countries, too, but to Sophie they were Frenchwomen. When she parted the curtains on the doors that opened to a small balcony, she could look down on them from above as they lay topless on their chaise longues.

  You don’t really like it here, said Felix.

  With the oil slathered on their bodies, the women made her think of chickens roasting under heat lamps.

  He was lounging on the bed, and she went over and climbed on top of him.

  It’s a big bed, she said. A football field. She settled herself and sat up. There, she said. That’s better.

  That is better.

  I don’t want anything to happen to us, she said. I want it to stay like this, just like this.

  He pulled her down to him and kissed her.

  Nothing ever stays the same, he said.

  She got off the bed, took off her loose blue blouse, her skirt, her underwear, leaving them on the thick, patterned carpet.

  He sat up and she helped him unbutton his shirt, but he was trying to kiss her at the same time, and she started to laugh. She rolled over, laughing. He laughed too and couldn’t get himself out of his pants.

  You’re stuck, she cried, still laughing. You really are stuck.

  I am, he said. But he stood up and unzipped his pants and tossed them aside.

  We’re crazy, she laughed.

  Why are we crazy?

  She stopped laughing. We can’t stop ourselves.

  He kissed her face, her hair, her closed eyelids. I can’t stop, he whispered. I don’t want you to stop.

  And —

  No, he said, don’t say anything.

  They made love quickly, hungrily, and then lay close together, exhausted.

  Let’s do that again and again, she said. While we have time.

  There’s no time limit.

  No, I’m just happy.

  He laughed, rolling over to stroke her sternum. This freckle, right here.

  It’s my third eye.

  I love this freckle. And this one, and this one on the inside of your arm. Look at your leg over mine, he said. He fondled her ankle, the curve of her foot.

  Felix, she said. How did I find you — out of all the people in the world?

  Mmmm. It’s the heart’s work.

  Heart’s work, she said softly.

  Trust the heart, not the head. The head says here’s a black man and here’s a white woman.

  And there might b
e trouble. She bit a tag of skin on the side of her thumb. But do you think we’ll stay together?

  He turned to gaze at the ceiling. We live together now, and, who knows, we might even stay together. Neither of us knows for sure. For now, we’re two people taking a holiday in Togo.

  Lucky people.

  Yes, he kissed her. Very lucky.

  THEY FOUND A MODEST HOTEL they liked better near the beach, a low, white building with a tiled roof, and though there was air conditioning, they didn’t feel sealed in by it. There was a pool, and a scattering of guests around it. A woman in a purple caftan and a wide straw hat, a man wearing shorts, a few children laughing in the shallow end.

  This is more our style, don’t you think? he said.

  In the evening, they walked the beach, different than those Sophie knew at home in Nova Scotia. Here the waves roiled in, monstrous curls of white that cascaded on the sand with a roar.

  You wonder how the boats go out in those waves, but they do, said Felix. Every day, they go out there. And what can they catch, with all the trawlers hauling in so much before they get there?

  Sophie could see the high prows of the wooden fishing boats, with inscriptions carved and painted on their sides, and yellow, red, blue, black, and white in patterns that had faded from the saltwater. The words guarded the fishermen against the dangers of going to sea.

  Jesus Comes, she read.

  Star of Hope, said Felix. There’s a French one: Lumière de Dieu.

  Splendid Angel. Imagine having a boat called Splendid Angel.

  A man sat with his back against the hull of a beached boat, mending a net. It lay in folds all around him like the blue skirt of a giantess. His face was golden in the evening light.

  Sophie found Felix’s hand, and they swung their arms back and forth for a few moments.

  I was supposed to interview you, she said. Back then —

  You had a list of questions. You were so serious. I was watching your mouth to see if you were the kind of person who could let go. I mean let go of being serious.

  I just wanted to listen to you.

  The Lady Sweet Cafè.

  I thought, here’s someone who knows what he’s talking about. He actually works in the industry; he writes the screenplays.