The Last Piece

By evening, Senamé had washed the road out of her hair and discovered that the blue cloth looked considerably better on her than folded at the bottom of a bag.

Finding Sètondji proved harder.

The musicians’ courtyard could be heard from three passages, none of which appeared to lead to it. Yétundé eventually found her outside the queen’s private rooms and escorted her back without asking how she had got there.

Sètondji stood over a painted seating plan, moving small wooden figures between places. At their approach, he removed one from beside the queen mother’s seat.

“You’re expected at her table tonight,” Sètondji said.

“I came to ask about the records.”

“What records?”

“The old ones. Arrests. Transfers.”

His attention left the seating plan.

“Those require permission. Do you have a name?”

She had Kpénahi’s name folded beneath her cloth, but also the instruction to find out what survived before telling anyone what she wanted.

“I need to understand how they’re kept first.”

“Come tomorrow morning. We’ll begin with the audience records.”

It was an opening. She accepted it before he could ask another question.

His gaze returned to her shoulder, where the blue cloth had begun slipping. Yétundé had already corrected it twice.

“May I show you?”

Senamé extended her arm. He demonstrated the fold with a lighter length of fabric, leaving her to fasten it herself. His knuckles brushed her wrist; she understood the arrangement immediately and nevertheless wished it had been more complicated.

The greeting took two attempts. The order of precedence took longer.

Senamé moved an elderly woman’s marker ahead of a young man’s.

“He outranks her,” Sètondji explained.

“She looks as though she paid for the meal.”

“That won’t help her.”

“It would at my table.”

His laugh escaped before he could turn it into the courteous smile she had seen him give the clerk. She liked the difference enough to leave the markers where they belonged.

At the dining courtyard, he offered one final instruction.

“If you’re unsure what a question means, take a breath before answering.”

Beyond him, Adonon was inspecting a fish while the cook stood with her arms folded.

“You asked for it crisp, Mother.”

“Outside.”

“The inside has never seen the fire.”

The queen mother tasted it, then sent her for the sauce.

Senamé followed Sètondji onto the veranda, encouraged by the discovery that somebody could argue with Adonon and remain employed.

Lamps warmed the painted walls. Beyond the veranda, the garden had deepened into blue shadow, and the food arrived fragrant with ginger, pepper and smoke. Senamé’s place faced the beautiful woman from the afternoon reception. Small gold drops brushed the woman’s neck when she turned towards Sètondji.

He seated Senamé before taking his own place.

The woman noticed. Senamé concentrated on arranging her cloth.

Tassi joined them as the first dishes were uncovered. Deep blue replaced her travelling wrapper; with her hair drawn back and her pearls exposed, she seemed to occupy more of the room. Yet the cut at her lip remained, a small stubborn reminder of the woman Senamé had hauled out of danger.

Adonon pushed the fish towards her daughter.

“Eat before somebody requires your signature on it.”

For a while, supper was easier than Senamé had feared. She answered questions about the road, described the elephant stealing Afiwa’s fruit, and discovered smoked fish beneath a sauce of green leaves. When Adonon asked where their journey had begun, she took Sètondji’s recommended breath.

“The queen met us farther north.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

Senamé reached for the last golden piece of fish just as Adonon did.

Their hands met above the dish.

“You’ve been watching that one,” the queen mother observed.

“I was waiting for the conversation to move away from my village.”

Sètondji’s cup halted below his mouth.

Adonon laughed. She divided the fish, keeping the larger half and giving Senamé the other.

“I’ll answer more slowly next time.”

“Then you’ll eat less.”

Tassi smiled into her cup.

The warmth of it loosened something in Senamé. She had spent the day being examined—her clothes, her origins, the child beside her—and now she could make these people laugh. The beautiful woman supplied an imitation of an excessively formal guest; Sètondji refused to admit how long the man had remained bowing.

Senamé laughed with them, forgetting to keep track of what she should not say.

Then Adonon turned to her daughter.

“Your brother could be persuaded to send word before he vanished.”

“Akaba once left for three days without telling either of us.”

“And returned with the men he took.”

The conversation stopped around Senamé while the taste of pepper continued warming her tongue.

Tassi reached for the yam.

“I returned with people who kept me alive.”

“Yes. We’re feeding them.”

Adonon had stopped eating. Across from her, Tassi pressed the little piece of yam between her fingers until it flattened.

“He understood what it meant to be missed.”

Senamé saw the pool beneath the tree again. The pearl answering its sister. Tassi’s hand suspended above water she had not dared disturb.

One breath.

She took it.

“If she hadn’t come back, would you be speaking kindly about her instead?”

Adonon’s eyes met hers.

The ease of the meal deserted Senamé so completely that she became aware of every place her body touched the chair. She had meant to stop a cruel sentence. Now the woman who had shared her fish looked at her as though deciding whether she should ever have been admitted.

“You have known my daughter for how long?”

“Long enough to be glad she came home.”

“Senamé.”

Tassi’s voice stopped her.

“I can answer my mother.”

Heat climbed Senamé’s neck. Her hand sank into her lap, sticky with sauce, while the queen wiped hers and laid the cloth beside her plate.

“I miss him every day,” Tassi told Adonon. “You don’t need to remind me which of us is alive.”

The words left no room for Senamé’s help.

Sètondji rose.

“Allow me to show you where to wash.”

She followed him out, catching her wrap against the chair. Behind her, the beautiful woman began asking about a musician, patiently finding a subject the others could bear to answer.

While washing her hands, Senamé scrubbed beneath a nail. She had wanted Tassi to feel less alone. Instead she had made the queen defend her right to speak at her own mother’s table.

“Was I supposed to let her go on?”

Sètondji placed the lamp where she could see her hands.

“You could have told Adonon what her daughter did last night.”

Senamé looked up.

“The wounded man. The burning roof. You were there.”

She dried her fingers slowly. She had known exactly what to say about Adonon, and had said almost nothing about Tassi.

Beyond the doorway, a servant removed the empty fish dish.

“Have they finished?”

“There’s more coming.”

Senamé glanced at him, uncertain whether he was being kind. His expression remained composed, but he had left the path to the table open.

She went back.

Adonon offered no more fish. Her chair, however, was still there. Senamé sat and finished what had already been placed before her, answering when addressed and allowing the queen to choose her own silences.

Yétundé waited outside with a lamp and a covered bowl.

“The cook kept you some sauce.”

Senamé lifted the lid. Two pieces of fish lay beneath the leaves.

“She saw what happened?”

“We were in the room.”

Senamé could have named every guest and described what each had worn. She could not remember who had filled her cup.

They returned through a passage carrying the warmth of the kitchens. Beyond an open door, women scraped the leftovers from plates while the cook inspected the food being put away. She glanced at Senamé’s bowl, satisfied, and resumed her instructions.

“Will you show me how she makes it?” Senamé asked.

Yétundé looked back.

“The sauce?”

“Yes.”

“If you can get up before the queen mother’s breakfast,” Yétundé replied.

“I can.”

At their room, Senamé opened the door before Yétundé could reach past her. Afiwa lay across one bed with Kékéli asleep against her side, both of them taking up more space than their bodies could reasonably require.

There was room at the little table.

Senamé set down the bowl and drew Kpénahi’s papers from their wrapping. Sètondji had offered her a beginning tomorrow. Tonight she could at least make certain she knew what to ask.

From the bed, Afiwa stirred.

“Is that fish?”

Senamé moved the lamp between the papers and the bowl.

“Some of it.”