he sun’s fallen behind the rooftops by the time he sees it, the spark of a bright headwrap bobbing along the empty street. He ate, at first, voraciously – but maybe it’s the sun that’s sunk into him, even through the shade; he feels it not in his skin but aching in his bones, in his muscles, turning his stomach over and over. He’s cleaned up most of the millet, almost all the dried okra and chickpea stew, but he knows when one more bite’s too many.
So he settles back, thinking he might have more, knowing in the end the churning in his stomach’s not going to get easier before the night is out. But there are stars, as the last of the light drains out of the sky, more and more and more of them, spreading across the sky.
His head has soaked up too much of the sun, too. He can’t think of anything except the cool breeze lapping over his face, ruffling through his hair occasionally when the wind picks up. He’s tilted his his head back, shut his eyes a moment; he’s imagined Nkemi and Nkese going home, imagined her jara seeing that bright orange.
He floats above all of it, now. Not Anatole – or Anitol, or Vakelin, or Voklin – or Tom, hiding in his skin; just a spirit, like a circling hawk, watching. As if none of it has anything to do with him; as if he is not, after all, the guest they are welcoming into their homes, but someone else, someone whose skin he might be wearing – fleetingly –
He’s half forgot what he’s seen on the street below when he feels her caprise settle into his. It’s this that opens his eyes, first to the long low table and the picked-over tray in front of him, then over and up.
She doesn’t say anything, but comes and sits next to him with her legs folded up underneath her. So he, still looking out at the stars, settles back again; he knits his fingers over his full belly, wondering how he keeps finding it in him to eat like a wolf, and with such pleasure. Maybe it’s that man he’s living in, stirring to life; maybe he’s turning into something else; maybe this isn’t such a lie, after all. Maybe this isn’t a lie at all.
He watches out the window through half-lidded eyes. There are no clouds; Benea is just rising over the horizon. She’s startlingly clear and bright, and a half-moon, so it looks like somebody’s eaten half the pie.
He turns his head to look at Nkemi when she speaks. She’s half-turned, too, looking out. The moonlight limns her face on one side, the lamplight on the other.
He smiles; her caprise is warm, comfortable, and that comfort and warmth laps through his, whispers through like dye in water, color where there was none before. “I’m glad to be here,” he says, smiling. “Very, very glad.”
Anatole’s voice sounds soft even to him; he can hear the rasp of the last few days in it, but the warmth of this calm, quiet moment too, the first in a long time. The low light picks out the places where Nkemi’s face is shadowed, even despite the brightness of her smile.
Sounds of laughter and chatter drift up from downstairs, through the window – snatched by the breeze – and through the floor.
“How are things?” he asks, and leaves the question there and no further, to be shaped however she’s comfortable with. “Have you been to see Iki’dzof?” His smile tilts playful.
He starts to say something else, and then – with no warning – a yawn is yanked out of him, such that he barely has time to cover his mouth. “Circle,” he says, and laughs.