CHAPTER SEVEN.
On Monday, they shared walnut cake at the Cadena; Tuesday, they ate chicken curry at the Taj Mahal restaurant; Wednesday, they drank coffee in her room, and on Thursday they attended St. Anthony's weekly seminar on African theatre. They had considered going to the Moulin Rouge on Friday to see Zimmermann's High Noon, but decided instead to stay in Sonia's room and listen to jazz. Carl loved the smell of Sonia's room - a comforting mix of Old Spice, Brylcreem, and Nigerian food. Occasionally, when they were not together, he would catch the scent on Sonia's letters, or on clothing she had touched. Her room was on the first floor of staircase XVI, large and sparsely furnished. In it was a bed with three neatly folded blankets - two green and one cream - and, at the far end of the room, a fireplace, boarded over and replaced with a coin operated heater. The heater was always on when Carl visited and he suspected she rarely turned it off . She had told him that in her first week at Oxford she had nearly set fire to herself by sitty too close to it. The only other items of furniture were her old oak desk by the window, the sofa where he now sat, a wardrobe and a coffee table. Today, he had brought her daffodils to brighten the room.
She smiled as she arranged them in an empty milk bottle. Already, the buds were opening and adding a splash of butterfly yellow. She placed them next to the neat stack of books and papers. Carl picked one up named A handbook for students from overseas. He looked at what she had underlined and smiled as he read aloud from a section entitled Habits and Customs.
"It says here that when two people meet and they want to save themselves from the embarrassment of silence, they usually talk about the weather. Did we talk about the weather when we first met?"
"I believe we did."
"No we didn't!" He laughed, closing the book, and picking up another. "'A Dance of the Forests', by Wole Soyinka".
"SH-oyinka", she corrected.
"Any good?" He asked, watching her take the record player from its box on the floor.
"Where do you buy all these Nigerian newspapers?"
"My father sends me some, and others I get from London".
"'Preparations well under way for the first Negro Festival of Arts,'" Carl read. "Wouldn't you love to go? Look." He held up the paper for her to see.
"Everyone's going: Haile Selassie, Duke Ellington, Langston Hughes, Marpessa Dawn."
"So let's go, and we'll sail the Aureol".
"You know, I think I might already have sailed that same ship when mum and I came back to England. I'm sure it had a yellow funnel, just like the one in your postcard".
"I knew it!"
"Knew what?"
"That you were the boy on the ship, the day I first saw the Aureol in 1951."
"Then it wouldn't have been me. Not in 1951".
"But your mother was lifting you up and I waved at you. Actually no, that wasn't it. I remember now. You blew me a kiss, and I sent you one back," she said, matter-of-factly.
"Tell me more then." Carl smiled.
Little things like this, the way she touched things and the way she moved, had the strangest, most thrilling effect on him. And there were other things too, that he wouldn't normally ever notice and admire, but with her it was different. Her tidiness, for example, the way she organized her jazz LPs in one pile and West African highlife in another, all neatly stowed away by the bottom of her wardrobe. Initially it had been her gentleness and a sense that she was genuine that had attracted him and of course there had always been her looks, but now there were these conversations, the things she was teaching him, the way she listened. He loved her attentiveness and the way she made him laugh. There she was, happily singing along to Louis Armstrong and it didn't matter if she didn't like Bob Dylan or the Beatles. She marched in exaggerated steps, still singing, "Oh Lawd I want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in ''.
"You do put me in a good mood, Sonia".
"That's good. I'm here to please. I bring peace and joy. Come", she beckoned. "Dance with me".
She watched as he pushed up his sleeves to reveal the fine muscles in his fore-arms, which set her heart aflutter.
"Dance alone instead. I'll just watch", she said, knowing there was no way she could move with his ease or flair. She would end up stepping on his feet.
"Okay, as you please. If you don't want to dance with me then I'll just have to tell you the Richardson's story".
"No, stop!" She laughed, tossing a cushion at his legs.
"You've told me that story so many times that I've memorized it!".
He laughed. "So you see, next time you should dance so you won't have to listen to my stories. But first I'm making you coffee". He lifted the stylus back to the beginning of the song and marched off, humming.
Sonia smiled to herself as she waited, remembering the first time that Carl had talked about the Richardson's visit to Nigeria and she imagined herself as the reporter. She had always wanted to be a foreign reporter in England, but now she wasn't so sure. Carl returned with the coffee and Sonia asked him about his day, so he told her about the little things - the struggles with his work and the horrible college food.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking concerned.
"You're such a love." He wriggled to the edge of his seat, touched by her concern. Africans, he had noticed, were in the habit of saying sorry even if something was not their fault. And then he looked at where she had tapped his knees and she blushed.
"What's the essay causing you all this headache?" She asked.
"American slavery, secession, and the old Lincoln-Douglass debates.The topic is interesting, but it's not modern history. I keep thinking about Malcolm X and Martin Luther king, as well as everything that is happening in South Africa - you know, real modern history".
"So you must write about these things. Find a way of putting them in your essay, and then submit more articles to the newspapers".
"Do you think so?"
"Of course you should write, Carl. You have a flair for writing, and you already have your own unique voice".
He smiled, gazing at her for a safe moment.
"And now I have a song for you. Listen to this". He shook a record out of its sleeve.
"Who is it?"
"Listen."
"Ella?" She tried.
"No."
"Lena Horne!"
"No."
"Who then?" She jumped up and snatched the sleeve from his hands.
"Hey!" He laughed, chasing her back to the chair.
"What a little Moonlight can do - Billie Holiday,'" she read the label, holding it up high out of his reach. "But it doesn't sound like her - it's happy," she said, handing it back. "Let's hear it again".
He lifted the stylus and placed it carefully on the record. She thought he was going to join her on the sofa, but instead he moved the coffee table, and brought his chair closer to hers.
"So which Billie Holiday song do you remember?" He asked. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. "I can't really remember the titles.
"Ok. The other day you talked about your mother. Will you show me a photograph of her?"
"Of course".
She stood up and took an envelope from her drawer and then, choosing one of the photographs taken on the day she left for England, began pointing out who was who. Carl nodded, taking the black-and-white print from her hand for a better look. In the picture, Sonia's head was tilted, looking up and smiling as though there was something interesting on the roof of the photographer's studio, her hands rested on her mother's lap, next to her jewelled fingers and wrists. Her mother wasn't smiling, just looking into the camera wearing her head tie which stood tall and made her look regal. "What a proud-looking mother," Carl thought. Her step sister Kaitlyn, was grinning at the photographer, too young to be flirting, yet it looked like that was precisely what she was doing.
"And your father?"
Sonia passed him another picture.
"Your photographers must instruct everyone not to smile," he laughed, noting the seriousness in the father's face. Sonia didn't resemble her father at all, only the eyes with the thick eyebrows.
"Anymore?"
"That's it."
"Oh come on!" He tugged at the envelope.
"It's only a church photograph, and one of Richard. He's here at Oxford as you know but he's related to our family," she explained, letting him look for himself.
"I didn't know that." Carl felt relieved, staring at Richard's dark eyes. His skin was perfectly smooth. He could easily have been a model.
"How is he related to you?"
"Sort of like a cousin," Sonia replied.
Carl stood up to change the record.
After a while, he placed the photographs on her pillow.
"Carl, can I ask you something?"
"Anything you like".
"Do you think I could be a journalist?"
"Absolutely! Besides, you are a journalist already, and a fine one at that."
"No, but I mean a real one. Could I write about England? I mean, not so much could I write, but would I be accepted?"
"Why not? Of course you would. Sonia Bernadette," he said, writing her name in the air. "British correspondent. I can see it already".
"Even if I'm black?"
"And what's wrong with being African?"
"Well, it's just that with all this talk of indigenisation…. I do understand and I do know it's important".
"Sonia, my friend, England needs as many good journalists as it can get - African and British. There is so much to be done in our continent, and you would be perfect".
She turned, accidentally brushing her leg against his as he sat down beside her.
"What would you play next?" She asked, trying not to blush when he stroked her knee.
"What would you like?" He reached for her hands.
"Anything," she whispered, as he gave her hands a gentle squeeze before letting go.
"I'll surprise you, then." He stood up to change the record and stretched out an arm. "Come", he whispered, this time offering his hands.
Nervously, she reached for him, and he pulled her up. Her heart was thumping and her feet shuffled clumsily, as he wrapped one arm around her waist and then the other, moving her away from the chair with the first notes of Ellington Coltrane's 'in a Sentimental Mood'. She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes, allowing her body to sway a little to the music. He kissed the top of her head and, after a while, let go of her waist. He placed warm hands against her cheeks and lifted her face to his. She wanted to kiss him, but her heart was pounding so loudly that she found herself turning away out of embarrassment. Gently, he placed her head back on his chest and kept on dancing.