Chapter 1
“I’m looking for Pelagie.”
No one on the veranda stirred. It was as if they were all trying to think, their eyes darting up to the ceiling fan above.
“Pelagie?” repeated Samson, as if they might be hard of hearing.
Koffi cupped his chin in his hand, rubbing the grey stubble of his beard back and forth. It was like sandpaper, three days post-shave. He winced: it was his mouth again.
Angelica, next to him, let her feet dangle off her stool. Back and forth they went like pendulums. She breathed out long, as if she’d exhausted all her mental capabilities trying to comb her mind for any remnant of that name. She said nothing, just shook her head no.
The ceiling fan continued to spin slowly, as if it had been turned off a minute prior and had yet to stop.
Samson exhaled and shook his wrist free of his shirt cuff.
They could have done more to seem of use: he wore a real tailored suit, one that hadn’t been bought cheap out of a bundle of thrift store rejects from across the Atlantic. His watch wasn’t a showpiece either: it was worn tight, halfway tucked under his shirt sleeve up until a second ago.
“An old woman, with cataracts?” He’d already used those descriptors, and they’d already given him blank stares. He’d held out a photo from long ago.
They studied it, then shook their heads again. Angelica took a sip of her Coca-Cola: glass bottle and it was still cold from the humming fridge behind her. A fly landed on the rim and she blew it away.
Samson looked toward the road, dug his hands into his pockets, then gave the group a quick nod.
“If you think of anything.” He held out a card, its gloss catching the sun and sending it straight into Koffi’s eyes. He squinted and reached out for it.
Then Samson walked back toward the road, turned left, and followed the curve up until he disappeared from sight.
“Pelagie?” asked Thierry. He hadn’t spoken during the whole exchange, but apparently, he’d been thinking hard.
“We need to tell him,” said Angelica. She took another sip, then picked up her phone.
Koffi scratched his head. His hairs were still growing in tight, but they’d turned white years ago. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, but pain suddenly burst through it, and a hot liquid seeped into his mouth: one of the sores must have popped.
