I could hear her heart beating. It sounded like an erratic clock. There was a transistor radio near her seat. On the wall behind her was a blue mirror. Just above her head, on a little shelf, was a clock that had stopped working. On a nail, behind her head, was an iron gong and a bell. At her feet were a pair of red shoes. She gave off the accumulated odours of libations, animal blood, kaoline, the irrepressible hopes of strangers, and a yellow impassivity. White beads rested on her lap. The clock made a sudden clicking noise, and I started. She watched me intently. Under her gaze, serenity and intensity were the same thing.

The clock was still. I saw the yellow bird in the shadows behind the ancient mother. It was bound and its feathers kept twitching, its eyes shining in the niche. I became aware of the cobwebs on my face. A fly droned behind me. Then it flew round and settled on the nose of the pregnant goddess. The clock made another noise, startling the fly. The turtle kicked. The bird fretted. I looked at myself in the blue mirror and couldn’t see my face. I became afraid. At that moment the ancient mother in wood spoke to me.

She spoke to me through all the objects, through the defiant noises of the upturned turtle, thebird beatingagainstitscaptivity,thecomplaintsofthefly.Theclockbegan ticking. A lizard scuttled over my foot, and I jumped. When I recovered I found myself pressed against the wall, my heart pounding. Then I noticed that everythingin the corner was alive. The bowl moved towards me. The mirror banged itself against the wall, reflecting nothing. I sensed the wall moving, disintegrating beneath my touch. Things crawled in the air. I saw a snail on the wall. I moved away and nearly stepped on the turtle. It was on its feet, behind the bowl. I noticed that there were snails all over the white screen. They were big enough to eat. I staggered against a bucket. Then I realised that there were snails all over the ancient mother, on the face of the mirror, on the edges of the bucket. I didn’t know where to turn. My head expanded with the goddess who was speaking to me through the snails and objects in her chamber.

How could I find my way out of the maze of these dreaming objects which were all obstacles before me? How could I escape from the mystery of the head of a snake, its sloughed skin on a newspaper? How could I escape the stones blackened with the tar of new roads, or the single finger pointing at me in a jar of transparent liquid? The goddess in wood spoke to me through all these things, but most of all she spoke to me with her eyes. I didn’t understand her speech. Without thinking, like someone wandering around in a stranger’s dream, I climbed the body of the goddess and took off her glasses. In the deep hollow of her sockets she had eyes of red stone, precious stones theexactcolourofblood.My breathingseized.Hereyesfixedonmewithsuch heat that I hurriedly put her glasses back on. Sweat broke out all over me. I found myself caught in a strange immobility. Then to my greatest horror, she moved – as if she were about to crush me into her pregnancy. I jumped down from her great body and fought my way through the tangle of cloth, screaming.

I sat on the bed. My journey into the secret world changed things I saw in the room. What I had previously thought of as tumbles of clothes became wigs, shawls, undergarments, coloured headties, batik materials. Dull almanacs of secret societies hung on the walls. Snails inched along the walls, leaving a clean wet trail. In a cupboard there were men’s clothes, a black walking stick, and five umbrellas. Above the cupboard was the legend, printed in gothic lettering: GOD’S TIME IS THE BEST. High up on the wall was the image of a crucified Christ and beneath it another legend: THE EVIL THAT MEN DO. There were faded prints of Madame Koto and a man on the walls. The man had only three fingers on one hand. He had a lively face and sad eyes. It was an old picture, browned by sun and time. How could I escape that labyrinth of objects? I went to the bed, lay down under the green netting, and slept in the feverish dreams of the room.

SEVEN

WHEN I AWOKE I felt as if my memory had been wiped clean. The room had changed. Intense shadows brooded on the walls. Futures not yet visible crowded the spaces. Powers not yet active crowded the air. My eyes filled with the shapes of captors, the albumen of unbounded monsters, genies in murky bottles, homunculi in the nests of bats. Unformed beings were everywhere; trapped ghosts and masquerades in unwilling shapes of terror lurked in that forest of shadows. The rain had stopped falling. The wind whipped the zinc roof. I tiptoed out of the room and shut the door behind me. I felt different. I felt as if a wind from the future was blowing through me.

Thepassagewas empty. At thebackyard someonehad attempted to start afirewith wet wood. The smoke was terrible. Evening had fallen with the rain. The sky was grey. The backyard was full of puddles. With each step I took towards Madame Koto’s bar I felt our lives were changing.

There were no lights in the bar. When I went in I thought the place was empty. I moved noiselessly to my place beside the earthenware pot. The front door was partially open. Flies buzzed and I could hear the wall-geckos scuttling between the tables. As I sat I distinguished the outlines of women in the darkness. They sat still, theirheadsfacingthefrontdoor.Afterawhilethey begantospeak.

‘Whenarethey bringingourelectricity,eh?’‘How should I know?’‘MadameKoto has been talkingabout it for alongtime.’‘She has become a politician.’‘Only promises.’‘And talk.’‘They will bring it.’‘And this bar will shine.’‘And one day it will turn into a hotel.’‘But when will they bring the light?’‘One day.’‘One day I will build my own hotel.’‘How? Will you steal the money?’‘Politics will give it to me.’‘Will you fuck politics?’‘Isn’t that what you too are doing?’‘Not only me.’‘Who else?’‘Madame Koto.’‘Don’t mention her name. Her ears are everywhere.’

‘I hear that she is pregnant.’‘For who?’‘How will I know? Was I there when they did it?’‘It’s possible.’‘Anythingis possiblenowadays.’‘Who told you she’s pregnant?’‘Yes, how do you know?’‘People talk.’‘People always talk.’‘I don’t believe them.’‘People talk too much.’‘Rumour is a cheap prostitute.’‘So what are you?’‘I am not cheap.’‘You’re cheaper than shit.’‘What about you, eh? The men say your anus smells.’‘Your cunt smells.’‘Even chicken can fuck you.’‘Rat fuck you.’‘Dogfuck you.’‘Shut up.’‘You too shut up.’‘Pigfuck your mother.’‘Goat fuck your mother and produce you.’‘Shut up!’

‘Why doyoukeep tellingeveryonetoshutup?’‘Youtooshutup!’ They fell silent for a while. The wind blew the front door against the outside wall, straining its hinges. Then the women started up again, abusing one another in blistering phrases, their voices sharper than glass. One of them lit up a cigarette. There was a lull in their bored quarrels during which the wind moaned in the trees. Then, all over the area, the crickets started their trilling. During the silence Madame Koto came in through the back door, a lantern in her hand. She looked massive, as if she had somehow bloated in the dark. Her face shone. Outside I could see a palm-wine tapper, his bicycle encircled with climbing ropes; kegs of wine, tied together, dangled from his carrier.

‘No light?’ Madame Koto asked.

She came over to me and shone the lantern in my eyes.

‘So you’re up, eh?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Feel better, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you touch the bucket of snails?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Liar! Do you know how long it took me to find them. And many of them are still hiding. Why do you cause me so much trouble, eh? Did they send you into this world to punish me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Andyouhavebeensearchingevery cornerofmy room.’

‘No.’