The World, 1969
80. HE TURNS THEM down the first time, liking things the way they are, but the third time a seasoned manager calls with a full roster of concerts already lined up and a solo record deal with a good label, Bonnie tells Mansour to take it (Don’t be stupid, man). Well into a warm spring, naked in the low-hanging hammock of a German hostel, they are client and artist no more as he completes the last gigs on the indie circuit from their bookings.
Mansour runs his hand across her body, noting the fairness of her breasts. He gazes at the rest of her, her deeper reddish-brown color from all the months spent in the wings of stages at folk festivals, the rocky sands of Croatian and South American beaches, cabin porches in woodsy parts of Ireland.
She kisses his hand, tells him of tongues being cut out in the Americas if an African language was spoken.
He laughs. “You’re lying,” he says.
He kisses her back and tells her how Ahmadou Bamba prayed standing on water, how he was found petting the lions that the French sent to kill him.
“That’s just folklore,” she says.
He remarks, for the first time, that she could be from Senegal. She could be Bambara: the shape of her nose. He touches her. Peule, more likely, with her extended neck and wide doe eyes.
She drags her fingertips down the ridges of his chest, tells him he is such a Southern boy. Could be from Mississippi: the chestnut complexion, the lean body, his quiet way. Maybe NOLA: the full eyebrows, the jet-black soft hair.
“So where is this baby from?” she says, his hand on her stomach, her hand over his.
When he leaves for Spain in May, he’s rushing. They’ve both hardly slept, argued through the night about wedding things, her worries about his health, and his worries about hers, the reasons she should stay behind. In the end, she refuses to see him to the door. She watches from the attic window as he packs his things into the car. And then they’d both given in at the last minute, meeting at Mama Eva’s front door. He squats down, lifting her shirt to kiss her stomach.
“I remember when you used to kiss me like that,” she says, tapping the door frame with her finger.
He stands, salutes her with a military hand to his head.
“Seriously?” she chastises from the open front door.
Liam yells from the car. “Would you like to play these games on a day when we’re not already late for the only train to Spain?”
Mansour snatches her close with an arm around her waist, puts his forehead to hers, closes his eyes, breathing her in. He pulls his talisman necklace over his head, places it into the palm of her hand and presses it closed.
“Stay sweet,” he says.