“How long did you work for Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Aidoo?” he asked Gamal in a conversational tone.
“About fifteen years.”
“Really. A long time, eh?”
“Yes, please,” Gamal said.
“They treated you very well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry what happened to them.”
Gamal nodded, looking down for a moment and back up. “It pained me. Too much.”
Dawson thought he had never seen anyone look so crumpled and sad, and he realized how devoted Gamal must have been to Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo.
“You take care of all this?” he asked Gamal, gesturing toward the manicured grounds with hibiscus and frangipani trees.
“Yes, please.”
“You do a very fine job. It looks beautiful.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gamal said, smiling broadly.
“Is there a garden in the back?”
“Yes, please.”
“Can you show it to me?”
“Oh, yes sir.”
He walked with Gamal around the side of the house toward the rear. “What’s going to happen to you now that Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Aidoo are no longer here?”
“Please, I think the doctor will sell the house, and then I will work for her.”
“I see. Do you stay here all the time?”
“Yes, please. I dey for boys’ quarters.”
The high wall enclosing the rear of the house had both razor wire and bougainvillea running along its top edge. The garden was shaded and green, just as well tended as in the front of the house. On its far side was an exit door, which Gamal unlocked and opened inward. Dawson went through and emerged to open space very unlike the confines of the garden behind the wall. The vegetation was wild and free, with hardy scrub in patches down an incline to the beach barely 500 meters away. He stood for a while looking out across the Gulf of Guinea to the horizon. It was a spectacular view. He realized he would love to own a home with a view like this.
“Who uses this door?” he asked.
“Sometimes when people used to come to visit the house, they pass here to go to the beach. ’Specially the white people.”
“Which white people used to come here?”
“One Mr. Cal-… Cam-”
“Calmy-Rey?”
“Eh-heh, that one. Him and his wife.”
“How many times were they here?”
“Anyway, I’m not so sure. Three times or so.”
“When was the last time they came here?”
Gamal turned the corners of his mouth down, thinking. “Please, maybe some six months.”
“And who else? What about one white man with red hair, they call him Mr. Reggie Cardiman?”
Gamal shook his head slowly and sucked his teeth three times in a row. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay, now, what about the Ghanaians? Do you know one Jason Sarbah?”
