Gordon had come to know a lot of influential people in the city. Before Amazon became the juggernaut bookseller, readers came in seeking books of all kinds—sometimes rare—and Gordon would either have the works in stock or could get a hold of them. That fostered friendships and great conversations. The most celebrated of writers had made appearances at Tilson’s, including Toni Morrison, making the bookstore a very big deal. Now the place was perhaps less “serious.” Some of the writers who came through would not have been Gordon’s personal choice, but times had changed. A lot of heat and noise—like an ephemeral fireworks display.

TWELVE

January 19

Through his marriage to Regina, Gordon Tilson had come to know quite a few of the many Ghanaians living along the east coast, particularly in New Jersey, New York, and Washington, DC. Regina had kept company with a well-connected clique of them, like those in the diplomatic corps. It meant getting invited to embassy parties and somewhat more obscure bashes like the Ghana Physicians and Surgeons Foundation of North America inaugural dinner and dance. The events had been more important to Regina than to Gordon, but he had almost always tagged along and gone with the flow. If she was happy, Gordon was too.

Regina had been a terrific entertainer herself. In the good old days, she had orchestrated buffets and dinner parties at home, bringing together a good mix of her friends and Gordon’s. After her death, he remained on many invite lists, and that’s how, even without Regina, he continued to be a guest at many Ghanaian-flavored events.

Saturday afternoon, Gordon went to one such party at the Ghana Embassy on International Drive, NW. Several other embassies sat along that opulent stretch of real estate. The Ghanaian Ambassador, Herbert Opare, was holding a cultural event, which, as far as Gordon could gather, aimed to attract more investment in Ghana.

The embassy’s winter room was the venue—swank décor, irresistible finger food with an African touch, and well-dressed people. The crowd was mixed—American and Ghanaian, white and black. Gordon’s gaze tended toward the Ghanaian women, who, hands down, wore the best outfits. Their artful headdresses fascinated him especially.

“Gordon!”

Like a speed bump, the voice jolted him out of his distracted state. Ambassador Opare was in front of him with an outstretched hand. He was tall with broad, flat facial features, gold-rimmed glasses, and a suave navy blue suit.

“Good to see you again, Ambassador Herbert,” Gordon said. “Thank you for having me.”

“You know it’s my tremendous pleasure,” Opare said. “A gathering here is nothing without you.”

“Thank you—nice of you to say,” Gordon said. “How is Angelina?” Angelina was Opare’s wife.

“She’s very well, thank you for asking. She’s somewhere around here—I’m sure you’ll meet up with her shortly. Great to see you again. You’re looking well.”

Opare moved on to other guests. About thirty minutes later, he made an introductory welcoming speech, and then a Ghanaian guest professor at Howard University’s Center for African Studies gave a riveting demonstration of the fine art of Ghana’s traditional talking drums. It reminded Gordon of festivals he had attended in small Ghanaian towns where the infectious singing and drumming had brought him to his feet, but he had never realized that in a pair of talking drums, the one with the higher octave was the “female” and the other was the “male.” A conversation, like in a marriage—a good one, at least.