Odd Numbers

by JJ Marsh

  There was a long silence as the room grew darker around us. Eventually, we heard a door slam somewhere in the building. Lovisa must be home.

  I looked up and met Mika’s eyes, shadowed as they were in the dusky light.

  His voice, when it came, was little more than a whisper. “The day before we broke up for Christmas. I went round to their apartment with every intention of beating the shit out of that devious bastard. But of course, he’d already left. What I said to you before was true. My plan was to challenge him on New Year’s Day. But what I had in store was a bit more than some probing questions. I wanted revenge.”

  The sound of Lovisa’s key in the lock interrupted him.

  He caught my hand. “The fact remains, Gael, he still got away with it.” He stood up as the door opened. “Lovisa! It’s great to see you!”

  “Hi, Mika! Why the dickens are you two sitting in the dark?”

  Chapter 12: Lovisa, 2013

  When it came around to my turn to organise the reunion again, I cheated a little. The latter part of the year I spent in the Democratic Republic of Congo working with teenage mothers, so the idea of arranging a party for my university friends was not high on my priority list. Somehow it seemed obscene to weigh up villas or apartments with ensuite bathrooms while young rape victims were trying to comprehend the extra layer of responsibility involved with unexpected parenthood. It was early December when it occurred to me I had to act fast or fail the others.

  So I cheated. I called a colleague in Geneva who worked for the same NGO. Her mother had a family home on Corsica she would let to trusted tenants. By some miracle, it wasn’t yet booked and I got it for a stupidly cheap rate. No discussion, I sent the group the details, dates and share of the cost and said take it or leave it. They took it. Best of all, it was another island.

  One of the happiest get-togethers was in Deià, Mallorca in 2009. It should have been one of the saddest, since it was the ten-year anniversary, but that island put a spell on us. I keep saying I’ll return one day, but I know I won’t. Things wouldn’t be the same. Corsica was as close as I could get to recreating the joy of Deià.

  It was also the year I fell in love for the first time since Mika. I’d resigned myself to being single after I’d met and lost my soul mate. Sex was still something I craved occasionally, rather like a Chinese takeaway, and it was almost as easy to find. Love was not. Mainly because I consigned the very idea to a box in the cellar labelled Things I’ll Never See Again. I wish I could add one other thing to that box – the image of his face when I told him what Simone and I had done. Unfortunately, that is burnt onto my mind and can never be removed.

  On the day I arrived at training camp in Kinshasa, I saw a face I trusted immediately. His name was Fabrice; he was Congolese and a guide for the doctors, nurses and translators working for Médecins Sans Frontières. People say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Fabrice’s eyes were full-length French windows with a view of campfires, music and the kind of sunsets only seen in Africa. His tiny kindnesses, polite demeanour and sense of control endeared us all to this lean, rangy man. Yet it was his loss of control, the fire within, that drew this moth to the flame.

  On NGO aid missions, after the day’s work is done, there is a whole lot of sex. It’s not about lust, but comfort. Everyone seeks a warm place, some skin-to-skin solace, a place of safety and a (generally) willing partner. Abuses occur, I don’t deny that, and it’s another layer of self-policing we must undertake. Overall, quiet intimacies under canvas are not about physical gratification, more a craving for tenderness and security, moments where we can heal from the draining days. I’ve taken those moments where I can get them and feel no shame. You give as much as you get.

  Fabrice was no comfort blanket. Parts of me began buzzing each time I saw him and only some of them were due to physical urges. Despite all this man had witnessed, he had a compassionate mind and an optimistic view of the future. That, coupled with an intelligent analysis of how to achieve it, made him irresistibly attractive in my eyes. We stayed up late by the fire, talking in low voices about social change and improving our world. Or we’d get up early, fetch water and spend an hour crushing pondu leaves together to make at least one nutritious meal of the day for our young mothers. Fabrice nourished me.

  On one of the trips to Kinshasa, a gruelling five-hour ride in a geriatric Jeep, Fabrice and I were alone. It was risky to stop, even more so after we’d picked up the miserable selection of medicines we could afford, because of bandits, thieves and kidnappers. We asked for refuge overnight within the walled compound of a mission, accepted a bowl of rice each and slept in the vehicle. My bones creaked, my muscles ached and sweat crusted my skin. That night, we lay in each other’s arms, touching, kissing, holding, caressing and releasing. It was nothing like my conventional idea of love-making, but his touch was so gentle and tender, I surrendered.

  At dawn, the monsoon pounded on the roof of the Jeep like war drums. We disentangled ourselves and wriggled outside, washing off the sticky sweat and stealing a natural power shower in the deluge of the rains. Never in my life had I been so abandoned and so alive.

  Back at camp, he sneaked into my tent almost every night, unless he was on night watch. We held each other, kissed each other and made love for so long we were exhausted. His one rule was no penetration. We had no condoms and the threat of STDs was constant – we spent most days teaching people how to avoid spreading infection. I once joked we should video ourselves practising what we preached and share it with our students. His body stiffened and he retreated into silence. I never mentioned it again.

  I loved him! I loved him so much it was a constant fire, a burning in my stomach, my heart, my groin. Even while administering vaccines or demonstrating how to bottle feed, my fingers were dissatisfied. All they wanted was his skin. My mind worried away at the knotty problem of how to bring him with me to New Year’s Eve. He had a passport but no visa. Getting a flight at this late notice was all but impossible. How would my friends react? His French was perfect, so we could all converse, but what would they think? Who cared what they thought! The crucial question was, how would he react? The committed volunteer, dedicated to supporting developing countries, takes her week off to fly herself and exotic boyfriend to a European island, drink wine, play facile games and eat enough to feed this compound for a year. I couldn’t expose myself to that kind of judgement.

  He took me to the airport, told me not to worry and kissed me goodbye. Tears ran down my face the entire flight and I blew my nose so much so the man next to me moved to another seat. He probably thought I had a cold or something worse.

  While waiting for the bus, I gave myself a stern talking-to. You get to spend a week in a rich country, with hot and cold running water, a full fridge, a soft bed with clean sheets, good company and nothing at all to worry about. How dare you spoil it all by feeling guilty and missing the man you left behind? Enjoy this week, take advantage of every single privilege, restore yourself and take all that goodness back with you to him, to them.

  It always took us a day to acclimatise. So much had changed. Simone newly married, Clark freshly divorced, Mika fired up by his business (and romantic) partner and Gael always on the trail of a new story or love affair. I made up my mind not to share Fabrice. Our reunions were a safe space, but I understood it was sometimes better to hold on to your secrets. The threads binding Fabrice and me were so delicate and fragile, yet the strongest bond I had ever known. Apart from Mika.

  I would never confess this to anyone, not even my best friends, but I had never really got over losing the love of my life. Mika and I were destined for one another. The horrific nightmare of Dhan’s death and Simone’s termination on top of our own emotional vulnerability ruined our chances in the early days. Even so, I believed we would get another opportunity. People use the expression ‘soul mate’ far too easily. The truth is, when you meet yours, you know it. Circumstances may keep you apart, but there is a part of you, deeper than heart
, deeper than sensibility, just raw instinct that tells you, this is it. This is the missing jigsaw piece you’ve been seeking. For me, that was Mika.

  I loved him. I wanted him to be happy. If he wasn’t with me, that was sad, but better than trying to force him into something he didn’t want. My counsellor suggests my motivation for arranging the New Year’s Eve reunions was to maintain that contact, keep the door open, no matter how much I suffered by seeing him with other women. I think she’s oversimplifying.

  There were eight of us in 2013. The usual five, plus Simone’s husband, Mika’s partner and Clark’s best friend. We worked really hard, being inclusive, upbeat, exploratory and enthusiastic, but the week was a total washout. Clark, his mate and Simone’s husband got themselves locked into some kind of macho competition which caused constant aggression in everything we did. Mika refused to take part, shrugging off their drinking games, athletics and argumentative debates as sexual frustration. This did nothing to endear him to any of us. Instead, he turned inwards, canoodling with his lovely Slovakian girlfriend. I don’t even remember her name, only her eyebrows.

  Gael and I could not absent ourselves from the dynamic as we had to support Simone. We walked the glorious countryside, enjoyed the food and found some moments, some pockets of peace. I ate fresh vegetables, showered every day and even got a haircut from Mika’s girlfriend. She did a good job. For me there were practical advantages but the usual emotional shot in the arm was absent. When I said goodbye, I wondered if we would, if we should ever do this again. These people were my closest friends. Imagining life without them made me tearful.

  Though nothing like the tears that assaulted me when I found my visa to return to the Democratic Republic of Congo had been revoked. I could not go back. I spent ten days in a hostel in Marseille, making a daily trek back and forth to the consulate, pleading my case. I couldn’t communicate with Fabrice; no phones, no computers, not even a fax machine. Via the team in Geneva, I discovered our entire NGO had been thrown out of the country, leaving our compound, our patients, our supporters and our team on the ground abandoned. The UN agreed to listen to our appeal and attempt to negotiate on our behalf, which would take months if not years. Friends scrambled enough money to get me home to my flat, where I at least had the advantage of communication systems. It wasn’t enough. The DRC had closed down and refused to let us return. All those young girls, all their babies, all those people trying to help. We could do nothing but leave them behind.

  Eight months later, I received an electronic communication from the mission where we had once stayed. Father Ali told me how the refuge had been taken over by the militia. Thanks to previous warnings, he and other religious leaders had rescued many of the inhabitants and their offspring. The support network of nurses, security guards, drivers and guards had dispersed, left to their own devices. He didn’t mention Fabrice.

  Chapter 13: Gael, now

  Winter sports are an insane idea and people who enjoy flinging themselves down mountains at breakneck speed are certifiable, in my opinion. Lovisa, Mika and Simone had grown up on skis or snowboards, plus Clark’s Alaskan childhood gave him a lasting passion for the great outdoors. My idea of getting some exercise was a nice walk along a beach to a pub, ideally in late spring or early autumn. The type of weather that’s not too hot, not too cold and perfect for having a pint of real ale in the pub garden. Switzerland even has a ‘sports holiday’ in the winter for families to rush off up alpine mountains, wear themselves out and eat fondue. Not for me, thanks. On this, Dhan and I had always agreed. In the winter, as Dhan used to say, activities should be all about The Great Indoors. He kept up his swimming regime all year round, in a nice heated pool with a hot tub outside. I joined him one winter while the others had gone skiing, just for the tub part. I could see the attraction of sitting in warm steamy water while snowflakes fell on our heads.

  It seemed appropriate for the twentieth anniversary that we returned to Geneva. The city is a moody diva. Sometimes she steps onto the stage in full sparkling sunshine, peaks crisp, lake glittering and defies you not to fall in love with her forever. Other times, she’s cold and sulky, refusing to perform, shrouding her finery in grey, wet clouds. Today, she was throwing spiteful sheets of sleet in our eyes and lashing our cheeks with razor-like winds. Mika, Lovisa and I took another trip to the Asian market to get another bunch of ingredients for our banquet, picked up the hire car and Mika drove us out of the city towards the mountains.

  Once we ascended above the gloomy mists, the sun’s reflection on the snowy landscape made us all reach for our sunglasses. Blue sky, snow-dusted forests and clear tarmac roads delineated by those red poles to guide the snow-ploughs signalled we were in mountain territory. We should be over it by now. Switzerland is pretty, we know that better than most. But it can still take my breath away. Spirits raised and anticipation high, we drove through jaw-dropping terrain, snapping pictures of towering glaciers and shadowed valleys. Mika drove past charming villages with shuttered windows and colombage walls, thinning out as we drove the final kilometres to our chalet. Tension rose up my spine and into my shoulders. It’s too far from any shops. It’s cut off from civilisation. If it’s shit, everyone will blame me. Why did I choose something so ridiculously remote?

  When we eventually crested the snowy driveway, the chalet was lit up like a gingerbread house and relief washed over me like a warm wave.

  “It looks beautiful!” Lovisa exclaimed. “Exactly what I imagined.”

  Mika parked with the boot towards the door. “Super choice! We are really in the heart of nature. Hey, Simone, you beat us!”

  In the doorway stood a slight shape, backlit by an enticingly warm interior. “Where have you been? I was freaking out here on my own. This house creaks and groans and my nerves are shredded after two hours here by myself. What took you so long?”

  “Same old Simone,” I muttered.

  We got out, stretched our stiff limbs and dragged our bags indoors. Simone embraced Lovisa and me but reserved her greatest enthusiasm for Mika. Fair enough. She hadn’t seen him for two years, whereas we were a regular feature in her life.

  “I thought you would have been here hours ago. This place is spooky. There was no one here when I arrived but the code for the key box worked so I could get in out of the cold.”

  “That’s why I shared it with everyone,” I said, as sweetly as I could manage. “Whoever gets here first unlocks the place and makes it cosy.”

  She took the hint and stopped her dramatics. “Allons-y, the fire is lit and I made Gael’s mince pies.”

  The mince pies were an old joke. Mince in French means thin. The classic British suet and preserved fruit in pastry scattered with sugar could never be described as ‘thin’. We ate them anyway, drank hot chocolate and spread out on the sofas around the fire. I had a good feeling about this place. The bedrooms were on two floors, three up, three down. By mutual agreement, the three women took the first floor leaving the two men the upstairs.

  Lovisa wanted to have a bath and Mika said he was making some calls home, so Simone and I started preparing our dinner: an authentic fondue. As the only genuine Swiss amongst us, Simone had chosen the ingredients herself. Moitié-moitié cheese mixture: half Gruyère, half Vacherin; little potatoes, crusty bread and fondue seasoning such as garlic, nutmeg and pepper. She donned an apron from the back of the kitchen door and started giving me instructions. It wasn’t like I needed telling how to make a fondue, but her bossy tone and the comic French maid design on her apron seemed to fit. I recalled Clark telling me about the sex shop trip, so kept my mouth shut, smiled to myself and obeyed orders.

  We chatted with ease as we worked. Simone’s ski break with her sister, my escape from the family, the latest in our jobs. Then she took an intake of breath that made me jump. I dropped the knife I was using to cut potatoes with a clatter.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

  Simone’s eyes were huge and her voi
ce was a shaky whisper. “There he is again. Someone is stalking around the chalet. Look, I wasn’t imagining things. He’s back.”

  I followed her sightline and saw a dark hooded shape outside the kitchen window. My pulse sped up and I swallowed. “Probably the concierge making sure we got in all right. I’ll go and have a word. We don’t want anyone lurking about, thanks very much.”

  I dried my hands and marched into the living room, Simone on my heels. As I did so, a loud banging on the front door made us both start and grasp each other’s arms. I looked through the spy hole and recognised Clark’s familiar features staring at me.

  “Clark!” I exclaimed and threw open the door. “What the hell are you doing peering through the windows and scaring the shit out of us?”

  “Hey, guys! Just checking I got the right place before I let the taxi driver go.” He turned and gave a thumbs-up to the car idling on the drive. The cabbie tooted his horn and crunched away down the snowy road.

  “Come in! We’ve been messaging you, wondering where you were. Give me a hug.”

  He did so and released me to embrace Simone. He stood back to take in the design on her apron. “Glad to see you’re still rocking that look! Hey, it’s great to see you both. It’s a hell of a long way out, this place. The driver didn’t believe the chalet was even here because it didn’t appear on his Satnav. He was sure I’d made a mistake. He was wrong, it looks gorgeous. Look at that fire!” Clark shrugged off his outdoor gear and opened his rucksack. “Where are L and M?”

  As if on cue, Mika emerged on the staircase, with Lovisa right behind him, still in her bathrobe. “Clark!” she beamed.

  “The one and only. I brought us the most incredible bottle of gin.”

  Dinner was on hold until we’d done the greetings, cracked open Clark’s gin and toasted the fact we’d made it through another two years. When Mika showed Clark upstairs to unpack and Lovisa went to get dressed, Simone and I returned to the kitchen. I noticed she closed the red-checked curtains before recommencing.