On the floor next to her feet were a large glass of water and a book that she recognised immediately. There was a piece of paper, folded over with notes scrawled across it, which he was using as a bookmark. Daughters of Africa. She forced herself to open the book, found the page, For Clare. His words survived even if they hadn’t. Ben and Clare. Clare and Ben. There was no reason why it should be, but somehow she was sure that the book in her hands was the same book she had held in his flat that first time she had visited, he had made her lunch. She closed her eyes and lay down on the camp bed, the trainers slipping off her feet, the shirt enveloping her like a blanket. His pillow smelled of washing powder, shampoo and another musky male smell. She opened her eyes and turned to the page where Francois had placed his bookmark.
The commonly held assumption that women’s rights to land are weaker than men’s has recently been contested, with scholars such as Goodwin and Sithole arguing that across a diverse continent, with varied socio-historical contexts, the realities must be more complex than imagined. Letitia is a case in point. Finding herself pregnant at the age of nineteen, she married and had three more children with her husband, Munyaradzi. He died suddenly from a heart attack, and she approached his family in the Eastern Highlands, who offered her some land in Mutare. She joined the Manyame project – a project which engages women farmers to grow the herbs and plants used to produce the essential oils and natural remedies for the Western market – and she is now a small-scale farmer on the land she was given by her late husband’s family.
Letitia’s story reveals a paradigm that has been neglected in academic literature, that of land acquisition through kinship not only inheritance, and of women’s rights to land decided on a familial basis. What Letitia’s story also shows, however, is how colonial discourses on land and the uneasy relationship between colonisers and the indigenous people in positions of power have led to the very chequered nature of land appropriation, and the patchwork of policies available in a country such as Zimbabwe, and indeed over the continent.
The phone rang, startling her. She had not noticed that he had a landline in the corner of the room. She did not move – Francois would call her on her mobile, surely – and the voicemail kicked in. His instructions were brief, in English. There was a pause and then a woman’s voice: Francois, hi, it’s Jane. I was wondering when you were next planning to come over to London. There’s something I’d like to discuss. Um. Better in person. A pause. OK, let me know.
The phone message stirred her. She sat up, closed the book, slid his shirt off, refolded it. She stood up and patted his camp bed so that he would not see the impression her body had made. Then she pulled out her laptop from her suitcase, set it up on the table. She spent an hour looking at university websites and sent off two requests for further information, an email to her parents telling them she was working hard. The lies came easily after months of practice. Then she changed her clothes, pulled on her jacket and went downstairs onto the street and up the incline to the square, where she sat on the wall overlooking the city for some time, listening to the busker, the same from the previous evening, who smiled and bowed at her in recognition. When she left, he gave her a wave, which she returned.
She found her way back to the supermarket, bought two pieces of fish and a few more vegetables and spices. The least she could do was cook dinner, which she did. And when he returned, his surprise and appreciation was gratifying. He ate heartily, complimenting the meal and querying after the spices she had used, where she had bought them. He stopped her when she began clearing the table – the chef doesn’t wash up – only allowing her to dry the dishes with a tea towel after she insisted.
When they had finished and were leaving the kitchen, he said, ‘I’m meeting Lucie and Josef for a drink. There’s a singer I know who’s playing in a bar just down the hill. Would you like to come along?’
The suggestion of a dinner en famille had not been well received, as she had expected. He must have called his girlfriend during the day, been rebuffed.
‘Should I?’ she asked quietly.
He stopped in front of her, gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I think she should meet you,’ he said. ‘So I’d be grateful if you came.’
She murmured her agreement, and then as she moved away to her end of the room to change into a warmer top – the temperature was dropping – she remembered: ‘You’ve got a voice message,’ she said. ‘Someone called this morning.’
As she brushed her hair, she heard him play the message. Francois, hi, it’s Jane. She glanced around the screen: he was standing with his hands on his hips, listening, then he bent forward, deleted the message. She watched as he stood still for some minutes, then turned around, ‘Ready?’
She walked towards the entrance hall but then stopped and gestured to his studio area.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I looked at some of your work.’
‘That’s not a problem.’
‘I saw the painting,’ she decided to say. ‘Of me.’
He had been slipping his jacket on, but he slowed down; he was not brushing off her discovery. He moved closer, his eyes searching hers.
‘I found that photo on Ben’s camera,’ he said, ‘and somehow it felt like the right thing to do.’ He paused, ‘You can have it if you want.’
‘I’m not sure I’d hang it up.’
‘I’m not as good as I think I am then.’
She did not return his smile. ‘That’s not it . . .’
He was quiet, and then he reached forward, gently squeezed her elbow. ‘I should apologise for painting you without asking you first.’
She shook her head, tried to smile, but her lips felt dry.
‘If we hadn’t met,’ she ventured, finally, ‘what would you have done with it?’
His eyes had not left her face, and he spoke quietly.
‘I might have shown it somewhere.’
Then, as she watched him, she saw his eyes soften, waiting for her reaction.
‘For me to see it?’
‘Or,’ he hesitated, ‘or someone who knew you . . .’
A phone call, an email from a friend. Hey, Rita, there’s a painting of you in an exhibition! The likelihood of such a coincidence manifesting itself was slight. No, he had painted her to try to get under her skin, and under his brother’s: give warmth and flesh to an ephemeral glance over a shoulder, to the two people on either side of the exchange.
‘Well,’ she said, trying to smile, ‘I came in from the cold, didn’t I?’
‘I’m glad you did.’ His grin was full of relief, gratitude, and he touched her arm lightly.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see, behind him, the canvas, propped up on the ground, but she had no wish to look at it again, and it appeared unlikely that he would pull it out and explain his work. She had been quiet; she felt his hand on her arm again – shall we? – and she allowed herself to be led outside the flat.
As they went down the stairs, she asked, ‘Can I give you some money? For the flight and expenses and everything?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about that. I owe you for a delicious dinner anyway.’
‘It wasn’t that special.’
‘It was to me.’ Then he stopped. ‘Really, Rita. I didn’t ask you to stay because I wanted you to pay for lodgings or anything. Did you have a look at some universities?’
She nodded.
‘Well, that’s great. That’s what you should be worrying about.’ She couldn’t tell him that none had excited her, that the prospect of studying again now seemed old-fashioned, as if it belonged to a different era. But that was why he had invited her. Because he knew she would not stay with him for ever. They walked in silence down the hill, down a steep cobbled street cut into the side of a rock face, and when she glanced at him she saw his expression was filled with trepidation, like a small boy caught red-handed. It would be awkward, this meeting with his girlfriend.
Lucie was striking: toned and tanned. Dark hair cut cl
ose to her scalp, black eyeliner, nude lips, with a sculpted figure, wearing a tight black sleeveless top, black jeans. They kissed on the lips in greeting, Francois and Lucie, while she and the son skulked in the background: the children.
‘Nice to meet you.’ She had a sultry voice and offered a firm handshake. ‘This is my son, Josef.’
A beanpole, nearly Francois’s height, gangly, with brown hair lying around his ears.
‘This is Rita,’ Francois said, and then played the host: what drinks did everyone want? Would a carafe of wine be a good idea?
‘Just orange juice for me, please,’ she heard herself saying. He went to the bar, and she followed him involuntarily with her eyes, and then returned to see the woman, Lucie, watching her, her expression not cool, not unfriendly: non-committal.
‘So how do you find Lisbon?’
‘It’s lovely,’ her voice sounded gushing. ‘And it’s so sunny.’
‘Well, we get the rain, wait for it.’
‘I love the architecture.’
‘You haven’t been before?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, you must ask Francois to show you the coast,’ the woman said generously.
He returned with a tray, handed out the cola and orange juice, lifted the carafe and poured Lucie a glass of wine before pouring one for himself, then sat back smiling. His efforts were almost comical, and she felt some pity for him.
‘Good to be back, Josef ?’
His mother pouted. ‘He’s hardly been home. He’s been meeting friends nearly every evening.’
‘Have you settled in Cologne?’
The youth grunted. What did he know about this assembly? It was unlikely that Lucie had shared all the details with him, but then how could she be sure?
There were a few chords, and the musician began to play: a welcome distraction. She saw Francois and Lucie speaking, in low tones, their eyes on each other’s lips. There was a tension between them, the way he touched her arm with contrition while she sat unmoving, holding her head turned away from his. A memory: sitting above Ben and Clare in the library, he was looking up at her. She turned away and focused on the singer, a young man in a beanie, with a guitar. He sang in English, mostly covers, strumming expertly, and she found herself tapping her foot.
‘Obrigado,’ he said when he finished his set, this directed at Rita, who blushed and glanced back to see Lucie watching her, an amused smile on her lips. But she was not supercilious, not hostile. How must she feel that Francois had brought back the embodiment of his brother’s infidelity? That the person was now sleeping in his flat, in his bed?
She stood up.
‘I’ll make my way back,’ she said to Francois. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
He started to get up.
‘No, stay,’ she said. ‘It’s so close and there are so many people around. I’ll be fine.’
Then Lucie spoke: ‘Josef will go with you, to the door,’ and she said a few words to her son, who began to unwind himself. When he stood next to her, the sensation that they were siblings, asking permission from their parents, persisted.
‘He knows the way,’ Lucie continued. ‘I’ll see you again, Rita,’ and she stood up to kiss her cheek.
She left with Josef, who trudged next to her up the incline, not saying a word, until they reached the entrance door. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and he was gone. She was already in bed when she heard Francois return, heard him run the shower and then pad across the room. She peered around the screen: he was lying on his side on the camp bed, a small lamp poised so that he could read. He had picked up the book, Daughters of Africa, was finding his place; she could see his head bent over his brother’s words. She turned over so she faced the window, and watched the night sky. She had not heard his voice in those words; he had not introduced her to that world. He had kept her separate; she was nowhere to be found. Her name was not written down in any of his books. Just as Lucie did not leave any belongings in Francois’s flat, she had left no trace in Ben’s life.
17
THE next day she woke earlier, to the sound of Francois walking across to the entrance. He was wearing running clothes. The door closed with a soft click, and she was alone. She did not want to impinge on his lifestyle, but if she was here sleeping in his bed, then Lucie was not able to. She would not have breakfast: she felt suddenly unwilling to be sipping his coffee and eating his toast when he returned. She washed and dressed quickly, slipping her laptop into her bag. At the door, she stopped, wondering whether to leave a note on the table, but if she did he might feel he had to do the same whenever he went out. She had her phone, he had his – that would suffice. She ran down the stairs, munching on an apple, and stepped out onto the street. It was fresh, not very cold.
She meandered down the hill towards the Baixa. It was invigorating to be plunged into strange, unfamiliar surroundings. Aside from the frequent returns to India, school trips, one week when she had accompanied her friend Priya and family to a resort in Spain, she had not left London. Tooting and the Bhavan in Kensington had formed the margins of much of her life before she went away to university. Lisbon was an unforeseen destination. A tram hooted beside her, nudging her elbow; it was a beguiling city. By now more people were appearing, walking purposefully, on their way to work. She would benefit from a routine, but for now she would imbibe the mellow environs. Just before the short stretch to the Baixa, she turned into a café, managed to order a milky coffee and a toasted baguette. As her order was being prepared, she sent Francois a text: Gone out for a walk. Her phone beeped soon after. That’s great. See you later. F. Then she seated herself near the window. The coffee was hot and strong, and she ate the baguette hungrily. The waiter approached with another toasted slice and said something, smiling. When it was clear she did not understand, he said in English: of the house. It was only after he had left her that she understood: on the house.
When she opened her bag, she extracted not her laptop but her notebook. She wrote ‘Anthropology One’ at the top of the page and then listed all the modules she had taken in her first year, the marks she had received. She had done best in ‘Ritual and Symbols in Religion’, even though her final assignment had been completed in a rush. She chewed on her pen as she looked at the names of the courses she had followed: not she, another person. Her pen began to doodle and then began to write: crying in his office, in the café queue, in the park (with Clare), in the library (with Clare), in the café (his invitation), outside on the street after the performance, in his car, in his parents’ house, and then she stopped. There was no point. She had been to the graves, hadn’t she? She had met his parents; she was staying with his brother. Life was moving on; new scenes were being written. But as she stared at the page, the events she had listed revolved, each in their own sheath of light, which reflected onto the pages of her notebook. If she wanted, she could pierce one with her pen. Which to choose? She twirled the pen between her fingers and then descended: standing in front of Francois’s painting at their parents’ house. Ben was leaning against the wall, watching her.
The chair opposite her scraped, and she looked up. He was wearing the same beanie, today with a dark hooded jacket: the singer from last night.
He smiled and said something, and she cleared her throat, ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Portuguese.’
‘I can join you?’ he asked in English, and she nodded, quickly looked down at her words and laid her hand over them. It was an obvious attempt and he noticed it, smiled again and gestured to the pages: ‘You are writing something?’
‘Just . . .’ she could feel her face becoming warm, ‘just some notes.’
He sat down, offered to order her another coffee, and then when she declined ordered one himself. His name was Moises; he lived on the next street. Was she visiting with Francois? No, she wasn’t related; he was a friend. No, she wasn’t an artist or an art student. Well, she wasn’t sure just yet when she would be leaving. Yes, that would be nice, if he showed her around one day. A
fter he finished his coffee, he got up to leave. But before, he swooped down and kissed her on one cheek, then the next: a warm, welcoming local custom. He was always in this café, he said before he left. She could find him easily.
She watched him walk up the hill, towards Alfama. He was nice; she would enjoy his company. She already knew the busker to wave at and this singer, Moises, to talk to; she could imagine living here and making a life. She left the café. Today the Baixa was bustling, and she wandered through its shops. In one, a type of newsagent’s, she perused the notices pinned to a corkboard. A few offered English lessons, and she considered this possibility before dismissing it: she was not qualified in any way, would not know where to start. And then down one narrow street she found a small dance studio: Ana Dourado, Escola de Dança. She went in and with a mixture of sign language and pidgin Portuguese learned that there might be a need for her: most of their students attended the international school on the other side of the city and spoke only English. Come back on Monday, segunda-feira; Ana would be there.
By now it was four o’clock. She had been out for hours, but she did not want to return too early. A shopping mall provided a distraction for another hour, and then she walked back, up a different steep incline, past a different row of decrepit apartment buildings, without too much worry that she would find her way. He was right: the castle and the river were two excellent landmarks. It was dusk when she let herself into the flat. He was in his old cargo trousers, in his studio area. His flat was his workplace as well as his home; she was a double intrusion on his life. She was of a mind to turn and leave again quietly, but he looked up and smiled: ‘You’ve been out a while.’
The Inheritance Page 16