The Inheritance

by Sheena Kalayil

  She nodded. ‘I looked around.’

  She took her boots off and walked into the living area, and he came towards her as if to give her a kiss in greeting as he had done with Lucie. But he stopped some feet away.

  ‘I sent off some more requests,’ she lied.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said. Then, ‘Are you hungry? I was just going to start cooking actually.’

  ‘I can make dinner,’ she said, ‘if you want to carry on working.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no. I can’t have you cooking every day. I might get used to it.’ He was grinning now.

  ‘I don’t mind . . .’

  ‘You can help me. I was going to make some pasta. Does that sound good to you?’

  As she unloaded her laptop, unpacked her bag, she saw that he was fiddling with his music player. A symphony flooded in. He stood for some moments, savouring the music, then he turned to her.

  ‘Mahler,’ he said. ‘Do you know him?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I read a biography a while back and something stuck with me. He said, “What is best in music is not to be found in the notes”.’

  He listened for a few moments, then he smiled: ‘Maybe it’s not the time for Mahler.’ He ejected the CD. ‘Let’s listen to a bit of Cesária. She’s from Cape Verde.’

  The soulful voice seeped into the room as if patterning the walls with the melody: wistful, poignant, mournful. She had heard it before, with Ben. An image arrived which stopped her heart: Ben, in his flat, kneeling on the rug in front of her, moving closer to kiss her. And just behind him, within her vision, Francois’s painting, the landscape. So, he had been there with them. Just as his five women in the river had been witness to the two of them on the rug in his parents’ living room.

  She noticed he was watching her. Perhaps he was waiting for her to offer her judgement.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, and he smiled as they moved to the kitchen.

  ‘Did you see anything interesting on your travels?’ he asked, pulling out two saucepans from the top of the fridge. He handed her a bulb of garlic, ‘Could you . . . ?’

  ‘I saw the singer from last night,’ she replied.

  ‘Ah, Moises. You’ll find that in Alfama. You’ll keep bumping into the same people.’

  ‘He said he’d show me around some time.’

  ‘Mm,’ he was smiling but said nothing more.

  She sliced the garlic as he opened two tins of tomatoes.

  ‘I also went into this dance school,’ she said. ‘They might need a teacher for Saturday or evening classes.’

  ‘Well, that’s very resourceful of you,’ he said, pausing before lighting the hob with a match. ‘Have you done that sort of thing before?’

  ‘At the weekends when I was at uni.’

  He nodded, smiled, but again did not say anything else. He did not make any pretence that he wished to chat. And, on her side, she did not want to pave the way to a similar conversation, a reminder of an invitation. The night of the performance, the frankness in Ben’s voice: you took my breath away. The memory arrived and stood behind her like a shadow, as if the dead brother was watching the living brother: playing the same music, talking of the same things. Francois seemed oblivious of the spectre sharing the kitchen; he was frying the garlic and opening a packet of spaghetti at the same time.

  The music soared, and he started to hum along with it. The kitchen was small; their elbows brushed against each other. But everything was neatly arranged, with military precision, dispelling any stereotypes of the chaotic artist.

  ‘That should reduce a bit,’ he said. ‘Will you join me for a glass of wine?’

  He cut some slices of cheese which he arranged on a plate, tucked a bottle under his arm and produced two wine glasses from a shelf above her head.

  ‘After you.’

  In the living area, he said, ‘Tell me if you get too cold,’ before throwing open one set of doors, pulling two chairs and a small table forward so that they sat facing the vista of the castle on the hill. He held out his glass and touched it against hers. ‘Cheers.’ Then after taking one sip, he moved towards his studio area and reached under the camp bed to produce a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ he said, and when she shook her head, he continued, ‘Just the one. I’m cutting down.’

  They listened to the same music, said the same things, had the same vices. Maybe they even shared the same ambitions, taste in women. But Lucie was dark where Clare had been fair. Older. And yet, both women had the same composure, the same controlled mien. She sipped the wine. It was an unhelpful habit, to keep comparing the two brothers.

  ‘You’re reading Ben’s book,’ she said, gesturing towards the bed.

  ‘Yes. Have you read his stuff?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. Only bits.’

  ‘I’ve got his first one here as well,’ he said. ‘If you want to read it. I found it a bit technical.’

  He balanced his cigarette on the balcony railing and walked over to the bookshelf.

  ‘Here you are.’

  Again, the sensation that she had seen this book in his flat. To my parents, John and Louise Martin. She had met them now and could picture them reading this same dedication, exclaiming with pleasure. And to Clare Armstrong: for keeping my feet on the ground. And now they were both below the ground, together.

  She said, ‘Do you know all the people in Ben’s books?’

  ‘The people he interviewed?’

  ‘And the people he mentions in his acknowledgements?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve met one or two, but only just recently. Patricia Zigomo-Walther for example.’

  She recognised the name and could not stop herself from asking ‘Who is she?’, hoping he would not hear the curiosity in her voice. ‘I mean, she’s in his acknowledgements as much as Clare is, really.’

  He might have glanced at her, but she was looking away, affecting indifference.

  ‘She’s a friend of his,’ he said. ‘Her husband is German. He was a diplomat or something in Harare.’

  She held her wineglass between her knees, watched the lights come on in the building below.

  ‘Actually,’ he stubbed out his cigarette, seemed to hesitate, ‘she’s been in touch with my parents about something she wants to set up. A named scholarship of some kind for Zimbabwean students,’ and then he paused before saying, ‘in Ben’s memory.’

  She knew the sort: there were other bursaries offered by successful alumni, a reading room that was named after an old professor. Ben would be remembered, his work would be appreciated, while someone would also be given a chance to better themselves.

  And me? She could not stop the thought from entering her head, nor the bitterness that accompanied it. She would have neither ignominy nor fame: no one knew about her. She was shocked to feel her stomach lurch at the prospect: to be forgotten, swept under a carpet, hidden. But she had set that sentence for herself, by removing herself from the university, when – why not? – she could have knocked on someone’s door: you need to know something about Ben Martin.

  ‘How,’ Francois was speaking slowly, ‘how do you feel about that?’

  She turned to him. He was tuned into her; she could hear the gentleness in his voice. He could discern what she was thinking, even if she would prefer that he was ignorant of her petulance. It was a monumental effort – her features felt turgid, fossilised – but she managed a small smile: ‘That’s a lovely way to remember him.’ Saying the words almost made her believe them, feel the sentiment.

  He accepted what she said without responding. She picked a slice of cheese and nibbled on it, but when she tried to swallow, her throat was tight. When he got up and moved back to the kitchen, she did not join him. And after, they spoke little, only commenting on the meal. As they washed up, he said, ‘I’ll just finish off what I was doing,’ and squeezed her arm gently. There was a melancholy to him tonight. She did not sense any regre
t or rancour over her presence in his flat, and yet he seemed to be mulling over something; perhaps he was thinking of his brother. Perhaps the evening before with Lucie had not ended well. Whatever, he was carrying something inside him.

  She had a shower and returned to her wing. As she was pulling on her night T-shirt, she peered round the screen: another habit she was developing. He was standing before the easel, engrossed, a small brush in his hand. She slipped into the bed, studied the cover of Ben’s book. There was a grainy photograph of a group of men in military-type fatigues; to one side, a woman in a similar outfit was holding what looked like a shovel. She stared at the woman: she had an open, brave expression, even though the men standing near her were carrying machine guns of some kind. There is a world out there, the photograph seemed to be telling her. She opened the book:

  The Land Policy Division (LPD) of the World Bank claims the new directions of its policies offer better outcomes for women’s aspirations to land tenure and titles. Yet there is a divergence in approach and ideology beyond the LPD as demonstrated in the African Division. Here, one set of gender specialists argue for top-down reform, so that statutory law safe-guards the rights of women to land, especially after widowhood. However, others such as the Gender and Law Reform in Africa group (GLRA) insist that customary systems must be enshrined, arguing that state reform has had little benefit for women. The discourses surrounding these issues themselves perpetuate another discourse: that women in Africa are silent witnesses to struggles for their rights, a discourse not uncommon in past times of the coloniser–colonised. By regarding women as passive witnesses to change, global organisations ignore the many women’s groups and rights activists that make changes themselves before decrees are issued. An example that will be discussed in Chapter 2 is the Manyame project (an initiative founded by Patricia Zigomo-Walther, a contributor to the chapter) in which small farmers, all women, cultivate the herbs and plants that produce the essential oils that are sold in Western health outlets.

  She read many pages, turning over and over, the sentences bleeding into each other, until her eyes felt heavy and she returned to the first. Patricia Zigomo-Walther. Another person from his world. She looked up and realised that it was dark around her; Francois had also turned in. She pulled the quilt closer around her and shut her eyes, the words swimming in front of her, along with an image of the young man in the beanie, her notebook, before she fell asleep.

  18

  SHE got up as soon as she heard him stir, pulled on her pyjama bottoms and a hoodie, and crept across to the kitchen. His preoccupation the previous night worried her. Her presence might well be weighing on him, even if subconsciously. She was intruding in his space; she was preventing him from spending time with his girlfriend. Perhaps she was an unwelcome reminder of secrets the brothers kept from each other. He had been so pleased with the dinner she had cooked, and she found that she wanted to please him again: he was so gallant, so thoughtful, endearingly undemanding. As she was lighting the hob, he appeared at the hatch. His expression was quizzical, amused.

  ‘Pancakes,’ she said. Then she faltered, ‘I hope you like pancakes . . .’

  ‘I do,’ he grinned. Then, ‘This is very nice of you . . .’

  ‘Leave it to me.’ She tried to sound forceful. ‘You go and enjoy the view or go back to bed or read or whatever. I’ll call you when breakfast is served.’

  He said nothing, but smiled and then bowed in agreement. When she started laying the table, she saw that he was sorting out his sketches from the previous night, back in his cargo trousers and T-shirt.

  ‘Ready,’ she said, and he straightened up and sat down at the table.

  ‘Coffee?’ She left it black and passed it over, and he accepted it with a smile. When she served him his plate, he ate in silence but with his customary gusto. When his plate was clean, he reached across to the bowl of fruit perched on the ledge of the hatch, his fingers curling around two tangerines, one of which he peeled before handing it over to her. He lived alone, had no children, but it came naturally to him – like a gardener tending his plants. A clip here, a prune there.

  ‘That was delicious, thank you,’ he said, opening his own tangerine. Then, ‘You’ll be glad to know that we don’t have to worry about lunch today. We’re going to that party, remember?’

  She laid her cutlery down, picked up her cup.

  ‘Is it a special occasion?’

  ‘I was the photographer at my friend Gildo’s sister’s wedding last summer. I think the couple had a late honeymoon and have just come back.’

  ‘Is it a formal party?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure what to wear.’

  ‘It’s not formal, no,’ he said. ‘But the women will all be dressed up. The men less so.’ He smiled. ‘A Mozambican festa. Everyone should go to at least one in their life. Lots of food, wine, beer, music. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

  She did not respond, and, as if he could read her mind, he added, ‘Don’t worry about what to wear . . .’

  ‘But will they be expecting Lucie?’

  ‘She’s doing something with Josef. I called Gildo and his wife and told them I had a friend staying. They won’t mind. They’ll be happy to meet you.’

  He stood up, gathering their used cutlery. ‘We’ll be driving there and back, so I won’t have much to drink,’ then added with a smile, ‘but you can let your hair down.’

  ‘I’m not much of a drinker,’ she said, and for some reason she felt her face growing warm at this admission. He didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Neither am I, really,’ he said. He started stacking the plates. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘we’ll leave about twelve o’clock. I’ve got a few things I need to do before then . . .’

  ‘Leave the washing up,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  He smiled, nodded, ‘OK, thanks.’

  She heard him leave the flat while she cleared the rest of the table. She washed up, drying and returning the plates and cutlery to their places, taking care to maintain his orderliness. And then she went to look through her suitcase. She was not one for gatherings, even less so if she knew no one and did not speak the language. But it was clear Francois wanted to go, and if he could be considerate to her, she should pay him back in kind. She inspected her clothes. It would have to be her failsafe mini-dress in purples and blues, dark tights and her perennial boots. She showered, dressed and was slipping in a pair of dangly earrings when he returned, a roll of material under his arm. He was humming as he entered but stopped short when he saw her.

  ‘Nice dress,’ he said.

  She felt a glow. She looked well: she had seen so in his expression.

  ‘Is this the right sort of thing?’ she asked, even as she saw his eyes move over her before he turned away.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’ Then he strode over to his studio, laid the material down. ‘Quick shower and I’ll be good to go.’

  She lay on the bed with the book, read and re-read the dedication and acknowledgements pages – To my parents, And to Clare Armstrong – heard the shower running, and then he was padding across to his pile of clothes.

  ‘Rita?’

  He was wearing the smartest clothes she had seen him in: dark trousers and a dark-grey, collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The resemblance was now even stronger. He could easily step into a lecture theatre, give a seminar, deliver a paper at a conference.

  ‘Shall we?’

  When they reached the street, he pointed to a dusty van: ‘That’s me, I’m afraid. It’s clean inside, don’t worry.’ Then he opened the door for her with a little bow, ‘Senhora.’

  She climbed in and he closed the door, then jogged across the road to a small shop, emerging a few minutes later with a crate of beer and two bags of groceries.

  As he slipped in behind the steering wheel, she gestured behind her, to the back of the van, at his supplies.

  ‘Do you go camping?’

  ‘Every year. And fishing.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll t
ake you,’ he said. ‘But we’ll wait a couple of months for the weather to warm up a bit.’ A couple of months. He did not seem to be counting down the days to her departure.

  They drove off and in minutes were on a ring road, driving past the airport, heading west. He was relaxed beside her; the melancholy from last night, if that was what it had been, had disappeared. His hands were on the lowest curve of the steering wheel, his eyes on the road. He had his head leaning against the back-rest, his hair falling onto his forehead. He had the same dark hairs on his forearms, the same long legs. She looked out of window: the sky was a brilliant blue above, the colours as distinct as if they had been drawn by a child.

  They arrived at a white-painted house to the sound of music playing, the smell of meat grilling, shouts of laughter. As if he could sense her apprehension, he took her arm and guided her through the side gate into the back garden.

  ‘This is Gildo.’ A large man, as tall as Francois but wider, took her hand, then leaned forward to kiss one cheek and then the other.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said in English, spoke to Francois, then back to her, ‘I introduce my wife, Jacinta.’

  A small, curvaceous woman, who also kissed her, pressed her shoulders in a quick embrace. And then she had a glass of sparkling wine in her hand, which in her nervousness she gulped down – it was delicious, the bubbles sparkling off her tongue – as if it were fruit juice, before her glass was filled again as if by magic with some heavier red wine. Beside her, Francois was talking to another man; then he was joined by Gildo, who said something that made the others laugh.

  She was glad she had worn her dress: the women were beautifully attired. A young woman – busty in a slinky, sparkly green dress – approached to kiss Francois on both cheeks, pressing her chest against his in slow sensual motion, while he stroked the small of her back with obvious enjoyment. This was how grown-ups acted: the thought entered her head just as she saw her wine glass had been refilled yet again, somehow. She was pondering this, did not notice the young man standing in front of her until he spoke, in English, to Francois.