by Claire Hajaj
But then her palm started moving, down to Margaret’s wrist. Gently, she pulled her sister’s hand away.
Margaret’s face turned pale. ‘What is wrong?’ Her voice was calm, but Nick heard panic underneath. ‘Why won’t you open the door?’
Sarah had started crying again, water leaking from her nose. Margaret seemed to stumble, and only Nick’s hand on her shoulder prevented her from falling.
‘Open the door, Sarah,’ she said, louder this time. ‘Please. Open it.’ Nick could feel the tremors underneath his hand.
‘You must go.’ Sarah’s arms were crossed over her chest, her whole body trembling. ‘David is coming soon. He will kill you if he sees you.’
‘I’m not afraid of David.’ Contempt made Margaret’s voice harsh. ‘Don’t fear him, Sarah. He cannot hurt you if I am here.’
But Sarah shook her head, nervous eyes darting to the road. ‘You must go,’ she begged. ‘You must.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Margaret took Sarah’s chin in her hands, forcing her attention back. ‘Why are you afraid?’
Sarah’s wide eyes were fixed on her sister’s now, like an animal in a trap. Under the film of tears, Nick saw guilt flicker.
‘You should have come sooner,’ she said. ‘I would have gone with you. Now it’s too late.’
Margaret dropped her hand. ‘Who is coming, Sarah?’ she asked, her voice soft.
‘My fiancé.’ Defiance crept into her tone. ‘David told him you are dead. So his parents would forgive our shame.’ Then her face crumpled and she started to weep again.
‘You ran away with a Muslim, Margaret!’ The words escaped between sobs. ‘You are not even properly wed. For so long I couldn’t marry. Because of you.’ She spat the words. ‘It was you who took everything – who got what you wanted.’
Margaret’s eyes had been glazed, unfocused – but this brought her back to herself. She brushed away tears, her body straightening into its familiar, lonely lines – as tall and spare as a winter birch. ‘So many years, Sarah,’ she said, quietly. ‘And still you have not forgiven me.’
Her sister stared back at her, chest rising and falling, cheeks blotched red as if she’d been slapped. Her nostrils flared. ‘You chose, Margaret.’ She turned her head away. ‘Now let me have my choice.’
Margaret nodded. Her hand left the doorframe and hovered over Sarah’s, like a benediction.
Sarah grabbed it, brought it to her lips and kissed the palm. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘Go, before they get here.’
Margaret turned back towards Nick, as if in a dream. He saw her pick up her little bag of offerings and walk down the steps, a violent slash of colour against the patio’s pale tiles.
‘Margaret!’ Sarah’s call was high, urgent.
She stopped again; Nick saw that slight turn of her neck he’d come to know so well.
‘Is he a good man, Margaret?’ The girl’s voice was thick with tears. ‘Are you happy?’
He saw Margaret smile. She looked skywards, eyes bone dry. At last they dropped to the bag swaying from her hand.
‘Yes, Sarah,’ she called back. ‘I am very happy.’
Then she walked out of the gate, ignoring the hand Nick offered her and climbing into the waiting taxi. Her fingers loosened as she stepped inside, the bag of gifts slipping down into the dust.
The street blurred past the car window, house after silent house. Nick asked Margaret if she was OK. She nodded: ‘Fine.’ But she did not speak again.
Steel-and-glass pinnacles were visible in the distance. Clouds gathered, forecasting another storm to come.
They pulled up outside a small church, its white stucco adorned with peach turrets. A bronze cross on the highest one blazed into radiance against backlit clouds.
‘You can wait here,’ Margaret told Nick.
‘But I want to come with you.’
‘As you like,’ she said.
The cemetery was tucked away from the road. He traced Margaret’s steps, through tooth-like rows of stone interspersed with sad sculptures. The ominous afternoon glow summoned colours from the white marble: tangerine, rose, marigold; they could have been children walking through a garden of death.
Margaret stopped at a low gravestone of grey marble, carved into a heart shape at the top. The inscription read: Miriam, Most Beloved Wife of Jonathan, mother to David, Margaret and Sarah.
Underneath, the stonemason had etched a Madonna, her head bowed in sorrow. It looked so much like Margaret that Nick’s mind reeled with sudden terror. He reached out to take her hand, to feel the reassuring pulse of warmth within her.
She let it lie there, wrapped up in her memories. He waited, feeling silence stretch with the shadows.
‘I did not think so much time had passed.’ Margaret spoke at last, her fingers heavy in his. ‘I was only leaving her for one angry moment. When you are young, you cannot imagine forever. Even when they told me God lasts forever, and heaven lasts forever – I would think they just meant a long time. That forever would change into . . . something else.’
She reached to touch the marble heart over her mother’s bones.
‘I cannot recall her face,’ she said, her voice low with anguish. ‘It’s as if she died again.’
Nick searched for words of comfort.
‘She probably looked just like you,’ he said. ‘That means JoJo and Nagode look like her. Their children will, too. A part of her is being born again and again.’
Margaret drew in a slow breath. ‘Mama believed only the spirit is immortal. She thought she would rise and leave nothing behind.’
Nick thought of Madi’s grave, lying in strange ground so far from his home. Where did your spirit go, Madi? Did you leave the earth? Or are you still here, waiting for me?
‘I don’t know if souls are real,’ he said. ‘Or where we go when we die. But the part that loves stays with the living – I believe that. Your mother’s love for you – it’s in everything you do – how you sing to Nagode, how you care for JoJo. You keep her alive, and so do they.’
Her laughter was incredulous as she lifted her eyes to meet his. ‘Is that what they believe, your people? The Hebrews – they believe that spirits walk with us?’
‘No.’ The gravestone was darkening as evening descended, casting a shadow over the bare plot. ‘They believe we sleep, to wake on the Day of Judgement.’
She laughed again. ‘But every day is a Day of Judgement.’
Her hand slipped out of his, leaving a hollow absence. There’s no justice in this world. J.P.’s words this morning now seemed prophetic. Their wild plans were all buried in the earth. They would return the way they came, empty-handed.
Margaret bent to kiss the gravestone. As she pulled up, she said, in a conversational tone,‘Do you know why I was so angry in the garden? When you and JoJo mended the castle?’
Nick shook his head, and she continued. ‘I was jealous. Because he is still young. He is still free to choose his own path, to show everything within him.’
‘You are free,’ he told her, through the ferocious beating of his heart. ‘My father used to say: cowards make their own prisons. And you are the bravest soul I’ve ever met.’
She dropped her head, and he thought she would cry again. But then she turned to walk back towards the last gleam of daylight, past the little church and its emblems, a lonely figure among greying stones.
Nick dropped Margaret at the hotel and went on to Western Union. Kate had sent him a thousand dollars and a conciliatory note that read: Happy New Year next one we’ll celebrate together hope it’s giving you what you need.
He considered calling her – but she would be at a party already. He could not face shouting down a bad phone line, every word misheard, tangled agonies of hesitation and repetition. He could imagine her only in fragments – a flash of long hair, the imprint of her lips on a wineglass, laughter from someone slipping out of sight.
It was nightfall when he arrived back at the hotel. A dark sunset had spread acro
ss the sky; its dying glow was mirrored by lamps, springing to life around the pool, intersecting worlds of half-light and luminous shadow.
They’d arranged to meet J.P. at the bar for dinner. Nick could not bring himself to go upstairs and change. The air was oppressive. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his stomach churned. He asked the barman for a beer and drank it fast – cool and light. He ordered another. The lightness in his stomach spread to his head. The sky was velvet and heavy, a curtain drawn against prying eyes.
He did not want to see J.P., to make polite conversation when all was confusion. He could see the course being planned for him: he would spend J.P.’s money on the governor’s hospital and go back to England. He would marry Kate in a marquee in his mother’s garden and hold dinner parties while Margaret fought and dreamed her life apart from him. The idea was strangely desolating.
People were pouring into the courtyard – light refracting from their wrists, their hair, the jewels around their necks. Waiters moved through the crowd in smooth circles, carrying champagne. A woman stood with her back to him, her dress flame red. Her skin was a flickering black in the uneven light, her head tilted in laughter. She was night and heat embodied; arousal stirred as he watched the curve of her body. What’s wrong with me?
Making his way to the pool, he dipped his hands in the water – dark and blood temperature. He splashed it into his eyes, rubbing until they stung.
J.P. arrived as the music began, dressed in white trousers and a pale blue linen shirt.
‘Hey, you didn’t change?’ was the first thing he said when he saw Nick. ‘And where’s your beautiful lady?’
‘She’ll be down soon,’ Nick replied.
J.P. laughed at the expression on his face. ‘Did you start your celebrations early?’
‘I’m not drunk.’ Nick tried to smile. ‘It’s just been a long day.’
J.P. took him by the shoulder. ‘Relax, Nicholas. Really. Let the world go for one night.’
‘I’m OK.’ He could not shake his sense of disconnection; he felt himself in free fall, above a world held down by the weight of rights and wrongs.
J.P. looked concerned. ‘You are doing a great job, Nick. You are more than OK.’
A waiter passed, carrying a silver tray laden with glass flutes. Their bubbles streamed upwards in tiny gaseous explosions. ‘Here, have a drink. Santé!’ J.P. tipped his glass towards Nick’s, joining the silver chime of toasts rising all around them.
The champagne was warmed by humidity; it was like sipping air and light. J.P. greeted the hotel manager. Nick looked up at the windows of the first floor, willing Margaret’s presence.
He saw her emerge a little later from under the archways. She was wrapped in a long, dark robe and her head loosely covered, framing her face in shadow. Her eyes searched the room; she found him and raised a hand in greeting. He recognised the familiar red beads back in place around her wrist.
J.P. returned from the bar with two more glasses of champagne. Margaret seemed to draw him like a magnet, upsetting his balance. He shouted to her above the music’s din, raising his arms in welcome and spilling frothy liquid all over his suit. ‘Oh, no, so sorry,’ he said, as Margaret reached them. She laughed at his distress.
‘Is this how they celebrate in France?’ she teased. ‘They have so much champagne that they throw it away’
‘Take mine,’ J.P. said, pushing a half-filled flute towards her. ‘Really, please. I’m an idiot.’
Margaret took the glass and touched it to his nearly emptied one. ‘Cheers,’ she said. He laughed. ‘Cheers indeed.’ He turned the glass upside down to drain the last few drops into his mouth. Margaret just lifted hers to her lips without drinking.
‘Excuse me while I fill this up.’ J.P. was swaying slightly, looking around for the waiters with their trays. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said to Margaret, wagging his finger at her.
‘I am right here,’ she replied.
Nick watched J.P. disappear unsteadily into the crowd, his balding crown glistening with sweat, ‘He means well.’
‘Everybody means well.’ She lifted the champagne flute and turned it around, watching the liquid fade from gold to grey and brighten again. Then she put her lips to the rim and swallowed a few drops. Her forehead wrinkled, and Nick laughed outright at the surprise on her face. ‘I thought it would be sweet,’ she said. ‘I remember it being sweet.’
‘When was the last time you drank champagne?’ But he regretted the question immediately – why ask for memories that could only wound? Let the world go for one night.
She looked at him, solemn and remote. Champagne lights were dancing in front of his eyes, like spirits conjured from unseen worlds.
‘Let us pretend,’ she said. ‘I will pretend that this is the first time I have drunk champagne. You will pretend this is the first time you have seen me. Tonight is for forgetting.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he answered, raising his own glass.
This time she drank deep, draining half and wiping spilled drops from her chin. She laughed – half pleasure, half a gasp for air.
J.P. came back too soon, wanting them to eat at the barbecue. Smoke was rising by the pool’s edge in spirals of charcoal sweetness. Nick was suddenly ravenous. The meat was served on the bone; it burned his fingers. Margaret ate beside him, smoke billowing around her. J.P. managed to ensure her glass was always full.
The band had moved on to slower tunes, striking up incongruously into ‘New York, New York’. J.P. went to find a toilet. Nick turned to Margaret. Her eyes were half closed, as if dreaming – her lips parted, head swaying in time to the song.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to her. ‘Do I know you?’
Her eyes widened as she turned to him, looking puzzled. Then she smiled and said, ‘No, we’ve not met.’
‘You’re a stranger here, like me?’
‘Perhaps it’s so.’
He grinned at her, and she shook her head in mock disapproval. Reflections from the pool played over her throat as she turned back to watch the band.
‘But will you dance with me anyway?’ he asked her. ‘If your card isn’t filled?’
She turned back to study him. ‘I don’t know how to dance.’
He shrugged. ‘Neither do I.’ He held out his hand. ‘My name is Nicholas.’
She hesitated, then took it. Her pupils were dilated in the low light; she stared through him without seeing, focused on something beyond them both.
They walked into the maze of swaying backs. Hidden in the middle of the crowd, he put one arm around her waist and lifted the hand that held hers.
He could not hear the music, only his heartbeat in his ears – disorientating. Dance, he told himself. Move. But something unbridgeable was between them, even in the midst of pretence. They were only inches apart, but those inches were endless – a gulf separating worlds of thought and deed.
Behind her the orange lamps sent light in rivers over the upper floors. Black birds huddled in their nests – some crouched and formless, some stirring in restless anxiety. Nick saw one teetering on the edge of the gutter, opening and closing its wings.
‘Nicholas,’ Margaret said to him. She’d returned from wherever her mind had been; her hand was withdrawing from his.
Desperation filled the widening space. He could not tell if it was tugging him forward or pushing him back. ‘Margaret.’ He put his hand to his eyes. ‘Margaret, I . . .’
‘Where the hell were you?’ J.P. stumbled into them, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. Nick realised the music had stopped. Voices were raised in excitement; around the courtyard people’s eyes were turned to the sky.
‘It’s the countdown,’ J.P. said. ‘Prepare for a new year, eh?’ He pulled Nick into a bear hug without waiting for an answer. ‘Allez, allez!’ he yelled towards the lead singer, who checked his watch. Nick saw his boss sweep Margaret against him, tucking her under the patch of sweat around his armpit.
The singer began to count do
wn from ten. The crowd joined him – bellowing out the numbers.
Nick saw Margaret’s lips move, her eyes raised as if in prayer. He followed her gaze. The sky was deep and formless – a closed door without even a star in it. There’s nothing up there. To his astonishment, the thought called tears into his eyes. For the first time in his life he wished it were different – that someone was listening, that he could know the right thing to ask for.
Zero – and glee erupted all around them. J.P. kissed them on both cheeks and they kissed each other automatically, barely registering the touch. A high shriek was followed by a burst of red light. The fireworks began, showering colours down like rain. The dark sky became a garden flowering with blue and yellow and green, cascades of light leaving bright trails on Nick’s retina. Margaret watched, enraptured.
‘Look,’ she said – not to him or J.P. – perhaps to herself. ‘The sky is talking.’
Nick made a decision. I have to go. Now, while I can.
He turned to J.P. and said goodnight. ‘But why? It’s early. Now we start the real fun. Dancing and everything.’
Nick shook his head. The world was spinning. ‘Too much to drink,’ he said. ‘I have to lie down.’
He turned to Margaret. ‘Goodnight.’ She looked at him, puzzled. The scream of fireworks filled the air; light framed her in a pulsing corona. He made himself walk away before she could speak – headed out of the crowds towards the darkness of the lobby, reaching the long cocoon of the stairwell.
Sounds faded behind him, a muffled peace. Gentle laughter and faint crackles followed him up the staircase.
‘Nicholas.’
He stopped. Margaret was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Her scarf had fallen around her shoulders.
‘I do not know the way,’ she said, placing one hand on the banister, looking up at him. ‘I am dizzy.’
He paused, the sense of déjà vu overwhelming. For an instant he was the one trapped at the top of the climbing frame, searching for any safe way out.
‘I’ll help you,’ he said. She climbed the steps towards him and they walked together to her room.