by Lesley Lokko
The Hôtel du Jardin on rue Championnet wasn’t the sort of hotel Annick would ever have noticed, let alone stayed in. It didn’t even look like a hotel. Aside from the small brass plaque outside on which the Tourist Board stars had been conveniently erased, there was nothing to suggest the narrow townhouse, like all the other townhouses in the street, was anything other than a series of tiny hutch-like apartments. There was a makeshift reception desk in the foyer, and a rack of keys behind her head, but other than that, little had been done inside to turn the rundown series of twenty-four rooms into anything that resembled a hotel. Everything was covered in green – walls, floors, sofas, bedspreads, curtains. Even the bathroom suites at the end of the corridors were a particularly vile shade of avocado. It was the sort of hotel in which people either stayed for an hour or a year.
The manager, a slender, sloe-eyed young man from Guadalupe with a wide smile, rattled off the rates, rules and regulations and tips for dealing with troublesome guests. Annick listened dazedly. Three months ago she’d been in meetings dealing with inheritance tax – she felt as though she’d stepped through a doorway into some parallel, hellish universe that she didn’t recognise. She tried to focus. Off-duty manager. Telephone. Police. She nodded dumbly.
‘Bon, that’s it, then. I’m off. Been here since last night. I’m bushed. Lunch is through there.’ He pointed to the curtained-off doorway on the right. ‘He starts at one. Cook’s lousy. Algerian. Bit too much harissa for my liking, but what can you do? Dinner starts at six and the night-shift guys come in at eight. Got all that?’
Annick nodded. ‘Yes, I . . . I think so.’
‘Good girl. You’ll get the hang of it. Any problems, give the off-duty manager a ring. Shouldn’t be any, though. Most of the people who come here are regulars, if you know what I mean. Watch out for old Lajeune. Room 314. Been here for ever. He’ll ask you for his key and try and squeeze your ass when you turn round.’
Annick swallowed hard again. A kind of darkness had settled over her, pressing down on her. It was as if she’d narrowed her gaze so that she saw only those things that were immediately in front of her – telephone, key rack, counter top, receipt book. When she thought about the past, it made her feel dizzy. She could no longer step back far enough from her day-to-day self to see anything clearly. Hearing about it from Aunt Libertine had only made things worse. It seemed to her now that everything – every event, every circumstance – stretched around her in a tangled maze in all directions, past and future, and that everything was connected in ways she couldn’t see or understand. Listening to her aunt’s explanations had made her even more fearful. Her parents’ death had its roots in something that had happened two hundred years before she was born, on a continent she’d never seen, in a language and culture she didn’t understand. She had no hope of ever grasping it, or what it meant – for her, for them, for anyone. The only option left to her was to cut herself off. She knew now that she wasn’t like Tash or Rebecca, both of whom saw life differently, especially Tash. Tash saw life as something to be acted upon, not just endured. Tash was afraid of nothing. As she watched the manager pick up his coat and check his phone for messages before pushing open the door, she felt a dull blow of pain just below her ribs. She’d have given anything to hear either of their voices again.
PART FIVE
SWIMMING
‘You ain’t supposed to get salmon when they’re swimming upstream to spawn. But if you’re hungry, you do.’
Loretta Lynn
48
2005
TWO YEARS LATER
REBECCA
Tel Aviv
The foyer of the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra was crowded. Welldressed women in furs and expensive-looking coats stood around, holding flutes of champagne, laughing loudly whilst their partners chatted to one another in low, soft murmurs glancing frequently towards the door. Now that the concert was over, their minds were elsewhere.
Rebecca came up the stairs from the toilets, surreptitiously drying her hands on her skirt and caught her mother’s barely perceptive frown. It was her father’s ninetieth birthday and a special performance had been put on in his honour. He sat in his wheelchair in the midst of his friends and relatives, his head held high. In spite of his gruff manner, Rebecca could see just how touched he was by the outpouring of love and good wishes from everyone around him, not just those closest to him. The trip had been an emotional one; though few would ever say so out loud, there was a general feeling amongst those present that it might well be his last. He had outlived two of his sisters and all his brothers – it was time to pass the baton of philanthropic and social work to the younger generation of Harburgs, to Rebecca, his only child.
She glanced quickly at her mother. Now in her sixties, Embeth was still a powerfully beautiful woman who drew people towards her the way she’d done all her life. It wasn’t often that Rebecca speculated or even thought about the nature of her parents’ marriage but tonight, looking at them together, her mother now towering over her father in her elegant heels, she experienced a sudden rush of feeling that brought a thin film of tears to her eyes. Despite their differences in age and culture, they were absolutely devoted to one another. When she was younger, she was ashamed to admit she’d been irritated by Embeth – what, exactly, did she do all day? Especially when set against her father’s world, Embeth’s life seemed inconsequential. Lionel had always been powered by an energy that constituted its own force-field, finding its proper outlet in his business dealings and travel. But perhaps she’d been mistaken? Without her mother, she was beginning to understand, her father would simply never have managed the burdens – emotional, financial, familial – that had been placed upon him. She was the anchor to which he attached himself, and in doing so, she gave him rein to roam free.
Was that what it would be like for her? Rebecca wondered. Perhaps that was what was missing? Marriage, motherhood . . . the sense of being central to someone? The vague dissatisfaction that had followed her ever since she’d left the Courtauld had intensified. It was as though she was waiting for something – a sign, a suggestion – that would release her into the future, pushing her out of herself and into a new kind of life. She’d done what everyone expected – she’d gone to university, done reasonably well – she’d followed her mother into the philanthropic causes the family supported, throwing herself into the things with gusto. But something was lacking. She could feel it.
Picking up the threads of her friendship with Tash only served to intensify her vague dissatisfaction. When they met nowadays, as pleasurable as it was, she came away each time feeling more and more restless. Tash seemed so purposeful, so ambitious. She worked longer and harder than anyone Rebecca knew, but she thrived on it. She seemed to love the buzz and frenzy of the fashion world; being at Rosie Trevelyan’s beck and call, never knowing where she’d be sent or what she’d be asked to do. She loved the unpredictability of her life and she didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought. Rebecca longed to be as tough – but she wasn’t. Tash answered to no one. Lyudmila aside, she could come and go as she pleased. Rebecca’s life was completely different. There was a whole generation of extended Harburg relations and foundations to answer to – she couldn’t just hop off to New York on a whim, even if she’d wanted to – which she didn’t. But what did she want? She fingered her champagne glass disconsolately. The answer, as always, escaped her.
‘You look rather glum.’ Someone interrupted her. She looked up. A man stood in front of her, tall, silver-haired, wearing a light grey suit with a rather beautiful pale yellow tie. His face was deeply lined but tanned and his eyes were the most astonishing shade of blue. Did she know him? ‘No, you don’t,’ he smiled, reading her mind. ‘But I know who you are. You’re Lionel’s daughter,’ he offered with a slow smile. ‘I’m Julian. Julian Lovell. Another of the relatives you’ve probably never heard of.’
Rebecca laughed. A baritone, English-sounding voice. ‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t,’ she con
fessed.
‘That’s what comes of being the favoured family,’ he said, smiling again. ‘Everyone knows you. The reverse doesn’t hold true.’
She blushed. ‘It’s my father,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I haven’t done anything worth mentioning.’
‘Not what I’ve heard. You’re an artist, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, no, no. I studied art, that’s all. Art history.’
‘Ah. My mother must’ve got it wrong. Funny that. She’s the walking encyclopaedia on all matters Harburg.’
Rebecca laughed again. ‘You make us sound a lot more interesting than we really are.’
He shook his head. ‘Well, the Harburgs are not like any other family; that’s the whole point. Can I get you another?’ He pointed to her empty champagne glass.
Rebecca looked over his shoulder at her parents. The concert had ended almost an hour ago and she knew how tired her father would be. She looked back up at Julian. He was a good deal older than her, she thought to herself – late forties, perhaps even older? Very handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way, at sharp odds with the elegance of his suit and tie. ‘Let me just see what my parents are up to. Not that I normally have to check with them,’ she added quickly, embarrassed.
‘Go ahead. I’ll be here.’ That slow, wry smile again. She hurried away before she made a fool of herself.
Her mother looked up as she approached.
‘Did you enjoy the concert, darling?’ she asked, smiling. ‘I saw you chatting to lots of people. Isn’t that Julian Lovell?’
‘You know him?’ Rebecca was surprised.
‘Of course. He’s just taken over the Paris branch. He’s very nice.’ There was something in the way she said it that made Rebecca look sharply at her.
‘How old is he?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Oh, not that old. Forty, perhaps,’ Embeth said vaguely, looking off into the distance.
‘Mama. Come on.’
‘Well, maybe a little older than forty.’
‘Fifty, you mean.’
‘Perhaps. But he’s very nice.’
‘How do you know him? How come you’ve never mentioned him before?’
‘Darling, we know so many people.’ Embeth sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Actually, I’d forgotten all about the Lovells. Anyhow, you’re keeping him waiting. Are you going for a drink somewhere?’
‘Well, I was just checking . . . is Dad ready to go home?’
‘Yes, but don’t let that stop you. You go on and have fun. I’m sure Julian will make sure you get home safely. And we can always send the driver for you.’
‘Mama,’ Rebecca whispered sternly. ‘He just asked if I wanted another champagne. We’re not going anywhere.’
‘Well, suggest it, for goodness’ sake! It’s the twenty-first century, Rebecca, not the nineteenth. Show a bit of initiative!’ And with that, Embeth turned back to the group, leaving Rebecca with her mouth hanging half-open.
‘So . . . another champagne? Or how about a spot of dinner?’ Julian robbed her of the initiative she’d been busy trying to muster.
‘Er, sure. Dinner, I mean. I haven’t eaten since . . . well, since lunchtime.’
‘Then let’s go to dinner. I’ll drop you home afterwards, don’t worry. And I know where the house is. I don’t think there’s a person left standing in Israel who doesn’t,’ he added with a dry laugh. ‘Didn’t the architects win an award for it?’
‘They did,’ Rebecca nodded. ‘But I find it a bit frightening, I have to confess. Not the sort of place you’d want to leave your washing out or your dirty dishes in the sink.’
‘Presumably why your dear mother has an army of staff. Shall we?’ He held open the door for her as she buttoned up her jacket and they stepped out into the cold night-time air.
‘I think this is the first time I’ve been here in winter,’ Rebecca said, pulling a scarf from her handbag. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘Oh, this is actually quite mild. Up north is where it gets really cold. Jerusalem, too. It snows occasionally.’
‘Do you live here?’ Rebecca asked curiously.
‘Some of the time. I spent most of my teens here . . . worked on a kibbutz, picked oranges, watermelons, that sort of thing.’
‘I can’t quite see you picking oranges,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Here we are.’ He disarmed the car, a sleek, glossy-looking affair that smelled of fresh leather and the faint lemony scent of men’s cologne. He held open the door for her. Rebecca slid in, unaccustomed to such good manners.
‘So,’ he said, getting in on the other side. ‘Where to?’
Rebecca leaned back into the soft leather seats. ‘You choose,’ she murmured, rather surprised by her own boldness. ‘You seem quite good at it.’
‘I am, aren’t I?’
She smiled but didn’t answer and turned to look out of the window at the city as he turned onto Ibn Gabirol, heading towards the centre. It really was a beautiful city, she thought to herself as the tall, elegant hotels that fringed the seafront flashed past, one after the other. Perhaps she ought to stay on a while? After all, it wasn’t as though she had anything urgent to return to. She smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to tell Tash.
49
TASH
London
One last set of proofs to oversee and then she was done. Tash picked up the magnifying monocle and peered closely at the image in front of her. It was Gisèle, the Brazilian model-of-the-moment, all long golden limbs, flowing honey-coloured hair and that incredible face. The photo, shot by Steven Meisel, was stunning. Gisèle was stunning. The location – in front of a sun-drenched pool in Palm Springs – was stunning. It was all stunning. It was the cover photo for Style’s January issue and it would hit exactly the right note of sunny happiness that dreary, weary January sales shoppers would respond to. The only problem – and it was a big one – was that she’d just heard Anna Wintour was using Gisèle for Vogue’s January issue. Unthinkable for two rival magazines to feature the same girl, shot by the same photographer – even if the locations were different. Vogue had gone to Capri; Style to Palm Springs. It made no difference. Style would be accused of copying Vogue and Rosie would throw a fit. Playing second fiddle to Vogue was not where she wanted Style to be.
Tash had two options. One would be to let the Style cover stand as was and claim she hadn’t heard about Vogue’s plans. Rosie would throw her fit – and probably a crystal ashtray as well – and then threaten to sack Tash, a fairly routine occurrence. The other, involving a bit more work, was to run upstairs now, tell Rosie (and duck) and then be expected to come up with an alternative in twenty-four hours flat.
She pondered her options. Her eye fell upon the postcard that was pinned to the wall, just behind her computer. It had been there for ages. It was from Annick, sent long ago, on one of the long summer holidays she used to spend in Togo when they were at school. She’d found it in a box of old letters that had been lying at the back of her wardrobe for years. Looking at it produced the same old mixture of dread and longing that thinking about Rebecca and Annick always did. It was of the Gate of No Return, a monument to the slave trade in the town of Ouidah, in neighbouring Benin, not far from Lomé. She remembered receiving it, tracing the unfamiliar stamps with her finger, wondering what it must be like to be thousands of miles away from the familiar atmosphere of school.
She reached for the postcard, peeling it away carefully from the wall. She turned it over. Annick’s handwriting: On an absolutely interminable state visit with Papa to Benin. Got dragged to see the Porte du Non Retour this morning. Awfully hot and dusty, but still quite sad. Maman complains all day long – you know what she’s like! Can’t wait for school to start! Miss you lots, A.
She stared at the image. Two silhouetted wrought-iron figures on either side of the painted stone arch. Wasn’t Ouidah the site from which hundreds of thousands of African slaves had departed for Brazil? She frowned and picked up the image of Gis�
�le again. Gisèle was Brazilian. She had no idea where Gisèle’s ancestors came from – somewhere in Germany by the look of her – but the link between her native country and the rugged, vibrant coast of West Africa might be worth thinking about. She switched on her computer. She needed to get a closer look.
An hour later she had the beginnings of a layout sketched out. She’d printed off half a dozen pictures of cheeky-faced, grinning children, lush, tropical landscapes and those stark, sombre monuments and slave castles that dotted the West African coast. She’d even thought of a title: Going Back to Her Roots. Her mind was whirring. They’d cancel Gisèle on the cover but they’d do a fabulous, six-page pullout spread with her inside the magazine instead. Rosie prided herself on being more creative and daring than anyone else in the business and it would be so much more than just an ordinary shoot. They’d get someone to write something about the location, the slave trade, the links with Brazil, Gisèle’s ancestry. Tash’s pencil flew across her notepad. A short story or two, perhaps by a well-known African or Brazilian writer, maybe showcase some local Brazilian design talent alongside the Dolce & Gabbana and Prada outfits she was already picturing. She almost bit the end off her pencil she was so excited.
Rosie looked as though she’d eaten something disagreeable. Across the table, Michelle and Andrea were silent. Tash frowned. What on earth was wrong? How could they not like it? It was a brilliant idea. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked finally. Michelle and Andrea exchanged nervous glances.
‘Tash, this is a fashion magazine,’ Rosie said finally. ‘A fashion magazine. We’re in the business of selling clothes, perfumes, lifestyle . . . comprende? We’re not the Economist or Newsweek. If your aim is to win the Pulitzer Prize, you might want to re-think where you are. All very interesting,’ she waved a languid hand in the general direction of the layout, ‘and fascinating if I wanted to know something about the trans-Atlantic slave trade,’ she paused dramatically, ‘but I don’t. I want to read about fashion, Tash. Not history.’