2
THE story of Ezekiel’s fall from grace did not hold the headlines in our circle for very long. Not long after, there came news of a plane, shot down near the border with Rhodesia: the first time – this fact conveyed with some relish by one of the men – that a civilian aircraft had been downed in such a way, in the history of aviation. As another said: it had fallen out of the sky like a dead bird. I turned these words over and over in my head; it was an immense image for a child. With the boys once, I had witnessed their pride in using the catapults they had fashioned to hit a bird that had been sitting on a low branch of a tree. It was a fluke, but its effect was instant. I had always imagined a bird would flutter to the ground, its wings outstretched, a breeze in its feathers. This bird fell straight and undignified in a dark ball to land with a thump, to the whoops and cheers from the boys. I had run away in fright, willing to endure their scorn, unwilling to be party to whatever they plotted with the dead body.
I had worried that my gullibility and Ezekiel’s dismissal would dominate my parents’ concerns, but in the evenings my father gathered with the menfolk, to stand in a circle to smoke and talk of this terrible event: the fate of the plane and the provenance of the incident. Amidst all these late-night ensembles, a few days after Ezekiel left, Grace came to our bungalow. She didn’t knock but called softly from outside the back door: bwana, bwana, it is Grace. I was carrying a stack of plates to the kitchen sink; my mother was in the bathroom with my baby brother. When we heard her voice, my father opened the back door and stepped out onto the small porch. The only light came from the dim bulbs we had hanging up, unshaded, in the dining area. I peeked at Grace from behind my father.
‘Go, mol. Finish clearing up,’ he said to me, his hand gently pushing me back into the house. I heard their two voices as I shuffled to and from the dining table to the kitchen. Neither sounded angry; rather they seemed to be commiserating on a shared disappointment. Often, they made the same noise together, a kind of hum; two parents sharing their disappointment over their errant progeny. When she was taking her leave, through the sliver of space between my father’s body and the door-frame, I caught a glimpse of Grace, as always wearing her red knitted hat. She saw me and raised her hand, gave me a small smile. I felt a surge of relief and chirruped a goodbye: she did not blame me.
Although I cannot be sure whether she did or not. What I can be sure of is that it was innate to Grace to be courteous and deport herself with decorum, even while she might have seen me as a nuisance, a silly girl who had played some part in her son losing his job. Ezekiel would become a burden to her again. I knew that he lived in her modest dwelling with its corrugated iron roof, in the settlement outside the school gates. I knew that in that block, aside from the small attached bathroom, there was only one room, divided into areas by a criss-cross network of rope and cloth. I knew this because a year ago, or more, I had visited with my father. Grace had been unwell, and he had offered to buy her medicine in town and deliver it to her. That evening, seeing Grace in the small pool of dim light, I remembered how she had looked smaller in her own home, her head uncovered.
It was Grace who had first worked for us, coming every other weekday. We were not the best family to work for, because we did not have much work for anyone. At the time there were only three of us; the small space only required a few twists of a dust-cloth, a swipe with a mop and polish. Any competent cleaner could be finished in an hour at most. My mother enjoyed cooking; Grace was only asked to chop a few vegetables in advance. Washing and ironing the clothes were the most onerous tasks; with no washing machines on the campus, the task had to be done outside, and by hand. When Danny was just over a year old, we went back to India to show him off. There he was passed around like a sweetmeat, cooed over and tickled, while I was left alone to reunite with my cousins as if the interim years had been minutes. My parents were in between contracts, and as always there arose the question: should we go back or should we stay? In the end we left again, but on returning to Roma, we discovered that Grace had found a better, full-time position. There was a new American family, who had moved into a large four-bedroom house a few miles away. Mr Cooper had been seconded for a year, to head up a development agency. He made frequent trips to war-torn Mozambique; Mrs Cooper volunteered at an adult education centre; and there were two daughters. The family needed a cook, a cleaner and a caretaker, and she could even live on the premises if she wished. No one expected Grace to refuse the opportunity. And it was then that she had, as if by sleight of hand, suggested her youngest son, Ezekiel.
The first day he came to the house, he bore a letter of introduction from his mother. It was a Saturday, and we had arrived back from India the previous night. Our suitcases, bulging with spices and new clothes, still lay open and unpacked on the floor in my parents’ bedroom. My father had read the letter, standing at the back door. I was inside the house, looking past my father to the young man on the step who held himself in such a way as if he had one leg shorter than the other.
My father said after a long silence, ‘So you are Grace’s son?’
The young man nodded.
‘But I’ve not seen you before,’ my father said.
‘I have been away, sir.’
‘Away?’ my father asked.
‘Yes, sir. I was living in Livingstone. With my father.’
‘And you haven’t found a job?’
‘No one will give me a job.’
‘I see.’ My father turned and caught sight of me. ‘Leave us, mol,’ he said and waited until I went into my bedroom.
It was only later at night that I heard my parents’ discussions: epileptic seizures, but Grace gave assurances that the condition was under control. My mother’s voice: unconvinced, disturbed. She had known a girl in college with epilepsy. What if something happens when we are not here? My father’s: he is Grace’s son and that is the best recommendation we can get.
My father gave his assent and so Ezekiel arrived for his duties a few days later. He was half an hour late. My mother was waiting for him, exasperated, with her lab coat and basket ready. I watched from my bedroom window as he took the pile of clothes to be washed to the small paved area near the outside tap. Then he sat on his haunches, not moving, staring at some space in front of him, for a long time. The minutes ticked by and still he had not moved. I glanced at Danny in his cot and then I opened the back door and stepped tentatively outside. When I was standing a few feet away from him, he looked around and smiled, his mouth lurching to one side on his face: his distinctive crooked smile. He was lean, almost thin, but his teeth were white and straight, and the smile was genuine. We stared at each other for some time. Then he said, ‘Let me begin.’ He scattered some grains of soap powder into the bottom of the tin bucket and then ran the tap; the soap suds began to bubble up to the surface.
I stayed with him, sitting cross-legged on the grass, and thus we began our friendship, based on my skill at relating amusing anecdotes from my day and Ezekiel’s patient, pliant companionship. So how was school? was always his opener when I appeared and crouched down beside him. Followed by: and what did you study today? I regaled him with the minutiae of a convent school education. Ezekiel rarely spoke, and I never asked him questions. He must have found my company appealing in some way, or he may have simply tuned me out as he wrung and rinsed, at times whistling through his teeth. When he started hanging the clothes up on the line, I would hold the basket of pegs for him. It felt like a long, languorous relationship, but it was only for three or four months at most. It had not even been Ezekiel who had taught me my few words of Nyanja, that had been Grace. Perhaps I grew fond of him simply because he seemed so much more content with my company than my usual playmates, Bobby and Aravind.
They were the sons of our neighbours, and their parents were friends, or surrogate older siblings, to mine. There was a gathering that weekend, the week after Ezekiel’s departure, a regular occurrence for which there was an informal rota. By lunchtime we were
walking along the road to another bungalow, my mother carrying the plate of appams she had made, Danny on my father’s arm. The women moved inside, into the kitchen, to finish preparing the food. The men settled outside in a semi-circle of chairs, a crate of beer to one side, and immediately reprised their discussions of the plane, of the people who had died, of the inevitable consequences, for consequences there would be, surely. I stayed with the boys, outside, away from the men, under the trees.
I was the youngest, just as my parents were the youngest, and the only other girl, Reeba, who was sixteen, shunned our company and remained with the women. Aravind, Bobby and I set up with the cricket ball and bat in the patch between Bobby’s house and the house of the two male teachers from South Africa who kept to themselves. The older brothers would join us later but for now they were gathered further away, faces shadowed with dark growth, intent on sharing their packet of cigarettes without the adults noticing. Aravind’s brother, Rahul – who was leaving in a few months to go to medical college in Bombay – was my favourite. I had found him sleeping in our living room, the morning after Danny was born. He had stayed overnight when my parents had left for the hospital and we had had breakfast together, after which he had helped me brush my hair. Now, as he passed by, he pulled my ponytail, which always cheered me; he noticed me. But he was gone in a flash and I was left with Bobby and Aravind. The story of my escapade had lent me some valour with the boys. I had already described my flight, my descent down the hill and down the steps to the nether areas of the school, the science laboratories. My insurgence into this zone was at first the garner of some attention, but my fame didn’t last long, and that afternoon I could sense that they were only tolerating my presence.
The door to the house beside us opened, and Miss Munroe, the English teacher from Dublin, emerged, in black Capri pants and fitted white blouse. I saw my father get to his feet and walk over to her, take the suitcase from her hand and carry it down to her car. There, they stood talking for a few minutes. Miss Munroe laughed at something my father said as he stowed away her suitcase in the boot, before she slipped into the car and drove away. She had been invited to the gathering, but I knew the adults were relieved when she declined. Her absence allowed them to lapse into Malayalam; no need for translations into English for Miss Munroe’s benefit. And on her side, I was sure she found being shunted into the kitchen with the womenfolk tiresome, when she always laughed loudest and longest with the men. It was fortuitous that she had offered to house-sit for a friend over the weekend, a house complete with manicured lawn and swimming pool. It was a regular arrangement, and one which I suspected relieved the boredom of the rest of Miss Munroe’s days on campus, surrounded by families with domestic commitments.
As my father walked back to the group of men, my mother came out of the house, proffering Danny to him. And as he took Danny, I saw my father stroke her cheek and my mother smile at him in return. I watched as my father swung Danny up and down, watched as my baby brother cackled.
There was a yell, and I saw the cricket ball soaring towards me, but I fumbled, dropped it, and then had to pick it up and pass it clumsily back to Aravind, embarrassed. An easy catch but I had mistimed. As I walked back to my position, I realised that my ineptitude had sparked an argument, and before long the boys were having a heated discussion about me.
‘Let her play a few more minutes,’ Aravind was saying.
‘She can’t bat and she can’t catch.’ Bobby was almost spitting with disgust.
Both boys spoke as if oblivious of me, standing metres away from them. I knew that their argument was less about me and more about the rivalry that was growing between them; only months apart in age, they were competing for the same places on the cricket team, the football team, the science prize, at the boys’ high school they both attended in Lusaka. Their frustration with each other needed to be deflected; I was conveniently at hand.
‘Are you ready, Sissy?’ Aravind asked.
I nodded, and he bowled – too low, too slow – and Bobby made an easy swing. The ball hurtled towards me, smacking me on the chest.
I squealed in pain, tears blurring my vision.
‘Look what you did, you idiot!’ I heard Aravind shout.
‘She’s all right.’
‘You’ve hurt her!’
‘She’s just play-acting.’
‘No, I’m not!’ I managed to protest.
‘Why are you here anyway?’ he continued, voicing what I had long waited to hear: that I was outstaying my welcome.
‘Don’t listen to him, Sissy.’
‘I mean, why do we have to baby-sit you?’ Before I could retort, Bobby continued, his voice a sharp falsetto, his words striking me like another blow: ‘Oh no! Ezekiel’s having a heart attack! Oh no! Ezekiel saw my tits!’
Aravind gasped, and I turned away to run, then crouched down, my head on my knees, my hands over my ears. The cricket ball had indeed smacked me in the chest, and had been hurtful enough, leaving a circular, throbbing, intense pain, but one which was wholly real. The jibe, the ugly words and their sentiment, seemed to invade from another world, one which I felt unready for. I could not stop myself glancing down at my chest, where I could see the soft swellings pushing through my top; the boys had noticed even if my mother had not. My shoulders shook, and they must have seen my tears splashing onto the ground. They were silent for some time and I heard some footsteps approach.
‘What’s going on?’ Rahul’s voice. I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sissy?’
He was so kind, his voice was so gentle, but he was not a playmate. He would be leaving soon, and then I would be left alone with Bobby and Aravind.
I croaked, ‘It was an accident. I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
I tried to rally myself, raised my head, and smiled, nodded, and I could see in the corner of my eye Bobby throw me a grateful look.
Rahul straightened up and said as he moved away, ‘Learn some control, you little prick.’
Aravind stifled a laugh, and Bobby reddened.
When Rahul rejoined the older boys, Aravind approached, patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. I kept my eyes on my feet, still curled up in a ball, unwilling now to unfold myself and reveal my frame. There was some semaphoring I could sense, then Bobby knelt down next to me. ‘Sorry, Sissy, I shouldn’t have said that.’
We stayed like that for some moments; they did not rush me and I began to feel warmed by their patience. I wiped my eyes and dared to look up at them. Two faces, both concerned. We resumed our game but none of us could ignore the constraint that had settled between us. Soon after, we were called into the house where we filed by the women, plates in hand, while they spooned the several curries onto our plates. I did not return to my playmates, but instead sat on the grass next to my father, who did not query my presence. The sun was hot, and my head felt heavy. I did not enjoy the food, and after I had played with it for many minutes my father told me to take my plate back inside.
Things might have appeared to return to normal in the days that followed, but Bobby’s words did not leave me. They had lent a sinister aspect to my fondness for Ezekiel, one that I had hitherto never imagined. I regretted boasting about my tale; it was my version of events that had been Ezekiel’s undoing. My small left breast, hardly a breast yet but a reminder that there was another stage to my life around the corner, throbbed and ached, and would remain bruised for some days after. Days when we saw no more of Ezekiel; when he might have fallen away from others’ thoughts, if not from mine.
3
THE arrival of the American family, who had headhunted Grace, was serendipitous for my parents. Ally, two years above me, would be attending the International School in town, but the younger daughter, two years below me, Mary-Anne, would be attending my school. If my father dropped me at their house, then I could be ferried to and fro, saving my parents the journey. The Coopers happily obliged. They arranged playdates during which I entertained the girls with stories of ou
r chaotic visits to India which, delighted by the opportunity to display my skills as a raconteur, I embellished with details of domesticated elephants and wayward cousins. I became popular with the American girls; their family became indispensable to mine.
They lived in a sprawling bungalow set in a beautiful garden, with a small orchard to one side, a hammock and a barbecue to the other, and a patio with pots of herbs. The girls each had a bedroom of their own, coordinated in a colour of their choice. Ally had chosen yellow, Mary-Anne green. They had curtains made of thick patterned material which skimmed the polished wooden floors, shelves full of books and comics, packs of felt-tip pens and stickers, wardrobes with rows of neatly hung and folded clothes. They had reading lamps and quilted bed-covers, fluffy rugs. Staying in their house was like walking into the pages of the stories I read. The only reminder of reality was spotting Grace in the kitchen, in her smart uniform. She always broke off her work to greet me: ah, Sissy, and how is your mother?
Their home was a hub for a constant stream of visitors: journalists, researchers, logisticians and activists. Most were American, a few were Zambians; there was one particularly intellectual-looking scholar from Ghana whom everyone called ‘Professor’. All held a driving passion for the region, for ensuring its future and solving its ills, and an equal passion for home comforts, good food and drink. The fridge in the house was tightly stocked with bottles of beer and colas; the guest room’s bed linen was always on the washing line, being readied for the next arrival. These men treated Mrs Cooper with courtesy and familiarity – why, that’s kind of you, Cindy – but Ally would whisper: my mom hates having all these guests. Mrs Cooper, on sufferance of her husband’s posting to Africa, had taken a year’s sabbatical from her career as a law lecturer, and was not fond of the role of chatelaine.
We were in the back garden one afternoon – Ally in the hammock, Mary-Anne and I with our skipping ropes – when a fair-haired man in glasses, younger than most of the other men, emerged from the kitchen and came up to us.
The Wild Wind Page 3