‘Sissy. Hello, honey. How are you doing?’ He walked over, stumbling on an uneven patch, before righting himself with a soft ‘whoa’. He gave me a wide smile. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
I shook my head.
‘Is your mom in?’
I nodded. ‘Shall I call her?’
‘Well, yeah. Why don’t you do that? Thanks.’
He looked odd: strangely informal, with sandals on his feet, in blue jeans and an open-necked shirt showing his chest. His beard was flecked with grey, but the hair on his head was thick and clean and shiny, his arms and face were tanned. He looked wholly otherworldly, incongruous in our surroundings, and, I could see, handsome. He squinted at me as I turned and went into the house.
My mother was in the bedroom, ironing.
‘Mama, Mr Cooper is here.’
‘Mr Cooper?’
‘He’s outside.’
She returned my gaze wordlessly, then followed me to the front door and then onto the veranda, from where we could see Mr Cooper pushing Danny on the swing with one hand, the plastic bag in his other. My brother looked put out.
‘Laila!’ he called out on seeing my mother. Then approached. ‘I’ve brought provisions. I got a load of stuff sent over by the American consul and I wondered if I could invite myself for dinner.’ He pulled out a bottle from the bag. ‘I even have some sparkling wine to toast the occasion with.’ He raised it in mock salute. ‘Here’s to two abandoned spouses,’ and then, catching my mother’s worried glance in my direction, he added quickly, ‘I mean, one spouse. I have been abandoned, not you, of course,’ making a courtly bow.
We both looked on, goggle-eyed, our mouths now dropped open, my mother and me, at Mr Cooper, who had clearly had at least some of the wine or something else already. And then Danny bellowed. His body was stiffening in protest, and he was thrusting himself out of the swing. My mother darted forwards and caught him, settled him on her hip, then turned to face Mr Cooper, who was now looking less assured.
‘May I?’ He cleared his throat. ‘May I invite myself for dinner?’
My mother glanced at me, and then at Mr Cooper. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘That’s wonderful, thank you.’ He grinned, a hand now on his chest. ‘I’ve got a chicken here, some eggplant, some icecream, various items I thought you could work your magic on . . .’ On seeing my mother purse her lips, he added hurriedly, ‘I’ll help of course. I’ll do whatever you say.’
Now my mother laughed, shaking her head, and, gesturing to me, she said, ‘Sissy can help me.’
‘No, I insist!’ He looked genuinely pained that she would deny him the opportunity. ‘Sissy, it’s your day off, honey,’ and returning to my mother, ‘I’d enjoy your charming company, Laila.’
At least my mother had the grace to blush before she glanced at me again, a query in her eyes.
‘I’ll take Danny, Mama,’ I said. ‘We’ll go and see Rahul. I saw him go into his house.’
She hesitated as I held her eyes, but then nodded, handing me my brother. ‘Don’t stay for too long.’
I did not bother to reply, but allowed Danny to lead the way, holding his hands while he soldiered onwards. But before we reached Rahul’s house, I lifted him up and turned off the road, down the steps towards the netball courts. I had a notion that I would find him where I had seen him that day, leaning into the cook, so I was disappointed when I arrived at the storeroom and saw no one. I deposited Danny on the ground and he pulled himself up against the wall. And then he took his first tentative steps, all on his own, as if he had chosen this moment to remind me that one day, if I was patient, he would become a worthwhile companion. I caught sight of my reflection in the dusty window of the storeroom – there was a smile plastered on my face. And my brother lifted his chin and smiled back.
‘Well done, Danny,’ I whispered, and then he toppled, bumping his head against the wall, but he did not cry, only pulled himself back up with the determination he would show all his life. I walked around the storeroom, snooping through the windows, but could see nothing; it looked dank and dark and uninhabited. Then I sat on the steps and watched my baby brother, not reprising his earlier success, but sitting down now and investigating his environs, tugging at blades of grass, and then placing his palm, empty-handed, against his mouth. I was just thinking to retrieve him and indeed knock on Rahul’s door when a figure passed us, at the bottom of the hill, carrying two bags, one in each hand. But even though he was evenly balanced, I saw the uneven gait, the distinctive sloping shoulder: Ezekiel.
He put the bags down. Whatever he was carrying did not appear to be heavy, but he put them down anyway, and I thought, now he will turn to look this way and he will see me, and the feeling did not fill me with anticipation or pleasure at seeing my erstwhile friend. A dread consumed me: don’t look this way, Ezekiel. For I could not look at him without feeling a profound unease. He was almost skeletal, his hair uncombed and knotty, and there were dark marks on the back of his neck as if he had been scratching himself. How could I have thought him a friend when he was so unkempt, his demeanour so ungraceful? I could imagine him coming up the hill to stand over me, take note of how my legs had grown longer in the months since we had last seen each other, take note of the swellings on my chest, of how my face had matured, and I resisted that eventuality, disturbed by the change in my sentiments. Could I have grown so much in so short a period of time, grown so far away from the child I was, just months earlier? I glanced at Danny. Maybe I could use him as an excuse, walk over and pretend to have been so engrossed in his play that I had not noticed Ezekiel at the foot of the hill. But I remained frozen, my eyes focused on a spot on the ground, just as I had always been told to behave in the presence of a snake. Remain as still as you can; they fear you more than you fear them. I did exactly that, I stayed statue-still, and when I finally raised my head a fraction, I saw he had gone.
I stood up, my heart thudding. At my disloyalty, with disbelief at myself and my previous feelings, and with incredulity at my parents – how could they leave her alone with him? I gathered Danny up into my arms, and he bumped against my chest as I jogged back up the steps, our house just ahead, back onto the road, just as Rahul’s car pulled in beside us. He rolled down the window, smiling, but when he saw my face, he asked, ‘Sissy, are you all right?’
I nodded, tried to steady my breathing because there was no way I could express what I was feeling and explain myself. He must have assumed I was simply out of breath, because he pointed at Danny and said, ‘Don’t let him be lazy. Make him use his legs . . .’
I had lied to him after Bobby’s jibe, and I lied again. ‘I’m fine.’ But I knew I did not sound fine – my voice was different, as if I had grown even in those last minutes when I had realised that now I feared rather than missed Ezekiel.
Rahul nodded, not saying anything, until he pointed at the blue car on our driveway. ‘Do you have a visitor?’
‘Mr Cooper,’ I replied. ‘The American.’ I added, ‘He’s cooking a chicken with Mama,’ and the pronouncement and the comical imagery it evoked made us both grin and I began to feel better.
Rahul laughed. ‘Well, it’s nice for Aunty to have some company.’
‘When do you leave?’ I asked. ‘For university?’
‘Next week. I’m a bit nervous actually.’
He met my eyes and I said, ‘You’ll be fine,’ and he nodded. Then, ‘I’m driving back into Lusaka to meet this guy who wants to buy my car.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I never took you for that drive, did I?’
‘Don’t worry.’
We both fell silent.
‘Well, take care of yourself, Sissy.’
‘And you, Rahul. Good luck.’
I wondered if he would hold out his hand to shake mine, or even get out from his car and give me a hug or kiss my cheek, but instead we both smiled at each other awkwardly, and he drove away. Just as I had disappointed myself with my reaction at gl
impsing Ezekiel, I felt disappointed that the farewell with Rahul had not stirred me in any great way.
I put Danny down and he led me back to the front door of our house, from where delicious aromas were wafting. A veritable feast was in the making and my home was unrecognisable. Here was noise: the radio on, tuned to a station that crackled and spluttered but from which some jazzy music could be heard; here was Mr Cooper humming along as he sliced some vegetables with great deliberation, a glass of red wine to his left; here was my mother smiling as she stirred and seasoned and tasted, moving gracefully around our kitchen and occasionally picking up her own glass of wine, looking very pleased with herself. Here was the table laid out as if for a banquet; I had forgotten that we had the green tablecloth, the cutlery we hardly ever used, a jug of cordial in the middle.
When we sat down to the meal, Mr Cooper drained his glass, picked up my mother’s, rinsed them, and brought the sparkling wine he had stored in the fridge, poured my mother and himself two generous glasses and a dash into mine. Special occasion, he said. We talked as if Mrs Cooper and the Cooper girls, my father, were not only absent but non-existent. The ice-cream he had brought had survived our feeble freezer and provided a perfect ending to the meal. We stood up, cleared the table, Mr Cooper ignoring my mother’s protests. Perhaps she was worried he would drop the plates; in the end he had finished most of the sparkling wine himself.
‘No, no, I can’t leave you girls to do the washing up when I invited myself over,’ he said, and turned on the tap, only for it to cough and splutter, a dribble coming out and then immediately stopping.
My mother looked embarrassed. Her hands were against his arm, gently pushing him away. ‘Sam, don’t worry, we’ll take care of this.’
He stood his ground. ‘What do you mean? How are you going to wash up?’
‘We’ll use the water from the barrel,’ she replied. Then repeated: ‘Don’t worry. Sissy and I will take care of it.’
‘Let me help.’ His voice was serious. ‘Please.’ And so he lifted the water out of the barrel into the bucket, and poured it into the sink, where we added some liquid soap and dunked all the plates and cutlery. Then I used a mug to pour more water over everything to rinse them. We drained the sink and after two more cycles the pots and pans were sparkling, the cutlery back in the drawers and the surfaces wiped.
He folded the tea towel he had been using and cleared his throat. ‘Now listen to me, Laila,’ he said quietly, and it was evident that he had been rehearsing his words in his mind. ‘There’s a generator and a borehole at our place. I’ve got water and light twenty-four hours a day. I’ve got empty bedrooms, and more space than I can deal with. Why don’t you and the kids come and stay while the school is closed? Until everything goes back to some kind of normal?’ Then his voice dropped low as he added humbly, ‘I know I’ve had too much to drink. I wouldn’t have if I’d known I’d be giving you a lift, but I’ll drive at ten miles an hour, I promise, and that means I won’t get us killed and I won’t kill anyone else.’
In fact, he appeared to have much sobered as he stowed away the small suitcase my mother packed for us in his car. He was even whistling a little as he went around our bungalow closing and locking the windows as if he was the owner, and we were leaving for a holiday, as a family. And then, true to his word, he drove with the utmost care, as if he wanted to emphasise his awareness of the precious cargo, at no more than ten miles an hour, peering out of the windscreen with concentration, but glancing at my mother once to give her a smile, which I believe she returned, before turning to look out the window as we trundled along the road and left the campus behind us.
16
THERE was so much left behind – books on the shelves, furniture, pictures on the wall, cushions, bedsheets, plates, cutlery and glasses – as if we had usurped Mrs Cooper and her daughters. It was easy to picture them in an empty house, wondering at the family who were walking on their rugs and dusting their ornaments. No, Mr Cooper assured us, as if he had read our minds. The house had been provided fully equipped and furnished for their adventure in Zambia; they had only brought a few belongings of their own. Mrs Cooper’s sister had been looking after their own house in Virginia in their absence, and the decision to return had been rather uncomplicated. Mrs Cooper had simply elected to complete her sabbatical in the comfort of their old home, with the girls slipping back into their old school and former lives, allowing Mr Cooper the liberty to answer the further demands made on him now, on account of the raid. On the telephone, Mrs Cooper expressed approval that the remaining Olikaras had been given refuge, had asked for the receiver to be passed to my mother. Much better, Laila, she had said, in that generous way of hers, so much better than being on a quiet, lonely campus surrounded only by nuns. My mother had ended the call with her cheeks flushed red and had avoided my eyes. My father, it appeared, was unavailable, and after several unsuccessful attempts to speak to him directly, she left a message, describing our new circumstances – George, all of us are staying with Sam Cooper – her voice faltering as she gave the telephone number that he should have known already. Perhaps she was unsure of how many details from our lives in Zambia he had taken back with him to India.
For me, the Coopers’ house was familiar territory. But staying there now with my mother and baby brother, it felt different. The common denominator of our now-lives and our then-lives was Grace, who on seeing us arrive and on being apprised of the arrangements by Mr Cooper – Mrs Olikara and the children will be staying with us, Grace, could you make up Ally’s room for her? – had clapped her hands softly. Then clasped my mother’s hand between both of hers: it is good, madam, you should not be alone at this time. Words that brought tears to my mother’s eyes, a reminder of Grace’s warmth. And then Grace turned to me and Danny, to hug each of us, lifting Danny high and exclaiming: how big you are now. It was a warm welcome and I could see the tension leave my mother, even as she appeared timid, asking Grace rather than Mr Cooper about towels and bathing arrangements.
Mr Cooper had told us that he would be leaving early the following morning; he had promised to oversee the delivery of a relief package on the other side of the city. We spent our first day in the Coopers’ house, a Sunday, speaking quietly and tiptoeing on the shiny floors; I could see my mother felt shy and awkward. When Grace appeared late morning – it was her day off, but she had wanted to make sure we were comfortable – my mother made no attempt to hide her gratitude or her relief. And then Grace insisted on making lunch, so that she could show my mother how to use the unfamiliar cooker and, even more unfamiliar, the dishwasher and washing machine. By the time Mr Cooper returned, bringing news of the red tape hindering the clear-up of the camp, it was early evening. He changed into a faded T-shirt that read ‘Dartmouth Ice Hockey’ and declared he had some burgers in the fridge – more goodies from the package from the consulate – that he would grill on the barbecue for everyone, which we could have with the salad Grace had prepared earlier. We ate off our laps together on the patio, all of us – Danny on Grace’s knee – as if to celebrate the new domestic arrangements. When Mr Cooper stood up and excused himself as he had to finish off a few things in his study, Grace stopped my mother, who was stacking the plates, with a hand on her arm: madam, take care of the children. Leave the rest to me.
My mother looked dazed when she said good night to me later. Hard to imagine that we remained in the same city, the same country that we had lived in for so long, so different was this world from ours. We slept in our new home, cocooned and cossetted. The following morning Mr Cooper dropped me off at my school before driving on to his office, and that afternoon he sent one of the administrators from his team, a young woman with huge sunglasses, to pick me up in her car and ferry me back to the house.
It was a few mornings after that that my teacher stopped by my desk and bent down to say quietly, ‘Come with me, Sissy. The head wants to see you.’
I stood up, my brain whirring. Homework was handed in, scrappily done
I admitted, but completed nevertheless; my hair was neat, my uniform correct. I had not been caught chatting in class, indeed I had spent most of the recent months in near-silence, so exhausted by my thoughts and the events at home. I ticked through the checklist. Why would Sister Catherine want to see me? My teacher, an English woman who was married to a Zambian and who had lived in Lusaka for over ten years, smiled reassuringly, but I felt a twinge of concern. The office of the headmistress was not familiar territory. I had only been inside it once, with my parents, when I had enrolled in the school, and she had fixed me then with a steely gaze. She looked smaller in the office than in the school assemblies when she stood on a raised dais, behind a lectern. She was, I could see, very old, her eyes a rheumy blue. Her habit had the black veil with white trim of the Dominican order. Penguins, I had always thought when I saw them.
‘Sit down, Priscilla,’ she said, then smiled, revealing very small, beige teeth.
My teacher sat next to me, and I folded my hands on my lap respectfully. The headmistress stared at me for a long time, with that blue gaze, and when I could not stand it any longer I looked down at my shoes, trying not to appear furtive.
‘How are things at home?’ she asked.
I looked up in surprise. ‘Fine,’ I said, then added, too obviously as an afterthought, ‘Thank you, Sister Catherine.’
‘Your little brother?’
‘He’s fine, thank you, Sister.’
‘And your parents?’
I hesitated. ‘They’re fine, thank you, Sister.’
The Wild Wind Page 18