No. 4 Imperial Lane

by Jonathan Weisman

  “The flat looks very festive,” he murmured without affect. “Thank you.” He granted his wife a perfunctory smile, picked up a fork, and ate in silence. Elizabeth fussed over Cristina to keep herself busy. She was building to a boil.

  No doubt, she did not wait long enough after tucking Cristina in. She could not fool herself that her daughter was asleep. She could also not coexist with João in that apartment without confronting him.

  “Thank you, João, you have a delightful way of ringing in the holidays,” she said dryly, as she closed the door to Cristina’s little nursery room.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” he said. His blood pressure was rising, but he was not going to take the bait, not tonight.

  “No, that’s not it. That’s not it.” Elizabeth’s voice was climbing decibels fast. “You go off on your merry way. I try to make this God-awful flat a little cheery and—”

  “Elizabeth, you can have your little holiday. That is fine with me. But don’t expect me to be a part of it. You did not ask if I wanted this. I don’t. Enjoy it for yourself.”

  He turned to some mail sitting unopened on the counter and pretended to be interested in the task of sorting the chaff from the bills. Elizabeth was raging by now.

  “You bring me here against my will. You leave me, day in and day out, then at nights, when you’re doing God knows what. You can have the decency to play along once in a while.”

  “Oh, here we go again. Elizabeth the neglected, Elizabeth the forsaken. Let me guess, I’m as bad as your parents.”

  “Worse,” she screamed at the provocation. “Worse. At least they were generous enough to provide a little entertainment for my cell, a cousin, a brother—and a nice cell it was. You’ve locked me in solitary confinement with nothing, while you’re off having the time of your life, doing exactly what you want to do, in and out of that hospital.”

  João’s eyes narrowed to slits. He walked toward his wife now on silent footfalls, an index finger in the air in front of his face. They were furiously pushing each other’s buttons, and she had tripped the wire.

  “The time of my life? I trudge out every morning to work, to provide for you and Cristina, to earn my keep and yours. I work my ass off, and I get nothing, nothing from you, no appreciation, no admiration, no, no, no sex. You know, this may not be the lifestyle you grew up in, but it’s a damned sight better than you were going to earn on your Shakespearean party tricks.”

  “Try me. I think my—”

  “I am a doctor, for God’s sake. What more do you want from me? Isn’t that what every fucking woman wants?”

  “Wants? Wants? How about a little affection every once in a while? How about love? If you won’t give it, let me go home, where I can find it.”

  “Love is supposed to go both ways, dear, both ways, and you’re a dry well. And what is this? Now you come from a loving home? That’s rich. Let me guess: You were fucking the servants.”

  His hot breath was now in her face.

  “You bastard,” she shouted, recoiling. “You damned, stubborn bastard. We’ll never leave here because you can’t admit you failed at whatever brought you here in the first place.”

  João’s right hand went up to strike, but Elizabeth lunged first, a feeble slap that ended with her wrist squeezed tight in her husband’s right fist. His left slapped her face. She turned fast, hit her head against the wall, and wrenched her arm loose. João slapped her again and again. Her arms were cradling her head, the corner of the living room shielding her side. Enraged, he hit her hard in the gut, then again in the ribs. The slaps were gone. These were fists.

  “Get out of my face,” she sobbed in fear and pain and contempt. “Get out of my face, do you hear me?” Then she did something she had vowed never to do in one of their fights. She fled to Cristina’s room.

  He hesitated, then pursued.

  “Out of your face? Out of your face?” he hissed, his leering visage next to hers. “How’s this? Is this out of your face enough?” Even in the gloom of the nursery, Elizabeth could see his purple-red rage. She turned away, her hands hiding her face from his blows and her eyes from his fury. He hit her hard in the side, and this time, she crumpled in a heap. One last kick, and then, aggrieved and impotent, he flew out of the nursery, stormed down the three short flights of stairs to the GM Ranger waiting in the street.

  “Mummy,” a shaky little voice called from under the covers. “Mummy, why is Daddy hitting you?”

  Elizabeth did not get up to comfort her daughter. She sat on the floor, rocking and sobbing and steeling herself to finally do something.

  There would be other fights, similar, in the weeks that followed. She kept her protests down to a whimper to try not to awaken Cristina. He tried not to leave a mark. She’d retreat into her daughter’s nursery, a sanctuary João recognized after that first violation. He would screech into the night, maybe to a bar in Johannesburg or to Alexandra, the closest township, where he might find a cheap whore or, he often hoped, a quick death, a knife to the throat for the wallet he carried conspicuously—suicide by slum. It never happened. The townships weren’t as deadly as they were made out to be.

  Elizabeth’s letters to Hans were growing more rambling and desperate, but his last one contained an offer: “I could take a little jaunt into the Heart of Darkness to fetch my baby sister.” She thought on that for weeks. Finally, she fired a flare, not in Hans’s direction but where it would matter.

  Dear Father,

  I know I have not been much of a daughter to you these past few years. But you have been my guardian angel. I wanted you to know I have known that. When I have needed reassurance most, I have gotten it, a sign from General Costa Gomes, an escape route offered up once, forsaken, then offered again. I owe you so much, and I have not even shared your first granddaughter with her gran.

  Oh, Dad, you should see Cristina. She is a beautiful raven-haired darling. I only wish I could offer her more, more love, more stability, more peace. Things are not well with Joao, I must confess. “Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.” He is a good man, I swear. He has found medical work at the hospital here. He cares for blacks, whites, anyone who needs it. And he has gone through much more than I could ever know in his country’s wars. He was on a mission during the air evacuation of Nova Lisboa and Luanda, one last tour of duty, you might say. That is why I did not get on that plane. And perhaps that is why he cannot bring himself to return to Europe now. The government sent him to combat, and then disappeared with him in the jungle still.

  He does take it out on me too often. I fear I bring it upon myself, with my silly complaints and whining. He says nothing is ever enough for me, and perhaps he is right. I’m a silly cow, as Mum used to say. But I must confide, Father, that we have terrible rows. He is careful not to leave too many marks. But I am marked nonetheless. I am ashamed, and I so fear for Cristina. She pretends to be asleep, and maybe she is. But is this a way for a four-year-old to see her parents? I don’t know what to do, Father. I have but one friend here, and since we moved into this flat, she is far away. I hate to trouble you, but I thought perhaps you could help. Maybe a family vacation in southern Africa, you know Cape Town is lovely, and I’m sure our friends Greta and Samuel would show you the parks and wildlife.

  Of course, a little jaunt to South Africa might not look good these days for a man in your position. But it was just a thought. Write soon, Father, and give my love to Mum. And thank you again, for all you have done for me and my family. You are truly a lifesaver.

  All my love,

  Elizabeth

  She wept as she wrote her return address in bold, black ink and sealed the envelope.

  The phone rang at eight in the morning, the harsh double jolt of a Parisian telephone. Gordon Bromwell figured it was late enough to catch his son in a sleep light enough to roust him, but early enough to e
nsure he was home, if he had come home the night before at all. He let it ring and counted. On the eighteenth ring, Hans Bromwell picked up.

  “This had better be good,” he said into the receiver to no one in particular.

  “Hans, this is your father.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your father, Hans. Get up now.”

  “Oh, Father,” Hans said, a groggy smile crossing his face. He was naked in a wide bed, its sheets falling off his trim body in a heap. The wet cold of a Parisian January was kept at bay by monstrous radiators cranking out heat at full blast. “Father, I am a bit old for you to be issuing orders like that, and from across the Channel no less. But I digress. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  His words slurred in an affected play, both more tired and drunk than he actually was. He enjoyed antagonizing his father like this.

  “How’s Parliament treating you anyway, old boy? I suppose that little Labour victory last year set you back a bit.”

  “Hans, I’m not calling to chitchat, entertaining as you are. I have something I need you to do. It’s about your sister.”

  Hans knew better than his father about her precarious domestic situation. But he was torn about the question of intervention. Action was not like him. We’re all adults, he’d reasoned to himself. If she could run away from home to latch on to this chap and fly off to Africa, she bloody well could fix this sticky wicket when she’s ready to.

  His father’s concern penetrated, however.

  “Hans, I’m not asking much,” he said. “Just go down to Johannesburg and check on her, see if she’s alright. If she needs an escape, she’ll take it—you just need to open the door. I’d go myself, but you know how it is—Labour Government, apartheid, and all that nonsense. It wouldn’t look good at all. Besides, I don’t get the feeling this João fellow much appreciates my efforts.”

  Hans muttered some halfhearted excuses about having to quit his job, take care of a few things. Then he relented. He’d meet Gordon in London and fly from there.

  “Son,” his father finally said, “thank you. I’ll see you in a week’s time. You know where my office is.”

  For Hans, the trip was at least a diversion. He reasoned maybe it was a useful break. He’d see the sights, meet Elizabeth’s God-awful husband, bring some Cadbury sweets to the niece he’d never met, then maybe come home to study. Perhaps a post with the new government would be an entertaining little irritant for his father. Paris was over anyway, he thought with some relief on the deck of the ferry steaming from Calais to Dover.

  “You knew about this?” His father was incredulous. His voice, usually exasperated, was angry. “When did you learn about the abuse?”

  “Well, Father, ‘abuse’ may be a bit harsh. They fight. You don’t fight with Mum?”

  “We don’t speak of marks left or not left. We don’t hit,” Gordon said defensively, pacing his dingy little office in the majestic Parliament building.

  “Father, Elizabeth’s a big girl now. She’s not a little mouse, cowering in the corner.”

  “Hans, you know nothing of such matters, nothing. Frankly, Hans, you know nothing of matters of the heart at all.”

  Hans let out a sardonic laugh at that one.

  “And you do, with that bleeding heart of yours?”

  They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Gordon walked around to his desk, slid open a drawer, and produced a British Airways ticket.

  “You’ll leave tomorrow. Your sister is expecting you.”

  Jan Smuts Airport was not much to look at, but sadly, it was nicer than Heathrow. As Hans gathered his luggage, he began to wonder what most Britons abroad were wondering at the time. Why bloody go back?

  “Are you Hans Bromwell?”

  Hans turned to face the lanky, dark-eyed stranger smiling at him, his hair tousled, a hand extended.

  “That would be me, yes.”

  “João Gonçalves, your brother-in-law.”

  They shook hands warmly, Hans feeling a rush of relief. He had made his connection for one. For another, this soft-spoken man could not be a threat. He had read the situation correctly. His father was wrong. João made a quick grab at Hans’s suitcase and set off for the Ranger.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for years,” he said as he walked, his soft accent softened further for the charming. “I feel like I know you already.”

  “And me you,” Hans answered awkwardly. They both winced, but almost imperceptibly. “How is Elizabeth?” Hans asked. “And Cristina? I’m so looking forward to meeting my niece.”

  “You won’t be disappointed. She’s a beautiful child. She’ll sweep you off your feet, as the Americans say.”

  “I must tell you.” Hans chuckled. “I don’t know what the Americans say.”

  “I wanted to bring her to the airport to meet you. Your sister said no.”

  “Pity, I would have liked that.”

  “I figured, but you know Elizabeth. When she gets something into her head, she won’t let go. Somehow the journey wasn’t safe suddenly.” He shrugged, heaving the suitcase into the ample trunk. “Ah well, you’ll see her soon enough.” He slammed the trunk shut with a smile, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked to the passenger side to unlock Hans’s door.

  The Ranger wasn’t terribly impressive: a Chevy engine and an Opel design in a dull brown mustard color, the shine burned off by the African sun. But the springbok badge on the hood signified it as South Africa’s own. It smelled of fast food and the old clothes of the many previous owners. João had gotten it cheap, on hospital credit. He had higher ambitions—a Mercedes soon, to go with his MD. That ambition alone revealed something he had yet to admit to himself, much less his wife. He was staying in South Africa. Success beckoned. The country was beautiful. The people welcomed him, at least the white people did. Why not accept the hospitality on offer? Hans climbed into the spacious bench of a front seat. João’s foot hit the accelerator before his brother-in-law’s door was fully closed. He turned on the radio. Rodriguez’s “Sugar Man” wafted over the clanking of the engine.

  Hans stretched out, arm casually draped over the back of the seat. American design had left ample leg room for an insouciant slouch. Besides, Hans did not want to seem uptight or nervous. These two could have a long life together.

  “So tell me about life in South Africa after your adventures on the Dark Continent,” he opened playfully.

  “We are still on the Dark Continent, my friend.”

  “True,” Hans said with a laugh.

  “It’s boring, if you must know, boring in all its peacefulness,” João responded, his right arm sticking through the window, his fingertips drumming to the music, softly, on the roof of the car. The radio hummed. “Sugar Man, met a false friend, on a lonely, dusty road, lost my heart, when I found it, it had turned to dead, black coal.”

  He laced a finger through a crossbar on the steering wheel, driving the car with mindless panache.

  “Well, all warriors must lay down their weapons.” Hans smiled. “Not that I’d know much about that.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  The highway dashed by the sprawl of Johannesburg, then the hills of the suburbs. João kept up the banter at a nervous clip. “You know your father has a penchant for rescuing us. Elizabeth always thought he didn’t care much about her. Then we find out he’s been tracking her whereabouts like a hawk. He seems to have eyes everywhere.”

  “Oh yeah? Sounds interesting. Howja figure?”

  “It hasn’t been subtle. The commanding general of forces in Angola tracked your sister down in a Luanda maternity ward with a note from dear Dad. A South African secret serviceman was dispatched to help us escape from Nova Lisboa. We got another note from Sir Gordon on the South African freighter waiting for us in Lobito Bay.”

  The names floated uselessly over Hans’s head, but he caught the sentiment.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Hans said, laughing.

  “How
’s that?”

  “I’m on a bit of a rescue mission myself, agent of Sir Gordon Bromwell. He can be a bit of a fool, prone to overreaction when his daughter’s involved.”

  He smiled broadly at João, the wind whipping through his fashionably shoulder-length hair. João shot him a suspicious glance, but not suspicious enough to shut him up.

  “Seems Gordon got the idea there’s trouble in paradise. I’ve been sent to see for myself, check for bruises and the like.”

  That elicited a pained pause.

  “On Elizabeth?” João’s voice betrayed a little strain.

  “Well, I’ll check you too if you’d like. My sister can be wicked, I know,” Hans said, laughing at his own joke.

  This time the silence was a beat longer, a tick more painful. João’s face tightened, his eyes locked on the road.

  “What are you on about?” João asked. “What do you think is going on between my wife and me?”

  “Nothing,” Hans said, belatedly catching the changing tone of the conversation. “Nothing at all. As I said, my father can be a bit paranoid. Not me, though.”

  “What has Elizabeth been telling you?” João demanded.

  “Nothing really.”

  “Don’t try to play innocent on me, Hans. I know your father’s type. I saw this coming.”

  “Saw what coming?”

  “You’re not taking her, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’re not taking either of them.”

  João’s cheeks flushed red. The speedometer was creeping upward as the four-lane blacktop shrank to two.

  “I assure you, I have no intention of taking anything, or anyone,” Hans said. “I’m quite sure my sister can make those decisions for herself.”

  “Oh, can she?” João fired back.

  “Can’t she?” Hans was aiming for exasperation. João heard it as accusation. He shot his brother-in-law an interrogative look, the car swerving a touch toward the shoulder.

  “Don’t get involved in things you don’t understand.”