A CAREFUL BALANCE had been messed with. On account of her walking faster than she usually did, Hortensia was out of breath. Imagine Marion thinking she could bother her with this Beulah nonsense. Except that it had annoyed her. She felt heat at her ears and along her limbs, as well as a strong burning sensation where her heart was. She stopped walking and stretched her arm out against the gnarled skin of a pine tree. The trees always made her feel old, made her feel her age. She dropped her head forward and her eyes took in thick spreading roots, fallen leaves, sodden dirt. She’d taken a step and annihilated a string of ants. They had been busy with the soggy shell of a snail. Beulah and her blasted grandmother and her stupid dead children. The anger bubbled up, the indignation, ever at the ready. Beulah and her ancestors with their cloying sentiments were as good a reason as any for that familiar feeling to stir. Hortensia let out a growl and shook her fists.
When she started walking again she looked about, glared at the pine trees. Was it a sign she was not well in the head, that she came to the trees to quarrel? To cuss and spit out the most venomous anger she could find in the pit of her gall bladder. What did the trees care? She could direct the full blast of her hate at them without having to deal with their snivelling.
She took brisk steps, pushing until her lungs insisted she pause. The tree bark had faces. She was certain the trees were looking at her, all fifty-seven of them (she’d counted). Hortensia stopped walking, leaned. Her mind was going; she was angry with trees and her mind was going. She moved on. Her walk had been the first thing to go that really hurt. A dash of grey on her head, a slight dip in breasts small enough for dipping not to matter, an extra line on her neck had never bothered her. Her eyes were good, her teeth were hers. But the loss of her walk was the first sign that time was wicked and had fingers to take things. It wasn’t just dates up on a wall, it was a war. Time took away her walk. She awoke one morning with the left leg aching, a throb that would come and go but never permanently leave. So now she lumbered, she limped; many times she sat, but since she’d reached sixty-five she hadn’t sauntered. When you’re Hortensia James and you have pride but no walk to saunter it with – well, life is difficult.
Hortensia counted the trees. She counted to feel human again, to come down from being a spitting thing to simply being her regular normal pissed-off self. She counted. The trees had been planted in a scattered fashion but since her first visit here, almost two decades ago, she had worked out a way to navigate through them, counting them, as if the numbers were the notation of an angry prayer. Ten. She’d grown accustomed to favouring the right leg, refused to go to the doctor and find out what exactly was wrong with the left. Fifteen. The ground was wet from yesterday’s rain, the leaves shiny and green. Hortensia ensured her Pumas made contact with the ants; she didn’t just trample the creatures by accident, she sought them out. Her regular normal pissed-off self. She tightened her lips. Twenty-five.
At thirty-five she stopped to catch her breath. She began again but then stopped at the next group of trees, leaned against a trunk, sighed. From where she leaned she could see the tops of most of Katterijn’s properties, including hers. Hortensia pushed off from the tree. A nip came and she pulled her zipper higher, dug her hands into the velvety pockets of her tracksuit bottoms and moved along.
She took the long way home, circling all of Katterijn, along a road her neighbours referred to as the Noodle, but she called the Noose. She looked up to try and gauge when the rain would start again. She passed a few neighbours walking their dogs or pushing the grandkids; some younger couples, new to the suburb, holding hands. When was her life ever simple enough for someone she loved to want to hold her hand? As she walked, Hortensia looked through people. If someone waved she looked away. When she turned the last corner even her sore leg appeared to perk up at the thought of the ottoman in the lounge and a hot chocolate. But there, standing outside No. 12, with arms akimbo, was Marion Agostino.
‘Hortensia.’
Because of her special hatred for Marion, Hortensia stopped to address her.
‘Marion,’ she said. Their eyes met for a few seconds and then Hortensia carried on. She limped to her gate, aware Marion was watching her, picking her apart in her mind like carrion. She searched for her key.
‘Hortensia.’ Marion approached as Hortensia stood and fumbled with the gate lock.
Hortensia closed her eyes, which was the closest she’d come, in the last decade or so, to prayer. There was a time when she actually did pray – Oh God, and so on – but these days she figured she was old. These days she dropped her eyelids for a few seconds and then lifted them, relying on God being all-powerful and getting it. Getting something to the effect of: help me be rid of this woman, make her mute, maybe paralysed from the neck down; make her forget I exist, take her away, dear God, Amen.
‘Yes, Marion.’ Hortensia gave the gate a slight push and it swung open (Hortensia James’s gate did not squeak or squawk or make any other unbecoming noises). She waited for what was coming.
‘You can’t ignore the Gierdien request.’
‘Yes, I can. Goodnight, Marion.’
‘Wait … I was also … We can discuss the matter at the next meeting, but I also …’ She made her face sweet and Hortensia felt sick. ‘I was thinking just now. How is Peter? Good?’
‘Peter is dying, Marion. Anything else?’
‘Oh dear!’
‘Yes, afraid so. Goodbye, then.’
Hortensia had already closed the gate behind her when Marion issued her next shot.
‘And how’s the leg?’
‘Bad.’
Marion, despite being white and dressing only (as far as Hortensia could make out) in khaki pencil-skirts and peach-coloured shirts, despite being fleshier and a fervent dyer to blonde of her grey hair, reminded Hortensia of her mother. Here were two women Hortensia knew who asked only questions with bad-news answers. Marion, for instance, would never ask how House of Braithwaite was doing, because she knew it would be good news. Marion didn’t ask how the shoot with Vintage Magazine went, when they came to interview her and photograph the interior spaces of her home. Marion never asked what Hortensia’s bank account looked like or where she’d put her trophy for Best Christmas Lights from last year’s neighbourhood contest.
Hortensia popped the key back into her pocket and climbed the steps. She stopped and, using her good leg, shoved one of her garden pots into position. Her mood was spoiled. Spoiled so that no ottoman or mug of hot chocolate could repair it. She’d have to sleep, wake up into another day.
As for her mother, Hortensia thought, now savouring the bitterness on her tongue, liking the way it curled right there on the very tip – that woman, while she lived, had only one question to ask Hortensia, year after year of her marriage to Peter: when are you bringing me babies?
Hortensia let herself in. The nurses hadn’t bothered to turn any of the downstairs lights on. She slammed the door, which saved her having to announce her presence with words, and meant by the time she’d shrugged her jacket off and put on her house-slippers, the women would be stepping down the stairs with their bags and nurse-things. A few words of instruction for the night and they’d be gone, giving her, Hortensia, some peace and allowing Peter to progress towards his death unhindered. So much dignity had been sucked out of death, Hortensia thought, now looking forward to hot chocolate again, her ears attuned to the unmistakable sound of nurse-shoe on stair tread.
‘Mrs James, that you?’
They’d become a part of the house. Since he’d stopped talking and all movement was an act of persuasion, the hospital had dispatched two nurses daily. Hortensia had resisted when a night-nurse was suggested. Not the nights too, she’d said. She’d even said please.
‘In here.’ She preferred not to talk to them but they insisted. In general, people like to talk to old folk.
‘Nice walk?’ One nurse – their names came in and out, like breathing – stood at the doorway of the coat-room.
; Hortensia chose to ignore her question.
‘Anything I need to know?’ she asked instead, balling her socks into a squat brown basket.
‘He’s fine, sleeping. Medicated for the night. Nothing to worry about. We’ll be back bright and early.’
Hortensia watched the pep in this woman bounce her down the hallway; her colleague joined her and out they went.
Bassey knew to leave the tin of hot chocolate out before he left for the day, as well as her favourite mug, blank of image or text, a chalky sea-urchin white. Hortensia stirred, liking the feel of the grooves on the 1942 miniature silver spoon. She remembered a long-ago friend and his anecdote about his uncle, who was a chef. The man was known for eating a cut tomato and being able to tell whether it had been sliced with his silverware or just some normal run-of-the-mill knife – he could taste it. Hortensia took a sip, flipped the light and headed for the ottoman. Her life was burdened. An expert appreciation for beautiful things, right and proper things, was her only remaining comfort.
When Marion realised she was staring bankruptcy in the face her first thought had been: how do I get out of this? Max had been the one with the loopholes. Look where that got him. But then she’d thought of the painting.
Marion gave Agnes the morning off, ignoring the look of shock on the woman’s face. She wanted to search through the house without Agnes watching, being suspicious and asking questions. The first wave of debt collectors would come within the next few weeks, Marion’s lawyer had told her. He’d staved them off for as long as he could.
Marion climbed the stairs to the attic, holding onto the banister, not liking the strain in her Achilles heel. They’d want the house. She cracked open the swollen door. Swollen because of the leak – the rains in ’98 that weekend they’d gone away and come back to ruined carpets. Cobwebs stuck to her cheeks and she tried and failed to get them all off.
‘Heavens!’
Only desperation could have brought her up here. A shaft of light felt palpable, like a witness. Marion saw the gleam from the gilt frame of a small portrait she’d hidden away. Her parents in wedding clothes, posing in the manner of people who are scared but have learned to pretend. When she’d packed up her mother’s room (her father had already been dead ten years) she’d been surprised to find the portrait preserved, challenging the reality of their divorce. Why had her mother not got rid of it? And then she, Marion, had discovered her own inability to throw the picture away. As if the photograph, this record of the past, had some magical power.
Marion glanced at the faces, grimaced. This was going to be hard. Best to avoid as much as possible. Gosh, there was the valise full of Max’s suits. Marion teetered in the tracks of space left between the many things she’d stored away over the decades. There was only one thing she really needed. She moved towards a wall of boxes, certain she had hidden it behind there. A scratching noise gave her a jolt. She was relieved she’d closed the attic door.
‘Alvar! Stay out.’
He scratched some more and then she heard him skitter down the stairs. She’ll feed him later.
All the while worrying about being found buried underneath boxes and photographs of frightened people, Marion made a path to the back wall. There it was. Muscles she hadn’t known were tense eased up. She’d been careful to bubble-wrap it, but even so she realised she’d been careless to leave it here and felt lucky to find it undamaged. If Max was right, the painting would fetch enough to last her till she finally died. But she’d need to hide it for the next few months, or however long the scavenge would go on for. The hunt. She lifted it and found it light enough to carry. She moved back towards the door, averting her gaze from her parents, her cheeks pinked with shame.
Back downstairs, she sensed the commotion rather than heard it. Out on her stoep Marion watched the ambulance park alongside No. 10. Had the man finally croaked? Alvar curled in her lap. She watched the activities, half-distracted. She was thinking about the painting. About hiding the painting. A stretcher was carried out of Hortensia’s home. On it was a covered body. Marion felt too harassed by bankruptcy and lawyers to enjoy her neighbour’s misfortune. The ambulance drove off, Hortensia trailing behind in her car; she’d looked more irritated than worried.
‘Ma’am.’
‘Oh my goodness, Agnes, you gave me a fright. You’re back early.’
‘Sorry to scare you.’
Marion noticed Agnes eyeing the dusty bubble-wrapped parcel by her side.
‘Well, never mind. Continue with your work.’
Once Agnes was safely occupied in the kitchen, Marion dragged the painting back upstairs and leaned it against the wall in her bedroom. But it looked at her. She wanted it close but out of sight. Underneath the bed. She got onto her knees, pushed aside her bedroom slippers – always ready, to attention. She knew it was stupid to keep the painting around. The whole business could get quite nasty, her lawyer had warned, especially if you’re suspected of circumventing the law. As she leaned and slid the painting underneath the bed, her brow creased. She had to hide the painting away somewhere no one would suspect to look for it. When the creditors came with their investigators, prying and questioning and … investigating … where would be the last place they would think to look? Marion had to restrain herself from calling Hortensia immediately. Despite her excitement about this new solution, she had the presence of mind to know such an action would be inappropriate. She’d have to wait a bit, although time wasn’t something she had in abundance. And she’d have to cajole Hortensia, somehow convince her and avoid suspicion – even with a newly dead husband, the woman would be sharp as a needle.
Too excited to feel foolish, Marion carted the painting downstairs, yet again, and set it by the front door. She made herself tea and allowed the taste of the idea to sink in. A perfectly good idea. And of course she won’t mention the bankruptcy – Heavens, no. Pretend the alarm is broken or something. Hortensia, can you help me keep this? It’s the most valuable thing I own … would be terrible if something happened … if someone broke in and stole it … Won’t you …?
Yes, they argued but there had been some favours over the years. Precisely three. Peter had asked Max’s advice and Max had whispered to him about a particular stock. When the price tripled Peter gave the Agostinos half an impala. He’d killed it himself. Marion was horrified but eventually had to concede the sweet tast of Karoo meat. Before his death Max had offered another financial tip that paid off. How is it her husband could help others make money but lose all of his own? Anyway the point was the Jameses owed the Agostinos. It was time to call in the favours.
The thought seemed to settle Marion, bring a calm she hadn’t felt for months, not since Max’s financial acrobatics had become apparent to her. The inevitability of bankruptcy had surfaced the way the ghost comes only after the body is dead and buried.
Of course she would now need to swallow her pride to ask Hortensia for help, but that wound would eventually heal. It would be a small price to pay for a chance not to die a pauper. Marion rehearsed the words she would use and looked through her binoculars across at her neighbour’s house – No. 10 Katterijn Avenue. The words were hard to form. Since the first lines she’d scratched on tracing paper over fifty years back, No. 10 was hers.
Corbusier claimed a house was a machine for living in. Marion, to her studio master’s amusement, explained her position. Didn’t we have enough machines? Did everything have to be likened to cogs and wires in order to make it worthwhile? A house is a person, she’d argued, to the sound of guffaws from the rest of the class. But she’d pressed on and turned in her essay. What was house design if it wasn’t the study of armour, of disguises, of appearances? The most intimate form of space-making, the closest architects might ever come to portraiture. Interesting, interesting, the teacher had said, but not substantiated enough. Marion thought him an idiot with a mind as narrow as a pin and did not allow his tepid response to dampen her own enthusiasm. She’d wanted to design houses the way other girls
her age wanted babies.
How do you go to someone who has taken your baby and ask them to help you with something delicate? The pleases and thank-yous. Marion tried them in her head; they wouldn’t come. Not even slowly. Unless there was some other way to do it … She could go to the funeral, for instance, play up a bit. Marion’s mind moved through the steps. The phone rang.
‘Yes, darling … Yes, I wondered … I see … I wasn’t asking for that much money, Marelena. I didn’t even mention an amount. I just needed to know that in the event … Well, tell your hubby I don’t need his money, then. I have an idea anyway, so maybe I won’t need your help after all … I’ll tell you when I’ve worked it all out … What do you mean, why am I being so … I realise that, Marelena … Yes, you too … okay. Bye.’
Marion eyed the painting. Send flowers, go to the funeral, then wait some days; at the right moment, strike. Worth a try.
Back on the porch, Marion drank her tea but it was cold and she could only taste bile. After No. 10 was complete and the Norwegians living in it, nothing had alleviated that sunken feeling in the bottom of Marion’s belly. Not a marriage to Max, not one child after another. Not starting her practice. Nothing.
FOUR
‘WOULD YOU LIKE to see him?’ the mortician asked Hortensia.
I’ve seen him already, Hortensia thought, but she nodded. You were supposed to nod, you were supposed to want to say goodbye one last time in private. The world was funny, encouraging you to speak to dead bodies. Hortensia tried to get comfortable on the low couch with missing studs while the woman – had she called herself Meredith? – made a phone call. ‘Are you ready for her?’ the woman said into the receiver.
Hortensia tuned her out. The nice thing about being old is that you can literally moderate your hearing, and these days there was little worth listening to. The mortician’s office was two chairs, the couch and a wide desk with nothing on it except a pair of hands belonging to … Meredith (maybe) and a lamp that made Hortensia wonder if the woman worked nights. All the furniture was low; it looked as if someone had tried to go for minimal and chic, but ended up with cheap instead. Meredith, a large woman, bulged out of the chair, a Raggedy Ann doll sitting for tea with Barbie furniture. Hortensia studied her, unashamed when the woman caught her eye occasionally. The thing about turning off your hearing is you lose all inhibition. Hortensia examined the mottled skin of the woman’s arms that poked out from black puffy sleeves. Her chubby wrists. She had a strange birthmark on the tip of her index finger, a dark splodge of ink-black that had the effect of making her look grimy.
The Woman Next Door Page 4
