Mrs. Towson coughed. “Not quite that, I’m sure,” she said. “Your Sarie, Mr. Turner… I must say. We’re not indiscriminate, you know. And Sarie knows this, too. She’s teasing. As we all know she does. Vaccines. Syringes. We’d simply like her help. Her presence, now and then. With all of her experience.” Hazel Towson looked at Sarie as a disappointed parent does a child who refuses to perform in the presence of fine guests. “Perhaps, we thought, Sarie could give us all a talk. Improve herself, you know. Help us. She does know about nursing, doesn’t she?” Here Mrs. Towson was deploying a secondary strategy that she knew as You Must Win Over the Man. She thought she would recall for Gilbert the very thing that had always pained him most: “We’ve always heard it told.” It was a little challenge: defend your wife by pushing her to join, or I will bring up her faux pas again, and I shall be relentless.
Bending to remove his shoes (though Sarie, wishing he would not, jammed her elbow in his side), Gilbert tried to stall. His skin itched. “Through the hospitals, I suppose?” he said. Sarie, disappointed, rose to offer Mrs. Towson a refill of her tea. Both to tea and Gilbert’s question, Hazel said, “Oh, no, no, no, my dears.” She pushed the cup away with a forceful outstretched finger. “Not through the hospitals, I’m sure. Thank you very much.” Sitting up again, feet free, his head passing not far from Mrs. Towson’s knees and arms, Gilbert thought she smelled a little like manure. Like a fresh field in rural England. Rich and dark and loamy. Hazel waited until he’d sat up and Sarie had stood still. “Hospitals.” She leaned towards him and smiled. “What do they know about children?”
When Sarie rolled her eyes at Gilbert, it was not because she had deep faith in hospitals or governments or because she cared that her big guest had refused another drink. She didn’t mind if Hazel Towson overlooked others’ expertise or made decisions on her own, without consulting anyone but the British Council’s ladies. She didn’t know if vaccinations were really valuable at all and, what’s more, didn’t care to argue. What irritated Sarie was something rather complicated that neither Sarie’s guest nor husband really understood.
Firstly, as a mission girl, a woman with a past, she felt herself more interesting than all the Council women, and resented their intrusions. Their ease and confidence, their skill at being ladies, at once silenced her completely and brought out her very worst behavior. Among them she felt huge, ungainly, stupid, and, uncomfortably, much better than them all.
Moreover, she didn’t wish to be involved with women who would see almost right away that she herself was in possession of much less than they were. Where she had rubber thongs, they had Bata pumps and European brogues—beaten up and worn, indeed, but costly, bearing up yet to the march and tick of time. While they cleverly acquired chocolate bars, Danish butter biscuits, and boxed vanilla sugar, Sarie stuck to Nanjis and to gummy turbinado. They smelled of perfumes purchased in a shop, while Sarie smelled occasionally like talcum, and more often like herself. She also knew her teeth were not what they had been. No, no, she couldn’t face them—feeling herself better than them all and being poorer than each one was an awful combination. The only use she had for the British Council was for the children’s books, which Agatha demanded. From them she wanted nothing else. Sarie understood what Hazel Towson didn’t: it was money brought on good behavior, not the other way around.
But Gilbert’s shaken inner man had rallied by this time and wished to show himself. If Hazel Towson could choose this very day to visit them, he would choose this day to battle her. He would take up arms. What her husband said pleased Sarie, though she was as surprised by it as Mrs. Towson was. “I’m sure that’s very valuable,” he said. “Very valuable, indeed, dear Mrs. Hazel. But…” Here Gilbert looked at Sarie and placed his hand flat on her knee. “Sarie is too busy at the moment, I believe, to be of any help. She has, excuse us, won’t you, some serious things now that require her attention.”
For once, Hazel Towson did not know what to say. She had expected that, as had occurred in other households, the husband would give in and push his wife to do what she was told, what propriety required. She took no pleasure in surprises. But, she thought, was she not Hazel Towson? She tugged her big white shirtfront down, checked her buttoned cuffs, and leaned forward in her seat. She was not finished yet. “Busy? What could be more serious, Mr. Turner, if I may, than curing native children?” Something in her tone suggested that native children were at risk of terrible diseases from which only she herself, with Sarie at her side, could save them. Her words echoed in his mind, and he had a sudden, lurching vision of dark skins laid out beside a woodshed; he even smelled sharp salt. Hazel Towson frightened him. Perhaps, it struck him suddenly, she’s too much like a man.
Sarie, for her part, did not find Hazel Towson particularly masculine. But she did not enjoy her attitude. She was used to Gilbert, too, tendering opinions about what she ought to do, and to disregarding them when she found them too restrictive. But Hazel Towson, Sarie thought, didn’t have the right. As if she can tell me what to do. As if she knows what happens here. She even thought, forgetting for a moment Mr. Jeevanjee’s real shape and turning him into a weapon, She has no idea that I am thinking of a man who is not at all my husband. Then, wishing she had not combined Mrs. Hazel Towson and the (sweet!) form she had just clutched, she tried to see with her mind’s eye the very delicate plum color that outlined Majid Ghulam’s upper lip. She managed, and she shivered.
Gilbert wondered how explicit he could be in front of Mrs. Hazel. Speaking of a plan too soon might sour things. He didn’t, after all, have a real idea. He only knew that he was going to try to have one. But he also thought that mentioning an imminent success might loosen Hazel’s grip. If I mention it again, he thought, it will almost be true. Also: I’d like to see her face. “We can’t quite tell you at the moment, Mrs. Towson, but Sarie and I—” With a look at Sarie that Hazel Towson would recall later with distaste (something like devotion), Gilbert said the words that would, instead of freeing them from Hazel, have the opposite effect. But there was a momentary victory. “Sarie and I,” Gilbert said, “are preparing for a change.” He lingered so on Sarie’s face (thinking, A business! Yes, we’re going to make a start!) that, although she was absolutely wrong, Mrs. Towson thought she understood.
The horror of it balled up in her throat. Her eyes boggled in her head. Could it be? she thought. My God. Isn’t Sarie quite past that? She became violently embarrassed. “I see,” she said at last. And Sarie, who had not yet understood, looked from guest to husband. Hazel Towson’s big eyes remained wide. A hardy sniff shuttled through her nose. She crossed and uncrossed her squat legs beneath her khaki skirt. She wound her ankles round and round like propellers on a plane; she cleared her sinewy throat.
She had had a shock. But, equal, as she liked to say, to the most terrible of crises, she took Sarie’s hand in hers and dutifully, even kindly, gave it a quick squeeze. “How wonderful,” she said. Sarie wished to pull her hand away but sensed that she should not. When Hazel dropped her eyes to Sarie’s chest and lap, and asked, in a near whisper, “But, dear, is it wise? So late? You’re not exactly young,” Sarie slowly saw. She blinked. She restrained a little laugh by squeezing back at Hazel’s hand, harder than was right—which made Hazel feel that Sarie was in more dire need of her support than she had hitherto imagined. “Oh, my dear,” she said, and shot Gilbert a nasty glance as if to say: Men. Look at what you’ve done. She then turned back to Sarie. “Another child? Right now? Oh, Sarie, are you sure? It isn’t a mistake?” In Hazel’s view, sex among the indigenes was one thing—in fact, having plenty of opinions, she could discuss it at some length—but in her set, the set that she imagined and kept attempting to bring into firm being, couplings between Europeans over forty, and moreover between poor ones like the Turners, were another thing entirely. Better left in silence. Hazel had been given a surprise that was beyond the pale of what she could anticipate; she was disappointed in herself, and this made her, for a moment, weak.
Although he’d won in the short term, and although this was a first, Gilbert for a moment was displeased. Not a child, he wished to say, no, not at all. A business. He had wanted to be heard just as he’d intended. But Sarie took another tack. She looked down at her knees and clung to Hazel’s hand. “I know,” she said. “I know.” And to keep him from correcting her, she kicked Gilbert in the shin. She didn’t want their plans—even if they had none—open yet to scrutiny. Let Hazel Towson be embarrassed, let her feel distaste at the very thought of mating among people of their age. What would she think of Majid!
Sarie closed her eyes and leaned back into the couch. If she could make love with a man she barely knew and conceal it from her husband, could she not also let Mrs. Hazel Towson think exactly as she pleased? A pregnant woman, Sarie thought, couldn’t volunteer.
Gilbert wanted Hazel out. And there was still a little happiness in him that had not been plucked out, a tiny sense that he could do things. He stood up and made it clear that it was time for her to go. “Well. That’s right,” he said. “Sarie needs her rest. Exactly.” He felt stronger. “I’m sure you understand.” Hazel, caught off balance, let herself be led. Gilbert walked her to the door.
“I won’t get up,” said Sarie. “This heat!” She had never before had the upper hand with Hazel, was feeling rather shrill. She gestured at her hips and looked sweetly at her guest as if to say, You know that pregnancy is trying. “Oh. Oh, yes,” said Hazel. “Don’t get up, my dear. Of course.” On the landing, Hazel shook her head. A pregnancy! At Sarie’s advanced age! But she couldn’t leave entirely outdone. If she did not have pride, what did she? She gathered up her spirits. Pregnancy or no, a decent woman ought still attend some functions, at least until she showed. She poked her head back inside the Turners’ flat, holding to the doorknob with both hands, oddly like a girl. “Next Friday, Sarie. There’s a luncheon, don’t you know. You might think of coming down, if you’re not feeling awful. You could do that, at least.” Sarie moaned a little from her seat. “Perhaps!” she said, and waved.
Gilbert closed the door and Sarie laughed. A little strangely, Gilbert thought, but, still—here was his own Sarie laughing at something they had done together. “Oh, wonderful,” she said. “Wonderful!” And Gilbert, shy, covered his mouth with both hands, then said, muffled, “Yes, I suppose so. Wonderful, indeed.” As though she really were carrying a child, Sarie struggled to get up. Recalling what he’d said—a change—she wiped her mouth and went to stand beside him. She looked him in the eye.
“‘A change,’ you said? Something very serious? Gilbert?” Sarie frowned into his face and tugged hard at his shirt. “Were you playing? Did you mean it? You are having an idea?” Could he have thought of something just one day after the letter? So soon after the fact?
“Not quite yet, no, dear,” he said. He plucked her hand away and laid it on the sofa. “But we’re about to, aren’t we? Something’s going to happen. We’ll find something to say.” Sarie, unsure of her husband, followed him into the kitchen. Would he hide anything from her? She was partially put out. She had also had the thought that she might beat him to it, might have to, after all, because she, not he, was strong. She reassured herself: Of course not. When he’s thought something, I will know. She knew him, after all.
Gilbert pulled a spoon from a low drawer and held it in the air a moment as though it were a wand. “Let’s have some ice cream first, now, shall we?” She couldn’t turn that down. Watching Sarie eat, pale hair over her face, Gilbert felt a twitching at his heart. A desire to be competent in a way he felt the men at the Victorian Palm all were. He’d come through again. He’d please her. He’d decide on an idea and present it to her, fully formed, impeccable, and grand.
Later she followed him into the bedroom. Perhaps because she had recently been held by a nice man and wished to share her joy somehow, and because they’d triumphed, for the moment, over beastly Hazel Towson, she agreed to rub her husband’s feet. PoorGilbert, Sarie thought. How difficult his life is. Uncle James’s letter really was not kind. Gilbert sighed into the pillow and let Sarie pull his toes. He felt the world recede. He slipped in and out of consciousness. Everything would be all right. He’d come up with something, and Sarie would be happy. Sarie dug her fingernails into the soft part of his soles. He giggled and he sighed. He almost fell asleep. Outside a hot green flash released a downpour and filled the room with air.
While Gilbert softened on the bed and the sound of rain grew large, Sarie started thinking. She was not pregnant with a baby, no, but she did feel something growing. Was there not a small thing, an unknown, at work now in their lives? Something that might cause—who knew—a satisfying swell? New life? Certainly the recent feelings she had had, that all kinds of things were possible, had to do with Mr. Jeevanjee, with going out into the world. But what if they also had to do, as in an aftershock or echo, with surly Uncle James? She thought about her life. What a wild conjunction of events! There might be love, and money, too! They would soon be making money, Sarie thought, because they had no choice. The urgency of it, while she sat comfortable in the bedroom, thrilled her.
She let her mind move from one thing to another as Gilbert’s limbs went still: Majid Ghulam, who had whispered in her ear, who had pronounced her name as though it were that of a country; the aerogramme with its invigorating dare; horrid Mrs. Hazel; Gilbert’s new excitement! She couldn’t think about everything at once. So very much had happened! She’d focus on the business first, and then, and then, she’d stop and close her eyes and think about the way that Mr. Jeevanjee had held her shoulders still as he pushed himself inside her, and how the world had spun.
First things first. A business. The Turners needed an idea. And could she not, if asked, be brimming with ideas? What if she came up with something? What if she showed Gilbert that she could think as well as he believed he could? Hadn’t she been fine, succeeded with the Jeevanjees? Taken a hard thing upon herself? Been faced with a hurt boy, assisted him, then later marched down to the clinic and discovered where he lived? Had she not changed the texture of her days with a little bit of verve, some action? She’d show Gilbert, Sarie thought. She would make her value known. Oh, yes, she would think of something.
What might the Turners do? At first, eyes closed, to get warmed up, she tried imagining lighthearted, decorative things. She giggled. What about… what about… ladies’ gowns made out of ribbon, which (thanks to Amélie) she knew how to stitch? She had made a blue one once, which as it happened she’d put on the first evening that Gilbert and his Magistrate had spent at the Jilima Mission. What better to get Gilbert and herself firmly out of danger than the very type of dress she had been wearing when he’d been smitten by her youth? Sarie yawned, cracked her neck and hands. She looked down at sleeping Gilbert. Non, non, c’est bête, she thought. A silly, funny thought. Who, in these great times, had the cash to spare for something so adorable and frivolous as a whole gown made of ribbon? The business must move capital, and lots of it to boot. Offer people what they could afford, something that they needed. She gave up on the ribbons. She bit down on her lip and tatted idly at the covers. What else might they do? A restaurant, perhaps? Waffles, which, as she had heard but could not remember seeing, people ate in Belgium? No, no, Sarie was no cook. The very notion tired her, made her want to bathe. And who wanted waffles here? She closed her eyes and waited.
A business. Uncle James was requesting something large. Did he have any idea, any clue at all, about how things really were? There was no real business to speak of, not for ordinary people, what with high-minded officials declaring left and right that business was unpatriotic and only for the few. The Frosty-Kreem and Hisham’s Food and Drink, thought Sarie, had been permitted to remain, but with a lot of dealing. Perhaps even Hisham’s, like the shops on Urasimu Road, was not owned any longer by those who had put it into place; shop doors were government property now, required friends up high. A business in a shop! No, it would not be possible, though
t Sarie, to acquire all the permits, to sneak and slide beneath the eyes of officers and Ministers and spokespeople and spies. They could not have a storefront. And Gilbert, Sarie thought, this time without any satisfaction, Gilbert was a nobody. Mrs. Hazel’s right. Poor Gilbert, Sarie thought. Without me he is lost. She would have to think of it herself. But what was the perfect thing?
While Gilbert set to snoring and the evening sky spread out, Sarie’s real idea came, and when it did, it took hold with the clarity of answers on a math test, with the stillness of a mountain range revealed by shifting clouds. It was a floodlight in her brain. And once Sarie had had it, she was on her way. In the deepest recess of her chest, in the lining of her stomach, Sarie knew what they would do. If I’m worth anything, du tout, this is what we shall make. Of course, she thought, bien sûr! Without pausing to shake Gilbert and alert him to her brilliance, or even let him in on the ground floor, to say, “My dear, what do you think of that?” Sarie took a mental step that she would later find rather tricky to undo. She understood that native crafts would save them.
C’est ça, she almost said aloud. Nous vendrons les souvenirs. For people unlike us who have great things to remember. Surely now in England there were proud, imperial dreamers crippled with nostalgia who would give up all their teeth and more for a Makonde statuette, or a basket from the Lakes? All those men who’d eaten at the clubhouse, who’d hosted garden parties and taken long safaris with their wives to snap pictures of the hippos? The men Gilbert had been certain smelled of History and more? Wouldn’t they like a reminder? So many of them had run off in a hurry, giving all their clothes away, selling furniture for songs. They will like, thought Sarie, to have some items when they tell their friends the stories. Like the show and tell. If only they had statuettes, how much more people would listen!
The Blue Taxi Page 18
