Stubborn Archivist

by Yara Rodrigues Fowler

  I’m very jealous.

  Brrr que frio que frio

  But I have the heating on and the dog is here

  Que linda!

  We were on the beach today, I saw turtles—

  Oh really how big were they?

  Feliz Natal!

  Que saudade

  Just like this big

  Everyone misses you

  Quer falar com a prima—

  Everyone is so interested

  Abraços!

  We all miss you

  Grande abraço!

  Feliz Natal!

  Beijo

  Beijo!

  Tchau

  Tchau tchau

  Tchau querida.

  In total it had lasted under fifteen minutes.

  After the call ended, before deciding to turn the television on, she lay back on the sofa in the dark. Outside was very quiet. She was wearing big indoor socks wet from the bathroom floor.

  She was back at work on the second day of the new year. Outside was very cold.

  Her boss was a man called Gareth who was married to a famous newsreader, not that anyone mentioned that of course. The organisation was so big name it had its own cafeteria.

  This was where she first saw Tiago.

  The first few times that she had gone down to the basement cafeteria in the new year, he had been there with another man and she had heard them from the other side of the salad bar. She hung back holding up the queue with her tray to be sure because she could only hear a word here, a word there—

  Me da aí

  Puxa

  Espera

  Claro

  And when he spoke in English she heard the accent that she would recognise anywhere, except in her mother’s voice. Her face bled red when she looked at him.

  The year began with a bicycle.

  By the end of the week her parents were back. She was glad. She looked up their flight arrival time on her laptop and counted down from landing to disembarking to passport control to baggage claim to airport carpark to drive home, so she knew in advance when they would get to the house. When they arrived she had the table set and a little dinner hot.

  Ohh! Her mother said between big hugs. But this is very nice!

  No—she looked at the dinner all set out—I mean, whatever.

  The next morning was a Friday. She climbed on top of the bike in the hallway before leaving for work. Put her foot on the pedal.

  Her dad, his hair newly grey against his red tan face, said—You’re not riding that to work are you?

  And then her mum—The traffic is so dangerous!

  They looked at her. They stood together on the stairs. They were both jet lagged, both in pyjamas.

  She looked at them, her foot still on the pedal.

  The bike was perfect, blue and just a little tall for her.

  No, no. I think perhaps just around South London.

  Well let me get you lights you mustn’t go out without lights.

  She nodded.

  Yeah. Thanks.

  And a shiny jacket and a helmet.

  Yeah.

  She got down off the bike.

  She looked back at her parents and moved towards the door. She held her gloved hand up, waved, closed the front door.

  Walking to the tube station she felt very cold although she had covered herself in a hat and scarf and gloves and grey woolly tights.

  As soon as she stepped into the building she had been thinking about lunch. Populating a spreadsheet, her feet under her chair, she thought about lunch. At 12:20 she got up from her desk.

  She got in the lift.

  In the cafeteria, she says—

  Obrigada

  in response to a plate load of broccoli.

  He says—

  Opa.

  Serving hand mid air, he says—

  Brasileira?

  Sou.

  He looks around, gives her another spoonful of broccoli, winks.

  Later that day walking from her office, behind her at the top of the stairs at the crushing intersection into Oxford Circus tube station, a group of white teenagers in braces and ponytails are talking about the Abercrombie store.

  What are you going to buy in the Abercrombie store?

  I am going to buy some of those too.

  In red

  Or orange

  Or both?

  I wish but the pound is so strong right now.

  She hovers at the traffic lights, smooths down her coat, waiting for them to ask her for directions.

  She goes back to the cafeteria the next day and the next. Sometimes he isn’t there and she hover scans the room, holding her tray out and inevitably getting in the way of someone very busy.

  From across the room he looks like he is a little taller than her, the same height if she’s wearing boots. He has black hair, brown eyes, his skin is darker than her skin. He wears a white uniform.

  Some days she sees him and he doesn’t see her. When this happens her hands sweat around the tray plastic and she tells herself to wave go say it

  Olá

  Oi

  Oi Tiago, tudo bem?

  And all that first month, in the still so cold evenings she takes long baths while her parents watch the news. She uses the gel that smells like eucalyptus. She squeezes the gloopy green bubble juice into the dry tub and then she turns the taps on full, pushing the water crash into the gel against the bath tub metal creating a big thick foam.

  Sometimes she turns the shower on too. But she leaves the light on. It is like being in the hot green centre of the earth.

  She touches her thighs, her calves, the curve of the back of her feet

  She watches her finger skin soften wrinkle ridge

  This body—

  The next month, like always, it rained a lot. On the way to work and on the way back from work her shoes filled with the grainy grey wet of the pavement.

  One lunchtime she couldn’t go to the cafeteria. Or even go to the paper bag chain lunch shops for a tub of plain rice.

  The lady who cleaned the toilets had seen her nice navy blue shoe poking sideways out from under the cubicle door. (Those toilets were embarrassing at the best of times, right by the lifts in the centre of the open plan office.)

  Excuse me, was she okay? Knock knock knock.

  Yes! Sorry! Yesyes. Thank you. Desperate not to have to leave the cubicle and look the lady in the face, she repeated—I’m fine, aha ye-es, thanks so much, I’m fine, sorry, thank you, totally fine, just a stomach ache, ache in my stomach, I’m actually so fine. And pausing then to listen for the sounds of the woman leaving—Thanks though. Definitely starting to feel better. I feel fine. Thanks so much for checking. Thank you I’ll move my foot. Sorry.

  Apart from that time she was in the cafeteria every day. She thinks to herself—because outside was so cold! And buying lunch in the cafeteria was undeniably cheaper. She eats a lot of boiled vegetables.

  She eats a lot of boiled vegetables but he is always on his feet and their conversations are short—

  But you are brasileira?

  But you grew up here?

  But where were you born?

  But you are English?

  He greets her in Portuguese, calls her inglesinha, sometimes brasileira.

  That weekend she tried out the bike. It was a little tall for her but it was fast and light and blue. Her dad had got her all the safety accessories and she screwed the lights onto the back and handle bars.

  She cycled to Jade’s house in Streatham. She cycled through the park, which was still bare and unleafy but beginning to squelch wet with mud and little football boots. That weekend she went to Jade’s house in Streatham and they watched a film on her mini projector.

  When she opened the door Jade’s mum, slow smiling Jade’s mum, asked her how she was. She said—I’m good. I’m great. She sat in the living room under a blanket in the warm. Jade’s mum made them chicken kievs. Jade’s mum said how good it was to see her. Yes.


  When she left she said—Thank you for having me. And it’s good to be here, to see you too.

  She smiled and Jade’s mum hugged her.

  Later she turned her new bike lights on. She cycled back home through the common, which was something her dad would have preferred her not to do.

  The next week on a Tuesday, she hangs back in the cafeteria when he is there, and after practising in her head over and over she asks—Tiago, where in Brazil do you come from?

  Belo Horizonte. Have you ever been there?

  Yes! Ages ago.

  As she says this she remembers that when they went there it had just been to change planes, and she hadn’t even left the airport.

  On the next Tuesday she sees him and he sees her and he asks her how she is.

  Um

  What is it you do?

  I erm

  She bleeds all over her face

  I do like reports on Brazil

  I’m very busy.

  She nods her head.

  You know work is—she widens her eyes and, sighing like she’d seen the older adult women in the office do, she shakes her face, hands open palms on either side of her head—work is just crazy.

  He looks at her.

  Immediately, she feels embarrassed.

  Ah é?

  He looks at her. She touches at the sleeves of her blazer.

  That evening she still felt embarrassing in the bath. Cringing she told herself to forget about it. She could never go to the cafeteria again of course. But who cares she could bring lunch in instead. Who cares

  She breathes in the hot bath smell

  When the bubbles die she looks down into the green-like water. She touches her belly. She touches her foot, her toes her toe nails

  this foot

  this foot

  these feet

  this leg calf and thigh thigh and

  this belly

  this back

  these arms, hands and elbows

  She still had long days when she thought

  look at this broken body

  look at this broken up body

  On the first bright day of the year she was walking to a meeting in a new part of London when a small round woman with grey hair approached her, beginning a question in English and ending it in Portuguese.

  I can help you, senhora.

  She needed to find this building, she said, getting out her phone and opening a WhatsApp conversation, it was not easy to find this building.

  What’s the address?

  She looked at the WhatsApp message.

  The lady didn’t have an English sim, otherwise she would have found it herself. She knew how to use Mapas, ahem.

  The woman held onto her arm. She was staying with her daughter in Kilburn who had told her to come there at one p.m. to sign up for the English lessons.

  I know this place. It’s really close. Let me walk you over.

  Her daughter was a nurse at the hospital in Hammersmith. Her husband was English, he was called Carl, and he was a software engineer. Carl was a very tall man.

  Mmhmm.

  In the building there was a small queue. The woman didn’t let go of her arm, so they stood close to each other, together.

  In the queue the lady turned to her—

  And what about her? How old was she

  Where was she from?

  South London

  No no but in Brazil where was she from?

  Oh um

  Then the receptionist said—Yes next please hello there.

  But there had been a two-hour window!

  Right

  And why had she arrived right at the end of the window?

  Well

  She looked at the printout.

  These lessons were very popular, didn’t she know?

  Yes yup.

  Without translating she shrugged on the old woman’s behalf.

  The receptionist said—Can you bring your mother back tomorrow?

  Um

  Really, she should have come earlier.

  Right

  The old woman looked up.

  But

  You should know our English lessons are very popular.

  The old woman looked at her.

  She paused.

  Then, putting on her most polite and reasonable and most middle-class voice, she said—Yes of course I am so sorry.

  The receptionist rolled her eyes.

  But—she leant forwards—but since my mother is already here, could she not sign up?

  The receptionist rolled her eyes.

  Thank you.

  She smiled at the receptionist. Thank you.

  I can allow your mother to sign up although I cannot guarantee her a place.

  Smiling. Oh thank you. I really appreciate it.

  She really should have come earlier.

  Yes. Of course.

  After hearing her explanation, the old lady frowned. But this was the time that her daughter had told her to come by? Why was it all booked up? Was it really all booked up? What else was she meant to have done? Why do they say they have a window if what they really mean is get here at eleven a.m.?

  She opened her mouth to reply. There was a queue forming behind them. The meeting she was meant to be in had started.

  Still too embarrassed to go back to the cafeteria, she started cooking in the evening and bringing lunch in. That week she ate it sitting at her desk but on Wednesday Nathan, who sat next to her, bought sushi and they sat eating together on the square sofas without arm rests.

  As usually happened Nathan talked a lot and she listened.

  I learnt Spanish in Colombia—Nathan looked at her—I worked at a mountain bike rental shop in the holidays during uni.

  Oh. Nice.

  I spent over four months there.

  Oh did you do a year abroad?

  No no I mean ahem four months cumulatively. Over two years

  She frowned at him.

  I don’t think that’s how that works, Nathan.

  No yeah sorry.

  She paused.

  Otherwise I’d have spent like years of my life in—

  Yeah yeah of course. Obviously.

  She looked at him and then looked at her food.

  I love South America. I’d love to go to Brazil

  He looked at her.

  Yeah? I mean you should then.

  Yeah?

  Yeah. The weather is pretty great.

  He looked at her, listening.

  She looked at her food. I mean it depends where you go I suppose obviously it’s a huge country the temperature and climate vary so much

  Right.

  Nathan put a piece of sushi in his mouth.

  Then he said—I’ve heard the parties are great.

  Yeah—

  She thought of her grandparents eating breakfast, coffee and toasted bread with cheese, and of her grandmother peeling mango for her in the morning.

  Yeah.

  But I’m going to America at Easter.

  Where?

  East coast. New York, Boston.

  She took a last bite of her spaghetti and closed her tupperware.

  You know Nathan, America is a continent, two continents in fact.

  Oh

  You should call it the US. Or the United States.

  Oh right.

  She held her tupperware in her lap.

  Just FYI.

  On Thursday when she had to go to the basement she avoided the big glass doors to the cafeteria. She worried that she would see Tiago in the lift or on the street by the entrance, but she didn’t.

  On Monday evening she stood on the tube at rush hour on the way home and on the seat closest to her a woman with long braids in a bun sat with her son, who looked about three and was wearing a red puffer jacket. And he was eating a muffin and his mum was wiping his face, and he was getting crumbs everywhere and inside his coat and she was laughing while trying to catch them.

  Meu filho you are making a mess!
>
  The kid didn’t respond. He looked up and made eye contact with the woman standing above him, holding onto the ceiling rail.

  She smiled at him.

  He stopped eating and looked at her without smiling.

  His mother followed his gaze—Sorry!

  No no—Head shake, shake smile.

  Tá vendo? The woman said, wiping her son’s mouth again—Para com isso, no more mess! People are looking at you!

  He was smiling, pouting and his mum began to laugh and as she wiped his jacket, his mum picked him up and put him in her lap and kissed him on the face.

  This is what the woman standing up wants to say—Que fofinho! Que lindinho!

  She tests Portuguese lines in her head with different emphasis.

  Que fofo! Que lindinho!

  She wants to say—You don’t need to switch into English to speak to me. I’m not like the other people on this tube.

  She tests Portuguese lines in her head.

  The driver announces Vauxhall, and the woman does up her son’s jacket and asks him if he has everything. She stands and her son stands too. She smiles.

  The doors open.

  As the spring began again, in the mornings which were so much brighter and lighter earlier, she began to get the trouble in the mornings again.

  She sat on the toilet in a blouse and pants holding her phone, typing an email that at first said:

  Hi, I’m so sorry—tube delays!

  And then said:

  Heya, so sorry—dog emergency!

  But eventually became:

  Gareth, I’m so sorry—awful cramps! In at lunch.

  She didn’t get dressed. She lay over the duvet on the bed in her blazer, her legs and arms and body flat.

  She read the message again and pressed send. She was pleased with the last version. It was more convincing than the previous drafts, would almost certainly preclude any further enquiries from Gareth and was impossible to cross-reference with the TFL website.

  But, she thought as she lay on her back, but most days it was better. Overall, it was getting better—this year the urgent need to shit only occasionally forced her out of bed in the morning. For this she was grateful.

  That year she had only spent one afternoon all curled on the cold floor of the big organisation toilets. She hadn’t forgotten the lady who always nodded at her with concern when they met in the loo, or by the little kitchen. She was almost sure the lady was Latin American. The lady was short like her mum but in a uniform. But she was always too whole body embarrassed to ever begin a conversation so she didn’t know which country the lady was from or anything else. What would they talk about anyway Hello, hi hi yes absolutely fine ha ha thanks thank you