The Inheritance

by Sheena Kalayil

  Afterwards, the owner of the guesthouse insisted the girls drink coffee and eat a snack in his office, where they both sat primly, Seline having thrown a shawl over her young cousin’s costume. It was agreed that Rita would dance three times a week for the duration of her stay: at that the owner smacked his lips, bowed and smiled obsequiously. They took their leave: thank you, Uncle. In the autorickshaw on the way back through the ancient narrow streets, they had held onto each other, in stitches at the owner’s patent avoidance of what had become glaringly obvious: he would be reaping the rewards, gratis, from offering a talented, charismatic performer.

  As always, she felt a closeness to her cousin: not old, not unattractive by any means, with her fine features and thick hair, but considered as such, in that unopposed, assumed way that Rita found unpalatable. It came from the same place that regarded her mother as faulty for bearing her children late. Why shouldn’t Seline dance with her? she suggested. They could make up a folk dance. The guests would appreciate anything, really. But Seline had laughed heartily in response. ‘Oh no,’ she wiped her eyes. ‘You are what they want to see, Reetiekutty. Not someone like me,’ brushing aside Rita’s protests. ‘No,’ she continued, ‘I’ll be there to make sure you don’t run off with one of the guests.’ Then she guffawed at Rita’s stricken expression. ‘Come on, Reetiekutty! Don’t be too serious.’ It was what Ben had said. And perhaps then she could have shared with her cousin the news of her tryst, but immediately she dismissed the idea. Here, in this domain – another domain that made her who she was – what had happened, what might happen again, the pleasure she gained from something so wrong seemed wholly inexcusable, inexplicable.

  Three weeks passed – halfway through. The morning had been spent with Seline in the shop, the afternoon with her mother, who was sewing a sari blouse for a neighbour: everyone it seemed was intent on occupying her every minute. It was a hot night, a non-dancing night; the ceiling fan above her was ineffectual. She slept in Seline’s room, but her cousin was working late on an inventory, and so she was alone. She sat up on the bed and pulled out her notebook. Before she knew it, she was writing his name and hers, in a heart, to join the others she had doodled, alongside the short phrases she had written, trying to express what she was feeling. Her mother entered, her hair in her bedtime plait hanging down one shoulder.

  ‘Not sleeping, mol? Urrannunnille?’

  She closed her notebook, shook her head. Her mother sat next to her, then leaned forward to bury her face in her daughter’s hair. The gesture was familiar, loving, and her heart ached. There was such an essence of goodness in her mother, with her trusting nature that teetered on the naive; her own family had not appreciated her. How must it have felt, to be unvalued by your parents?

  ‘Are you enjoying?’ her mother asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Thank you, mol, for coming with us like this. I know it’s a long time, but you give me strength.’

  ‘Are you all right, Ma?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ her mother sighed.

  She placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder, bony under her touch. What did they talk about? Her mother always spoke in Malayalam; she replied in English. Most of the time their relationship consisted of being near each other, not conversing: in the kitchen, when she helped her mother with her sewing, at gatherings. It was as if they sought womb-like, silent interactions. Perhaps because a baby in the belly could not misbehave, collect misdemeanours, deceive. Her mother stroked her hair.

  ‘Why was it such a big deal?’ Rita asked. ‘Why was it such a big deal that you didn’t have Joychetta immediately? Why did they have to make you feel so bad?’

  Her mother was silent for some time and then she spoke: ‘You know, most couples have a baby within a year of marriage. Your father and I had to wait nine years before we could tell people we were expecting Joy.’

  ‘It’s none of their business . . .’

  Her mother smiled. ‘But it is, in a way. My parents were thinking, did we choose the right man? His parents were thinking, what’s wrong with this girl? Why else get married if not to have a family?’

  She said nothing, thought of the notebook under her pillow: his name, the silly love heart she had drawn.

  ‘You didn’t choose for Joychetta,’ she said finally.

  ‘Yes,’ her mother nodded. ‘He arranged everything himself, that’s true. But that’s not easy for a girl.’

  She leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder and felt an arm tighten around her.

  ‘Maybe you can help me with some sewing tomorrow?’ her mother said. ‘I have three sari blouses to make. The lady gave it very late . . .’

  She had smiled, squeezed her mother back, her heart pounding and hollow at the same time. Her mother’s words hung heavy: why else get married if not to have a family? Why, she wondered, did Ben and his wife not have children? That night, she lay in bed, the notebook still under her pillow, and as much as she tried to indulge in bittersweet reminders of Ben Martin, of the illicitness but immutability of their affair, as she had done every night since he had held her and they had reconciled in his office, she found that it was her mother’s face, that tortured expression, the burdened way she had comported herself in her childhood village, that filled her thoughts.

  On returning another three long weeks later, she had only to wait a day before he called her. So he had kept in mind the dates she had given him, and any resolve to resist the temptation to see him again disappeared at the sound of his voice. He was glad she had enjoyed her holiday in India. Did she have many plans for the rest of the summer? He was wondering if she planned to return earlier than the start of term. He had some papers to organise, had he already mentioned them? Well, he had applied for some funds to pay for a research assistant. He knew of a room that was available at a decent rate – one of the administrators was looking for a lodger. If she agreed, perhaps he could make her lunch, over which they could discuss the details of her tasks.

  Near midday, she rang the doorbell of his flat, in a converted old school near the river, to have him open the door with a happiness on his face that swept away any doubts she had harboured. He complimented her on her summer dress, kissed her on the cheek. There was no mention of the papers he needed organising, as if he had only given such a performance in case his phone was tapped. He had invited her so that he could see her again. His wife, it appeared, was away for the week visiting family in Brighton.

  Standing at the island in their kitchen-living room, he stirfried some noodles while she sat on a bar stool, feeling grown-up, feeling wooed: he wanted to feed and water her before anything else happened that afternoon. She ran her finger over the rim of her wine glass, her head becoming lighter. While they ate, he was full of questions: what was the monsoon like? This antique shop: what exactly do you sell? She described the heavy old wooden doors with their rich inlays, taken from decrepit houses and temples; the oars from the fishing boats that were in the boat races; the myriad brass vessels and door bells and prayer wheels that were collected from the remote, defunct temples in the mountains. As she spoke, he watched her lips, her eyes; he seemed ravished by her, and this made her articulate and breathless at the same time. After the meal, he filled her glass with more wine. What music did she like? The usual, she had replied, self-conscious. He said, I’ll play you some tracks.

  She moved over to the living area, where, above the mantelpiece, as in his parents’ house, hung a painting: the viewer was on a rocky hill, looking down onto a valley of purples and browns and greens.

  She asked, ‘Is this your brother’s?’

  He glanced over and nodded, then added, ‘It’s the view from the garden of the farm my father grew up on.’

  She inspected it. It did not have the wantonness of the other painting she had seen; there was a stillness to the landscape, evoking silence and warmth. She turned away and ran through the titles arranged on the shelves, just as she had perused those in his parents’ house. She found his two
books, lifted one off the shelf. Daughters of Africa: Women’s Stories from Post-colonial Zimbabwe. It fell open at the acknowledgements page: My gratitude to Patricia Zigomo-Walther for her invaluable assistance and guidance; and again to her and Michael Walther for their warm hospitality. Some pages slipped through her fingers so she arrived at the dedication: For Clare. She snapped the book shut, returned it to the shelf. Next to it was another, authored by Patricia Zigomo-Walther, the strapline reading: With an introduction by Ben Martin. She was looking into his life, his achievements, none of which involved her. Her involvement: here, now, this living room, the bedroom down the short hall to the right.

  He was ready, he said, bade her to sit on the sofa, which she did, curling her legs up beside her, while he knelt on the rug in front of his music player, his hair falling onto his forehead, his T-shirt stretched across his chest. He played several songs, drumming a beat on his leg: tunes she could not recognise. Erratic melodies and complex harmonies, mellow voices singing in languages she could not understand. He might have been trying to mask a nervousness: she saw how he fumbled once, putting in a CD. It was your birthday when you were in India, wasn’t it? he said at one point, studying an album sleeve. I remember from your student records. Nineteen years old. Then, without lifting his eyes, I’m thirty-eight, a miserable old bastard. It was her moment for a clever riposte, but she said, without thinking, you’re not miserable. He threw his head back and laughed with too much mirth for what her inadvertent wit deserved. But when he stopped, a smile on his lips, his eyes were grave. And then he stood up and walked to where she was sitting and knelt again, in front of her, his hands sliding up her calves, over her knees, under her dress and onto her thighs, leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, as she felt her whole body tingle under his touch. When he stood up, he slipped an arm under her legs, picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.

  This time was different. He undressed her slowly, unhooking clasps and opening buttons as if savouring every revelation. And when he pulled his own T-shirt off, and she placed her hands on his chest, slid them across to his armpits, then down to meet together at his navel, she felt him shudder beneath her fingers, as if he had waited in agony for her touch. Other than their own breathing, a silence around them, the room bathed in a muted light. Making her lie back and pulling a pillow under her hips, his head between her thighs; finding that she needed to bite down on her hand so she would not be too loud. Other differences: a condom, a whole bed to spread over, their limbs finding every corner. And then the feeling that he could not get close enough, his weight crushing her, hooking an arm under one of her knees, so that she could feel his every movement, feel him in every cell of her body. A sheet to cover themselves after, his arms pulling her close to his chest.

  By late evening the August sunshine was still pouring in through the tall windows and they were still lying in the bed: in his bedroom, the marital bedroom. She had tried not to notice the many details of his wife: the pots of moisturiser on the dressing table, the flashes of colour from the wardrobe. In the bathroom which she had asked to use earlier, she had opened the medicine cabinet to see an array of vitamins and pills, hair accessories, dental floss. She lay on her side in their bed, trying to still the tenseness that was building in her if she let her eyes dart around the room. He seemed relaxed, guiltless, even when this was surely the ultimate in treachery.

  ‘Should I return your dad’s book?’ she asked. Easier to speak of his father than it was to acknowledge that he had a present, a wife. He didn’t answer at first; he was rummaging under the bed and produced a cigarette.

  ‘Just the one,’ he said. Then, ‘No, keep it. They were glad to hear that I’d lent it to a conscientious young mind.’ After which he turned to smile at her. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘I’ve not finished it,’ she said.

  ‘Finding it hard going?’ He laughed. ‘I won’t pretend that my dear old dad writes the most accessible stuff. But his heart was in the right place when he wrote it.’

  ‘And is that what it was like? When you were growing up?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not really. It’s my dad’s childhood, growing up on a farm. Mine was pretty tame. Very white, very middle-class, very bohemian. My parents are a couple of old hippies. That was probably the only point of note. We lived near the university where my dad was a lecturer. I went to the school where my mum taught geography, played cricket. Pretty normal stuff.’

  He stubbed his cigarette out and turned abruptly to face her, pulling her closer. Then, ‘Tell me more about yourself. You’re very secretive.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She buried her face in the warmth of his cheek.

  ‘You are. Like some kind of honey-trap.’ He laughed, kissing her ear. ‘Are you? Are you a spy, sent to seduce me?’

  She shook her head, her heart soaring at the word seduce, so grown up, endowing her with powers she did not know she had. She felt his hands in her hair, gently tugging, then on her back, the base of her spine.

  ‘What’s your favourite book, Rita? Answer immediately, your first thought.’

  ‘Jane Eyre.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ He leaned back on the pillow. ‘The wife in the attic.’

  There was a silence as they both contemplated his words. He turned to her. ‘I don’t have an attic, by the way.’

  She smiled weakly. ‘But you have a wife.’

  He nodded, holding her eyes.

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  He tilted his head as if he needed to calculate. ‘Nearly eight years.’ Then, ‘But we’ve been together for much longer.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘As undergrads at Oxford. At a party.’

  She turned over; the tears had arrived unannounced and were hot, bitter, splashing onto the pillow.

  ‘Rita.’ He stroked her shoulder, touched his lips to her skin, then he moved in closer, slipping his arm around her.

  ‘What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?’

  He was silent for a long time.

  ‘What is happening,’ he said, his voice light, ‘all of this. It’s all me. You have nothing to feel bad about. Nothing to feel responsible for. It’s all me.’

  She did not respond, and he continued: ‘I’m not without a conscience, but anything I say will sound patronising. That it’s complicated. That it’s not as simple as you imagine.’

  ‘Is it because she’s unwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you sleep with her?’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘Do you do all this stuff?’

  He was silent for some heartbeats.

  ‘Not for some time,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Do you still love her?’

  He sighed; she felt his breath against her ear.

  ‘The honest answer is probably yes, but in a very different way from when we got married or when we were going out.’ He paused. ‘We’ve known each other a long time.’

  She let her shoulders slump, pressed her nose against the pillow.

  ‘What are you feeling, Rita? Speak to me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Jealous,’ she whispered back.

  ‘Jealous?’ He sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘I’ll never be able to catch up,’ she whispered again.

  His body relaxed against hers; she felt the hair on his chest tickle her back.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he whispered again. Then he kissed her shoulder and then her neck, his hands slipping onto her breasts. She was already turning back, her mouth yearning. ‘Really no need to be jealous.’

  ‘I love you.’ She was helpless, could not stop the words or the gulp that accompanied them.

  He was laughing, kissing her mouth, and she struggled, angry at his reaction, her hands in fists now against his chest, pushing him away. But he held her tighter, whispered, ‘No, sorry, don’t be offended. I’m just so very happy.’

  After, she had used the bathroom again, this time refus
ing to succumb to her curiosity, open any more drawers. He had said before she left the bed, what you said, I feel it too. I just didn’t want to do a vice versa. And it’s something more: I want to dive into you, into your depths, protect you. And then he had caught himself, smiled ruefully: probably from men like me. She had mulled over his words, uncertain whether she had these depths he referred to, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Back in the bedroom, she had gone to stand by the window, look down at the street below and the river beyond, wrapped in a towel, knowing his eyes were on her. She turned to look at him as the shutter clicked.

  ‘Couldn’t resist,’ he said. ‘You just look so incredibly lovely with your hair all around you like that. That tan line on your shoulder.’ But when he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, he tossed the camera aside. ‘To capture the moment is all,’ he said. ‘To capture you.’

  Later, she said she needed to leave, and he agreed, adding apologetically that the neighbours and the woman who owned the art gallery across the road were the sort to take note of comings and goings. A reminder that what happened between them needed to be hidden. He would walk her to the bus stop, he said, and when she slipped on her jacket at his front door, he straightened her collar, did up the buttons as if she were a child, as if he were wrapping a gift. Then he leaned forward, his thumb caressing the back of her neck and kissed her. Will you come back tomorrow? he whispered. That he felt he needed to ask her when she wanted to spend every waking and sleeping minute with him filled her heart. She nodded, and he kissed her lips again before they left the building. They arranged that they would meet the next morning in the departmental reading room: he would show her the documents that needed filing. The light was just beginning to fade. It was already nine o’clock: they had spent hours together. When they reached the bus stop, he whispered, See you tomorrow.