The Inheritance

by Sheena Kalayil

  It was afterwards, when they were on the train back, that she became aware of him again. He had stayed in the background, as if he understood she needed her own moment, and only after this did he make his play. If you like, he said, you can come and stay with me, until you make up your mind. He understood why she was disinclined to return to the same university, but there were other places. Maybe she should investigate transferring to another institution, then present her parents with a fait accompli.

  She had asked him then, ‘Aren’t you married?’

  ‘I was married,’ he said, ‘but not any more. I have a girlfriend.’ And then, as if pre-empting any questions, ‘I’ll tell her,’ before continuing: they did not live together, she would have her son visiting anyway. She would not mind.

  ‘Did you tell her about me?’ she asked.

  He had taken a few seconds before saying, ‘Yes.’ Then, ‘Does that bother you?’

  She nodded and allowed her hair to fall forward so he would not see her face.

  ‘I know I did something wrong,’ she said. ‘I’m not proud of myself.’

  He had remained quiet. His eyes were dark with concern when she looked up at him.

  ‘Rita,’ he spoke quietly, ‘if we need to apportion blame or responsibility or whatever, then Ben comes out of this worse off.’

  She contemplated his words.

  ‘Because I’m younger? I’m not a child.’ She tried to sound detached, mature, as if inspecting her handiwork. ‘He said that himself once,’ and then glanced at him. He was watching her, hungry for just that kind of comment: for her to narrate the words she and his brother had shared. ‘He said I needn’t worry. But of course that’s not true. I’m just as at fault.’

  He said nothing and she asked, ‘Does anyone else know?’

  He shook his head, a brief movement.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ashamed at how grateful she was that he had not exposed her deceit.

  He was quiet, his hands tapping a gentle beat on his thigh; hadn’t Ben had the same habit? But the man sitting beside her was different with her. There was a deference, a restraint. Any such caution on Ben’s part had been short-lived. She looked out of the train window. They were leaving the graves behind, the two bodies which weren’t even bodies: they were ashes. It was only because of her upbringing that she imagined them as whole, under the earth. Just as even now in her mind she relocated their gravestones to a graveyard in Kerala, the coconut trees whispering above them.

  15

  HE lived on the top floor, no lifts he apologised. He carried her suitcase as she went up ahead, climbing and climbing up the dingy stairwell, while he intermittently banged on the stair-lights, which glowed dully in the gloom. At the top, there was a tiny landing with two doors on either side. ‘The one on the right,’ she could hear him say behind her, and then he was standing next to her, her suitcase still in one hand while he used the other to turn the key in the lock, over and over. He opened the door, stood aside for her to pass in front of him, then stepped in himself and closed the door. ‘Over here,’ he moved to the left down a small corridor, ‘is the kitchen. Small but perfectly formed.’ Then he opened the door at the end through which she spied light spilling into a small bathtub from a skylight above, a plant sitting on the end, ‘Bathroom,’ and then walking back towards her and leading her forwards, ‘Living room cum everything else.’

  It was a large open area, spanning the width of the building. The dark wooden floorboards gleamed in the light falling around them, dazzling her after the gloom of the stairwell and entrance hall. As well as tall windows punctuating the walls, there were two floor-to-ceiling French doors to the front, two more to the side, each with its own small balcony, hemmed in by a wrought-iron railing. As she walked into the space, she saw to her right a bed and wardrobe; in the middle section a sofa and coffee table. There was a small table with four chairs in front of the hatch through which she could see the kitchen. And then, at the other end, under another skylight, a sudden chaos. A stack of canvases, pots, cloths, a wooden bench, an easel: his studio.

  ‘When I bought it, there were three small rooms,’ he was saying. ‘I knocked all the walls down and ended up with this. It works better. At least,’ he smiled down at her, ‘it does for me.’ Then, ‘Do you want to give me your coat?’

  She slid it off her shoulders, then bent and unzipped her boots, slipped them off.

  ‘Shall I leave them here?’

  ‘That’s fine. Thanks.’

  He led her to one of the French doors, pulled at the handle, swinging both glass panes open. They stepped onto the small balcony. ‘In the summer, I leave them open all day. We get a great breeze up here. Just take care.’ The city tumbled down the hill before them.

  He walked back and picked up her suitcase. ‘You take the bed,’ he said. ‘There’s a camp bed over there,’ he pointed to his studio, ‘that I use sometimes anyway. That will be my wing.’ He set the suitcase down next to the bed.

  ‘It’s all very open-plan,’ he continued, ‘but I’ll be there on the camp bed and you’ll have your own space. Actually,’ he paused, thinking, ‘I have a screen that I can put up.’

  He went into the hall and returned with a dark wooden frame, a spray of orchids and lilies on the material stretched across it.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she said, for something to say.

  ‘It comes in useful.’

  ‘For what?’

  He seemed to avoid her eyes. ‘If I have a model over . . .’

  She said nothing more. He arranged the screen at the foot of the bed, then started pulling the bed sheets off, and she walked to the other end, tucking in the fresh sheets, while he produced another quilt from his wardrobe and threw it over the bed. Then he left her, so she opened her suitcase and took out a few things, laid them on the window ledge. When she looked up, she saw that he had moved to the kitchen, and after some hesitation she followed.

  ‘Can I help with anything?’

  He had his head in the fridge, raised it at her voice. ‘There’s nothing to help with. There is literally no food in the house.’ He smiled, shut the door. ‘Why don’t we go out for a bite?’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the square and where the supermarket is, and we can set ourselves up a bit?’

  She used the bathroom, which was pristine but spartan: no sign of his girlfriend’s toiletries. They left the flat, and he gave her a key, showed her how to turn the locks. They walked down the hill towards the main shopping area, the Baixa, and then up the opposite hill.

  ‘This place,’ he said, holding the door open, ‘my favourite place. I first came when I moved here; I was renting on this side of the city. I’d just left Mozambique, and I remember coming here and thinking as I sat down, this is my new life.’ He led her upstairs where there were more tables, a view of the street below. ‘They do a nice seafood rice here. Does that suit you?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Would you like some wine?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll just give our order.’

  She heard him speaking in Portuguese downstairs, and laughter: he was obviously a regular customer. He came bounding up the stairs carrying a stick of bread, a bottle of mineral water and two glasses. He sat down, and as he poured their water he resumed speaking as if he had not stopped.

  ‘I sat here, actually, this same table. And then, over there,’ he pointed, ‘a couple sat down. And then the man gets up and walks over. Turns out they lived in Maputo and were on holiday. They recognised me from the cultural centre I helped run. I remember thinking, I’m not leaving anything behind me, I’m just adding on.’

  He smiled, acknowledging the end of his anecdote.

  ‘Ben said once,’ she said, and she noticed how his ears pricked up, ‘that we were the same, him and me, because we were both kind of immigrants, or at least children of immigrants. But when I think of my parents, they left India to go to London, and that’s that now. It seems so much more uncomplicated than
your family.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve not seen it that way before.’

  ‘We only ever go back to India. But where would going back mean to you?’

  He took some time. Their plates of food arrived, delivered by a woman who kissed Francois on both cheeks, then laid a hand on his shoulder affectionately as they chatted.

  ‘It’s interesting you mention Ben,’ he said when the woman had left. ‘because he had such an affinity with where we grew up. I’m not sure I do . . .’

  He had not answered her question, only alluded to another. She ate quietly. He was similarly quiet, but attentive: tearing her off some more bread, topping up her water. They had nearly finished their plates before he spoke again.

  ‘I have a good friend from my Maputo days, who lives further along the coast from here. He’s invited us to a party at the weekend.’

  ‘What about your girlfriend?’

  ‘She’s busy at the weekend with her son. I’ll phone her tomorrow and ask them to come round for dinner or something this week.’

  He was not looking at her but wiping some crumbs from the table onto his palm.

  ‘Is she cross with you . . . ?’

  He looked up, abashed, his face breaking into a smile. ‘She might be.’ Then, ‘But it’s not just about you.’

  ‘Do you not want to get married again?’

  ‘I’m not the marrying type,’ he grinned. ‘Too set in my ways.’

  ‘But you don’t mind having me around.’

  His smile disappeared, and he spoke hurriedly. ‘Not at all. You can stay as long as you want.’

  She looked out of the window as he went downstairs to pay. There were few people on the street outside; even though it was a capital city, there was an unhurried, contemplative air. They stopped at a supermarket back up the hill where he bought some supplies, then walked back towards the flat, as he pointed out landmarks: if you use the castle to orient yourself, it’s impossible to get lost. That’s where you can buy a tram ticket; if you’re stuck, go and see Jorge in there, he speaks very good English. Then they reached the square, which she recognised, and they sat on a bench, outside the church, listening to a busker, until night fell and the wind became too cold to be sitting still.

  Back in the flat, he insisted that she use the bathroom first; when she returned to the living room, she saw he was in his studio area, papers scattered around him. He did not turn around, evidently trying to give her some modicum of privacy. Good night, she called out, and only then did he turn halfway around, good night, Rita. She lay in the bed, her eyes not fully closed, so she could see when he dropped out of his clothes, walked across the room in his trunks to return later, a towel tied around his waist, drying his hair with another. His body was hard and male, and disconcerting. He had the same broad shoulders and chest tapering to his waist, the same long muscles, the same line of dark hair bisecting his lower abdomen.

  She was unsure whether she would ever sleep, she was so aware of his presence across from her. Earlier that day, they had met at the airport for only the fourth time, as very new acquaintances. Now they were sharing a bathroom, sleeping metres from each other. She could hear him turning the pages of a book, and then the sound of it falling to the ground with a thud. She got up from the bed to use the toilet a last time, and when she was tiptoeing back she could not stop herself looking across. He was fast asleep, half on his stomach, one arm under the pillow, the quilt pushed down to his waist. His whole demeanour was of satisfaction, a job well done: that he had found her and brought her back with him. She climbed back into the bed, pulled the quilt over her, counted the diamonds in the patterns that the windows threw onto the wall before falling asleep.

  16

  WHEN she blinked awake, her first impression was that she was in heaven: the room was filled with a golden light. She peeked around the screen and saw Francois. He was sitting at the small table near the hatch, his legs stretched out before him, a pot of coffee at his side, scooping what looked like porridge from a bowl, already dressed in a pair of cargo trousers and T-shirt. She wriggled under the quilt, pulling on the pyjama bottoms she had taken off for the night, then sat up. She peeked again and saw that he was keeping his eyes considerately averted. There was nothing she could do about her hair, which would be a mess; there was nowhere she could wash her face before she presented herself. She swung her legs off the bed, pulled on a zip-up over the T-shirt she slept in and walked out from behind the screen.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, without raising his head. ‘Coffee? Milk?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He poured her a cup and waited until she was seated before looking up, his eyes crinkling apologetically.

  ‘You don’t have much privacy, do you?’ he said. ‘I should have kept those walls up.’

  She shook her head. ‘It would spoil the whole effect,’ she said, ‘It’s like waking up in the mountains or something. At the top of the world.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of putting it. Thanks.’ He looked pleased with her announcement. He passed her the coffee, and she tucked her feet up in front of her, blew on the hot liquid.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Did you? You must miss your bed . . .’

  ‘I don’t. Like I said, I often sleep on the camp bed. Do you want porridge? Or toast?’

  She watched as he buttered a slice of toast and pushed it over towards her.

  ‘You’ll see that I don’t,’ he said, paused and used air quotes, ‘go out to work as such. But I’ve got to meet some people today and be various places. I’ll be back about five or six, I think. Will you be all right on your own?’

  He reminded her about the keys, then stood up, stacking the plates and placing them on the hatch. Then, pointing to her end, ‘I’ll just get a few more shirts and things.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She sipped her coffee as he opened his wardrobe, pulled out a set of neatly folded clothes. He caught her eye as he walked back across, and she said, ‘Sorry to chuck you out of your wing.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘That’s the last time you need to say that or even think that. I’m an old itinerant at heart.’

  When he left, she walked across the room and opened one of the French doors, leaned on the railings. To her right, she could see the castle, on top of the hill of green trees. The white houses with terracotta-tiled roofs spilled down the incline until they disappeared into the flatness near the port, the Baixa. To her left she could glimpse the river, so wide that it appeared as if it were the ocean that it fed into some miles further ahead. Directly below, the narrow cobbled street. The grey stones were neatly inserted into their positions, mesmerising – as mesmerising as a pattern of black and white tiles.

  She closed the doors and turned back to the room. He had made the camp bed neatly; on the floor next to his bed was the small pile of clothes. She pulled off her zip-up so she was in her thin night T-shirt, and lifted the first item – a long-sleeved shirt – slipped it on. The shirt fell to the same part of her thighs; it swamped her shoulders in a similar way. He had a pair of trainers shoved to one side, and she stepped into them, took a few steps around the flat to the window, and then into his atelier.

  Unlike the rest of the flat, which was minimally furnished, here there was clutter. There were wooden frames of various sizes and several uncompleted canvases. She had not imagined this to be the way an artist worked, but maybe ideas came and went and had to be recorded for later, like jotting down notes in a notebook. There was a stack of canvases on one side, leaning up. One, sandwiched between two larger frames caught her eye, and she slid it out. A figure, naked from the shoulders up, looking over her shoulder. A rush arrived, like boiling water poured into her veins. It was her.

  To capture the moment, to capture you. When she had stood at the window, she had known Ben’s eyes would be following her, just as she had known they were on her as she admired the women in the river. The man who had paint
ed those women was the man who had painted this image, which rendered the tones of her skin and the planes of her form with much more subtlety, grace and harmony than she felt she possessed. It was an unsettling thought: that he had painted her before she had met him. Her heart was beating fast, and she had to take a moment to breathe. She stared at the canvas; the brushstrokes were evidence of what he had taken in. She knew that to evoke such a rich facsimile of a person, he would have spent much time considering the flat two-dimensional image he had found. She could imagine him lying on his bed, or leaning out of his balcony, toying with the controls of the camera, zooming in and zooming out, sliding across one way and then the other, as if she had emerged from behind his screen and was posed in front of his easel, while he held a large magnifying glass in his hand.

  But then hadn’t she done the same: examined the photograph which accompanied the interview she had read without his knowing, scrutinised his features? His wide, open gaze framed by the thick dark eyelashes that he shared with Ben; the dimple that nestled in the stubble on his cheek – this, unlike his brother. She had not then transferred these aspects of him to another medium – she had not his talent – which is all that he had done. She waited until she could feel her muscles relax. It was his idiolect, to paint. The kindness and consideration he was showing her: she should not forget that. She pulled his shirt closer around her. If she was wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, how could she object to him painting her eyes and mouth and hair? She slid the painting back into place in the stack, went back to his camp bed and sat down.