‘Of course.’
He settled on the armchair, and his father turned his chair around. ‘There’s still some tea in the pot . . .’
‘I’m fine.’
He wanted to say, I’ve found her. The encounter with the girl had proceeded as differently as he could have imagined, but in truth had he even imagined it? From gazing at an image he had found a voice, a face, a hand in his, a body. He had even met her mother, as if he were a suitor asking for her hand.
‘I’ve not asked what you’re working on at the moment,’ his father said, leaning back in his chair. He was wearing his usual heavy fisherman’s sweater, corduroy trousers. He had aged well, exuding the sensitivity expected from a writer of his calibre, overlaid with an unconfused maleness; both he and Ben had inherited these same attributes. From their mother, they had received different things. Although people always commented on the brothers’ likeness, he knew Ben had his mother’s eyes and mouth. Whereas he had acquired his mother’s instinctive wariness of good fortune.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve been invited to submit something for next spring. Still thinking about it . . .’
His father nodded. The writing shed was cold, but his father seemed unwilling to leave. They stayed quiet for some moments, then his father picked up a manuscript from the desk, bound in a soft cover, showed it to him: ‘I’m reading this again.’
It was Clare’s Master’s dissertation, written nearly fifteen years ago: a study of three writers. His father smiled. ‘I’d forgotten how good it is,’ he said, then passed it over.
He stared at the cover page, turned it over and over in his hands, then opened it. He would not read it, he knew. He could not even remember if he ever had. He had neglected his sister-in-law, and by proxy his brother, who had invested nearly eighteen years of his life with the writer of the manuscript he was holding.
‘You know,’ his father was saying, ‘she came to talk to me about her plans to do a doctorate once. It must have been ninety-eight or ninety-nine or something. I wasn’t long in London. It would have only been the second or third time I’d met her.’ He paused. ‘I can honestly say it was the most intimate conversation Clare and I ever had.’
They were both quiet.
‘She didn’t really need my advice,’ his father continued. ‘But I was touched that she asked.’
‘I wonder what she made of us all,’ he said.
His father laughed. ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’
What would have been his most intimate conversation with Clare? He sifted through his mind; they had rarely been together on their own. There was one exchange: when Ben and Clare had come to Lisbon, to recuperate after the last failed IVF treatment, just before she succumbed to her illness. They had stayed in his flat; he had given them his bed and had slept on the camp bed. It was the first morning. Ben was having a shower, and he and Clare were taking in the view from one of his balconies. She was not yet aloof: that would come later in the visit. She was still relaxed, smiling up at him as he pointed out some of the sights: the Tagus, the castle, then, just visible, the Sé. This place suits you down to the ground, Francois, she had said. He had not been sure what she had meant; he was not even sure she could profess to know him well enough to make that judgement. She had continued: I envy you, you know. You’re such a free spirit. How had he responded? He had made some joke; they had laughed. Not long after, Ben had joined them and she had repeated her diagnosis. He remembered a brief instance of incomprehension had flitted across his brother’s face.
Could that count as an intimate conversation? He had suspected that she had been implicitly accusing him: that rather than being a free spirit, he was selfish and self-centred, disinterested in commitment, marriage, family life. He felt that none of these descriptions suited him. Yes, he had divorced Paula, but not because he didn’t want to be committed. Only because he knew that he couldn’t be committed to her. And what followed in his life seemed governed as much by chance than by any effort on his part to engineer where he lived, who he was with.
He handed Clare’s dissertation back to his father.
‘How are you doing, Francois?’ His father’s voice was low.
He waited. His father never asked extraneous questions; he deserved worthy responses.
‘At a crossroads,’ he said finally. At a loss, he added to himself.
He knew that he could have said to his father then, I’ve met her, and so have you. The girl Ben chose, possibly to usurp Clare. But he didn’t, and then his mother was calling them in to have dinner.
It was some days later that the girl phoned him, and they met in a café. And it was later that night when he had returned again to his parents’ house – this time with an unshakeable sense that by letting her go he was letting his brother down – that she had phoned again and asked to see the graves. By then it was clear he would not be able to dismiss the girl, return to Lisbon without seeing her again. He had in fact already planned to return to her parents’ house and lie in wait: stalk her, stake her. But twice by then she had herself initiated a meeting; she was as well – even if she would not admit it – unwilling to let go of him, the reminder of his brother.
Watching her stand quietly in front of the small stones, then lower herself so she was sitting on her haunches, her hair falling forward so it eclipsed her face, reading and re-reading the epitaphs, he had been free to observe her, as if she were his muse. She was young, heartbroken. The affair: it had consumed her. The death of his brother, and of the woman they had both betrayed: these lay heavily inside her. His heart had gone out to her, and it was then that his role presented itself to him. He would bring her back with him, shelter her, until she was ready to face the world again.
It was still dark when he woke; the sky was only just turning a rose red. He rolled off the camp bed. His leg felt numb – he must have slept in an awkward position. He glanced at the other end of the room. She was still asleep, her body curled up on its side like a foetus. He changed quickly and quietly, slipped out of the flat, then down the stairs onto the street. The air was clear and chilly; his lungs drank in the sweetness. Thinking of his lungs always pushed him to run faster and go further; he would never give up, he knew, but he had managed to cut down to the occasional, restorative cigarette. He followed his usual route. Then, returning to Alfama, he ran repeatedly up and down the steps, punctuating each couplet with pull-ups on the handy children’s swing frame at the top and press-ups at the bottom, his hands slipping on the chilled cobbles. An old woman pulling a wheeled basket passed, chuckling, ‘Bom dia, meu filho.’ When he had finished, he jogged down and found a bench near the Panteão. The Feira da Ladra was setting up for the morning. He waved to some of the regulars, and when one offered him a cigarette, with a cheeky smile, he shook his head. He sat back on the bench and watched the stall holders arrange their tables, then looked across past the white dome to where the land fell away, the cliff beyond which lay the river.
He had held Rita for what seemed an age; the music had continued playing, as if they were supposed to be dancing, not simply standing entwined but motionless, his lips in her hair. Her breath fanned his neck; her body was pressed against his, whether purposely or not, but in a manner which was trustful, yielding, disarming. He had been holding up her weight for some minutes when he realised that she was asleep, the deep sleep of the young. So he had scooped her up and moved to the bed. The feel of her in his arms – her head against his shoulders, her silky hair spilling over his one arm, the feel of her thighs on the other – only emphasised the intimacy of the moment. They were alone in his flat, it was dark outside, there was no one to intrude. He had laid her on the bed and crouched down beside her. There were tracks from her tears on her cheeks. Her lips were puckered, plump. A sleeping beauty, waiting for a kiss from a prince. He observed the drops of red wine on the front of her dress and a streak on her chest, a sticky reminder, considered undressing her, so she would not sleep in her stained clothes. But the thought of peeling off her dress, pull
ing her tights over her hips to bare her delicate hip bones, her neat briefs and slender legs, just as once his brother would have done, was suddenly, shockingly appealing, and it was this realisation which made him rise abruptly to his feet and take a step back. He had thrown the quilt over her and returned to his wing, turned the music and the lights off, and lay down on his camp bed, his heart pounding. At some point, in the stillness of the night, he had fallen asleep.
He shut his eyes, and when he opened them all he saw was the soaring white dome, the trestle tables, the benches: his adopted home, but now he felt the familiar restlessness that had usually presaged a change in his circumstances. He folded his arms, scuffed the ground with his toe. That evening at the bar, Lucie had said, she cannot compensate you. It was one of the very few times when Lucie’s English failed her, when she used a word incorrectly. Usually these moments endeared her to him; that night he had remained unmoved. She meant: she cannot replace your brother. But it was just as possible that she meant, she cannot compensate for . . . for what? Whatever, he could not push aside the feeling that Lucie was now in his past: he had moved on. We just pick people up and drop them, Ben had said, those years ago.
He watched his foot make circles in the ground, as if attempting to hypnotise himself, place himself in a trance, so he could behave and speak as he should, not as he truly wanted. For the truth was that he was not only enjoying Rita’s presence in his life, he was beginning to feel that she belonged to him. The evening before, at the party, Gildo’s nephew had been shamelessly transparent in his designs. But what was also patent: the young man meant nothing to Rita. It was as if the pleasure of her company was only on loan from him, Francois. Her eyes kept travelling back to his, even as Ricki’s hands were on her body, as if seeking permission or approbation. She had sought him in moments of respite, sitting in his shadow, her knees brushing against his leg; if he reached out, he could have stroked her hair, her face. And then, after, her anger, the music she had played, the coquetry she had mocked him with, her body in his arms, and the sadness that emanated from her like radioactive waves – all had imbued the evening with a sensuality that had derailed him. When he had laid her on the bed, he had wanted to make love to the girl.
He watched the smoke curl from a chimney pot ahead, much as it would curl from a cigarette, which he was now wishing he had accepted. The stall holders were numerous, and groups of bargain-hunters were gathering in wait. He stood up, flexed his arms and legs, waved a goodbye to the regulars and jogged back to the set of steps which led to his street. She was still asleep when he let himself back in the flat, and it was only after he had showered and was pulling on his jeans that she awoke. She raised herself on one elbow. Her eyes were unfocused, but otherwise her face was unravaged from the events of the previous night – a gift of youth. He slipped on a T-shirt, turned to her.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Good morning.’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘How’s your head?’
She tilted it one way and then the other.
‘Terrible.’
‘I’ll get you some aspirin.’
In the kitchen, he found a packet of soluble tablets and returned with a large glass of water. She moved her feet to make some room in invitation, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, in awe of the vast reserves of trust she placed in him. He should not offer Rita refuge and then re-enact the situation she had fled. His thoughts of earlier seemed now even more misplaced.
She gulped the water and then put the glass down on the floor next to her.
‘Sorry for behaving badly last night,’ she said in a small voice.
He smiled. ‘Was that the worst you could do?’
When she smiled back, bashfully, he felt a tug of some kind inside him. He stood up.
‘Give me your dress when you’re ready, and I’ll put it in the washing machine. I’m not sure it will work . . .’
‘It’s my fault.’ She fell back on the bed, her arm over her eyes. He moved into the kitchen and heard her footsteps behind him as she entered the bathroom. The shower started running. He would suggest they visit the Gulbenkian; they could play tourists. He could be guide to the enchanting city; last night could be forgotten.
He was making the coffee when he heard his phone ringing in the living room, then click to voice message.
Francois, hi, it’s Jane again. Could you phone back, please? There’s something I’d like to talk about. It’s to do with Clare and Ben. I went back . . .
He rushed through to the other room.
‘Jane? It’s Francois.’
‘Oh, hello there.’ Her voice sounded even more clipped and English on the phone.
‘Sorry I didn’t call back. I’ve been up to my eyes . . .’
‘Yes. Actually, I should have got in touch when you were in London, but what with Christmas and the kids . . .’
‘Yes, of course, don’t worry.’
He waited.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I went back up. You know, to the flat. With my husband this time. So we could think about what to do.’
Part of him could pretend to himself that he expected her to ask: which was more pragmatic? To sell or rent? Realistically, how often were either of them going to go up north? But the other part of him, already braced for the next thread to be teased from the fabric of his brother’s life, was not surprised when she said, ‘There’s something bothering me, about Clare and Ben. I’m quite sure Ben was having an affair. A different one, I mean. Recently, I mean.’
He paused; his heart was racing again. The girl was still in the bathroom, out of earshot.
‘Really?’ he said, trying to keep his voice indifferent. ‘And what makes you think that?’
‘Well, firstly, her writing,’ she said. ‘I’ve been reading what she was writing. It’s a journal, of a kind.’
He remained silent. Let her do the work, he thought.
‘In an entry from a month before the accident, she made a note that Ben was acting strangely, like the last time. She must have been referring to his last affair.’
‘Did she always keep a journal?’
‘Not when we were young, but she might have started later. Maybe it was part of a therapy—’
‘So she doesn’t have one dating from when you think Ben supposedly had his first affair with a colleague?’
She seemed taken aback by his tone. But he was allowed to be irate: any brother would defend his younger sibling, wouldn’t he? He swallowed down the bile that had risen to his throat.
‘He did have an affair—’
‘What I mean is, that sentence is rather vague, isn’t it? She could be referring to anything.’
There was a silence.
‘There’s more.’ She spoke again. ‘When we were up there, we popped into that art gallery, you remember? The owner got chatting with us, and she mentioned that Ben had a visitor when Clare had been away.’
He said nothing.
‘An Asian girl. The gallery owner said she saw her several times.’
After a long pause, he spoke, trying to keep his voice unconvinced.
‘Well, it could be that he was helping a student out with something. There’s no need to read anything more into it.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be so . . . defensive.’ Her voice was cold.
Well, what did you expect, he wanted to shout. Rita walked back into the room, her hair wet around her shoulders, wearing a short mauve-coloured towelling robe, bare-legged, barefoot: for all intents like his young lover after a post-coital morning shower.
‘Jane,’ he said. ‘Sorry. This isn’t a good time—’
‘I just wanted to ask if you found anything among Ben’s effects—’
He did not hesitate. ‘No—’
‘that might have made you wonder—’
‘No, nothing comes to mind. Look,’ he glanced at his watch as if he were really going to keep a promise. ‘Shall I call you later? I’m sorry, but I’ve got something on
and—’
‘Just a minute.’ Her voice was icily calm now, commanding. ‘You know what the university is planning, don’t you? I just think if Ben was unfaithful that it’s a bit ironic—’
‘The university?’
‘A scholarship or something in his name. For female students to do research into women’s rights issues.’ Then she paused. ‘Didn’t you know?’
He scrambled around under the camp bed and looked at his mobile: two missed calls from his mother yesterday.
‘Yes, well, someone Ben worked with, Patricia something or the other. She and her husband are setting up a fund. When my parents told me, I just thought: if they only knew.’
‘You haven’t spoken to your parents?’
‘My parents? No, I’ve not spoken to them.’
‘It’s probably better not to,’ he said. ‘When you’re not sure of the facts.’
She was silent.
‘OK,’ she said finally; her tone was brittle. ‘OK.’
‘Yes, take care.’ His own voice sounded hideous. ‘Give my regards to your family, hope you’re all—’
She had hung up.
He turned back and saw that Rita was behind the screen. She had only heard his side of the conversation and would not be able to understand much. He picked up his mobile: his mother had left two messages. He went through to the kitchen and played them. In the first she relayed what he already now knew. The fund that had been mentioned was coming into being. His mother read out the proposed description: The Ben Martin Award for studies in women’s rights issues in sub-Saharan Africa is a £10,000 yearly award offered to a female Zimbabwean or Zimbabwean-origin student who is engaged in research in the stated field. Applicants are requested to submit a letter to John and Louise Martin, and Patricia Zigomo-Walther, sponsors of the award. This award has been set up in memory of Dr Ben Martin, of the Centre of African Studies. Applicants for the award can be studying distance and part-time. What do you think, Francois? his mother asked. Let me know if you have any suggestions. In the next message, she repeated the news, adding that there was no hurry for him to call back; she knew he was very busy.
The Inheritance Page 19
