He dropped the book onto the floor, stared down at the cobbles below him. The previous night he had not found Ben in the words he had written. But now he had resurrected his brother’s voice to confirm a nagging suspicion: that despite his awareness of the shaky morality of his feelings, he was beginning to believe the young girl, Rita, who had been introduced into his life by his brother, was an inheritance.
So: he had been wrong. Despite the skin they had been given, which would forever make them stand apart from other men, they were not in fact interlopers; he and his brother were indeed sons of Africa. The spirits had entered their bodies, whispered in their ears, infused their thoughts. His now came thick and fast, unfurling like the smoke from a witchdoctor’s fire, rising and falling to the backbeat of a drum, ululations and stamping feet. The dancers swirled and leapt, landing on dusty ground, spinning and weaving around the flames, their faces aglow; the beat of the music matching the beat of his heart in his chest.
22
HE spent the rest of the morning unable to settle down to anything. After trying unsuccessfully to clear away some of his paperwork, he walked over to Rita’s wing. He stood above the bed: his bed, but it looked like it belonged to her now. She arranged her pillow under the quilt; he always left it on top. She had tucked the ends of the quilt under the mattress, something he never did. She had, in a few days, transformed the small space into her own. On a clothes hanger, hooked to the side of his wardrobe, was the short mauve towelling robe which she wore after her showers. He could immediately picture her wearing it as she walked across the room from the bathroom. He turned his back on her things and returned to safety, which lay beyond the wooden screen. He sent a message, I’m going to Lucie’s, back later, and then left the flat. He wished not to be reminded of her, but, as fate would have it, he saw her walking back up the hill, returning to Alfama.
The sun was on her face; several men turned to watch her pass. She possessed many gifts; no wonder it was easy to think of her as a reward, a prize. Towards the top of the hill, one man spoke to her. She would not have understood what was said, but she could guess, and he saw her give a shy smile and increase her pace. And then a young man detached himself from a group, calling out something that made her stop. She allowed him to draw up to her, allowed him to hold her waist as he kissed her on one cheek and then the other, after which she smiled up into his face. He gestured up the hill, and she nodded. They carried on walking, the young man pressing his hand to the small of her back in a semblance of guiding her: Moises, with his guitar and his charm.
He turned away and tried to still his thoughts, racing, ricocheting off one wall of images – Rita, turning to meet his eyes in the gallery – to another – Rita bending over the photograph of his brother, which became Rita bending over Ben, her hair falling onto his face – to another – Rita, naked, in front of him, an inherited wife. Approaching the stop, he had to make a conscious effort to lift himself out of the mire of his brother’s words, his brother’s mistress, to appear normal and happy when Lucie came out of the school.
But she had appeared light-hearted herself, greeting him with a breezy kiss, pushing her sunglasses up on her head so he could see her eyes were bright. They climbed into her car, and as she drove back towards her flat, she told him she had felt, in her last visit, that she had reconnected with Germany, not just because her son now lived there but because, she explained, as you grow older you cling on to things that are familiar from your past. She wanted to go back home. The weekend had been busy with packing Josef off back to his father’s and making several phone calls which would allow her to make the same journey before too long. She had handed in her notice that morning; she hoped to tie up and leave Lisbon in a month. Her parents had offered her their annex to live in and from which she could start up her own jewellery-making business. And being closer meant she could help her parents more as they became older. They lived not one hour away from where Josef lived with his father; she would not be near enough her son to annoy him. And she had felt, when he had visited her, that he had grown from a boy into a young man, someone who was now able to love her more.
All this she told him as she negotiated the narrow streets and as they neared her flat. Her tone was one of light regret; her timbre was optimistic. Never once did she mention that she felt her announcement would surprise him in any way, nor, after an initial casual enquiry, did she mention Rita. Things were different, she insisted, ever since Josef had moved. This is not just about you, Francois, she said, smiling, pre-empting any attempt on his part to admit any guilt. He knew that this was a reprimand of sorts: she did not want him to claim their relationship as his alone to orchestrate and to dismantle.
He was sure there was an anger somewhere in her; perhaps there was also somewhere a wish that she could have steered their relationship into deeper waters. For their first years together, her son had dictated their relations, as well as providing an excuse. When Josef left, they had accepted that neither of them wanted the intimacy of living together. That might have changed as they grew more used to being unencumbered, or it might not have. Whichever, theirs was never going to be a farewell that was acrimonious, but rather a celebration of what they did very well. So, as he had half-expected they would, they made love: in the living room, on the rug, as if to remind themselves of the freedom they had to ignore the domesticity of the bedroom. She had gathered the ingredients for a risotto, but first they sat on the sofa with a glass of wine to toast her new adventure, and he found that she needed only to stop a moment, take his glass out of his hand and put it down, touch his lips with hers, before he responded to her signal and was pulling her to him. They had last spent a night together just before they had each gone on their separate Christmas holidays, three weeks earlier. Each had returned in the new year with a companion: Lucie brought Josef, and he had brought Rita. And now, despite Lucie’s declaration of intent, he found that she needed him to fill the role that he had occupied for her, and she for him, one last time.
Yet he could not let go of Rita, of the understanding he had arrived at: that he wanted her to be his. And in a grotesque reversal of loyalties, as if to mitigate the feeling he was betraying her by making love to Lucie, she filled his thoughts. Imagining that it was Rita in his arms was disturbingly easy, erotic; when he came, the pleasure was so intense that he blacked out momentarily, then, returning, he threw himself off, his hair matted with sweat, his heart pounding, to fall into a very short, very troubled sleep against Lucie’s shoulder. He could only hope that Lucie would mistake his ardour for regret that this would be their last time. And when he awoke and met her eyes, saw with relief a glimmer of self-satisfaction, he was glad he had deceived her, glad of her erroneous conclusions, because she deserved better than to be used as a conduit for the desire he felt for his brother’s young lover. She deserved to feel she had punished him in some way, rather than learn of the murky moral swamp he was letting himself be sucked into.
They ate a lunch which was more like a dinner, as darkness fell, and stayed on her balcony for hours after, talking about the many common interests which had sustained them through an enjoyable four years. But before that, after they had dressed and as she was making the risotto, he had sneaked a message to the girl – Might be late – feeling guilty, like an unfaithful husband, worrying that she would guess his exploits, the reason for his delay.
He left Lucie’s unscarred, reflective, but impatient suddenly to get home. He decided to walk; by the time he had got to a tram stop or even found a taxi, he could be halfway there. But more than time, he needed to relinquish Lucie, needed to gather his thoughts before he saw the girl, Rita, whom he seemed now unable to not think about. It was past eleven when he finally arrived at his building. He climbed the stairs, banging on the lights as he ascended, and opened the door to his flat quietly. It was in darkness, which was good; by the morning he would be more objective. But after he had slipped into his camp bed, he heard her get out of the bed and move to the bathr
oom, heard the toilet flush, and then her feet were padding down the short hall.
‘Rita?’
Her footsteps paused, and he leaned out of his bed. She was standing with one foot slightly raised, like a cat.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No I couldn’t get to sleep for some reason.’ And then she came closer. She was wearing only a thin T-shirt, her hands weighing down the hem, demurely, so that it reached the tops of her thighs. He shifted across a little as she had done the previous morning, and she accepted his invitation, stepped forward and sat on the edge of his camp bed.
‘Are you cold?’ He reached for the pile of clothes he had set on the floor beside him. ‘Here. Put this on.’
He saw a flash of her cotton briefs, a triangle where her legs met, as she raised her arms above her head to slip them through the sleeves, and then she was enveloped in his jumper, the deep red bringing out the red in her lips, her hair cascading around her shoulders.
‘It looks good on you,’ he couldn’t stop himself saying. She smiled, hugging her knees, then said, ‘I’ve never seen you wear it.’
‘No.’ He pushed his pillow aside so he could prop himself up on his elbow more securely. ‘There’s usually only one really cold day in the winter when you might have that pleasure.’
The moonlight fell onto them, so they were in a grey circle in the darkness of the rest of the flat. There was something so guileless about her that it was easy to imagine her completely oblivious, unaware of the intimacy they shared: the moonlight, the bed he could pull her onto. She had her eyes on her feet, and he found his own travelling over her legs, long and lovely. What would she think of him if she knew that just hours earlier he had imagined lying between them? And how would she feel if he were to tell her: I thought of you. He was sure that if she knew it had been a separation between him and Lucie, the girl would not imagine the sex, not envisage a last parting act of intimacy. She had had an affair with his brother, but this seemed to have left her an innocent.
‘Well,’ she said, looking up with a smile, ‘I’ve got a job. Sort of. The lady, she’s called Ana, said she needed an assistant for the kids’ classes, and she’d even pay me five euros an hour.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I’m still looking for a transfer,’ she said, ‘don’t worry. It just means I can pay my way a bit while I’m here.’
‘Well, I don’t mind about that you know.’
‘And I borrowed a book from your shelf,’ she was saying, as if the day they had spent apart needed to be filled in with details of what each had done. She paused before saying, ‘I couldn’t make headway with Ben’s book.’
‘I told you it was technical.’
‘Maybe I was reading it for the wrong reasons.’
He had thought the same; they had arrived at the same point at the same time, but he said nothing, then, ‘What have you chosen?’
‘A Henning Mankell,’ she laughed. ‘Did you know him in Mozambique?’
‘Only to say hello to.’
She hugged her knees tighter. He sat up straighter, and he saw her eyes move for an instant over his torso, his bare chest and arms, and then away, and he saw the beginnings of a flush rise to her cheeks. So, she noticed him. She was not blind to his nakedness, his proximity, and he could feel himself grasping at that thought even as he tried to discard it.
She made to stand up, and he spoke.
‘Do you want to go out for a walk? If you can’t sleep?’
She hesitated. ‘Don’t you have that busy day tomorrow?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s not too late. Only half past eleven. We could go to the Miradouro for a bit of air.’ He nearly added, and then tuck you into bed.
She moved back to her end of the room, and he dressed. Did he want to help her sleep, or was it imperative that he change the dynamic, get them both out of the circle of moonlight, off the bed, out of the flat, to help him push away his thoughts? His brother’s book regarded him balefully from the shelf. He pulled his jacket off the peg, resisted the urge to take his packet of cigarettes, and slipped a bottle and two glasses into his pockets. She reappeared in a pair of jeans, still wearing his jumper, and he held her jacket for her while she slipped it on; then clicked the door quietly shut behind them.
The night was misty, cold, their breath coming out in puffs as they climbed the steep cobbled street to the square and then walked to the wall that overlooked the city. They sat with their backs to the church, their legs dangling over the edge of the wall, so that the vista of the city lay before them. The café-bar to their left had closed, and there was no one around. He pulled out the bottle and showed it to her, ‘Would you like a small shot to warm you up?’
Her eyes glittered in the dark, and she nodded. He measured a finger carefully, and passed the glass to her, poured a double for him. They clinked their glasses, and she took a tentative sip, then started coughing, her hand to her chest.
‘Take it slowly,’ he smiled.
The whisky warmed his gullet, settled somewhere in his chest. He thought of Lucie: he was not heartbroken, but there was some regret there, that he had treated her shabbily, had not nurtured their relationship but allowed it to float as if on a wave. He saw his glass was already empty, and he poured himself a little more, then glanced at the girl and held the bottle up: ‘More?’
She smiled, nodded. ‘If you think I can handle it.’
‘Of course you can.’
They were quiet; the city was aglow below them, a sea of small shimmering lights in the mist, in patterns that belied the rough and tumble nature, the haphazard shambolic feel. He had fallen in love with the city because it had not felt European, but more like it was pivoted in readiness to leave the mainland and float out into the world, leaving the hills and mountains behind. There was always, when he looked out of his window, or stood at this point, the sense that if he wished he could set out. This restlessness, this holding on to the land by his fingertips, this might have wearied Lucie.
She said, ‘We should play that game.’
He looked at her. She was smiling widely, and so he raised his eyebrows.
‘Which game?’
‘You know those questions, by, was it Marcel Proust? If we answer with honesty, we reveal our true nature.’ She laughed. ‘Apparently.’
‘I think I know what you mean.’ It charmed him to see her in a playful mood. ‘But I don’t know them by heart.’
‘We can make our own.’
She had a glint in her eye, and so he smiled, nodded.
‘When and where were you happiest?’ she asked, tilting her head and touching the glass to her cheek.
He thought for a moment. ‘Twenty-seven years old, living in Maputo, preparing for my first solo exhibition in Joburg.’
She raised her glass to him, saying nothing, and so he asked: ‘When and where were you happiest?’ and then immediately regretted, hoping she would not resort to moments with his brother. But she thought for some minutes; the answer did not come immediately.
‘The summer after I finished my A levels and I knew I was going away to uni.’
So: the anticipation of freedom rather than the reality. Freedom to make mistakes, freedom to lose your heart.
She swung her legs for some moments and sipped her drink. Then, ‘What’s your favourite book?’
‘War and Peace,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Oh wow,’ she said. ‘Heavy.’
‘Well, you asked. And what’s yours?’
‘You can’t just copy my questions . . .’
He laughed. ‘OK, next one will be original. Your favourite book?’
She was quiet for a few moments, then she said, ‘Jane Eyre.’
‘Good book.’
The whisky was like golden nectar, and he felt his mood lifting.
‘I’m just warming up,’ he said. ‘You ask another, and I’ll think of one in the meantime.’
‘OK.’ She st
ill had the glass to her cheek, and then she moved it away and looked at him sideways, lowering her lashes, ‘What most attracts you in women?’
He gave her a stern look.
‘Rita,’ he said, ‘are you behaving badly again?’
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter; she pressed the glass against her lips.
‘Well,’ he sipped his drink deliberately, enjoying himself, ‘I’d say intelligence.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘I’m not saying anything more,’ he grinned. ‘My turn. What is your proudest achievement?’
She thought for a few moments. ‘This performance I did at the Indian High Commission a couple of years ago, of Kathak.’
‘And what is Kathak?’
‘A classical Indian dance.’ She paused. ‘It takes years to learn.’
‘That sounds impressive.’
She was still swinging her legs, but now lowered the glass away from her face and placed it between her knees.
‘Have you ever said I love you without meaning it?’
‘Hey, come on,’ he said. ‘Play fair.’
Her eyes gleamed, but she did not look away.
‘Possibly,’ he said eventually. ‘When I was younger and more foolish.’
She inclined her head, but there was a slight dimming of her expression as if he had disappointed her; perhaps he should have lied. He was enjoying himself, but he should not forget that she was still young enough for her visions of romance to be grounded in true love, illicit or not.
‘My turn,’ he said. ‘Where is the most beautiful place you’ve ever been?’
She sipped her drink and then spoke. ‘Where my mother is from in India. There’s this lake surrounded by trees, and a kind of bridge made of earth running across it so you have to walk in single file to get to the other side. The trees are green palms, and the water is green, and then there is this thin red-earth bridge.’ She stopped. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Then she turned to him. ‘You’d like it.’
The Inheritance Page 22
