The Inheritance

by Sheena Kalayil

  When he had mentioned casually to Patricia that he might try to catch up with a family friend, she had responded immediately: that old girlfriend of Ben’s? His brother had met her, apparently, several times. When he called Denise, he was struck at how normal it felt to be speaking to her. How little trauma he felt. This woman who had come to embody any disgruntlement he felt towards his younger brother. Time was a healer in matters of love, and with that reflection, he fleetingly thought of Rita: perhaps she too would heal, over Ben.

  Denise had two sons, just as Patricia had two daughters; it seemed only he and Ben had not created offspring in their image. The children were on holiday, they might be underfoot, but would he like to come over for lunch? It was a mansion, surrounded by a fence and burglar alarms, perched at the end of the city, a sloping view from the sunken living room. She kissed him on the cheek in greeting, then tried to wipe away the smear of lipstick that remained. She was nervous; who wouldn’t be? More than twenty years had passed; they had both grown older. She looked exactly how he had imagined she would age: her skin slightly weathered from constant exposure to the sun’s rays, her hair styled carefully with highlights, she had kept her figure. But all he felt on seeing her was affection, like finding a much-loved childhood toy; not regret. The boys scampered around them – come and meet an old friend of Mummy’s – then swooped off to the swimming pool at the bottom of the manicured lawn. A maid brought drinks on a tray.

  ‘Lilian, this is Ben Martin’s brother, Francois.’

  The sympathetic cluck, ‘Nice to meet you, sir,’ and then she stood, uncertain, her eyes sliding up to his face. She had noticed the resemblance.

  Denise’s dismissal: ‘Thank you, Lilian. You can serve lunch in half an hour.’

  She leaned back and surveyed him.

  ‘You look well, Frannie.’

  ‘So do you.’

  She waved his words away. ‘You must pass my condolences on to your parents.’

  He asked after her father, whose business she was now overseeing. Her husband would be joining them later in the afternoon; he wanted to meet Francois. She asked after his work, he mentioned the photos he had taken for Patricia, she murmured her approval. They ate the lunch Lilian had prepared – too much meat, too much butter in the vegetables – a meal that suited a wintry climate rather than the clean heat of the day. But that was their way, he remembered, to carry on as if the land had been swapped overnight while they were asleep; they would carry on wearing the same clothes, speaking the same language, eating the same food, even while all around them swirled a different people, different customs. Denise’s sons played to their audience, misbehaved until their mother called for Lilian, who came to corral them, her face full of disapproval, this expression giving him a pang: a reminder of Matilda’s rebukes. Custard and fruit for dessert, which the boys were allowed to have if they took their bowls to the step outside Lilian’s kitchen. And then, as they were having coffee on the patio overlooking the lawn, he said, ‘I never knew that Ben kept in touch with you.’

  ‘Well,’ she smiled. There was a small smear of lipstick on her front tooth: a lone discrepancy in her otherwise immaculate appearance, which made him feel even more affection for her. ‘He was like that.’ She looked at him. ‘He was always reluctant to talk about you when I asked after you—’

  He laid down his glass. ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘I’m not!’ She laughed. ‘He was jealous of you, Frannie. He knew it was you I always carried a torch for—’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Oh, I know I never showed it. I had old-fashioned ideas that the boy should do the asking—’

  Her sons came running over from the swimming pool, with their lithe bodies, spattering water from their hair. There was an argument between them, and she got up from her chair, her voice now higher pitched with irritation: ‘I told you Mummy had a friend to visit, and if you can’t play nicely . . .’ It took some time to sort out, and then he watched her as she walked back across the lawn, her hips swaying, looking more self-conscious than before.

  ‘I missed a trick,’ he said when she sat down, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She laughed, pushed her hair away from her face, colouring slightly. ‘Oh well, it’s all water under the bridge.’ Then she paused. ‘I wanted to look you up a bit later, in the Cape, but you were getting married.’

  He let his eyes focus on the view: that particular palette of greens and browns, the flat-topped trees. He was not unused to the sun in Lisbon, but here the sun was more confident, fiercer, the brightness less forgiving. He glanced at Denise; she was toying with the bracelet on her wrist – perhaps she was thinking of his brother, or even of him. He remembered how he used to stay with her, those afternoons, alone in her parents’ house: had he not had ample opportunity to hold her, declare himself ? Perhaps, he thought, he had never really wanted to make her real; she was more enticing, more arousing if she were unattainable. Ben was brave, craved reality. Whereas he, Francois, even then, idolised the story wrought from the visual. It was this aspect of himself that gave his art the quality that was most admired. But Denise’s words did not dismay him; it was, rather, like hearing an account of a different person, one he had left behind. When he went to Cape Town, the desperate love he had for her, and its twin, the jealousy he had for his brother, eventually both faded into a sullen resentment. He had transferred his love to Paula, which in turn had faded, and on and on. Now he was sitting with the girl that his brother had taken from him, while his mind, his heart – even as he tried to push away the thoughts – were full of images and sounds and scents of the young girl his brother had left for him – Rita – as if the interim years of his life were only to be bookended by his brother’s loves, both of whom he, too, loved.

  She was speaking again: ‘But there was something else, Frannie.’

  He looked at her. Her eyes were full of tenderness, and she seemed to hesitate, as if she was worried that she would hurt him.

  ‘When Ben and I were going out, I fell pregnant.’ She was speaking slowly and softly. ‘My parents sent me to a clinic down south. They didn’t want your parents to find out and interfere.’

  There was silence now: even her sons seemed to have quietened in order for him to hear what she said, unimpeded. The scene in front of him, the palette he had just admired, had become more parched, lost some of its colour.

  She gave a small smile. ‘Ben felt terrible about it. That’s why he kept in touch, and that’s why he didn’t talk about me.’

  He immediately wanted to leave: stand up and walk out, get into the car and drive away. It took all of his will to stay where he was; he could not desert Denise. But the shroud that her news cast over the afternoon, over all he saw, was less about what he had learned than a realisation that arrived with tremendous sadness: this was death. Secrets that you stored up became open for public discussion, without any chance for explanations or mitigations. A past that cannot be recreated: Ben’s words all those years ago. A young boy and girl, bound together by something they had created which would never again be recreated – Ben’s child, his parents’ grandchild – a bond that remained even after what had been created was destroyed. Did Ben ever tell Denise about him and Clare, their struggles and disappointment? Had he even told his wife about his putative, curtailed fatherhood? Now his brother was laid open as if on a slab; his wounds were on display. Dying left you with no privacy. And he ached for Ben, who had tried his utmost to be good, fighting against whatever circumstances he found himself in – some of his own making, true, but who tried his hardest to be good, do good. In dying, all his weaknesses and flaws and fears had come to the surface, as if he had not been cremated but instead thrown into a river, only to rise and float, but distended now, marred now, not the clean, beautiful man he had been.

  The husband arrived, and here was some consolation: the man loved Denise. When he took his leave, she accompanied him to the car, her husband staying in the house with the boys, and he took her in h
is arms, held her to him for many minutes without speaking, and when they separated she had mascara streaking across her cheeks from her tears, which he wiped away gently with his thumb. Take care of yourself, Frannie, she whispered, and he hugged her again, before letting her go, stroking her face. Take care of yourself, Denise.

  28

  IF the encounter with Denise had taught him anything it was that he had spent most of his adult life without seeing. He returned to London in time for Christmas. A year had passed since he had found Rita, and the memory of that first meeting played in his head as he retraced his steps. He had written a letter; it was neutral enough he hoped, that if opened would not implicate her. But the house was empty, dark. There were the same curtains in the windows and no signs of a change of ownership, but it remained empty for his next three attempts: they were away. Perhaps they had gone to India. Whatever, there was no sign of Rita; his letter remained unposted. It was the following late spring when he next returned to London and made the same expedition. This time, as he rang the doorbell he heard voices inside, and his heartbeat quickened.

  Again, it was her mother who opened the door, this time wearing a sari, her hair neatly arranged in a bun.

  ‘Mrs Kalungal, I’m not sure you remember me,’ but her expression had already become guarded.

  She nodded, then said, ‘Wait here, please.’

  She retreated, he heard voices, a deep baritone, and then she reappeared; behind her, a man. Not very tall, bald, with tortoiseshell glasses and his arm in a sling.

  ‘My husband,’ she said, and then stood to one side.

  He offered his hand, and Rita’s father took it, with his left hand; it was his right arm that was injured.

  ‘Mr Kalungal,’ he said, ‘I’m Francois Martin.’

  ‘Yes,’ his voice was pleasant, ‘I know who you are.’ Of the painting of his daughter, of the visit to the cemetery in Brighton, of the week Rita had stayed in Lisbon, her father made no reference.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you . . .’ he glanced at the sling, and Rita’s father followed his eyes.

  ‘It’s not serious. My shoulder. I had a fall at work.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear . . .’

  Then they fell silent, and he tried to gather his thoughts.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said finally, ‘If I could see Rita?’

  Her father regarded him silently. ‘She’s not here,’ he said. ‘She’s in India.’

  Her mother spoke rapidly, and her father nodded but did not reply, nor did he translate.

  ‘She was in India when I last came as well . . .’ smiling, trying to lighten his words.

  ‘Yes,’ her father said. ‘She will be in India for some time.’

  They stood side by side, her parents, a barrier. But he did feel what she had mentioned: that gentleness.

  ‘She is staying with my brother,’ her father said suddenly.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if I could have an address? So I can write to her?’

  They regarded him silently. He glanced at the mother, who was now biting her lip, and he felt guilty at provoking such anxiety.

  ‘You are the brother, are you not?’ her father said finally.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m Ben’s brother.’

  There was a pause, then her father spoke: ‘We are sorry for your loss. But I think it’s better that there is no contact between us.’

  Us? He meant between the families, just as his own parents had decided to sever links with the Armstrongs. It was as if he was the only person who wanted to remind anyone of how these three families irrevocably shared a history with each other.

  ‘That problem with the university,’ her father continued, his choice of words was oblique, but his voice was kind, ‘I think it is better for you even.’

  Her father was correct, of course: what would be best was that he could forget and move on, not think of Rita for the next twenty years. But there was a nagging voice: not like Denise. I want the chance to make her real.

  He nodded, smiled. ‘Would you please give her this letter?’ He passed over the envelope. ‘And would you please let her know that I came to see her?’

  ‘Of course,’ and her mother muttered something. Her father hesitated and then he said, ‘My wife wants you to know that Rita is well. We spoke to her just last night.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ He was smiling, and he held his hand up in a wave. ‘I won’t keep you. I hope you recover quickly,’ he gestured to her father’s shoulder, and then he turned away and as he walked down the street he heard the door close, Rita’s parents now out of sight.

  It should have ended there, but it didn’t. If he asked his parents, as he did, tentatively, at regular intervals, if they had heard from Rita, his mother always expressed some regret: she wished, at some time in the future, to meet Rita again. Not to interfere in her life but simply to talk to her. She had been a charming visitor when she had appeared on their doorstep. If his mother suspected his feelings, she said nothing.

  One year he returned to her parents’ street, to walk past the house and then on, through the gate at the end to enter the park. If she were returned from India, it was likely that she would bring her niece here to play. He would wait: no need to present himself to her parents and further compromise her in any way. There was a group of young men kicking a football, and as he walked along the path around the park the ball came rolling towards him. He stopped it with his foot and kicked it back. Thanks, mate, one called. They were of Rita’s age; they could be her relatives. He had no idea if she had cousins who lived in London; he knew so little about her. What had Gildo said to him when he had learned that Rita was in India? They might get her married. Would these young men, now sitting on the grass, the ball to one side, have heard of any nuptials? He watched them out of the corner of his eye as they talked and laughed. One pulled his shirt over his head to cover his face, revealing a lean, dark, young man’s body. Would this be the type that Rita would be offered to? Or someone older, more experienced, more philosophical about what had happened? He tortured himself for several circuits of the park. The young men left, and then so did he, following in their wake, past the house again, no sign of anyone inside.

  Back in his flat, the painting he had made of her, from the photograph, before he had known her, remained in its position, in the stack on the floor. Once, in a clear-out, he contemplated burning it, cutting it, before sliding it back between its bedfellows. How he had painted it, those evenings he had spent sketching her first, then preparing the paints: these were vivid memories, as vivid as those he had of the days she had spent with him, sleeping in his bed. And often when he lay in the bed, he felt that he was seeing his environs differently, as if through her eyes: what she would have taken note of and might even now remember, wherever she was. And what she would tell of this to whomever she was with.

  It was high summer now in Lisbon. He had just returned from a sojourn in the Algarve, visiting with Gildo and Jacinta, when he received a card with notice to collect a package from the post office in Graça. He assumed it was from his mother, who had taken to sending him books, reviews of his artwork. She seemed to need to write his address on an envelope, to reassure herself that one son remained on this earth.

  The sun was hot on his head as he arrived at the collection office. There were two packages, it appeared. One was, as he had expected, from his mother. The other package also had a London postmark, but no postcode, the post officer grumbled; it was lucky they knew his whereabouts.

  He did not return to his flat but took his packages to the outdoor café near the Miradouro by the church, where he saw a friend and joined him at his table, ordered a coffee. While his friend was talking to the owner of the café, he browsed through his post. His mother had sent a catalogue for a literary festival in South Africa, to which his father was invited to sit on a panel. The letter enclosed was a query from his mother, asking whether he would like to join them. It was an attractive prospect. He had always li
ked Cape Town; he could contact his alma mater and offer to give a series of workshops. Further, he could sense that his mother would appreciate his company; his parents would feel stronger when meeting old acquaintances with evidence of at least part of their former lives remaining intact. He listened with half an ear as his friend regaled him of an incident involving one of the many stray cats that prowled the streets, os gatos de Lisboa, while his mind revisited his old haunts as a student, the places where his embryonic art career was formed, where he had met Paula; much would have changed by now. He smiled distractedly as his friend neared his punchline, and opened the other package, withdrew a sheaf of typewritten papers, soft bound: a manuscript of some kind. As he sipped his coffee, he scanned the first page: