When I try to remember how it all transpired, my memories always play out in front of me through a filter, as if viewing the past through raindrops, broken shards of glass, a thin gauze, so that depending on why I am casting back, the two figures intersecting are distorted, lucid or faded. There is always a beat in my head. Just as I tell a tale through my feet when I dance, I can count the steps of each encounter from the beginning: rising, arcing, then falling to its end. Each memory unfolds with its own rhythm, its own tempo, distinct from the other . . .
His heart was now in his mouth. He slipped his hand back inside the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper, this covered with the handwriting from the envelope, which he now recognised:
Dear Francois
I hope that this letter and the manuscript enclosed finds you well, and finds you – I don’t know if you are still at this address. This is something I wrote to try to make sense of what happened four years ago now, between me and Ben. I’m sending it to you in case you ever wanted to try and understand how it all came about. When I was writing it, I realised that I wanted the story to end differently. I really hope that given the chance to have lived longer, Ben would have returned to Clare, the woman he loved for so much of his life. I might not have survived that happening. But the truth is I did survive; they didn’t. They are together now, anyway, and I take some comfort from that.
After I left Lisbon and told my parents about Ben, I went back to India, and I stayed there for just over three years. But I have been back in London now for some time. I finished my degree a few months ago. I now have an internship at the British Library, and I also work at the library in Charing Cross. When you next speak to your parents, if you think they would like to receive them, please give my best wishes.
Rita
Francois? Francois? The voice of his friend was coming from somewhere near him; he had knocked his coffee over when he had leapt to his feet, his hands gripping the letter, spun around to look at the world around him, his eyes unseeing. Then slowly, he focused, understood. She had done it again: left him clues so he could find her.
29
IT was the moment when her mother had asked her if she wanted them to arrange something that she had understood everything. It was as if by offering one glimpse into a future, her mother had inadvertently shown another: moved aside a screen to a large airy space, the sunlight falling down in shafts, where she could see him on the other side, bending over something, his head turned away from her. When she had started writing about her moments with Ben, she found that she was holding a paper-chain of memories – some of Ben, some of Francois – and it was she who interlinked the two. For she could not imagine a life without one of them, as if a spell had been cast over her, so that she was unable to look beyond the two brothers: a realisation that felt ancient, as old as time. She wrote a farewell to Ben, a celebration of what he had been to her: a brief burst of light, like a comet. And as each encounter touched the page, evolving from beats of a dance to lines on paper, its place was taken by another. But this new story played out on Earth. Not the heavens, nor the nebulous universe of memory. She could spend days, months, years, trying to understand, and in that time anything could happen and everything could change. Her self-imposed banishment held that risk: she could not know that he would not reconcile with Lucie, or even meet someone else, marry, become a father. This was her penance, not a trio of prayers recited at speed: to live without any certainty that he would wait for her, to grow into a woman, to untangle herself from memories of his brother.
On returning to London, and on a break in the second week of her internship, she requested that Ben’s book Daughters of Africa be brought to a reading room. She read the dedication, the acknowledgements, as she had done before; she had always believed that it was here where she would find Ben’s voice. For Clare; My gratitude to Patricia Zigomo-Walther. Reading these words no longer pained her; they were a reminder of the work he had done, delving into people’s lives with courage, leaving behind a small part of him with whomever he collaborated. She turned over, beyond the contents pages, the list of tables and figures, and started reading the introductory chapter. He wrote well; she was gripped. She had found his first book – the one Francois had lent her – harder to read; perhaps she had been seeking and, on failing, become unreceptive to his thoughts. Today, years later, when she was not looking, she found something.
What these practices shine a light on is how sibling relationships are intensely gendered, so that brothers share and inherit property: be that property land, a house or a wife. It was here, suddenly, where she could hear Ben, standing before her and others in a wood-panelled room, speaking with no notes, while on the slide behind him was projected her image: a young girl in front of a window, looking back over her shoulder. But just as strong as this image was another: Francois in his camp bed, shirtless, raised on one elbow, the taut muscle in his upper arm, his hair falling forward, holding the same book as this under the small lamp, his eyes poring over his brother’s words. Had he seen her in these passages? She had wanted to turn back time, to that night when they had sat side by side on the castle wall. If we answer honestly, we reveal our true nature. She had felt so close to him, she could have, then, revealed her all to him, in a black night with the life inside her pricking at her skin, burning through her nerves. Even if it was what I had wished for – she could hear herself speaking to him – I was never Ben’s. To own, to give away or leave behind. Sitting in the library, she had decided then what she would do. Over the years she had heard nothing of him and nothing from him, but when she had reached out, he had responded to her letter and the manuscript that accompanied it, in the exact manner she had hoped for.
So, she spent the afternoon looking at the clock; he had said he would arrive at half-past five, when she was finished for the day. The library was quiet. The young mothers and toddlers had all left now, and it was the quiet period before more people arrived on their way from work. At five, she was intending to pop into the small washroom for staff, where she could brush her hair and tidy herself. But as she pushed the returns trolley to its resting place, he stood up from one of the tables.
‘Rita. I came early, I hope you don’t mind.’
He was smiling at her surprise, and her heart dropped into her stomach. He bent forwards and kissed her on the cheek, and as if he were slicing through time she could suddenly feel the scrape of his jaw against hers. Then, as she was moving back, she felt his hand tighten on her arm, and he kissed her other cheek.
‘We do it twice in Lisbon, remember?’ he said. ‘I know this is London, but you know what I mean.’
She laughed, and he laughed as well, spreading his arms.
‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ he said.
They stood smiling at each other, and then he said, ‘Don’t let me stop you. I’ll wait until you get off work.’
‘It’s just half an hour more.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, and she cleared it. ‘I’ll be done soon.’
‘Then I’ll be waiting outside.’
He raised his hand in a small wave and left. For a few moments she remained still, rooted to the spot. The last time, she had stood with him as they looked out to the Tagus, down that river the armada would have sailed. And what she might tell Francois, or she might not, she had not yet decided, as in her mind was another river: sitting up high on its banks, the coconut trees a panorama before them, reflected again in the waters.
The minutes sped past. When she had finished her duties, she brushed her hair, peering at herself in the small mirror above the washbasin in the staff common room. She had spent far too long that morning thinking of what she should wear, settling finally for a favourite top over dark jeans, the long dangly earrings she had bought in Jewtown: a reminder of what she had learned of herself in those dusty, narrow streets. She came out of the building to see that he was indeed waiting outside, leaning against the wall, watching the passers-by. She paused a moment to steady her thoughts.
His hair was brushed back. He was wearing a dark, long-sleeved shirt: he had dressed for the occasion. She had a momentary confusion, a page from her manuscript, a man leaning against the wall, turning to look at her. It would forever be thus, she thought, but then she resisted: only if she made it so. For a moment she watched him, and then he turned and saw her, his face lighting up. As she walked towards him, she saw his eyes sweep over her briefly and felt herself catch her breath at how that made her feel. He straightened up, smiled at her, the dimple she remembered appearing in his cheek.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she said.
‘It is.’
He gestured towards the embankment. ‘There’s a nice place on the South Bank. You said you don’t live far away from there, so I took the liberty of booking a table. Does that sound all right to you?’
He smiled, she smiled back, and they turned together towards the river. As they walked, they talked. She was renting a room in a house in Peckham. When she returned to London, she had wanted to try to strike out on her own. She was hoping she would get some paid work at the British Library, which was, however, looking unlikely, but for now she was enjoying being back in London. And yes, he was still living in Lisbon. He had spent nearly six months in Zimbabwe and then Mozambique that first year, and the following year he had not left Lisbon at all, a first for him since he had moved there. The result: his first solo exhibition for many years the following summer, in London. Two years ago, he had sold his share of Ben and Clare’s flat back to Clare’s sister, who was now renting it out as a holiday let. He had reinvested part of the money into the award his parents oversaw with Patricia Zigomo-Walther, and the rest in a small house in Cascais, along the coast from Lisbon, which he now used as his studio.
They fell silent for the last stretch. She tried to think of something to say, but they had exhausted the immediate practicalities. But then, as they neared the restaurant, he stopped and turned to her. ‘Can I ask?’ he said. ‘When you went back, was it all right with your parents?’
He had that same soft look in his eyes as before. His concern for her, his gentleness: she could feel it, just as she had done those years ago.
‘I didn’t tell them I went to Lisbon or that I stayed with you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to involve you in any way. But everything else, yes, I told them.’
He nodded, his eyes still holding hers.
‘And it was a shock,’ she continued. ‘And it was hard for them to hear.’ She paused. ‘But it was good to go to India.’
‘That’s great,’ he said, smiling. ‘Great.’
Then he took her elbow and led her inside, up the stairs to the table that was booked for them, laid for two, looking out at the river.
Her face was more chiselled, which made her lips look fuller. Her hair was slightly shorter, so that it framed her cheekbones even more, brushing against her collarbone when she leaned forward. She was wearing a scoop-necked top made of some soft, floaty material which caressed her shape. Her limbs, her neck, were as slender as ever, but now combined with the new clarity in her expression were even more alluring. If he had ever doubted what he felt for her, well, his heart was pounding in his chest, and he had to hold on to the menu card so that he did not pull her to him, scare her with his longing to hold her. He did not find that time had passed; a filter been removed so that he saw her in a different light, with wiser eyes. Sitting opposite Rita, years after he had first found her, days after he had received her package, he was giddy with the elation he felt at seeing her again.
They ordered; the waiter left.
‘The manuscript you sent,’ he said. ‘I read it from cover to cover.’
Her eyes glittered, but she said nothing.
‘It was interesting, you know,’ he said, ‘to see your perspective of Ben.’
He hoped his voice did not betray how difficult it had been for him to read her words, be drowned in the images that flooded in, even as he had devoured what she revealed.
‘I found,’ she spoke slowly, ‘that I had a photographic memory of what happened.’
He contemplated her words, then said, ‘You’re good at it. Writing.’
She smiled. ‘I’ve always thought of myself as a dancer.’ Then she flushed and laughed. ‘It sounds pretentious, I know, but it was something new for me, to express myself through words. I kind of wrote everything down as if I were choreographing a dance . . .’
‘Well,’ he smiled back, ‘I’m not sure if you remember what I told you about Mahler . . .’
‘What is best in music is not to be found in the notes.’
He raised his glass to her. ‘Here’s to that photographic memory of yours.’ And then he thought: would she remember all the moments she had spent with him, or was that only reserved for his brother? He took a few seconds to gather himself, resumed: ‘I needed to find something that explained why I wanted to put colours on a canvas. And that something wasn’t in the actual brush strokes. It was in the story that the picture told, even down to the order in which I paint the different parts.’
‘I remember your love poem,’ she said. ‘To the island women. I’d love to see what you’ve been doing the last few years.’ Then smiling: ‘Your flat? With all that light and your paintings? I loved it.’
‘Well, Rita,’ he said. ‘You must visit again.’
‘I’d like that.’ She lowered her eyes, did not meet his.
Visit again? Now that he had her in front of him, he wanted her never to leave his side. Her hands were tantalisingly close to his on the table; he did not touch them. He only took note that there was no ring on her finger, and no mention yet of a boyfriend, a suitor or a husband.
As their meals arrived, she told him more about her stay in India. She was sure her cousin had suffered from depression, but it was never diagnosed. She and Seline had grown even closer over the last few years: an added bonus to her sojourn in Kerala. Rita had become more proficient in the language. Her uncle had opened part of the house as a guesthouse; she swiped her phone and showed him some photos.
‘You’ll have to go and stay some time,’ she said, and he smiled, nodded, definitely.
She asked about his return to Zimbabwe after so many years, and he told her about Patricia and her daughters, then his long overland journey through Mozambique. They could not distil four years into a dinner, no matter how much they lingered over the meal. So they spent the next couple of hours talking about the things near them: the food, the view of the river, the internship she had secured and the library where she worked. He described the house he now owned in Cascais, which he offered as a workspace for budding artists; he had fashioned three studios, not including his own. It was a short walk to the old wall of the city. As he described it, he could not help but imagine her standing on the balcony upstairs, looking out towards the sea. If he were asked, afterwards, what he could remember of the reunion, he would only be able to describe the shape of her lips, the brief feel of her fingers when she touched his arm, which happened twice. How he felt jealous of everyone she mentioned, of anyone who could know her without compunction, lay claim to her affections with impunity. After he paid the bill, he said he would see her home; the train was packed and they hung on to the straps, unable to talk in the crush.
His feet tried to slow them down, but before long they arrived on her street, and she pointed up: that window there, that was her room.
‘It’s not big,’ she was saying, ‘but it has an en suite. And it’s super cheap because I dog-sit as well, which suits my landlady. She’s away a lot.’
‘It’s a nice road,’ he said.
The trees that lined the street, mature oaks and beeches, watched as he looked on her helplessly: this young woman, this girl, who had possessed his body and mind for the last years, as if a disruptive, winsome spirit. She might have sensed that he was thinking of the time that had elapsed, because she asked, her voice quiet, ‘And how are your parents, Francois? Is it any easier for them, four years on?’
‘Probably not easier,’ he said. ‘But it could be something they have become resigned to. I’m not sure that’s the right word. Anyway, they’re keeping themselves busy. They’re planning a trip to South Africa at the moment.’ Then he paused. ‘And they send their regards. They’ll want to meet up with you if you want to.’
‘That’s nice.’ Her voice was soft.
He smiled, ‘And how are your parents? When I last saw them, your father was recovering from that shoulder injury.’
A silence descended.
‘You saw my father?’
The air had turned cooler, and a breeze was ruffling her hair, blowing strands across her cheek. She was staring at him, aghast. There was a twist in his stomach as he spoke: ‘I went to your parents’ house a few times. I left messages, a letter. Did you not know?’
She remained still, her eyes on his, as the silence continued, then slowly shook her head. The atmosphere suddenly shifted. They had spent the whole evening talking of other things: incidental, peripheral things. It felt, suddenly, as it had those years ago, when she was in his flat, sleeping in his bed, and he had felt an extraordinary ease with the young girl he had known only for a few days, who had slotted effortlessly into his life, a feeling that whatever they said to each other was a step towards discovery: about her and, concurrently, himself.
‘Well,’ he said, after some moments, giving her a weak smile. ‘I don’t blame them. It was all a bit much. They might have had enough of the Martin brothers . . .’
And then they remained as they were, facing each other on the street, not speaking.
‘But why did you go to see my parents?’ she said finally.
The Inheritance Page 28
