by Monica Ali
‘Go to London? Why?’ She saw his broad blank face as he said it, the pale line of his scalp where his hair parted and sprang to the side.
It wasn’t the end of the world, for goodness’ sake. People travelled all the time. Even Vasco and look at him! Waiting with his pigs’ ears and tails for the world to arrive at his door. When the tourists came – but would they? – that is what they’d want. A dish of ears and tails. She giggled and put her hand to her mouth. A gust of laughter blew it away. She howled and bent over and held her knees. Oh, oh, oh, they’d be lining up for that!
She would have to tell Clara about it. Clara was good for a laugh. When she got to London she’d tell them too. It would be a good story to tell. Of course she’d have to explain first about Vasco, tell them what he was like. And also Mamarrosa, you couldn’t understand unless you knew about this place. It would be quite difficult actually. She straightened up, still giggling, the laughter out of control and empty and heaving dryly out of her mouth. It slowed down and came in shudders, came fainter and finally silently, shaking her shoulders and pricking her eyes, and by the time it came to a standstill she scarcely knew if she had laughed or cried.
When Paula called by for some milk, Teresa had, thankfully, retouched her make-up and recovered her usual poise.
‘Who’s going to make your dress?’ said Teresa, being friendly.
Paula stood with a hand on her hip and one foot turned out like she was at a photo shoot. ‘I’m going to Lisbon for it. You don’t think I’d trust anyone round here?’
The way she said Lisbon it was like she thought it was special, like going to London, and it was not.
‘Fantastic,’ said Teresa. ‘You’ll get something really beautiful, I bet.’
‘Mmm,’ said Paula. She spread her hand across her bosom, just to show off her ring. The blond streaks she put in her hair were turning orange; tracks left by a leaky tap. She had a pretty face, like a girl in a catalogue, but she thought she was beautiful like a girl in a magazine. Her body was long and her legs were short and she wore bras that pushed up her breasts. She had seaweed eyes and red-brown hair which fell past her shoulders and she sort of looked like a mermaid, but not nearly as beautiful though.
‘So,’ said Paula, ‘I’ve been talking to my fiancé.’ She looked at Teresa as though this deserved a response.
Teresa just looked at her back.
‘And,’ said Paula, in the tone people use when they have some news to tell, ‘we have discussed everything.’
Three cheers for you, Teresa wanted to say.
‘And,’ said Paula, who really was being quite annoying, ‘he has told me a little something about you.’
At school, all the way to seniors, Paula was nobody. To get attention she started eating insects. She’d eat a line of ants and everyone would cheer. She ate a spider the size of her hand and got very sick. After that she ate no more insects but she still had a lot of friends and that just went to show.
‘Right,’ said Teresa in a flat voice.
‘And,’ said Paula, ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m really OK with it. I mean,’ she said, hoisting a buttock on to the cash desk, ‘I always thought you liked him. I just never knew you’d fooled around.’
Teresa opened her mouth. She didn’t know where to begin. Liked him! My God, she . . . she hated him. She’d rather eat a spider than touch him. They were, like, fifteen when it happened and it was only the one revolting kiss. A kiss and – OK – a squeeze; he grabbed her breast so hard that it hurt.
Paula held up her hands to frame a smile. ‘Anyway, look, I’m only saying. Better that we clear the air.’
Teresa wanted to get out of here. She looked at the clock and then jumped up and grabbed it.
‘What are you doing with that?’
‘Bloody thing,’ said Teresa, setting it down on the floor. Vicente always looked at her, so cocky, jutting his chin. It was like he thought that she fancied him, and if anyone was doing the fancying it was him.
‘A husband and wife,’ said Paula, speaking with authority, ‘should always tell each other everything. That way a marriage can’t fail.’
But you’re blind, screamed Teresa inside. If there was ever a man not to be trusted it was the one she was about to wed. ‘I wish you all the luck,’ said Teresa, and in truth she felt sorry for Paula, because Paula did not know.
‘Thanks. I’ll need it,’ laughed Paula, meaning she would not. ‘You’ve heard, I guess, about this Ruby.’
Teresa clicked her tongue. ‘What now?’
‘Everyone’s talking about it.’ Her eyes were dull green, like seaweed dried in the sun. ‘She’s, you know, she’s . . . whatsit.’ She pointed to her stomach and pulled a face.
Teresa grabbed at her ponytail. ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Oh, right.’
‘Isn’t it awful? Such a shame.’
‘Yes, really,’ said Teresa. She felt sick; there was bile in her mouth.
‘Francisco, he’s friends with her, isn’t he? Did he say anything to you?’
‘No, nothing. He’s not friends with her, anyway. He was, but a long time ago.’
Paula slid off the cash desk. She straightened her skirt and turned out a toe. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Yeah. I thought I saw it in her face. Her stomach’s not showing, but you can read a lot from a face.’
Teresa nodded; she tried to smile but it made her gag and she covered her mouth with her hands. If Francisco didn’t finish school she would kill him. Mãe would go out of her mind.
‘See you later,’ said Paula. ‘We’ll have fun.’ She swayed out of the shop and Teresa turned to the waste bin and spat.
A couple of miles outside Mamarrosa, on the road to Ourique where the ochre fields rose and fell gentle as a lullaby, Teresa slowed the scooter as the man stepped out of the low cistus hedge. He held a long stick to which he had tied a red cloth and when he raised it she stopped. The cows pushed into each other at the roadside, heads resting on bony backs. She watched the stragglers; the lazy march across the dormant land, the little circus of dust at their hooves. They were cream and fawn and brown and glorious in the rich evening light. The man shouted and waved his stick and they began to cross the road.
Teresa turned off the engine. She observed without even trying the particular way that they walked. Heads high, ears twitched, the legs that looked set to buckle, the joints that rolled deep in their shoulders in that loose, dislocated way. In London, she thought, it would finally be fruitful, this gift or this burden she had.
She set off again with her skirt whipping fancifully at her thighs. London would be big, dark and dirty. She knew it wasn’t the place that she let herself dream. Whatever it was, she was ready for it. If she could she would drive there right now.
Francisco was on his own, that was it; he could mess up his life but not hers. If she stayed she could just imagine it: oh, Teresa will look after the child.
The silly, silly boy.
Jesus, Francisco. Maybe it’s not even yours.
The road curved up and the land to her right dropped away. She glimpsed a stream, a string of diamonds thrown across the earth. The road wound round a wall of red clay and boulders cut into the side of the hill. A eucalyptus plantation ran alongside, the young trees recently thinned, and the felled trunks lay criss-crossed through the wood like giant matches dropped from a box.
At the steepest bend the Vespa strained hard. Teresa squeezed it with her thighs. Come on, she said, and they came up to the flat and at the crossroads turned left and let fly.
Beyond a hamlet of ten houses there was a sign. Thank you for visiting, it said. You’re welcome, said Teresa, tchau. There were a couple more kilometres to go. She got stuck behind a tractor, bouncing and swinging along. On a wide verge, a picnic bench of whitewashed concrete with a man on top, asleep. His bike rested in the shade. She came to an avenue of umbrella pines that knitted a green roof in the sky. It was the next track that she took or the one after that. She had to look out for the co
rk oak with the trunk that split in two.
It looked like any other farmhouse. But there were encouraging signs. Plumbago and bougainvillea covered the outhouse and an iron stork sat on the terrace. Antonio must have parked around the side because she could not see his car but Teresa left the scooter at the front and walked to the furthest door, the one that stood ajar.
Antonio was playing rock music, Guns ‘n Roses she thought.
He leaped on her as she entered, catching her round the waist. His mouth, too much saliva, beery, sloshed around her face. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘Antonio.’ He was reaching beneath her dress. ‘Antonio! Get off!’
‘I love you,’ said Antonio. His face looked squishy.
She honestly felt like wiping her cheeks. How did he get them so wet?
‘I’ve got beer,’ he said, and went to the fridge.
‘Wine for me please.’ She had to shout to be heard. ‘And turn that music down.’ She picked up a tea towel and dabbed delicately at her chin.
The room was not what she expected. There were no fitted cupboards at all. The worktops were local marble and they were nice enough but just the usual plastered pillars and open shelves held them up. There was a stone sink, a splashback of tiles in the old blue and white style, and the fireplace was open and large enough to smoke an entire pig.
Antonio held out a beer. He was wearing his favourite shirt. It had big Chinese letters, or Japanese, down the front. She’d only told him she liked it so that she didn’t hurt his feelings and now he had it on and that was what she got for being so bloody nice.
She ignored his outstretched hand. ‘Wine or gin and tonic,’ she said. The portable stereo was on the windowsill and she went and turned it off.
‘Relax,’ said Antonio, ‘have a beer. That’s all I’ve got.’
Teresa rolled her shoulders. She laughed. ‘OK, OK. I’m sorry.’ How silly she was being.
She took a CD from her bag and Antonio looked at it and groaned. ‘Mariza? You’re kidding. That’s what we’ll play when we break up.’
‘Fine,’ she said brightly, ‘let’s have nothing at all.’
They sat at the pockmarked oak table that smelled of linseed and wheat. Cradling a beer apiece, their fingertips finally touched. Antonio set his beer down. He put his elbow on the table and rested his heavy chin on his hand. His eyes were black as liquorice and spoke for him very well.
‘Toilet’s still knackered,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go outside.’
She reached over quickly and kissed him. It was better if they didn’t talk.
‘The bedroom,’ he mumbled, with his lips still on hers.
They stood up with their mouths locked.
She broke away. ‘Let’s not rush. Darling? Would you give me a tour of the house?’
‘What’s this room?’ enquired Teresa politely as they stepped into what seemed to be a courtyard, enclosed and roofed in as well.
Antonio shrugged, his hands in his pockets. She hoped he wasn’t going to sulk.
There was a cobbled floor and a stone trough along the back wall and a wooden chest with a pile of books and a vase of dried poppies. ‘Well, they haven’t finished it yet.’ She pressed on, lifting the rug that hung in the doorway, just like the ones at home.
This room was big, bright and airy, like three rooms knocked into one. The walls were white and the windows large but there was no carpet, not even a rug. And the furniture looked ancient. Even Mãe had newer stuff than that.
Antonio was breathing right on her neck. She stepped smartly away and sat down.
‘It’s nice,’ he said, ‘isn’t it?’ He stuck his finger inside his ear.
Teresa knew she should look away but didn’t. It seemed like his entire body vibrated while his finger stayed stock still.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘when you have an idea of something and then you have to let go of the idea?’
‘What idea?’
‘Any idea. If you’ve really been looking forward to something.’
‘What something?’
She tucked her feet up on the couch. The fabric was hard and hairy. She arranged her skirt like a deflated parachute. There was a huge painting over the fireplace, daubs of violet, purple and maroon. It was modern art, of course.
‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘Antonio.’ In her stomach where butterflies should have been there was only a cold, empty space.
She looked over her shoulder to watch him come near. He was tall and wide-shouldered and handsome and he loved her oh so much. There was a picture behind him on the wall by the wood stove and she realized now what it was. A section of whitewash and plaster peeled away to reveal the old mud bricks underneath. The clay and the mud and the straw This is what they had framed.
He knelt in front of her and she closed her eyes. The secret now was not to think at all. It was easy too, now she’d stopped trying. She would relax and go with the flow. She ran her tongue around his front teeth and undid two buttons on his shirt. His hands ran down her back and up to her shoulders, up and down again, once more and then over the top and massaged enquiringly at her breasts. Now, she thought, now or never and began tugging at his belt. He lifted her skirt and drew circles on the inside of her thighs. She sucked on his tongue so madly, like she would never, ever stop. His hands burned on every inch of her and she heard someone calling her name.
‘Who’s that? Who’s that?’ she hissed, jerking free, but she knew. It was the voice that had called in her dream.
Antonio’s face was in front of her, so close it was more of a blur. She looked up and glared at Vicente. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Relax,’ said Vicente, curling his bare toes on the red flagstones.
Why was everyone telling her that?
‘What’s this?’ she snarled at Antonio. ‘A party?’
‘Babe, I was going to tell you. You never gave me a chance.’
Vicente sniggered. She wanted to smack the smile right off his face. He was watching her with his small mean eyes like he could see through every stitch of her clothes.
Antonio got up and sat on the couch, draped an arm across her neck. ‘I was telling Vicente we had the house. We thought it would be nice, you know. Sociable, you know.’
Vicente looked on, chewing on his damn cheeks, making his cheekbones stand out. She wasn’t going to give him a show. She patted Antonio’s leg. ‘That’s nice, darling. Perhaps we could play cards.’
Paula appeared, shoeless, in what seemed to be a nightdress or slip. ‘Hi! Teresa!’ she shrieked, as if they were long-lost best friends.
See you later, she’d said in the shop. We’ll have fun, she’d said. What a cow. Teresa had been thinking of Francisco. Or she would have put a stop to this.
Paula slid up to Vicente and tucked herself under his arm. Her hair was mussed up, there was mascara on her cheek and she thought she was a woman now.
‘Paula,’ said Teresa warmly, ‘who else is coming tonight?’
‘Just us,’ said Paula in a sickly-sweet voice.
Teresa looked up at Vicente and wished it was just her with him. A spasm ran through her body and for a moment she wished she was dead.
The swimming pool was burnished like a giant smoked-glass table top. Teresa dipped a toe in. It was colder than it looked. A swift came down and skimmed the water, and then another and another. They came and they kept coming and the air was pierced through; they fell like arrows but vaulted right up, black darts in the twilight sky.
Antonio came out clinking beer bottles and the swifts dispersed.
He stood a little away from her. ‘Are you coming in?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Not yet.’
He said fine and went, leaving one beer on the tiles.
Teresa stood on the top step of the pool. She dropped another step down. She went down again and held up her dress but still she got it wet.
A cuckoo called, a dog barked and its solitary friends made their pointless replies.
Paula ran fro
m the house in a silver bikini. She shrieked as she jumped in the pool. ‘It’s lovely. Thanks, Teresa, lovely. You should get changed and come for a swim.’ She lay on her back and flapped her arms and her breasts and her hips glinted beneath the surface like fish.
Vicente was stripped to his boxer shorts. He had a tattoo of a lizard on his back. His body was hard and wiry. She looked right at him to show him she didn’t care.
‘Hold this,’ he said, ‘I’m getting in.’
Teresa held the home-rolled cigarette. She knew what was in it. She took a puff.
She carried the beer and the spliff into a bedroom and sat down on the bed. It was a high, iron-framed single, like the one she had thrown away. She sucked on the spliff and an ember fell on to her dress. The dress was wet enough to put it out.
Her limbs were heavy, aching, as though she had caught a cold. She thought she would leave now but then thought she would not. She really wanted to sleep.
If the house had been different, she thought. How very silly she was.
She toked again and sipped her beer and tested her tongue on her teeth.
Anyway, she was going to London. Nobody could spoil that. She flicked her head from side to side to make her ponytail jump.
What was the point, though, really? Why was she going there? Those children with their Indian headdresses and their thoughtless expectation of love. Who would she be in London and who would be there to see? She would be there and the writer would be here, and the tourists would come or they wouldn’t, Marco Afonso Rodrigues went and was coming back, and Telma Ervanaria was in Paris and Vasco was in Provincetown, and Mãe was lost in Brazil and everyone was going round and round and it didn’t make one bit of difference as far as she could understand. They come here and I go there. Round and round. This bed, that bed, new bed, old bed. If the room would just hold still!
‘I knew it,’ she said, to Vicente’s legs, the dark hair plastered to his shins.
He lifted her face and took the spliff, which was lifeless, and put a finger to his lips.
‘Go on then,’ she said, and he kissed her and it was he who made it stop.
He licked her ear and winked at her. She watched the lizard dance away.
