by Mbue, Imbolo
Hearing Vince’s name had made Jende wonder how the young man was faring in India. He thought about Vince whenever he saw a mention of India in the newspaper, but didn’t think it right to ask Clark about him and open up whatever wounds were still healing.
He thought about Leah, too, in the days after Lehman fell, but had no way of reaching her besides through the number at Lehman. The thought of calling it left him with an eerie feeling, as if doing so would be akin to calling a dead friend at a cemetery. But he worried about her, about her high blood pressure and her swelling feet, and so a few days after returning to work he had called the work number, hoping for a recorded message that would direct him to her.
“Leah!” he said, shocked and elated when she answered the phone. “What are you doing there? I thought … I was afraid …”
“Oh yeah, honey,” she said. “I was canned, too. My last day’s tomorrow. They want me to clean up some things before I leave. Otherwise, I don’t need to be here for one more minute.”
“I am so sorry, Leah.”
“I am, too … but what’re you going to do? Sometimes it’s better when it happens, you know? You spend months losing sleep, fearing for what’s ahead. At least now it’s happened and it’s over and … I don’t know … I can finally sleep well and get the hell out of this shitty place.”
“It’s the fear that kills us, Leah,” Jende said. “Sometimes it happens and it is not even as bad as the fear. That is what I have learned in this life. It is the fear.”
Leah agreed but said she couldn’t talk much at the moment. She gave Jende her home number to call later, which Jende did that night.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked her.
“Something really great,” she said, sounding more upbeat than she had in the morning. “I’ve got over twenty years of experience, honey. I’m not worried. I’m going to take a month and relax before I start a job search.”
“You should do that.”
“I will, maybe go see my sister in Florida. That’s the good thing about a life with no husband or children—no one to hold me back, make me feel as if I can’t go where I want, whenever I want, do what I want. I’m going to enjoy myself in Sarasota, and when I come back, I’ll dust off the old résumé.”
“You will get a new job very fast when you return,” Jende said. “Mr. Edwards will surely tell everyone that you were a good secretary.”
“He better.”
“When you come back, call me, please? You are going to let me know you are all right?”
Leah promised she would, and Jende wished her a good time in Florida.
The next day, as he drove to drop off and pick up the Edwardses, Jende thought about Leah and the ex–Lehman employees. He thought about the state of the city and the state of the country. He thought about how strange and sad and scary it was that Americans were talking about an “economic crisis,” a phrase Cameroonians heard on the radio and TV virtually every day in the late eighties, when the country entered a prolonged financial downturn. Few people in Limbe understood the origin of the slump, or what the government was doing to get the country out of it and prevent a recurrence, but everyone knew that it made buying food and other necessities beyond difficult, thanks to the evaporation of large amounts of money. Now it was happening in America. And it was bad. Very bad. No one could tell how long it would take before this avoidable pandemonium that Lehman’s fall had caused would end. It could take years, the experts on TV said. Maybe up to five years, some said, especially now that the crisis was spreading around the world and people were losing secure jobs, losing life’s savings, losing families, losing sanities.
But him … thank God, he still had a job.
His gratitude overflowed every time he picked up the car from the garage, knowing he could be jobless like many all over the country. He read of job losses daily in Clark’s discarded Journal and watched news segments about layoffs on CNN after work.
Every night he went to bed hoping it would get better soon, but it would only get worse in the coming weeks.
More jobs would be lost, with no hope of being found in the immediate future. The Dow would drop in titanic percentages. It would rise and fall and rise and fall, over and over, like a demonic wave. 401(k)s would be cut in half, disappear as if stolen by maleficent aliens. Retirements would have to be postponed; visions of lazy days at the beach would vanish or be put on hold for up to a decade. College education funds would be withdrawn; many hands would never know the feel of a desired diploma. Dream homes would not be bought. Dream wedding plans would be reconsidered. Dream vacations would not be taken, no matter how many days had been worked in the past year, no matter how much respite was needed.
In many different ways it would be an unprecedented plague, a calamity like the one that had befallen the Egyptians in the Old Testament. The only difference between the Egyptians then and the Americans now, Jende reasoned, was that the Egyptians had been cursed by their own wickedness. They had called an abomination upon their land by worshipping idols and enslaving their fellow humans, all so they could live in splendor. They had chosen riches over righteousness, rapaciousness over justice. The Americans had done no such thing.
And yet, all through the land, willows would weep for the end of many dreams.
Twenty-eight
THEY DROVE TO THE CHELSEA HOTEL AT LEAST A DOZEN TIMES IN THE first five weeks after Lehman fell. Clark seemed to need those appointments more as hysteria in the market grew and the weight on his weakening shoulders got heavier; he seemed to need them desperately, like a scorched land panting for rain. It was as if they were his sole path to aliveness, his sole means of feeling sane in a demented world—only when he called to confirm each appointment did his tone change from morose to expectant. Always, he confirmed the rendezvous on the way there. Always, he verified with the person on the phone that the girl would do the acts she had promised to do on the website. Always, he nodded, and sometimes smiled, as the person assured him that he would get his money’s worth, that the girl would make him very, very happy.
In the driver’s seat, Jende pretended not to hear anything. It was his job to drive, not to hear. Before every appointment he pulled up in front of the hotel, dropped Clark off, and searched for a spot on the street. There, he waited until he got a call from Clark to pick him up in five minutes. When Clark reentered the car, Jende saw a man who looked relaxed but, in other ways, was no different from the man who had exited. His hair was combed back, as when he left the car. His blue shirt was without wrinkles, his collar without a dent. No guilt was evident in his demeanor.
Jende drove him wherever he needed to be next and asked no questions. He had no right to ask questions. Sometimes when Clark reentered the car he made remarks about the weather, the Yankees, the Giants. Jende always responded quickly and agreed with whatever the boss said, as if to say, it’s okay, sir, it’s perfectly all right, sir, what you’re doing. And he could tell Clark felt that way around him; that Clark trusted him and knew that no one would ever know. Without speaking of it, their bond had been firmly established—they were two men bound by this secret, by their dependence on each other to move forward every day and carry each other to the achievement of daily and lifelong goals, by the relationship they had forged after almost a year of cruising on highways and sitting in rush-hour traffic.
Theirs was as solid a bond as could be between a man and his chauffeur, but not solid enough for the chauffeur to venture into a delicate territory. Which was why Jende said no more than was necessary the night Clark returned to the car without his tie on.
On any other day, Jende wouldn’t have noticed the tie’s disappearance, since he cared little about ties. Winston had given him one—after Jende told him what Clark had said at the job interview, about him getting a real tie if he hoped to further his career—but he’d rejected Winston’s offer to teach him how to tie it, believing he still remembered how to do it from the couple of times he’d worn one in Limbe. On the
morning of his first day on the job, though, neither he nor Neni could figure out how to tie it. Neni had suggested they Google it but he didn’t have the time for that. He’d gone to work with a clip-on, and Clark had complimented his “more professional look,” which Jende took as a validation of everything he was wearing. Later that week, Winston had again offered to teach him, but he’d declined because he found it unnecessary and, besides, why did a man have to tie his neck like a goat? Few ties seemed worth the discomfort, but Mr. Edwards’s blue tie had gotten his attention that morning, when he picked him up.
It was a tie of many flags, and at a stoplight Jende had looked at it through the rearview mirror and recognized the British Union Jack, the American Stars and Stripes, the Drapeau Tricolore of France, il Tricolore of Italy—flags he knew from years of watching the World Cup. He had searched for the Cameroonian green, red, and yellow flag with a yellow star on the red, but it wasn’t there, though the Malian flag was there, for some reason. While waiting for Clark in front of the Chelsea Hotel that night, he considered making conversation about the tie when the boss reentered the car, partly to diffuse the awkwardness that often sat between them in the first minutes after Clark returned, and partly because if he was going to spend money on a real tie, he wanted it to be something notable, and he was hoping Mr. Edwards could tell him where he could get a cheap version of his tie, since his was probably from one of those rich-people stores on Fifth Avenue.
But Clark had returned to the car without the tie.
Jende had opened his mouth to say something and immediately shut it. He had no right to comment on the boss’s appearance. And it wasn’t his place to speculate where the tie could be, though he couldn’t stop himself from wondering. It couldn’t be in Clark’s briefcase—he never took the briefcase into the hotel. It couldn’t be in his pocket—that would make no sense. And he couldn’t have given it to whomever he had just …
“Back to the office, sir?” Jende asked as he pulled out of a parking spot in front of the hotel, wondering how much pleasure the man must have received for him to forget his tie.
“No, home.”
“Home, sir?”
“That’s what I said.”
Immediately, Jende could see how this was going to play out. Clark was going to walk into the house, and Cindy, being a woman and being as inquisitive as women couldn’t help being, was going to ask him where the tie was. Clark was going to stammer and quickly mutter a lie, which Cindy would not believe. Cindy would start a fight, maybe their third fight of the day, and tomorrow Jende’s ears would be subjected to more cringe-inducing details about their marriage. And poor Clark, as if he wasn’t suffering enough, would have one more battle to fight.
Or maybe Cindy wouldn’t notice.
It was already ten o’clock, and she might be sleeping. Clark would return home, undress, take a shower, and, thankfully, the poor woman wouldn’t know a thing.
Twenty-nine
CINDY ASKED HIM TO COME UPSTAIRS ON AN EVENING EARLY IN NOVEMBER, a week after the tie went missing. It was three days after Barack Obama had been elected president and New Yorkers had danced in Times Square, three days after he and Neni had jumped all around the living room and shed euphoric tears that the son of an African now ruled the world. It was a day after Clark had told him that he would be getting a two-thousand-dollar raise for having been an exceptional employee for one full year.
“Please have a seat,” Cindy said, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table.
Jende lowered himself onto the black leather dining chair. There was a clear vase of fresh purple calla lilies on the rectangular marble table; a blue notebook sat next to it. Jende glanced at the leather-bound book, and then Cindy. He could tell: She had noticed the tie. She must have noticed the tie. They must have fought about it or about something else. It must have been a big fight, maybe a fight like the one Neni had told him they’d had in the Hamptons over Vince moving to India. It was always easy to tell when a married person had had an ugly fight with their spouse—they looked as if the whole world had deserted them, as if they had nothing and no one. That was how Cindy looked that evening.
She no longer looked like the gorgeous Mrs. Edwards from when he started working for them. Her skin was still beautiful, wrinkle-free and spotless, but there was an emptiness in her eyes, which even her well-done mascara and eyeliner could not conceal, and he could see that something had happened to the madam, something was happening to her. Even with the loose waves of her glossy strawberry blond hair lying on one side of her face, her pearls sitting on her chest, her lips painted red, it was clear to Jende how much pain she was in and how badly she needed something to happen to bring her peace.
“How was your day?” she asked him.
“I thank God, madam.”
She nodded, picked up her coffee mug from the table, and, holding it with both hands, took a sip. “Your wife and son are well?”
“They are very well, madam. I thank you for asking.”
Cindy nodded again. She said nothing for ten seconds, maybe, and bowed her head while her hands remained clasped around the mug.
“I’m going to need you to do me a favor,” she said softly, lifting her head to look into Jende’s eyes. “A huge favor. I need you to start doing it tomorrow.”
“Anything, madam. Anything.”
“Good … good.”
She paused again, nodding with her head bowed. He waited, looking at the collar of her yellow cotton blouse in lieu of her face. She kept her head bowed. He glanced around the kitchen, at the bare countertops and the trio of glass pendant lights above the island. Just when it seemed she was going to remain with her head down for a full minute, she lifted it, pushed back her hair, and looked into his eyes.
“I want you to write in here,” she said, pushing the blue notebook toward him, “everywhere that you drive Clark to. Everyone you see him with. I want you to write everything, in here.”
Jende shifted in his seat and sat upright.
“You don’t have to tell him what I’m asking you to do, okay? This will be between the two of us. Just do as I say. Everything will be all right. You’ll be fine.”
Her voice was guttural, her nose reddish at the top. She pulled a tissue from a box on the table, wiped her nose, stood up, discarded it in the trash can, and returned to her seat. Jende picked up the notebook and examined it. He flipped through the empty pages, turned it around as if to make sure it really was a book. Carefully, he put the book down, took a deep breath, clasped his hands on his lap, and waited for courage to possess him so he could give her the right response.
“Mrs. Edwards,” he said, “what you are asking me to do is very difficult.”
“I know.”
“What you are asking me is … In fact, madam, I can lose my job with Mr. Edwards if I do something like this. Mr. Edwards made it very clear to me—”
“You will not lose your job,” she said. “I’ll make sure of that. You work for the whole family, not just him. Get me what I want, and I’ll make sure you keep your job.”
“But madam …” His voice trailed off; it had suddenly become too heavy to flow. “Madam,” he began again. “Surely you must know that this is a very difficult time for Mr. Edwards. I see how much he is working, madam. I can see how hard this time is for him. He looks tired, he is working so hard, always on his cell phone, always on his computer, one meeting after another.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what a hardworking man my husband is.”
“Yes, madam. Of course, madam.”
“There’s another woman,” Cindy said. She paused and turned her face away, as if ashamed of confessing her fear to a mere chauffeur. “What do you know?” she asked him.
“I know nothing, madam.”
“Where have you driven them to?”
“I swear to you, madam—”
“Do not lie to me!”
Her hands were shivering. His were cold; he couldn’t recall his hands having ever
been this cold indoors. He yearned to reach across the table, steady her hands, tell her not to worry or fear. He couldn’t bring himself to do it—he had no right to touch the madam. Still, he had to caution her.
“Madam,” he said. “I hope you do not take this the wrong way, madam. But please, do not worry yourself too much.”
Cindy shook her head and laughed, a weak derisive laugh.
“I just think, madam, that whatever you think Mr. Edwards is doing or wherever you think he is, he is just working and working all the time. It is not easy for a woman, any woman, madam. It is hard for my wife, too, with me not coming home until late most of the time, and sometimes I have to work weekends. But she understands that I have to do this to take care of the family, just as Mr. Edwards has to.”
Cindy nodded. “Your wife is pregnant, right?” she said.
“Yes, madam,” he said, pushing out a flimsy smile. “The baby will be coming next month.”
“That’s nice. You still don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“No, madam, we still do not know. We will find out on the baby’s birthday.”
