My Cleaner

by Gee, Maggie

  I went to the kitchen and helped my aunty, but I watched him sitting out in front of the house, a long time, alone, before he came inside.

  I went to the city, to Makerere, and in the village they were all impressed. ‘Asoma e Makerere. It is the best university in Africa.’ (Yet once you have been there, you know it could be better.) Instead of gaining cows, my father sold chickens to give me money for food and paper. Books I queued to read in the library; even Makerere had not enough books, and now I hear many shelves are bare. I came home on the taxi, most weekends, racketing along on the broken road, walking the last five miles on foot.

  My second year in the city, life seemed strange and oppressive. I was far from home, and we were maddened by rumour. Obote was driven out by Museveni. We hoped for better things, but change makes you afraid. The city filled up with jeeps of happy soldiers, hooting loudly, returned from the bush. Ugandans had all grown used to fear, under Amin and Obote, and we didn’t know then that the new lot would be better.

  But the city grows into you, little by little, like creeper, silently up from the ground. I became careless, like the other girls, and no longer wanted to go home to my family. It grew into me; I grew used to it, the pavements with only small breaks and holes, the shops with electric light inside, the askaris in uniform, carrying rifles I thought at first would be used to shoot me, the vendors selling fake gold chains, the big dirty taxi-vans everywhere, out of which men shouted and waved their hands, the hotels being built up to the sky, the hurrying people in their new smart clothes, busy women with square mannish shoulders and shoes with heels like blades of knives, the new cinema telling wonderful stories with colours and sounds as sharp as daylight (though quite soon I no longer bothered with films – the American directors did not know my story), the sweet perfumes in glass bottles, the powerful, hissing sprays against insects, the whispering voices of the professors, the way they smiled behind their glasses and pressed against me in corridors, the dirty old karoli swooping over the city, with their rusty black feathers and hanging goitres.

  I worked very hard and did well at my studies, but my father’s money was never enough, and I was ashamed to ask for more. I got a job, working in the Plate Café, washing dishes and wiping tables. I never told my parents this. It was hard and tiring and I missed assignments.

  My professor asked me what was the matter. I will not write which professor he was, because I know some people would blame him. In fact, he had always been kind to me. I had a feeling that he liked me. I told him the truth, and he made a soft sound, a tongue-and-teeth sound that meant he was sorry. ‘I’ll buy you a meal tonight if you are hungry, and we can talk about your problems.’ I was overwhelmed. He was kind, like my father!

  He took me to a restaurant some way out of town. I didn’t know the people there. I had a large glass of beer with my food, because I was nervous of talking to him. I wasn’t used to beer. I told him, ‘You’re kind. Thank you for being kind to me.’

  ‘Will you be kind to me?’ he replied. He looked in my eyes. His were soft and hot. ‘I’m an old man, but I think I can help you. We could be good friends, and help each other.’

  I wanted to cry, but I felt excited. Besides, at least he had bothered to ask me. There were others who forced themselves on their pupils. That night was painful, but I did what I had to. I knew it would help me if I made him happy. When he found I was a virgin, I think he was sorry. He said, ‘God forgive me’, when he had stopped pushing. But he wasn’t sorry until he had stopped pushing.

  We remained friends for nearly a year, and I didn’t go back to the Plate Café. He lent me books, which was wonderful. I read everything, both serious and funny. Dickens, Thackeray, Rider Haggard, PG Wodehouse, Chinua Achebe, and the endless wailing of Virginia Woolf, thin terrible books where nothing happened. But still I was happy to have read her. I loved the professor for his books. He had studied in UK, and knew everything. But he wasn’t young, and his breath was like a goat’s. I didn’t look at his chest like a woman’s, his round soft belly, the grey hair on his back. There was kindness, though, from both of us. And whatever he looked like, he was a good lover. He taught me things that young men don’t know, as I found out later when I slept with one. The boy looked cute, but he finished in seconds. (Later I will delete all this.)

  I quarrelled with the professor when I became too clever. With his help, reading over my essays, I started to get the best marks in the class. My subjects were English, Politics, —— . (I will not specify, in case the man sues me.) My friend said he didn’t know about ——, so he didn’t help with those particular essays, yet my marks in that field began to improve. They improved so fast that my friend became suspicious.

  ‘The Professor of —— has many girlfriends,’ he said one evening, as he did up my dress. ‘One of them is sick. What do you know about this?’

  ‘I heard the same thing,’ I told him, shrugging. His fingers were rather hard on my neck. ‘I think she is ill because she stopped eating. She had an abortion. Now she is too thin. ’

  I myself had round breasts and a behind like melons. Many men wanted to be friends with me. Of course this other professor liked me, in the same way as my first professor. The second professor called me into his office and said, ‘You are clever as well as pretty.’ I wouldn’t let him touch me under my skirt, but maybe I had plans for him in the future. He was younger and bolder than the first professor, and had a blue car with shiny paint-work that he steered boldly through the dirty old taxis. (He smoked Marlboro Lights. Now I know their smell. They smelled of America, and those were the days when I thought I would go there, somehow, anyhow, and be a rich American woman; the days when I thought I could do anything. And perhaps I will still become rich, and fly over, but I no longer want to be American. Uganda already has enough Coca-Cola. Every village is covered with its big red signs.)

  The first professor was becoming jealous. ‘Maybe this girl is dying,’ he said, and he pulled me round to face him. ‘The Professor of —— cannot be trusted. Why do you need more than one professor? Don’t I give you enough money? Don’t I give you enough loving?’

  No one in Uganda has enough money, except for Asians and politicians, who spirit their money away overseas. I kissed him, and said life was very expensive, so maybe I would have to make more money. And then I was lying on the floor, and there was warm blood coming out of my mouth where I had fallen against the table. I saw he was ashamed, but it wasn’t enough, and I slapped him, hard, with my strong peasant hand.

  He said, ‘God forgive me,’ as he had once before, and pulled on his clothes very quickly, trembling, over his pock-marked shoulders and hairy pot belly.

  So then I had to write my essays alone. But perhaps what he told me saved my life. I found other teachers to help with my essays, and help pay my fees, and buy me dresses. Though many were honest, some were not. But I never said ‘Yes’ to the Professor of ——, and six months later, the thin girl died.

  Mary is happy when this section is finished. Mary, in fact, has told a lie. It is perfectly true that her professor hit her. It’s true, as well, that he was sorry. But she was too young and afraid to hit back.

  So her autobiography has made her stronger.

  She looks at herself in the dressing-table mirror.

  I, Mary Tendo, am becoming a writer.

  33

  Now Mary Tendo goes back to the smart street, with the scruffy house, with the tall white steps. She is going to get it right this time. Everything is better the second time. If she could have her life again, Omar would not leave her, she would not lose Jamie.

  Climbing the stairs is like a mountain, but she hopes she is looking less like a missionary. She thought about wearing a hat, or sunglasses, so that Zakira would not recognise her, but this seems too much like a detective novel. Instead she wears plain black trousers and sweater, clothes she has bought very cheap in the market, but which make her feel like a Londoner, since everyone in London seems to wear black, with the
orange coat swinging open on top. In these clothes, people treat her differently, as if she is no longer simple-minded. And she has dug up a rose-bush from the garden, which she intends to give to Zakira. The roots were a problem, but they’re neatly coiled in a plastic bag inside a smarter paper one.

  Mary rings loudly but nothing stirs. Still, she is so sure she will be successful that she waits for a minute, then rings again. This time she hears heavy feet approaching, and the door opens the length of a hand.

  It’s not easy to see if it’s the same woman. ‘Zakira?’ says Mary.

  ‘What do you want?’ The woman’s voice is very English, like the newsreaders on BBC World Service, which Mary listens to at home with Charles. As educated as Miss Henman is, or even more so, Mary thinks.

  And yet, she’s thinner-faced than Mary remembers, in the half-dark of the half-open doorway. ‘Good morning,’ Mary says, and smiles, but the woman looks at her fixedly, coolly. Mary begins to doubt herself. ‘You are not Zakira?’ she asks, slowly.

  ‘I hope I am,’ the woman says, softly. ‘Could you kindly tell me who you are, now, because I can’t stand here chatting all day. I’m very pregnant, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  Mary’s heart sinks with a sickening lurch. Zakira is pregnant. Has forgotten Justin. Has found another man. Mary’s mission is doomed to failure. How terrible, that Zakira is pregnant. Last time, of course, she had been clutching a plant, which must have hidden her big tummy.

  ‘I come from Justin,’ Mary continues, doubtful. ‘Justin has sent this flower for you,’ which is not quite true, but she holds out the rose, heavy with earth in its sheath of thick paper. The woman’s eyes open wide with shock. There is a pause and then she says, mutedly, ‘From Justin. You had better come in,’ and so Mary follows her down the stairs and in through Zakira’s white-painted front door.

  Mary sees with approval that the flat is very tidy. Big expensive vases, containing no flowers. Some beautiful lamps, ornate metal and glass, which have a look of North Africa. There are many books, but they are all on bookshelves. A table with a laptop, covered in paper. Of course, Zakira is doing an MBA, the famous degrees that makes everyone rich. Mary wishes her kabito could have such luck ... Justin loved this woman, and she gave him up. She looks a little older than Justin, Mary thinks. Zakira is probably too proud, too lucky. She will have her baby, and grow powerful and wealthy – but Mary cautions herself against envy.

  She sits on the sofa while Zakira makes tea. She will not allow Mary to help her, but returns with two cups, and this time she smiles. But as she sees Mary without her coat, a glaze of anxiety chills her expression and her eyes become sharper, assessing her.

  ‘How do you know Justin?’ she asks, abruptly.

  ‘I care for him,’ says Mary, smiling, and Zakira’s mouth contracts with dislike.

  ‘So did I,’ she says, and half audibly, ‘What a waste of time that turned out to be.’

  Mary is puzzled and starts again. ‘I am in England working for Justin’s mother.’

  ‘His mother!’ says Zakira. ‘His mother is a bitch.’

  Mary cannot help laughing, and puts down her tea, in order not to spill it on Zakira’s sofa. Then she covers her mouth, and becomes very grave. Obviously Zakira is not interested in Justin. No wonder, since she is pregnant by another man.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Mary says, and stands up again. ‘I think I have come here by mistake. When do you expect your baby?’

  ‘Christmas,’ says Zakira. Mary’s struck with sadness: how lucky to have a Christmas baby. How different it would be if the baby were Justin’s. There is a long pause. Zakira, watching her, sees something sympathetic in Mary’s expression, because she suddenly says, ‘Have you got children?’

  ‘Two,’ says Mary, without thinking. And then realises she is thinking of Justin. ‘One,’ she corrects herself. ‘His name is Jamil. He had to go and live with his father. I do not know what has happened to him.’

  ‘Jamil? That is an Arabic name.’ Zakira looks at her with more interest. ‘I was born here. But my parents are Moroccan.’

  ‘His father is from Libya. A Muslim. I miss my son nearly every day. But a boy, you know. He must see his father.’ Mary says the words she has said so often, but she does not believe them any more. Sometimes she wishes that Omar were dead.

  ‘Did Justin’s mother send you to tell me to stay away?’ asks Zakira. ‘She puts the phone down on me, you know.’

  ‘I do not really come here from Miss Henman,’ Mary hurries to say. ‘I come from Justin.’

  Zakira stares for a long moment, deciding. And then she says, ‘Well, it’s Justin’s baby.’

  And Mary claps her hands, and jumps in the air. ‘It is Justin’s baby! I am so happy! I am Mary Tendo. I was Justin’s nanny.’

  A small tear starts from Zakira’s eye. No one has been happy about this baby. ‘My God, you’re Mary. I’ve heard so much about you. Is it really you? When did you come back?’

  An hour later, they are walking together, even more slowly than Mary usually walks, towards the house where Justin must be sleeping.

  Zakira has tied back her jet-black hair, and put lipstick on, and wrapped herself in an expensive purple coat which Mary envies. Zakira feels beautiful again, although she is enormous, leaning, sometimes, on Mary’s arm, a painted boat on the cold river, listing as she sails towards the ice of winter. ‘I love this country. If I’d been born in Morocco I couldn’t have done a thing that I wanted. But I hate the weather. I love the heat.’ Mary, in her thin orange coat, agrees strongly.

  The two woman have struck up a makeshift alliance, based partly on Zakira’s acute need. She has spoken to no one for several days, and now she tells Mary everything. Her perfect life has imploded, this year: she has had to drop out of the top-flight MBA she was doing at Imperial College, because she was too sick to get in to classes three times a week, and fell behind with her assignments. ‘Although I have finally got permission to take it up again next year.’ She tries to study now, but being pregnant makes her sleepy. ‘I’ve just been afraid that I will never manage, once the baby is born. On my own. In disgrace! You know, I’m not religious, but we are still Muslims.’ Her parents are Zakira’s greatest worry. They are separated in all but name: her mother has gone back to Morocco to look after her own bedridden mother, and her father, a professor at SOAS, is currently a Visiting Professor at Harvard. ‘In one way it is a fantastic relief. If they were here, and knew, they would be going mad. In theory my father is a liberal, but in practice he would be so ashamed. And my mother – my mother is medieval. And at the same time, I do miss them. They have a house in Kensington. In a way they’ve always been too proud of me, and so I was bound to disappoint them, wasn’t I? A bit like Justin with his mother ... I was a junior partner in the firm where Justin worked, the youngest ever, male or female, then I got on this high-powered MBA. My brother is the tearaway. But my mother loves him more than me!’

  Zakira knows a lot about Mary already. ‘You were like a mother to him, he said. I can’t believe that you’ve come back.’ She’s arrived like the bringer of hope, of life. Zakira’s face has lost its hard, bored expression. Her beautiful eyes are alight again. She understands Justin has really been ill, that it wasn’t as she feared, that he didn’t want to see her, after the bad quarrel when she gave him up. She understands now that he lost his job, that the two things together have made him ill. ‘And there were some real bitches in that office, believe me. I was glad to get out and do my MBA.’ Now she knows that Justin has been ill, she can feel tender: now she knows what is wrong, she will care for him.

  And yet there is the obstacle of Justin’s mother.

  Zakira has never met Justin’s mother, although she has heard too much about her, for Justin loves his mother excessively, even for Zakira, who honours her family. This woman has snubbed her several times on the phone, slamming it down when Zakira was speaking. No wonder Justin hates her as well as loves her.

  But Mary tel
ls her it is time for them to meet. Mary seems enviably confident. Zakira is impressed with her. She does not quite believe all that Mary says, about writing The Life of Mary Tendo; Justin has not mentioned that Mary is a writer, and nannies do not usually write their lives, and besides, Mary seems – very African, somehow – in most ways, very different from Zakira ...

  On the other hand, there is something about Mary, an energy and hopefulness Zakira has lost over the lonely spring and summer months of being pregnant, saying nothing to people at her old workplace in case they rejoiced that she had messed things up, and nothing to her family, and nothing to Justin, while thinking, at first, ‘I shall have an abortion’, and later, when she found she had left it too late as a way of never making that fatal decision, ‘A child is coming, what will happen to me?’ None of her contemporaries has children. But Mary has a son. She understands.

  Zakira’s nervous about meeting Justin’s rude, cold mother. Still, at least the fear makes her feel alive, where an hour ago she was indifferent, moribund, because it seemed that no change was possible, that she would be imprisoned in the cold for ever, imprisoned in her body with its lumbering cargo. No one would visit her and no one would help her, and the big heavy baby would never be born, because out in the world no one waited for him, no-one wanted him except his mother.

  Now the knot of fate is going to loosen. Zakira sways along at Mary’s side.

  Mary gives Zakira one last warm smile before she slips her key into the door. She leads Zakira into the sitting-room, then goes upstairs to waken Justin.

  But he is not there.

  The bedroom is empty.

  Even more surprising, the bed is made. Mary checks the bathroom, the loo. No one. She comes downstairs and scans the back garden. It doesn’t seem possible, but Justin has gone. (Though she doesn’t remember this until later, she sees Justin’s arrows all over the garden, sticking out of tree-trunks and flowerbeds and fences, the arrows Mary smuggled in from Uganda, pale bamboo arrows with barbed steel heads. Justin has been playing with someone in the garden. His goat-skin quiver lies on the ground.)