“If we all took an eye for an eye …” Mama declared.
Martha looked a little frightened, like Mama might be about to take one of hers.
“The whole world would end up blind!” Mama finished theatrically.
The crowd erupted in girlish laughter and twittering. Somebody actually applauded.
Perhaps Mama saw the red of my hair above the green-jersey-clad shoulders, because she called out, “Grace? Gracie, dear?”
But I had slunk back into the crowd. And then Mama was walking away, Mad Martha under her wing. The crowd cheered as another can went sailing over the fence and skittered near their feet.
“Mad Martha and her mate Barking Bertha,” some girl with dark eyeliner joked. I caught Jennifer giving me a half-pitying, half-delighted, wide-eyed look. I ignored her. If it hadn’t been hard enough to make friends before, with my secondhand uniform and chin full of bad skin, it was near impossible now. I would spend the rest of that year in the warm embrace of the library. Surrounded by piles of French cookbooks and out-of-date travel guides to far-flung places. Africa, Greenland, Australia, China.
The building site man breaks his stare and scratches his armpit. Perhaps I should head back home to bed. The air is humid and thick, and I feel worn out. Facing me is the courtyard of an apartment complex, three apartment blocks arranged around it in a U shape, all clad with green tiles that are chipped and graying with age. Most of the windows are covered in rusting metal grilles, off which damp clothes hang. I walk into the courtyard to look at the small businesses which occupy the ground floor, though most seem to have moved on some time ago. One looks like a travel agency, posters bleached and peeling against the glass. Another is a beauty therapist called Depil House. There is a blackboard outside advertising a sale on Havaianas flip-flops, a drawing of a single flip-flop carefully executed in lime green chalk. A barber must have worked here once, but the shop is closed up, the windows silty. A striped pole still rotates drunkenly.
There is only one piece of writing in English, and it catches my eye. It is handwritten at the bottom of a fresh sheet of white paper stuck to a window, topped first with Portuguese and then little black Chinese characters. SALE. SHOP WITH OVENS. GOOD PRICE. OR TO RENT. PHONE: 6688 3177.
I peer through the murky glass into what might have once been a café. Cane chairs are stacked against a wall. The floor is covered in white tiles with little black diamonds in the center of each group of four. They are filthy with a sticky-looking dust. At the back of the room is a counter, a Portuguese flag hanging behind it. The top right-hand corner has come unstuck, so it sags down from that side. I step away from the window and look back at the sign. SHOP WITH OVENS—there must be a kitchen back there, I think.
A sharp voice slices through my loose thoughts. Someone is yelling in Cantonese. I look up, and an old woman in floral pajamas is leaning out her window. Her face is twisted in disapproval. She jabs her finger in the air, shouting something in Cantonese. I can feel awkwardness creeping over me. Not knowing the language makes me feel clumsy and stupid.
“Sorry!” I call out in a strangled voice, raising my palm in an apologetic wave.
Taking a few steps backward, I stumble. My bum makes a thick, dull smack against the concrete.
“Shit.” I don’t look up in case the woman is smirking at my fall. I stand and brush the dirt off the seat of my pants. My face burns with embarrassment, and I move away from the shops. Just before I leave the courtyard, I turn one last time to look at the sign. It stares back at me, pale as a dove’s wing on the dark, empty window. I put my head down and point my shoes toward home. A few steps on and I hear another voice. Laughing. I glance over my shoulder. Only then do I notice another woman leaning out on her balcony, in the block opposite the woman in her pajamas. She is calling back and pegging up shirts and trousers. She shakes out her wet clothes, grunting and nodding to her friend across the way. I realize then that they are just talking to each other, nothing to do with me at all.
Somewhere inside there comes the sound of Mama’s voice, laughing. “Oh, Gracie, you need some courage, girl; some of your mama’s shamelessness.”
The shamelessness that was always getting us into trouble, her and me both. The shamelessness that had us packing for Paris to make our fortunes or holding midnight picnics in Kensington Gardens. The less I had of that the better. Or so I had always thought. I chew on the inside of my lip as I walk home. Wishing my cheeks weren’t now as red as my hair.
* * *
“It won’t take long.”
There is an almost imperceptible pleading in his voice as he lays a fresh shirt on the bed. I look up from my book.
“It’s a work thing. It’ll look weird if I’m there alone.”
Again, I imagine him adding.
“They want to meet you, Grace.”
Unemployed, infertile, waitress—wife. Yes, I am sure they do. I reply: “I don’t know. I don’t have anything to wear.” It’s at least partly true. I don’t buy clothes for going out to cocktail parties, probably on purpose.
He takes a black dress from the wardrobe, runs his hand over it as if I were in it already. Down the side where my thigh would be. I haven’t worn it since the Christmas before last; I don’t even know if it will fit.
“How ’bout this?”
I turn back to my book and shrug, but feel his eyes on me.
When he goes into the shower, I stand up and touch the dress, lying next to his shirt on the bed. It’s cool, with a wet kind of sheen like a seal. I take off my clothes and slip it over my head. It fits. I run my hand through my hair and think of Mama again. Now, she had some party clothes. Her wardrobe was always filled with the brightest rainbow of silks and satins. I prefer blacks and neutrals; they go with everything. I draw in a deep breath.
“I’ll go,” I say. Not loud enough for Pete to hear over the watery roar of the shower, but loud enough to convince myself.
* * *
I find myself hiding in a candlelit corner as far as possible from the DJ, bar, and crowds. I can see Pete over some heads, a little gathering around him, faces thrown back in laughter or leaning in as he whispers some story. Every time the waiter with the cheese platter comes by I take two or three cracker loads at a time. I give him a polite smile, hoping he can guess I once did his job and I know his feet hurt like pins are being driven through the heels. The expensive cheeses are salty and soft against the crispness of the crackers, and I realize how hungry I am. How little I have been eating these past weeks. Perhaps the waiter can sense this too; he begins to make a beeline for me each time he comes from the kitchen with a new plate. Goat, blue, Brie. Soothingly thick and creamy in my throat. I am grateful to be ignored in this nook of the room; no one notices my feasting. They are all concentrating on saying the right things, laughing at the right times, and smiling broadly to show how interesting everything is. These banal scenes are replicated all over the room.
A slender, gentle-faced Chinese woman breaks out of the circle around Pete. She glides my way. My stomach twists as I brush crumbs from the skin of the dress. I angle my body away from her and look out the window with what I hope is a casual glance.
“Grace? Grace, ’ello, I am Celine. I just met your ’usband, Pete. He said you would be standing somewhere ’ere.” A slender hand extends into my view. The woman has such an unnervingly beautiful French accent that I am unable to resist turning to stare at her. The sound of it gives me a little jolt, like remembering something from long ago. I blink and forget to speak in return. She smiles warmly. Celine, which rhymes with serene, reintroduces herself with that voice as smooth as double cream. I shake her soft hand. Her round face, the color of moonlight, is pointed at the chin, making her look as innocent as a child. She chatters easily, as if she doesn’t expect me to contribute much, explaining that her family is from China but she grew up in Paris. She is here with her husband and is working as a French teacher because, well, she is French.
“Pourquoi pas?” Why no
t? She says with a shrug and a laugh.
I find myself smiling back at her. She has that teacher’s way of noticing a wounded stray and tucking her under her wing. I feel myself surrendering to being looked after.
“Now, you must meet Léon.”
She takes my elbow and gently guides me out of the air-conditioning and onto the balcony. We are seventeen stories up in the restaurant of a brand-new and shiny casino; it’s like being on top of a Christmas tree. The view from here is striking—Macau peninsula lies just beyond the water, its reflection shimmering in the dark. The lurid lights seem so much lovelier at night. Even the bridge is sparkling with the headlights of taxis streaming across it to Taipa.
A tall man leans forward on the railing, holding a big glass of wine. He seems to be having the same thoughts I am, a smile on his face as he gazes out at the city with eyes shaped like almonds, dark brows. His hair is thick and silvery, brushing the top of his collar. His full lips press against the glass as he takes a mouthful. He turns slightly and looks toward us, eyes softening with tenderness and smile stretching, displaying pearly teeth. My chest tightens, and I suddenly feel too drunk. A little dizzy at least.
“Léon! You have to meet Grace. Grace, this is my ’usband, Léon.”
“Hi,” I murmur.
He leans forward and kisses my left cheek, then the right.
“Good evening, lovely to meet you,” he says with genuine warmth. He sounds just like the Paris I remember. City of love and mysteries. It makes me catch my breath.
I watch Celine’s hair blowing in the breeze as she talks about her students. Her eyes light up when she describes one earnest child with terrible pronunciation; her laughter has the silvery sound of a flute. I want to know if they have children, but my throat thickens and I can’t say anything. I look at the two of them against that glittering view. She is wearing a white silk shirt and he a blue linen one. It makes me think of laundry ads for detergents that make whites whiter and colors brighter. Such demanding, needy fabrics, silk and linen. But they look effortless, leaning into each other in a comfortable way that makes me feel a little sad. They look like the couple smiling out from the photo frame before you slide your own photo inside. The couple you wish you were.
Celine excuses herself to fetch more wine, and I look up to see Léon smiling at me.
“I’m so sorry, you must forgive my English, it is not very good.” His accent is as thick as butter, but each of the words is clear. I wish I had learned more French, but I have never been good with languages. I think it takes an extrovert.
“Oh no, not at all. Your English is very good. My French is quite terrible; don’t apologize.”
“Well, you are kind. I find it hard sometimes, you know? People find it difficult to understand what I mean.” He sighs and laughs. As he leans back on the railing, I notice a little crooked square of stubble he must have missed when shaving. I have a ridiculous urge to put my finger there to see what it feels like. “You like the food, non?”
“Sorry?”
“The catering. You like it? I saw you eating the cheeses.”
My dress feels tight around the waist. I beg my face not to turn crimson. “Oh. Yes. I do like the food. It’s very good.”
“This is my restaurant, where I work. I am the chef here.”
“I didn’t know. I … I used to be a waitress.” I don’t know why I offer up this information. It seems to rush out of me. I change the subject. “The Pont-l’Évêque was very nice. It’s from Normandy, isn’t it?”
“Oui. Yes, it is.” Léon raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Ah, a woman who knows food.” Then he frowns. “I wish Celine would eat more. She is too small. Like a sparrow. I worry.” Léon releases a puff of air from between his full lips disapprovingly. It must be a French version of “tut-tut.”
“Oh, well …” I fumble for something appropriate to say. Inside my chest I feel my heart lift, and a proper smile almost reaches my face. Almost.
* * *
Pete and I head home that night in the wet air, silence drawn out between us. He makes little grunts every now and then, as if he is agreeing with himself. Must be thinking about something to do with work. We get home, and he puts on the BBC and takes off his shoes. I go into the bathroom to remove my makeup. There is the murmuring of English reporters in the background when I climb into bed with nothing on and put an extra pillow under my head. I reach under my bedside table for the pile of cookbooks I have stacked there. I am reading Rick Stein’s French Odyssey when Pete comes in from the lounge room. He goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
“So you had a good time tonight?” he calls out.
“It was okay.”
“Told you it would be.”
“Mmm …”
He pulls off his shirt and tie, dumping them onto the chair by the end of the bed. He looks at me, or the book cover, I’m not sure which. He puts on fresh boxer shorts. The orange striped ones he likes to wear to bed. He lies on his back looking at the ceiling, places a palm against my thigh. The dehumidifier strums away, while I learn the secrets of good onion soup. Clear and brown, smelling of the streets and corners of Paris. What a lot of onions. I think about going to the Taipa market tomorrow.
“Night then, love,” Pete says. He sounds cool, distant, his hand sliding off my leg.
A little while later I say good night to Rick Stein, closing his book. My mind is full of recipes and French food. My stomach is full of cheese. I turn off my lamp and roll over, facing the dark hump of bedsheets that is Pete asleep. I put my hand on his thick shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through the sheet, before turning over.
Dearest Mama,
I’ve been dreaming about French food. Remember the cheeses? The breads? How we imagined opening our own bistro? You and me serving baguettes and soup du jour. A terrace in the sun, white plates and silver cutlery. Dogs drinking out of saucers, high heels tucked under wrought-iron tables. The thoughts seem to scroll along with “Summertime.” Playing in my head, round and round like a licorice-colored record. You know, from Porgy and Bess?
I’ve been thinking about Paris, Mama.
I remembered how I knew this song. I mean, the first time I ever heard it. When I woke up in the hotel and you weren’t there. The night was black and cold. I was just tall enough to reach the light switch, although I had to jump to flick it on. I thought you might be in the corner or behind the wardrobe, playing a trick on me. I checked under the bed, but there was only a sticky throat lozenge covered in lint. I sat down on the bed for a while, pulling up a piece of the quilt, sticking it in my mouth and chewing. Then I put on my boots all by myself and my winter coat over the top of my nightgown, and crept out of the room and down the stairs. The porter was snoring in his chair. Outside the night air was icy, and the tops of my legs got covered in goose pimples.
“Mama, Mama, Mama, where are you, Mama?” beating a little chant in my head. Right or left? The wind bit at my ears and blew around my thighs. My heart was racing in my chest. I turned left. No one was on the street; it was as quiet as a church and slick with the rain that had fallen that afternoon.
Not too far away, I could hear loud music coming out of a dark café. A trumpet! Bah bah baaaaaaahhhhh, it sang. It was warm near the doors, and there were a few people standing outside laughing. I moved closer, rubbing my hands together. They were smoking long, thin cigarettes and talking above my head. I stood near the glass of the windows and listened to the crooning of my favorite instrument. I loved that it sounded so pretty and so strong at the same time. I had tried playing it once in music class. It didn’t sound like this—proud, pure notes streaming out from the golden tubes. All my sounds had been like farts—loud, rude, and brief. Listening to that trumpet, I suddenly felt too cold. I pressed myself against the window, fighting lonely tears. If I’d known a prayer, I would have said one. Instead there were just two words on my lips. Please, Mama.
As if by the magic of wishing it to be so, I saw you then, through the w
arped glass, dancing by the stage in your silky peach dress. Your cheeks were red, your skin shining. “Mama, Mama, Mama! It’s Gracie!” I called to you, sure that you would see me.
People were looking at me now, through the fug of their smoke. A woman bent toward me. She wore a red jacket and tall black shoes. She was speaking, but I didn’t understand her French. I felt like I was stuck at the bottom of a well. She tried to pull my arm away from the window, turn me to her, but I shook loose. As soon as she let go, I started running. Back to the hotel, hot blood and fear pumping through me. I was crying when I flew past the dusty lobby, my boots heavy on the stairs. I slammed the door behind me and locked it from the inside. I leaned back against it for a time, dazed, my chest heaving. Then I climbed into bed with my boots and coat still on and pulled the quilt over my head. Sticking my cold hands down between my knees to make them warm, I fell asleep.
I don’t know when you came home. Late in the morning when I woke up, my coat was on the floor, folded on top of my boots, and you were at the window, tapping your fingers against the sill. The makeup was washed off your face, save a few clumps of mascara under your right eye. You were wearing a robe, wet hair twisted in a towel, red-painted toenails peeking out from the bottom. You had a little white patisserie box tied with a ribbon on your lap, and you smelled like sugar.
“Oh good, you’re awake. Today we really have to go to the zoo, Gracie. I don’t know how long it has been since we saw animals. Do you remember?”
I shook my head.
“Well, it’s polar bear weather, don’t you think?” You jumped onto the bed, squashing one of my feet as you landed. You tickled and cuddled as I bit my lip. Maybe I had dreamed it all.
“You left me …”
“Oh no, sweetie.”
“Yes, you left me. Last night.” I started to cry the same hot tears from the night before, like they’d been waiting behind my eyes.
“Shh, shh, shh … Hey, don’t you cry now,” you said. “Have this. It’ll make everything better. Mama’s promise.” A wink as you handed me the box. Inside, the prettiest cake I’d ever seen, button-round. A macaron, you told me.
The Colour of Tea Page 4
