The Truth and Lies of Ella Black

by Emily Barr

  ‘You really mustn’t say that,’ I tell him, and he nods and says sorry properly.

  When I get back, two new volunteers are climbing off the backs of motorbike taxis. I am instantly scared (they might know about the violent runaway teenager with the purple hair) but it turns out they are from the States and have come straight from the airport. They’re wearing little dresses and high-heeled shoes. Both have beautiful long hair. They stand in the alley.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. I watch as the blonde one’s nose wrinkles at my shaved head.

  ‘Hi.’ She sounds uncertain.

  ‘I’m Jo,’ I say. ‘You’ve just arrived? Are you coming to work here?’

  ‘Hi, Jo,’ says the other one, who is mixed race with bouncing curls. ‘I’m Sasha. This is Amy. Um. Yeah, we’ve just arrived?’

  ‘Cool. Er, welcome.’

  ‘That motorbike taxi,’ Sasha says. ‘Amy’s still a little freaked.’

  ‘I mean, what the hell?’ says Amy.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Honestly it is. Come on in. Do you want a coffee or something?’

  ‘Could we get a glass of water?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Maria turns round as we come into the classroom. ‘Hi, ladies,’ she says. ‘Oh – you’ve met Jo. Thanks, Jo. You’re Amy and Sasha? I’ll show you to your room.’

  I hand each of them a glass of water and watch them carrying their cases up the stairs. Maria winks at me as she goes past, and for the first time since I got here I really, truly feel that I belong.

  15

  6 Days

  It’s a Monday morning when the phone rings, and I have been living here for twenty days. The phone is a huge wireless thing that looks like an antique mobile. It’s kept on its charger all the time, and whoever is closest answers when it rings. We are supposed to speak in Portuguese but most of the volunteers can’t do that, and so if I’m anywhere nearby I grab it. It turns out that in eighteen days you can pick up some rudimentary conversational Portuguese if you work hard at it.

  A class of five-year-olds are coming in for an English lesson, which means we will be reading a picture book and looking at the illustrations and talking about the words. The book classes are my favourites after art: today we are reading a book about a boy from Cornwall who is captured by pirates and sold into slavery. I love that book, and the kids love to act it out after I’ve read it.

  The children run in, jumping around, chattering loudly, asking about pirates.

  Maria, who happens to be here today, claps her hands. ‘Stop!’ she shouts. ‘Everyone out. Walk, don’t run.’ She says it again in Portuguese, and the children leave the room and file in more sensibly.

  The phone rings. Since Maria is getting everyone to sit in their places and stop being silly, I answer and take the handset into the back room.

  ‘Alô?’ I say as I walk.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ says a man’s voice.

  My legs give way and I sit on the floor.

  My breath isn’t coming any more. I gasp for air.

  I

  say

  nothing.

  ‘Hi?’ he says again. ‘Português? Español? Do you speak English?’

  I try to breathe. I cannot just hang up. Seconds tick by.

  I think of the way Jasmine talks.

  ‘Yes, I speak English,’ I say in my best, ridiculous approximation of an Irish accent.

  ‘Great. I’m looking for a friend of mine. Just wondering if she might be working with you …’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Her name’s Ella,’ he says. ‘Ella Black. You might have seen her in the press? She’s missing. She has been known to call herself Chrissy. It’s a long shot, but have you by any chance had anyone who could be her working for you? I could email through a photo, because she’s probably using another name. Last time I saw her she had purple hair. I just want to know that she’s safe, and I need her to know that she isn’t in any trouble and she doesn’t have to hide.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘There’s no one like that here,’ I say, in Jasmine’s voice, when the silence has stretched out too long.

  ‘If you see her, tell her we miss her and we love her,’ he says, ‘and she has nothing to worry about when it comes to what she did.’

  I hang up even though he is still talking. I lie down and curl up into a ball. My body heaves and shakes. I love him. I love Christian with all my heart. He is looking for me. He found me. He said he loves me.

  I love him.

  He found me.

  I hung up the phone.

  I have no number for him.

  I can hear Maria starting the lesson.

  I

  am

  heartbroken

  all

  over

  again.

  I pull myself together, of course, because I have to. I join in the lesson and, as I ignore my red eyes and puffy face, everyone else does too. I get through the day, sit and chat with the other volunteers during my down time, and go out in the evening to teach the adult class at the municipal hall down the hill.

  He said, ‘Tell her we miss her and we love her.’

  He said he loves me.

  I hung up the phone.

  I enjoy going down the hill now. As I walk I pass a group of children playing, and they all stop and say, ‘Hello, Teacher Jo!’ I smile and wave back. A dad I recognize because he regularly drops his four children off for classes shouts: ‘I speak English!’ from across the street, and I give him a thumbs up. I feel at home. I actually feel like a tiny part of the community. There’s nowhere else I want to live.

  The sun is low in the sky: it has been a baking-hot day, and the evening sunlight is glorious on my face. As I walk down the hill I catch a glimpse of the sea.

  It shimmers in the sunlight. It sparkles. It’s beautiful. In the twenty days I’ve been at the English school I have never been back to the beach, even though everyone else goes whenever they can. I don’t want to go there. I haven’t been anywhere; I have kept within the smallest possible radius of my new home. No part of me wants to go back to Copacabana, or to go dancing on the streets of Lapa, though that evening will, I am quite sure, remain forever the best night of my life.

  I am torn apart with regret. I would give anything to be able to go back and not panic and not hang up the phone. I love Christian, and he looked for me until he found me, and I will always know that, even if he doesn’t. He said I wasn’t in trouble. That must mean I didn’t hurt the man too badly. I haven’t killed anyone, and it’s only as I articulate that thought that I realize how worried I was that I might have accidentally severed an artery or given him an infected cut that spread. That I, too, could have been a killer. The relief that brings me is intense. I feel that the sun has come out inside me. If I’m not in trouble with the police I could get a passport. I could contact the Blacks. I hardly dare imagine the possibilities.

  I hope Christian thinks the phone was answered by an odd Irish girl. I hope he’s all right.

  He told me about Vittoria, and I ran away in the night.

  It was terrible behaviour. I want to call him back and say how sorry I am.

  I could have told him I was all right. I could have begged him not to tell anyone that I’m here, even if the police were asking. I could have told him that I found out the truth about myself and had to get away, and I wouldn’t have had to tell him what that truth actually was. I didn’t do that, and now I never will.

  When I get to little Ana’s café I call in to shout hello to her parents, both of whom come out to kiss me on the cheek, and then I carry on going. I have to put Christian out of my mind. Instead I try to think about what I’m going to cover in this English lesson. We will talk about travelling, about booking tickets, catching buses, all that, in English. This is only the second time I’ve taught the adult class and I’m nervous. We teach them by walking into the classroom and refusing to speak Portuguese for the entire hour. The classes are free and open to anyone who w
ants to come along: people often look exhausted and stressed, and I know they are fighting their battles. I am starting to understand that nobody’s life is straightforward. I am far from being the only one with demons.

  I remember my adoptive mother going out to Italian and Spanish evening classes, anxiously making sure that Dad and I would be all right during her short absence, leaving us with lentil bakes and bowls of fruit, with homework to do or instructions to relax. This class, the one I teach, is the opposite of hers. She went because going to an evening class and learning a language was the kind of thing you did to stop yourself going insane if you’d given up your career (and I don’t even know what her career would have been) so you could have a family. When we did actually go to Spain she uttered a few phrases self-consciously, in a terrible accent, and then reverted to English. I smile at the memory. Dad and I cheered her on, encouraging her to overcome her nerves and order for us in Spanish. She was so pleased with herself when she did it. I miss her. She tried so hard, struggled with losing eight babies, adopted me in dramatic circumstances, and then decided not to tell me. I am flooded with empathy for Fiona Black. She did everything she could for me, and I’m here and she doesn’t even know I’m alive.

  I am eaten up from the inside by the fact that I tried to hurt her, that she will know that for the rest of her life, that it is the last image she has of me.

  If Christian is right and I’m not in trouble, I could contact them. I do love them. It’s easier to keep the wall up, to feel Bella’s fury at them for lying to me, than it is to remember that, no matter what, she is the only mum I have ever known. And she lied to me for good reasons, even if they were misguided.

  By the time I arrive at the hall, I am ready to teach the best class ever. These classes are for people who work hard every moment of every day and still push themselves. If you can speak English you can work in tourism. That’s why they are here, and that is why I am teaching them to say: ‘Would you like a car to the airport?’ and ‘Shall I book you a tour to Christ the Redeemer?’ I’m amazed by the dedication of the adult learners, who range in age from younger than me to older than God.

  When I get back to the school, exhausted and ready for bed, I see the volunteers clustered around someone.

  ‘Look,’ says somebody. ‘Here she is!’ They part, and I do not believe what I am seeing, so I blink and try looking again.

  ‘Hi there, Jo,’ says Christian.

  My heart stops.

  He looks the same.

  He is Christian.

  He is here.

  My Christian.

  I love him.

  I walk up to him and stare into his eyes. He stares back. Everyone else melts away. I say sorry with my eyes. He tells me it’s all OK, with his.

  ‘Christian,’ I say.

  He smiles a very sad smile. ‘Would you come for a drink?’ he says.

  The girls (and the two boys: there are fewer boys here than there used to be in my ballet class) are smiling and looking interested. Everyone is waiting for me to say yes. They are all intrigued. As soon as we go they will start talking about us.

  He’d better not have said the words ‘Ella Black’. He had better not have said that. I am not ready for any of these people to know anything about my old life.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and I turn and walk straight back out, hoping that he will follow.

  ‘How did you do it?’ I say when we are at the end of the alley, on the big road. I am trying to be angry that he tracked me down, but I am delirious with delight. My skin is tingling all over. My muscles are tense. My heart is pounding extra fast. All I want to do is look at Christian. I never thought I would see him again.

  Bella is happy to see him too. She is agitated, excited. I feel her stirring inside me.

  He looks at me too. ‘Sorry, Ella,’ he says. ‘But really. Hey. What the hell? And where the hell is your hair?’

  Christian is angry with me. I am busily trying to be cross with him, but he’s the one who’s shocked by my behaviour and, from his expression, my appearance, and he is right to be. He liked the girl with the soft body and the purple hair. Now I’m spiky and bald. He liked Ella and now I’m Jo.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. I take his hand. He holds it tightly. ‘I’m sorry. I really …’

  I don’t seem to be able to say any more than that.

  ‘Well. I’ll answer your question first, if you like. I did this – I found you here – by trying everything I could think of to work out where you might be. We’d talked about the favela. You’d talked about teaching English. When you weren’t there on the island I was devastated. Genuinely. And phenomenally worried.’

  We are walking up the hill together. I’ll take him to a bar I’ve seen up there.

  ‘Sorry.’ It doesn’t really feel like enough.

  ‘Look, Ella. I’ll just come out and say this – don’t be mad. Don’t run away. I know who your birth parents are. The bike-shop guy said he’d lent you his laptop, so I borrowed it to have a look, and there it all was in the history. You smashed the screen, by the way. I had to hook it up to my phone to read anything. I gave him money to sort it.’

  I cannot say a word. I am hot and shaky.

  ‘It must have been horrible. Finding that out. I can see why you felt the need to bolt. I wish you’d felt that you could tell me though.’

  ‘Sorry.’ That seems to be the only thing I can say.

  ‘I went back to the mainland and told your parents everything. I had to. They were devastated in all sorts of ways. They were looking for you, and I’d found and lost you. I tried to leave them to it because I knew it was up to you what you did and when you came back, but you had to know that you weren’t in trouble with the police.’ He looks me in the eye.

  I don’t quite dare believe it. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I promise. The guy was mad and he did call the police, but they have bigger things than that to deal with. And he wasn’t hurt. It was a scratch, it bled a bit, but he was OK. He didn’t have to go to hospital or anything. Your parents paid him some compensation and explained a bit about the situation, and he agreed to drop it. So you had to know that.’

  I haven’t realized until this moment that I’ve been living on edge for every second of every day. I’ve always known that I hurt someone and that I could go to prison for it. I lean back and feel weightless with relief. Christian is in front of me, saying the man is all right. I believe him.

  ‘I’ve been making calls every day. I called about sixteen places I thought you might have gone, and on number seventeen I found a strange semi-Irish girl. Was that meant to be Irish?’ Christian puts on a terrible accent. ‘There’s no one like that here,’ he says. ‘And there you were. My Ella.’

  ‘Your Ella.’

  ‘Or my Jo.’

  ‘Did you ask for Ella at the school? Just now?’

  ‘No. Not when you’d made it so clear that you were hiding. I just said I was looking for my friend, and then I saw your photo on the wall, and even without the hair I knew it was you right away. It was your eyes. I said that was you, and they were all, like, Oh, Jo! They love you there, but they’re a bit scared of you.’

  ‘They should be. I come from bad people.’

  Christian shakes his head. ‘You are the strongest, bravest, most brilliant person I’ve ever met, Ella. You are yourself. Nothing anyone else has done reflects on you. You are breathtaking. Maddening too.’

  It’s nearly dark, and the lights are on all over the favela. The thick cables overhead are working.

  ‘I … Look. I can’t imagine what it feels like to grow up thinking you know where you come from, and then to discover that you don’t, and then, after all that, to find out that your parents are in jail for terrible crimes. I really can’t imagine that. I’m so sorry. And I’m beyond happy that you’re safe. You really are very strong, Ella. Your parents – would you still call them that? – Fiona and Graham. They are beside themselves. They’re destroyed. They’re still here at the m
oment. They tried to suggest that your running away was my fault, but they stopped when they realized how much I knew.’

  ‘They said it was your fault?’

  ‘They were really, really angry that I’d taken you out in secret, and then far more so that I’d been to visit you on Paquetá. I slipped your note under their door that night, but when I went back and you were gone I had to tell them. They thought I’d given you ideas. They said you would never have run off like that before. They made it very clear that I was responsible. Then you called them from a German phone and your mum was sure you were coming back. That was you, wasn’t it?’

  I take some deep breaths.

  I wait for the onslaught.

  Bella?

  WHAT?

  Aren’t you angry?

  OF COURSE.

  But?

  BUT WE’RE IN A BAR WITH CHRISTIAN. FIONA BLACK HAS ALREADY SUFFERED.

  I smile. She’s right. I am angry that my parents blamed Christian, but I don’t want to storm around and lash out. Bella tried to hurt Fiona Black with a broken bottle. I can’t be angry with them any more. I’ve done everything I possibly can to hurt them already. They thought they were giving a lovely baby a home; they thought they’d raised a nice girl who had friends and a boyfriend, and who was doing well at school. Now they have a bald daughter who lives in the slums and doesn’t speak to them. I can’t really imagine how it could actually have worked out any worse for them.

  I walk a little way up the hill, just because I have to move. I take some deep breaths. I go back to Christian and take his hand.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Yes, it was me with the German phone. Let’s get a beer. I haven’t had a proper drink since we went to Lapa.’

  He looks quite nervous. ‘What’s it actually like?’ he says. ‘Living here?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Not scary?’

  ‘Not any more. No.’

  ‘They don’t blame me now, you know,’ he says quickly. ‘As soon as I told them I knew about the adoption, and then about the birth parents, they just crumpled. No one else in their life knows that, it seems, apart from their lawyer. They were devastated that you’d found out. They just want to know you’re alive, Ella.’