Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Lucky? Why d’you say that?’ Embeth held up a pale-blue cashmere sweater in her hands. Was it worth taking back with her to Venezuela? No, probably not.

  Betty held out her pink-tipped hands in front of her, inspecting her nails. ‘Well, you don’t have to find a husband or get a job. At least not right now.’ She rolled over onto her back again, sighing deeply. Unlike Embeth, whose wealthy parents had gladly footed the bill for Embeth’s education, Betty was an SG, a scholarship girl. She was bright and ambitious and everything, but her scholarship hadn’t quite covered the cost of four years at Cornell University. There was now a considerable amount of debt, which had to be paid back somehow. Betty was pretty and wholesome in the way of many girls from places like Buffalo, New York and Marshalltown, Iowa, and her mother was desperate for her to make a good match – the sooner the better, too. What was the point of such an expensive education if it didn’t mean meeting a different calibre of man? A better calibre? Betty had no answer.

  ‘Neither do you,’ Embeth said calmly. ‘The husband bit, I mean.’

  Betty sat upright and smoothed down her skirt. Her dress, a stiff, layered confection of pink cotton with splashy, over-sized roses and a nipped-in, belted waist, was creased. ‘You try telling my mom that,’ she said wryly. ‘Oh, Em, I wish I was going with you!’

  Embeth shook her head. ‘No you don’t. Believe me, you don’t.’

  ‘I do, really I do. It all sounds so . . . so glamorous. Your life is glamorous, Em. All those parties, the beach, the hot nights . . . it sounds divine, it really does,’ she said passionately, earnestly.

  Embeth smiled, a wave of affection for her best friend washing over her. Betty really was the most earnest person she’d ever met. They’d been friends since their freshman year. It was almost impossible to believe it was all over. ‘Well, what things sound like and what they’re really like aren’t always the same,’ she said firmly, closing her trunk. She heaved it off the bed and onto the floor. In the corner of the room, three further trunks stood, bursting at the seams. Four years’ worth of clothing that she would probably never wear again and books she would never touch again had been stuffed into those trunks, soon to be dispatched to Caracas. Every fall, for the past four years, she and her mother had spent a wholly enjoyable week in New York, shopping for the upcoming winter. They’d bought the soft wool and luxurious cashmere outfits that her mother remembered from her own childhood in Switzerland. But there was no need for cashmere in Caracas. ‘And anyhow, I’ll be under just as much pressure as you, just you wait and see,’ Embeth added.

  ‘No you won’t. I’ve met your parents, don’t you remember? Your mom is just the most glamorous person I’ve ever seen. I wish she were my mother.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Embeth said quickly. ‘Don’t ever say that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s true. And as for your father . . . oh, my! He’s just so . . . so suave! So sophisticated!’ She rolled over yet again, kicking her legs up into the air. ‘They’re both just so goddamn fabulous! Everything about your life is fabulous, Embeth, everything!’

  Embeth shook her head, smiling. She knew better than to argue with Betty. If it suited Betty to think Embeth was jetting back to South America to a life of cocktail parties and hot, steamy, tropical nights, well, so be it. She knew the reality was very different. Of course she’d have her fair share of parties to attend, and there’d be soirees and trips to the opera and the ballet and so on, but underneath it all, she’d be under just as much pressure to marry as Betty – more, if anything. The pool of eligible young Jewish men in Caracas was tiny. She already knew most of them and the thought of marrying any one of the weak-chinned Ababarnel, Guzmán, Braunstein or Kaufmann sons was enough to make her weep. After all, she’d been the one to beg her parents to do things differently. She’d wanted them to send her to America. She wanted a college degree. To her surprise, they’d readily agreed. Her mother in particular had been supportive of her only daughter’s wishes. ‘If Mimí wants to study, she should. I see absolutely no reason not to send her.’ She ought to have spotted the difference. Finding no reason not to send her wasn’t quite the same thing as wanting to send her. But she was sent abroad to one of the best schools, no expense spared, just as she wanted. In her four years at Cornell, her parents made sure she lacked for nothing.

  Now, on her return, she would be expected to make good on their investment. It wasn’t about the money. The Hausmanns ‘had more money than God’, as she’d once overheard someone say. It was about something more elusive, less graspable. They wanted her to make a good match, the right sort of man from the right sort of family. Betty had no idea just how claustrophobic it could be. Venezuela had been good to those Jews who’d come in the 1920s and 30s as professionals. These immigrants were not shtetl Jews, fleeing pogroms and living timid lives in their new, adopted homes. No, the Jewish immigrants who arrived in Caracas were prosperous, influential people. They settled into palatial homes in Altamira and the like, and the Hausmanns were no exception. Within a generation, the Hausmanns produced two Nobel prize-winning scientists, scores of doctors, two judges, a novelist and three government ministers, including her uncle, Jorge Hausmann, el ministro. The Minister. Everyone knew Jorge Hausmann. One summer when Embeth was in high school, there’d been talk of a match between Embeth and Julio, Uncle Jorge’s middle son. Fortunately, her mother had seen the look of horror on Embeth’s face when the subject was first broached and she swiftly put an end to the hopeful speculations.

  At the thought of her mother, Embeth’s stomach gave a little lurch. Hard as it was to imagine, in just under a week’s time she’d be back there in Caracas, back amongst her family, sitting under the soft, warm glow of the chandelier that hung above the dining table. The maids, Sophia and Mercedes, who’d been with the family as long as Embeth could remember, would bring in the many dishes. Her mother, Miriám, would serve herself first, then indicate Embeth’s turn, watching her carefully to make sure she didn’t overeat. Miriám needn’t worry. The puppy fat Embeth had had at thirteen had long since been shed. Now, at twenty-two, she was every bit as slender as Miriám. She would never say it out loud, least of all to Betty, but when she’d first met Betty’s mother at the end of their freshman year, she’d offered up a silent prayer of thanks. She couldn’t imagine having a mother like Betty’s. Enormous, with triple chins that quivered every time she spoke, a cigarette hanging permanently from fleshy, over-ripe lips and those feet . . . like pink sausages stuffed into scuffed, pointed shoes. She’d stared at her, unable to recognise in her the fresh-faced Betty she’d come to know and love. There was almost nothing of Betty in Sally, or vice-versa. How could that be? Miriám was everything Embeth wanted to be. And more. What, she wondered to herself, must it be like to have a mother like that?

  She hauled the last suitcase onto the bed. One more to go. What would her mother be doing right now? It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon in New York, four p.m. in Caracas. It was a Tuesday. She would just be returning from tennis. Her mother’s life was a never-ending stream of social engagements, charity functions and exercise. She played tennis, rode horses and practised daily the tortuous calisthenics that kept her slender and firmly toned. But mostly she did nothing. Embeth had never seen her mother read anything other than a magazine or a novel. Very occasionally, she picked up a newspaper, which she generally put aside with an expression of dismay. She’d never worked in her life. Work was for men, or for women of a much lower class. And work was certainly not for her daughter, Embeth. In fact, the whole conversation about sending her to America had been couched in terms of improving her chances, but not of the professional kind.

  ‘Here . . . what d’you think?’ Betty said suddenly, jumping to her feet and interrupting Embeth’s rather dismal train of thought. Embeth looked up from the suitcase. Betty was standing in front of the mirror, admiring herself. She’d pinned her hair up with one hand. ‘Too Grace Kelly?’

  ‘A little,’ Embeth agreed, smili
ng. ‘But that’s not such a bad thing.’

  ‘Reckon I could get me a prince too?’

  ‘Well, you’d probably stand a better chance than me,’ Embeth giggled. She quickly hopped over the bed and came to stand behind her. For a moment the mirror held the two of them: Betty, cool, serene-looking and blonde and Embeth, dark and fiery. With raven-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, she was darker than either of her brothers. Un toque de alquitrán. A touch of the tar brush, a shadow behind the ears. There were many sayings in Spanish to explain why some within a family might have a duskier complexion than others. Miriám paled when she heard them and forbade Embeth from going in the sun. By the time Embeth was in her teens, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a tan. Now, in her early twenties, her skin was pale and soft with only the faintest hint of colour rising in her cheeks when she was embarrassed or upset. ‘Why don’t you wear it loose?’ she suggested, looking at Betty. ‘It suits you best.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. D’you think I gained weight?’

  Embeth rolled her eyes. ‘Betty! I don’t believe you. Here we are, a week after graduation, and all you can talk about is hair and weight? Come on, there are so many other things worth talking about.’

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  ‘Well,’ Embeth said, considering, ‘like . . . like the war, for one thing. Did you hear about Medger Evers?’

  ‘Who?’ Betty yawned at her in the mirror.

  ‘Medger Evers, the civil rights activist. He was murdered yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Betty inspected her nails. ‘The problem with you, Embeth,’ she drawled lazily, ‘is that you think too much. There are so many other things to focus on.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what are you wearing tonight?’

  ‘Oh, Betty.’ Embeth shook her head. But perhaps Betty was right, in her own, rather myopic way. What was the point of getting all steamed up about a war that was being fought ten thousand miles away? She picked up another cashmere jumper. It was pale pink, a Betty sort of colour. ‘Here . . . I’m never going to wear these again. Would you like them?’ She pointed to the growing pile of pastel-coloured sweaters and cardigans.

  ‘Are you kidding? Ohmigod! Thank you, honey!’ Betty squealed, pouncing on the pile. ‘You’re an angel! These’ll look so good with those new pedal pushers I just bought – you know, the black ones? They’re so fashionable right now! Jackie Kennedy had on a pair the other day, did you notice?’

  ‘I was too busy focusing on what her husband was saying,’ Embeth said drily.

  It was Betty’s turn to roll her eyes affectionately. ‘Like I said, you think too much, Em. Oh, I can’t wait to try these on.’ She clutched the sweaters to her chest, pressing her cheek into the luxuriously soft wool. She gave a deep sigh of heartfelt contentment. ‘You’re so lucky, Embeth.’

  And this time Embeth had no idea what to say.

  9

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  EMBETH

  Avenida San Carlos, Caracas, Venezuela

  The conversation at the dinner table was conducted, as ever, in Spanish, English and German, and occasionally all three at once. The discussions ranged far and wide – the war in Vietnam; Hurricane Flora, which was threatening Cuba; the Profumo Affair rumbling on in England; Martin Luther King’s Washington speech; the local presidential elections. The Hausmanns had a particular interest in the latter. The incumbent president was at the end of his term and there’d been talk of Uncle Jorge assuming leadership of the party. As always, opinions were sharply divided.

  As the tenor of the talk around her rose and fell, Embeth laid her knife and fork to one side to indicate she’d finished, leaving half of her food untouched. Her mother glanced over approvingly. A lady never finished what was on her plate. She leaned back in her chair, only just managing to stifle a yawn. It wasn’t that she was bored – on the contrary. She found the men’s talk fascinating, but joining in was out of the question. Like the other women present, her job was decorative. She was wearing white, a splendid contrast to Miriám’s burgundy silk. Earlier that evening, just before descending the staircase to join the others, Miriám had threaded a beautiful ivory silk rose through her dark hair. ‘There, that’s better.’ She surveyed her daughter critically. ‘I still don’t understand why you cut it,’ she murmured, smoothing her own luxuriously long tresses in an unconscious gesture of protection.

  Embeth sighed. It was a conversation they’d had practically every single day since her return. ‘I like it short,’ she said, careful not to let the irritation she felt slip through.

  ‘So unbecoming,’ Miriám murmured. ‘Anyhow, it’ll grow back. You look beautiful, my darling. Are you ready?’

  ‘About as ready as I’m ever likely to be.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Embeth! A little graciousness wouldn’t go amiss.’ Miriám didn’t wait for a reply but swept out of the room, her silk evening dress fanning out splendidly and fluidly behind her. Embeth had no option but to follow. Mother and daughter descended the staircase to the slow, appreciative applause of the men gathered below.

  ‘Mercedes!’ Miriám hissed at the now-elderly maid. Miriám couldn’t bear seeing half-empty plates strewn across the snowy white table. ‘Mercedes,’ Miriám whispered again, louder this time. She signalled urgently but discreetly across the table. Fill up the empty wine glasses! Clear away those plates! The penny dropped. Mercedes nodded and hurried out. Within seconds, the offending plates were gone and empty glasses were topped up. No one except Embeth noticed a thing. That was the way her mother ran the household, Embeth thought to herself, watching her, smooth, silent performance. Even the candles in the chandelier above the table lasted the exact length of the meal, no more.

  She looked down the length of the table to the living room beyond, and beyond that, framed by the gently billowing white muslin curtains, to the veranda where they sometimes held cocktail parties overlooking the emerald pool. The night air was quiet and still. After the wintry silence of upstate New York, the soft buzz of the tropics, a mixture of warm, humid air and the barely audible hum of insects, was a welcome return. She could see their reflections in the huge gilt mirror at one end of the dining room. Maria-Luísa Gomez de Santander, the wife of the finance minister, was on her left, murmuring something inconsequential to her mother. Her perfume was thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like fog. She’d detected the faintest wrinkle in her mother’s nose as she was ushered into the hallway. Miriám disliked excesses of any kind.

  Embeth stifled another yawn. She’d been back for almost six months and in that time, had done little else than attend dinner parties, the ballet, and opera . . . just as Betty had predicted. There was little else to do. The highlight of every dinner party held at home was gossiping afterwards in the kitchens with Sophia and Mercedes.

  ‘Did you see that one?’ An hour later, the men safely in the study with cigars and brandy and the women on the patio with coffee, Mercedes’ eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Like a turkey! She could hardly get her bosom into her dress! Any tighter and she’d pass out.’

  Embeth and Sophia giggled together conspiratorially. Sophia and Mercedes took a lively interest in the comings and goings of the household. They knew more than their employers did about what really went on. Both had been with the Hausmanns for ever. Mercedes was a couple of years younger than Miriám . . . Embeth couldn’t exactly remember the intricate route of relationships by which she’d come to them – her mother had worked in service for Miriám’s mother, or some such – but she genuinely was one of the family. Sophia had been there almost as long – thirty years at least.

  ‘Ay Dios,’ Sophia murmured quietly, putting away the remains of a beautifully pink poached salmon. ‘And as for Señora Cabral . . . well, I wouldn’t like to guess where Señor Cabral was this evening.’

  ‘I know. D’you notice how they never go out together?’

  ‘I heard he’s got another little apartment in town—
’

  ‘No, don’t tell us. You heard it from that little puta who works at the Madrigál place?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You’re not the only one with spies, you know—’

  Embeth was comfortable in the way of a child, sitting at the table with her arms folded across each other, resting her cheek in the crook of one elbow. The gossip ebbed and flowed. The two women bustled good-naturedly around her, stopping occasionally to exclaim or protest or giggle. Miriám came in and frowned when she saw Embeth slouched over the kitchen table, but said nothing, just raised an eyebrow in that way of hers that said more than words ever could. Sophia hurried after her with the silver tray of coffee pots and exquisite porcelain side plates of petits fours that always accompanied the after-dinner coffees on the terrace.

  ‘So, I saw Señor Hahn here yesterday,’ Mercedes said as soon as they’d gone out, casting a sly, sideways glance at Embeth as she carried a stack of plates to the sink where the girl who did the washing up was waiting.

  Embeth inspected her nails. ‘So?’

  ‘Don’t gimme that look,’ Mercedes grinned. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Embeth said lightly. She sighed deeply. Why couldn’t anyone find anything to talk to her about other than potential suitors? ‘He just came to say hello.’

  ‘Claro que sí and Prince Charming just stopped by to see me. Come on, spill the beans, girl!’

  ‘There are none,’ Embeth insisted. She slid off the seat. ‘Besides, he’s barely out of high school.’

  ‘No exageres! He’s older than you!’

  ‘Doesn’t look it. Anyhow, what’s the rush? I’ve only just got back.’

  ‘You gonna be an old maid if you don’t watch out,’ Sophia giggled, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Like me and Mercedes.’

  ‘You speak for yourself,’ Mercedes piped up. ‘I ain’t gonna be here for ever, you wait and see.’