by Lesley Lokko
70
ANNICK
Early, early in the morning, when the mechanical cleaning beasts were making their way down the boulevards and side streets, their dull whirring as familiar to her now as the sound of the pigeons on their way to and from Hyde Park had once been, she woke. From her mattress on the floor, she watched the pearly pink light come up over the city. The faint chink of breaking glass drifted up to her, dustbin men tossing the bagged bottle banks carelessly into the gaping jaws of their trucks, stopping to call out to each other in the mixture of Wolof, pidgin French and Arabic that was their particular argot. A finger of cold air came in from the broken window pane above the bed and curled around her ears. She’d complained to the landlord for months but, as usual, nothing had been done.
The faint call of a nearby muezzin drifted through: time for early-morning prayers in La Goutte d’Or. She burrowed a hand through the covers and looked at her watch. It was just after six a.m. The night before, after taking her to dinner, Yves had mumbled something about having to study that evening and he’d dropped her off outside the entrance to the block just before midnight. She’d waited shyly for some suggestion from him to come to his flat – by unspoken agreement, they never spent the night together at hers – but none came. He’d kissed her on both cheeks as he sometimes did when he was distracted. His mobile phone had rung two or three times whilst they were in the restaurant and when he dropped her off, he seemed impatient to move on. At dinner the night before, it was clear that something was troubling him. She’d asked him once or twice if there was something wrong but he’d brushed off her concern.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ she’d asked when his mobile buzzed dully inside his shirt pocket for the third time.
‘No.’ He didn’t look at her.
‘Why not? It might be someone important. Your mother, maybe?’
A look flickered across his face momentarily before he quickly snuffed it out. It took her a while to understand that it was the same look her own face carried at times. He’d told her his adopted parents lived in Clermont-Ferrand, a few hundred kilometres away. He seldom seemed to visit and said almost nothing about them. When she first met him, it suited her. The less he spoke about his family, the less impetus there was for her to speak about hers. She’d told him a partial truth; both her parents were dead. A car accident, she said warily. ‘When I was a teenager.’ He knew there was an aunt somewhere in the suburbs but that was about it. He appeared to have no siblings. There was at least that in common – but, equally, curiously, aside from the phalange of bodyguards with whom he worked, he appeared to have few friends. None, in fact. He never made reference to his studies, or what he did during the days and nights he wasn’t guarding le patron and wasn’t with her. They didn’t sleep together very often and when they did, it was always followed by a strange withdrawal on his part, as though he had to put some distance between them that making love had somehow crossed.
She turned her head. Her mobile phone – a cheap, Chinese copy – lay on the pillow beside her. It was Yves who’d insisted she get one. ‘I’ll get you one,’ he’d said in exasperation. ‘It’s absurd that you don’t have one.’
‘You don’t need to buy me a phone,’ she’d retorted sharply. ‘I’ll get one myself.’ A touch of the old Annick resurfaced.
‘Fine. But get it. I don’t like not being able to reach you.’ It was that last comment that did it. Someone cared enough about her to be worried when she couldn’t be reached.
She’d held it tightly in her hand the night before, daring herself to make the call. She didn’t. She fell asleep instead. She reached for it now. There were so few numbers stored in its small memory –Yves, Aunt Libertine, Hotel du Jardin, Claudette, Wasis – numbers that she actually dialled from time to time. Then there were four others that she’d entered but never rung. Tash. Rebecca. Home (London). Home (Lomé). She scrolled down to Tash and Rebecca. But what would she say? They’d have heard about the coup d’état, of course. It had been in the papers for weeks. But she’d left everything that might have identified her behind – the flat, her possessions, her phone. There’d have been no way for them to contact her. Neither knew where she worked, not that it would have helped. She’d never seen or spoken to any of her colleagues since. It was she who ought to have made the first move. She fingered the buttons nervously. What to say? She stared at the screen until her eyes hurt. Tash. Rebecca. Then she put it slowly away from her and rolled over onto her side. She shut her eyes tightly but the psychedelic image stubbornly refused to fade.
71
TASH
Paris
Afterwards, when the buzz and the noise and the fuss had died down, there were only a few of them left in the bar. Tash, Rosie Trevelyan from Style, a couple of other journalists whom she recognised but chose to ignore and a restless, hyped-up photographer from Vogue whose name she couldn’t recall but who kept looking around as if expecting one of the models to walk in and sit next to him, presumably. She sat awkwardly perched on the stool, one hand curled around her glass of amber-coloured whisky, the other lightly touching her Blackberry, nestled in her pocket. Rosie, most unusually, was drunk. It was the closing night of Paris Fashion Week and, to Tash’s great surprise, [email protected] had won one of the industry’s highest awards, the Fashion Forward Award, given to the year’s most innovative retailer.
‘Bloody well done, Tash,’ she drawled. ‘Bloody well done.’
‘Er, thanks.’
‘Knew you had it in you, though. Right from the start. I always said it to the others,’ she waved a red-tipped finger in the direction of some nameless, faceless ‘other’. ‘I always knew you’d go far. You had a—’
‘Rosie, no offence, but I think I’m going to turn in,’ Tash interrupted her quickly. She stood up, knocked back the rest of her whisky and hurriedly left the bar. The memory of their last meeting when she’d walked out on Rosie still rankled. Especially now, as the older woman tried to make out she’d spotted Tash Bryce-Brudenell’s ‘potential’ all those years ago. Success, she mused as she made her way upstairs, was an odd thing, a very odd thing.
The lift doors opened on her suite. She stood for a moment in the doorway, taking it all in – the acres of pale carpeting, thick velvet curtains, sleek, gleaming furniture and the enormous bed that had been carefully turned down, requisite chocolate on the pillow and a flower beside the lamp. She shook her head with a sense of disbelief. How had she got here? She walked over to the bed and sat down heavily. She kicked off her shoes, rolled over onto her side and opened the minibar. She needed a drink. She poured out a generous measure of whisky into one of the heavy crystal glasses, slipped in two lumps of ice and a splash of soda. Taking a sip, she set the glass carefully down and picked up the phone. It was nearly midnight in Paris, eleven in London. It was late but she was the boss and there was something she had to do.
James answered on the second ring. From the background noise, she could tell he was out. ‘Tash? What’s up?’ He was charmingly affable. Thank God.
‘James . . . sorry to call so late. I need you to do me a favour.’
‘Sure, of course. What d’you need?’
‘I need to find someone. I don’t have much to go on, I’m afraid, but it might just be enough. Her name’s Libertine Betancourt. She lives in Paris, or at least she used to. Somewhere near the Bois de Boulogne, if I remember rightly. Find me an address or, better still, a telephone number if you can. I need it by tomorrow.’
‘I’m on it. I’ll call you back first thing.’
‘Thanks, James. I owe you one.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Still chuckling, he put down the phone.
She lay back against the pillows, her heart thudding. Why hadn’t she thought of contacting Aunt Libertine before? You could find anyone if you tried hard enough. She closed her eyes. The truth was, she hadn’t tried. Until tonight. She didn’t know why the idea to find Aunt Libertine had come to her now, after all these years . . . it
had something to do with sitting in the bar downstairs after the awards ceremony with only Rosie and the half-smashed photographer for company. It was one of the most important nights of her life to date and she had no one to share it with. No one who mattered. Rebecca was in Israel with Julian and the family; Edith was at home in London with her grandchildren; James was out with his girlfriend. Lyudmila, in all likelihood, was asleep, a half-finished glass of brandy or port still clutched in her hand. Everyone had someone. Everyone except her. She took another sip. The whisky helped her think more clearly. She knew what she had to do. James was only the first step, but at least she’d taken it. It was time to make amends.
72
She got out of the train at Boulogne-Billancourt and looked around. It wasn’t quite what she’d been expecting. Pretty, but ordinary. Not the sort of place she’d imagined Aunt Libertine would live. She shouldered her bag and walked to the taxi rank. ‘Rue de Verdun,’ she instructed him as she got in.
‘Très bien.’ He pulled away from the kerb. ‘Ce n’est pas loin.’
Five minutes later he pulled up outside a small, neat little house with a slate mansard roof and ornate wrought-iron balconies. Number fourteen. It was slightly smaller and shabbier than its neighbours, with a white wooden gate. She checked the address James had given her. Yes, this was it. She paid the cabbie and got out, listening as the sound of his tyres on the cobbled street faded away. There was no latch on the gate; it swung open easily. There was a small buzzer to one side of the peeling front door. She pressed it cautiously. She waited for a few moments, then pressed it again. There was still no answer from within. She stepped back and looked up at the windows. It was five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon – a good time, she’d thought to herself, to catch someone at home. A sudden movement behind the curtains of the window directly above her caught her eye. She squinted. Someone was peering down at her. She hesitated, and then lifted a hand in a half-wave. She’d met Aunt Libertine once, many years back. From the little she remembered of her, she was a frosty, very formal woman who smiled little or not at all. The curtain twitched shut immediately. She bit her lip and was just about to turn away when she heard a door close somewhere inside the house, followed by the tread of feet on the stairs. Someone was coming downstairs.
Her heart began to thump inside her chest. The door creaked open; she stepped back abruptly. It had been years since she’d seen her but Aunt Libertine’s face was unmistakable. The same strange, deeply hooded eyes as her brother’s; the same olive skin as Annick’s, the high forehead and curved, patrician nose. She was looking into a triptych. Sylvan, Annick, Libertine. The urge to cry came upon her crudely.
‘Oui?’ Aunt Libertine opened the door a little further. ‘Qui cherchezvous?’
‘Madame Betancourt? It’s me, Tash,’ she began in her halting, schoolgirl French. ‘Tatiana. Annick’s friend, from school in London. We met once, when you came to London. You took us to tea at the Ritz.’
There was silence as Aunt Libertine looked closely at her. Tash feared she’d shut the door in her face. A minute passed, then another. Finally the door opened fully and Aunt Libertine stood aside for Tash to enter. ‘Upstairs,’ she said, pointing to the staircase. ‘The first door.’ She said nothing further as they climbed the stairs together.
She opened the door. Tash’s first impression was of a room floating in sparkling sunlight until she realised it was dust. There was a sofa at one end, its cushions flattened and an assortment of blankets lay on the floor. A large television dominated the window. With her paraphernalia of books and magazines and cups and glasses strewn all around her, it was clear that Aunt Libertine was not a woman who entertained much, or even at all.
‘Have a seat. There, by the window.’ Her English was perfect. Just like Annick’s.
Tash sat down gingerly on a low chair, trying not to sneeze. There was a sweetish smell in the air that reminded her of something, though she couldn’t quite place it until she saw the half-empty glass of sherry on the side-table, next to Aunt Libertine’s permanent seat. Light bounced off the glass. She was instantly catapulted back into the warm fug of home. It was the same smell she associated with Lyudmila’s bedroom.
‘So, you’re here looking for Annick?’ Aunt Libertine wasted no time. She fished around somewhere in the depths of the cushions surrounding her and retrieved a pair of spectacles on a brightly coloured string. ‘Ah, that’s better. Yes, I remember you. The plain one. Still plain, I see.’
‘Yes, well, we’re not all as pretty as Annick,’ Tash retorted, a little more sharply than she intended.
Aunt Libertine’s eyebrows went up. ‘You clearly haven’t seen her lately. Pouf! She’s an elephant. No, she’s lost a little weight, it’s true, but when I think of what she used to be like . . . Tragic. If her mother could see her . . .’ She stopped abruptly and reached for her glass. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Tash nodded. Getting an address for Annick out of Aunt Libertine might take a little more time and skill than she’d imagined. Despite her air of tetchy independence, underneath it all, she suspected, Aunt Libertine was starved of company. If she had to sit here for an hour or two with her, drinking cheap sherry in order to get what she’d come for, so be it. She accepted a none-too-clean glass of something pale and brown and brought it gingerly to her lips. Dry cheap sherry. Ugh. Still, who cared? She was here for something else.
73
At quarter past five that evening, just as the sun was beginning to sink over the trees, she was back in her compartment on the train, heading back towards the city. Held tightly in her left hand was a scrap of paper with an address. Hôtel du Jardin, rue Championnet, somewhere in the eighteenth, a district of the city that Aunt Libertine clearly despised. ‘La Goutte d’Or,’ she’d said, her mouth curling derisively downwards. ‘Sylvan would be turning over in his grave if he knew,’ she said piously.
Tash had no idea where it was but she couldn’t have cared less. She had an address. She also had the beginning of a blinding headache, brought on by the disgusting sherry, but her heart felt lighter than it had in years. The only question was why it had taken her so long. She looked out at the city now slowly coming into view. La Défènse, La Grande Arche, the starkly elegant form of the Eiffel Tower . . . the train began to slow down as it approached Jean Jaurès Métro Station. She would jump in a taxi from there and show the driver the address. She’d no desire to begin learning the city’s geography via its underground.
‘Rue Championnet?’ The driver looked at her a little incredulously. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Tash snapped, her patience already worn thin. He was the third driver to question her – only difference was, he hadn’t immediately driven off. ‘It’s a hotel.’
‘Well, there are hotels and there are hotels . . .’ he began, a touch pompously. His English was good.
‘Look. I’ll pay you double if you can get me there in under an hour. Triple if you take me there without saying another fucking word.’
He scowled up at her through the half-open window. ‘Okay, okay. It’s your money. Allez.’
She climbed into the back seat, sighing with relief. At last. He pulled out and into the traffic heading north without another word. They crossed the river, dancing their way around the complicated traffic flow around L’Opéra until they were on the Boulevard Rochechouart, heading north. Marcadet-Poissoniers, Barbès, Rue des Portes Blanches . . . she read the signs as they drove. The Paris into which they were headed was a million miles away from the Paris of Fashion Week and the chic hotels of the Marais where she was staying, and from Aunt Libertine’s genteel suburb. Where the hell had Annick ended up? As the traffic thickened and slowed, turning first down one narrow street then another, it was as if she’d parted the veil on another life, one that lived in the shadows. Here there were no street-side cafes where handsome waiters danced between tables, carafes of wine held jauntily aloft, no kissing couples and mothers running after children, balanc
ed precariously on pencil-sharp heels. Instead there were shops whose signs were written in another, flowing script, windows full of bright, sticky sweets; women walked along covered from head to toe, only the opening around their eyes providing any kind of glimpse into the face beneath; men in long, flowing white robes, men blacker than any she’d ever seen in shiny suits and the pointed shoes of medieval court jesters. Her eyes widened. It wasn’t possible. She would never find Annick here?
‘That’s it,’ the driver spoke suddenly. ‘Hôtel du Jardin. Just there, across the road. See?’
Tash craned her neck. The red neon letters flashed out a rhythm. ‘I guess that must be it,’ she said softly.
The driver pulled up outside the hotel. ‘Triple, you said? I didn’t say a word.’
‘Yeah, all right.’ She fished out a hundred-euro note. ‘Keep the change.’ She got out and slammed the door shut behind her. Her heart was thumping.
‘Merci,’ the driver shouted cheerfully as he pulled back into the traffic. ‘Bonne chance!’
Bonne chance indeed. She looked up and down the brightly lit boulevard. All around her people were streaming back and forth, all lit by the same melon-green night. The hotel’s sign flickered dully. She gripped her handbag, pushed through the small knot of people on the pavement and pushed open the door.
74
REBECCA
Tel Aviv
It was a few blocks away from the beach on the top floor of a four-storey building with a broad, wide roof terrace. In front of her, the sea dazzled in a long, wide expanse of rippling blue. She put up a hand to shield her eyes.
‘Beautiful, no?’ The woman spoke English with a jaunty mid-Atlantic twang. ‘Imagine yourself out here in the summer. You could put up a . . . how d’you call it? An umbrella? A shade?’
