The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  ‘Hello, everyone.’

  The sisters chimed their greetings with casual familiarity; he was obviously one of the more regular visitors.

  He stopped in front of me. ‘Hey there. You live in Roma, don’t you?’

  When I nodded, he continued: ‘I’m a friend of Fee Munroe. Do you know her?’

  ‘She’s our neighbour.’

  ‘Oh right. You must be one of the Olikaras.’

  The Olikaras. I had not thought of us as such, but the reference endowed my family with a literary air I quite liked.

  He held out his hand to me and I took it. Then, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Priscilla.’ I hesitated, adding, ‘But everyone calls me Sissy.’

  ‘I see.’ He appeared to weigh up this information. ‘So, can I call you Sissy?’

  I nodded again, and he smiled. ‘Well, there you go.’ He released my hand.

  As I turned back to my skipping rope, he laughed. ‘Don’t you want to know what my name is?’

  Mary-Anne was giggling at my gaucheness and I felt my face grow warm. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’m Charlie,’ he said. ‘Charlie Lawrence.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  He laughed again for some reason. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Sissy Olikara.’

  I was spared the need for another response when Mr Cooper appeared at the back door calling him back, ‘Charlie, have you got a minute?’ I could escape, but we met again a few days later when I was in the front yard of our house with Danny. Mr Lawrence came out of Miss Munroe’s house, and as if we were long-standing friends called out to me, ‘Hello there, Sissy. How are you doing?’

  They all had that easy, beguiling way with them – all the adults who frequented the Coopers’ house – a combination of light-heartedness and depth. And while I had always seen a great affection between my parents, as there was between Mr and Mrs Cooper, this couple also spoke with each other, at length, in serious tones: at the table, while they cleared things away, even after dinner, in Mr Cooper’s study. ‘You’ve got to really think on that, Sam,’ Mrs Cooper would often say. ‘Really think on that.’ Mr Cooper would nod, gravely, before replying, ‘I know that’s not the way you see it, Cindy, but do you agree that it’s the best of a few very poor options?’ Alongside their gravitas, in appearance they were an arresting couple. Mr Cooper was tall, bearded, with longish brown hair. He was good-looking; my mother had said so to my father when we had driven back after our first meeting. Mrs Cooper with her wavy, blonde bob was nearly as tall – just as good-looking, as my father had countered. The couple were as carefully matched in appearance, manner and intellect as if their parents had arranged their marriage.

  A few weeks had passed since Ezekiel’s departure, when my father arrived at the Coopers’ house to collect me. The girls were readying themselves for a visit into town, and so I said my goodbyes and ran out. I saw my father with Mr Cooper, both men leaning against my father’s car, and as I approached, they did not notice me. They were deep in conversation and they were talking about Ezekiel.

  ‘I wanted to help him’ – this from my father – ‘but what choice did he leave me with?’

  Mr Cooper was nodding his head in sympathy as my father continued: ‘I would give him another chance, actually, but Laila doesn’t want him to work for us again. She says she never did, although I’m not sure that’s true.’ Then he chuckled. ‘She blames me . . .’

  Mr Cooper laughed. ‘I don’t think anyone could have predicted that he’d pull a stunt like that.’

  ‘Perhaps you could point that out to my wife at your next convenience.’

  Mr Cooper laughed again and my father grinned. ‘She didn’t talk to me for three days once when she was angry about something. At least this time it was only for one night.’

  ‘Well, George,’ Mr Cooper was smiling, ‘sounds like you got off lightly.’ Then he became serious, sighed and shook his head. ‘He’s very unreliable. Ezekiel, that is. I arranged for him to help out at our canteen in town? He didn’t turn up on the first day.’

  They both looked ahead, as if they were watching the event unfold.

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘And the problem is, people don’t like having him around. They believe he’ll bring them bad luck. And he looks awful at the moment. He’s lost weight and seems to be getting sick all the time . . .’

  They fell silent for a long time before Mr Cooper spoke again. ‘There’s still this stigma associated with epilepsy. There’s a lot of ignorance about it. Even an intelligent woman like Grace can be surprisingly superstitious.’

  ‘It’s the same in India.’

  ‘Well, probably in some parts of the States, too, to be honest.’ By now his voice was so low I had to strain my ears to hear. ‘I think she’s been turning to the local witchdoctor. Charlie Lawrence knows him. The man’s a charlatan . . .’

  Mr Cooper broke off when he spied me, and the men ended their conversation. We took our leave, and driving back home, I asked my father, ‘Why were you talking about Ezekiel?’

  He glanced at me. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  My father turned away to look out the windscreen. He was silent for a few minutes and then he said, ‘His mother is worried about him.’ Then, ‘Just as sometimes Mama and I worry about you playing with those boys.’

  I stayed very still, held my breath.

  He waited a few moments before continuing, ‘Miss Munroe spoke to me today. She says she thinks they were peeping through her windows yesterday.’

  Relief flooded through me. Yesterday, I had spent the whole afternoon with Reeba and her mother, helping them pack for a wedding in India.

  ‘Do you know how disrespectful that is, Sissy?’ my father asked.

  I met his gaze. I could feel how huge my eyes were, I could feel the prickle of tears under my eyelids. ‘I wasn’t with them yesterday, Papa.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but you are with them nearly every other day.’

  I didn’t answer, but felt suddenly mutinous at the inquisition. I looked out of the window and there was a long silence until he said, ‘Here, take it.’

  It was another one of our traditions, and I hoped that it spelled the end of his displeasure. I reached over and held the steering wheel while he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. Then, with a hand resting lightly on the wheel, he lit one and blew smoke out of his window.

  ‘Those boys are older than you, Sissy. They’re fourteen, fifteen. They’ll be interested in different things from you.’

  It was strange to hear him talk of ‘those boys’ when he knew their fathers so well, but I said nothing.

  ‘Now, I know you don’t have any girls your age at Roma. It’s nice for you to play with the Coopers, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘Well, you can still play with Bobby and Aravind. But maybe not every day, okay? Let’s see if you can find something to do at home, okay?’

  And true enough, the next day, my mother asked whether I could help her make Danny a small tent with some banana leaves that afternoon, after his nap? Her motives were obvious: she and my father wanted to distract me from playing with ‘those boys’. But I acquiesced, happy with the thought of spending time with her, while having a certain knowledge of my parents; they would not be able to keep it up, and eventually I would regain my freedom. The school would be celebrating its fifteenth anniversary in a few weeks, and with preparations for the event entering full swing, my parents had been relieved of their afternoon classes. My mother and I made our plans, and my father took the opportunity to drive back into Lusaka to check our post box and buy some supplies. Danny went down for his nap, and my mother and I lay on our sides, facing each other, on the bed in my parents’ room. She had a magazine borrowed from Miss Munroe in her hands and I had my book; my feet were burrowed in the folds of her skirt. Since Danny’s birth, any moments alone with my mo
ther were rare, and I found myself feeling extraordinarily content. If I had been a cat I would have purred.

  She had taken off her sari and was lying in her under-garments: in the sari-blouse that ended just below her breasts and the sari-skirt that fell to her ankles. The drawstring of the skirt was tied just below her navel, and her hip curving upwards from her narrow waist made a pleasing silhouette. At the time, my mother would have been not quite thirty-four years old, young to have a child of my age. Without the sari wrapped around her, she appeared even younger, her limbs longer and even more slender. As we read I lowered my book and stole glances at her; her eyes did not seem to move as she looked at each page, the pupils barely moving from side to side, but she turned the pages. She must have felt my gaze because she raised her eyes.

  ‘Not reading?’ she said in a low voice. The muted light, my mother’s warm body beneath my feet, her gentle tone and the glint in her eye all lent a deliciously clandestine mood to our company.

  ‘What’s in the magazine?’ I responded, in a similar hushed voice.

  ‘All the things that women are supposed to be interested in.’ She smiled. ‘Cooking and clothes. And stories.’

  ‘What are the stories about?’

  She laughed and tapped me on the head with the magazine. ‘Love, mostly,’ she said. She watched me, a smile on her lips. ‘You know, husbands and wives.’

  ‘When will Miss Munroe get married?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe she wants to wait and meet the right man,’ she said. ‘That’s what happens sometimes. Or sometimes your parents choose for you.’

  I nestled against her arm. I had heard the story before. ‘Did Pappan choose for you?’

  She nodded, her smile was wide now, and she opened her mouth to speak, but then we heard a soft knock on the bedroom door.

  ‘Madam.’

  It was Jonah.

  With Ezekiel gone, my parents had struggled with the commitments of their teaching and the housekeeping until, ever the facilitator, Grace arranged for Jonah to work for us. Jonah, a recent arrival in Roma, already did odd jobs around the school, and was attending night classes at the college a few miles away. He could help three afternoons a week, to supplement his income, an arrangement which suited us well. On the first of such afternoons, he had arrived while my parents were still teaching. He greeted me and promptly started on his chores with an efficiency and conscientiousness which enabled him to finish much earlier than Ezekiel ever did. He then sat down on the veranda and pulled out some of his books, alternately reading and making notes, to await my parents. I watched his back from my seat at the dining table, munching on a snack.

  Now I watched my mother sit up, pick up a lungi that lay folded on the chair next to her. She tucked it around her like a half-sari, to cover her blouse and bare midriff, and opened the door.

  Jonah stood outside, tall and broad-shouldered. ‘Madam, the tap in the kitchen is broken. And water is wasting.’ He had a deep, slow voice, but his words were clear. ‘Shall I fix it?’

  My mother hesitated. I saw her hand go to her neck. ‘Do you know how to?’

  ‘I need some tools.’

  ‘I’m not sure if we have any.’

  My mother seemed timid; her voice was higher than normal. I noticed that Jonah was straight-backed and strong-jawed, unlike Ezekiel.

  ‘I will ask.’

  ‘Ask?’

  ‘Moses.’

  So Jonah knew Moses, and Grace knew Jonah, and Ezekiel must know them all, I was thinking.

  My mother nodded. ‘Thank you, Jonah.’

  We heard him leave the house, and my mother crept back to the bed. We stared at each other, our eyes fixed on each other, not speaking. It was as if we were both holding our breath, Jonah’s intrusion taking on a much larger significance. When he returned a few minutes later, we could hear some creaks and bangs in the kitchen.

  ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’ my mother whispered.

  ‘Not a mundun like Ezekiel,’ I whispered back.

  She burst out laughing, then caught herself. ‘No, Sissy,’ she said, but her shoulders were still shaking. She grabbed my hand and made me give myself a pretend slap on the cheek. ‘No, you mustn’t say things like that.’

  I had a fleeting sense of betrayal over how I had described Ezekiel – a numbskull – but mostly I felt very pleased with the wit I had demonstrated.

  Danny woke up, and we took him through to the living-room. While my mother settled him on his play-mat, I went into the kitchen.

  Jonah was clearing up, putting some tools back into a box. He looked at me, smiling. ‘It is all right now,’ he said.

  There was satisfaction in his voice. The tap had been bothering him, even though we had got used to the leak. I saw my mother had moved outside, and was looking at the pile of his books on the veranda. She picked one up and flipped through it. Jonah came back into the living room, and stopped when he saw her.

  ‘Are these yours, Jonah?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘You’re studying chemistry?’

  ‘I am taking an exam at the end of the year.’

  ‘Only chemistry?’

  ‘And mathematics, madam.’

  My mother’s eyes skimmed over the page, before she turned to the next. ‘You didn’t finish this question, Jonah?’ She walked over, her finger holding the page, then, placing it against her chest, she opened his book for him to see.

  ‘I did not understand that section.’

  She closed the book and brushed some strands of hair away from her face. ‘Before you leave today I’ll help you with this.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  ‘Or maybe I should ask you first if you want some help?’

  ‘I want some help,’ he said simply.

  ‘We can sit here,’ she pointed to the dining table, ‘when you are ready.’ And then she looked up and smiled at him, with that smile I had only ever seen her use with my father. He did not return it, only bowed slightly, silently took the book as she handed it to him. Then, as she turned away and bent to pick up Danny, I saw his eyes, briefly, travel down her plait.

  He moved to the back door. ‘I will give the tools back, madam.’

  ‘Can I go as well, Mama?’ I asked.

  My mother turned, Danny’s fists tucked into her blouse. ‘Okay. Say thank you, remember.’

  I walked out the door with Jonah. If it had been Ezekiel I would have immediately asked him how he knew Moses. I would have asked him what section of his book he did not understand. I might even have bragged that I could also help him with his studies. But this was Jonah, and we walked in a dignified silence down the path and then along the road. He took long strides, but when I fell behind I noticed that he slowed down, took shorter steps. We could have walked up the short driveway to the front door, but Jonah pushed aside the branches of the mulberry bush and motioned for me to go ahead, to the side, where we found Moses working in the garden, and who greeted me with a cheerful smile before addressing Jonah in Nyanja. I listened to the men, enjoying the music of their voices. I did not understand what they were saying but I could tell that they were talking of other things, beyond the campus, of the world that began at its boundary. The fragrance from the mulberry bush, the guava tree and the clothes hanging outside on the nearby line wafted around us, and we stood in the soft late-afternoon light. I remember that it was the first time of many to come that I had Jonah by my side, and I remember that I found that situation pleasing.

  4

  AFEW days later, Mrs Cooper drove me all the way home, and then produced a bag of books and clothes from near her feet. Hand-me-downs from the American girls, which my mother gushed over, Danny on her hip. The Coopers were going back to the States for just over a fortnight, to attend the wedding of Mrs Cooper’s sister, and had had a clear-out. ‘Laila, I don’t know how you manage,’ Mrs Cooper was saying. ‘With the baby and going back to work and all.’

  ‘These nuns don’t understand,’ m
y mother replied in a mischievous voice, leaning into the car. Mrs Cooper honked with laughter, and I saw Ally roll her eyes in irritation.

  The Cooper hand-me-downs were welcome, but the Cooper absence was not. That evening my parents mulled over the practicalities of taking me to school. Before Danny had arrived, it had not seemed so difficult for my father to leave the house with me an hour earlier. Now the mornings were more chaotic; my mother had an exam class which had an early morning revision spot, and my father had more extracurricular duties helping the deputy.

  ‘Rahul can take Sissy,’ my father said. ‘I’ll ask tomorrow.’

  ‘They won’t like it . . .’

  ‘He’s free now. It’s not so difficult for him.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it,’ I heard my mother interrupt. Her voice was tired. ‘Enikku vayya. If we were back home, we wouldn’t have all these problems.’

  ‘True. We’d have other problems.’ I could hear my father smiling. ‘Like your family, for example.’

  But my parents’ worries about taking me to school while the Coopers were away proved unfounded. The morning of the first Monday, I woke up with a fever and a throat that felt raw and swollen. I had had tonsillitis before, but this episode proved to be the most severe. The first two days when my mother and father left for their classes, promising to come back and check up on me in the mid-morning break, I could only grunt from beneath the bedcovers. In the silence that surrounded me, my feverish sleep would be so deep that it felt like seconds had elapsed before I heard someone moving in the room, and one of my parents would enter, feel my forehead, make me drink some water. The nurse in the school infirmary had given us the antibiotics I needed, but by the time I had recovered enough to take note of the goings on around me, nearly a week had passed. Thursday morning, when my parents left the house, I finally left the bed, pottered around the living-room. It looked different; it was bathed in morning light and I was the only person in it. I sat by the window for some time and then went into my parents’ room. Their bed was neatly made, and Danny’s blanket was folded at the foot of his cot. Next to their bed, on the little table on my mother’s side, I saw an aerogramme.