The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  Then Jonah spoke, his voice deep and low. ‘Take calm, madam,’ he said. ‘Sissy is well. Take calm.’

  His error only added to the comfort the sound of his voice gave, an alternative to my mother’s whimpering. When my mother finally opened the door, she came out like a banshee, and grasped my shoulders like the old woman had, her eyes piercing mine, then running all over my face and body – for symptoms of pain, scratches, tears and tears – although at that age I had enviably untarnished skin, two utterly symmetrical eyes. On seeing her I could not cry, fearing now that I had made an inexcusable mistake, to cause her such distress.

  ‘I just wanted to see you, Mama,’ I whispered and then my throat tightened.

  Her eyes wide, she turned to Jonah.

  ‘She was walking on the road,’ he said. ‘And my neighbour she found her and brought her to me. And I brought her to you.’ He gestured into the dark at the bicycle, propped against the side of the veranda, in a pool of moonlight.

  She said nothing, only continued to stare at him.

  ‘She is well, madam.’ And then he added: ‘She is brave to walk in the night alone.’

  Now she cleared her throat. ‘Thank you so much, Jonah,’ she whispered.

  He shrugged and then laid his hand briefly on my shoulder, before turning to leave.

  ‘Shouldn’t you stay here, Jonah?’ She gestured inside the house. ‘Until it’s light?’

  And to our surprise, on this, he grinned suddenly, widely, his teeth shining in the dark. His reaction was like a shaft of sunlight falling through dense storm clouds, a reminder that we could still smile and laugh, that the darkness was only that, nothing indelible or ineffaceable. That morning would come, and we would still be ourselves.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He was shaking his head, and then he lifted his eyes to hold hers. ‘It will make trouble for you.’ And because he did not end his pronouncement with his customary ‘madam’, and because I saw his eyes move over my mother’s face and her slender frame, moth-like in her nightgown, with a tenderness and not a little appreciation, as she must have done as well, we both watched soundlessly as he retrieved his bicycle and kicked off, disappearing instantly into the night.

  My mother put her arm around my shoulder, led me into the house, and without discussion we both knew that I would sleep in the bed with her, on the side left empty by my father. Although I am not sure how much sleep she got. At one point I opened my eyes and saw her staring at the ceiling, her arms folded over her chest, her gaze unseeing.

  12

  I WOKE to my mother, already dressed in one of her cotton work saris, shaking me gently, Danny staring at me from her hip, unperturbed, sucking on his thumb. She was leaving for her classes, but it being a Friday, would be back with Danny for a late lunch. I would not go to school today; she would phone both my teacher and the Coopers from the convent to explain. Would I be all right on my own? Could I get some things ready for lunch? Then she leant forward and kissed me on the forehead, and I heard them leaving the house.

  I turned over and must have fallen back to sleep because when I opened my eyes the sun was bright and my throat was dry. I got up and made the bed, made myself some toast, and unpacked my small bag. Then I lay on the cool parquet floor of my bedroom and imagined that I was walking on the ceiling, that everything was in fact upside down. Five steps from the bed to the window, another four to trace the outline of my wardrobe, six back to the other side of the room. It was a favourite game, one I realised I had neglected since Ezekiel’s departure, as if his leaving had triggered the end of childhood and the start of more serious growing up.

  I found the bag of clothes that the Coopers had brought some weeks back and chose a pair of smart, dark blue shorts, and a T-shirt with red and white horizontal stripes. Both fitted me nicely, more nicely than my own clothes did, and had a foreign, stylish cut. Then I stood in front of the mirror propped up on my desk, pulled my hair from my plaits and brushed it out so it lay spread over my shoulders, framing my face. Pulled up my T-shirt and examined the small crescent-shaped swellings on my chest, not really breasts yet. But I quite liked the way they looked, and I liked the way my midriff seemed to narrow now at the waist before curving out slightly at the hip.

  When I ended my examination the clock in the kitchen showed it was nearly ten o’clock, still three and a half hours before my mother would return. I went back into my parents’ bedroom – my mother’s bedroom –and opened the bedside cabinet on her side of the bed. I knew that was where she stored the blue aerogrammes, and sure enough, in that neat stack, sandwiched between one from my cousin-aunty and one from my grandfather, the latter a few lines and no more, I saw my father’s handwriting on a blue rectangle. He had printed her name in capital letters – Mrs Laila Olikara – above the post box of the school; he knew that it would be difficult for her to leave the campus to check our personal post box in town.

  I opened it. It was not dated, but when I turned it over and scrutinised the postmark, I saw that the letter had been posted three weeks back. It began with My dearest Laila, but continued in the familiar curls and ticks of Malayalam. Only the words ‘Sissy’, ‘Danny’, and ‘school’ were written in English. He had not filled the whole sheet like my cousin-aunty, nor had he written barely a paragraph like my grandfather; two-thirds of the allotted section were covered with his writing. Then, signed at the end, Yours, George. He had sent this aerogramme three weeks earlier, but when had my mother received it? Perhaps this week, while I had been at the Coopers’ so she had not had time yet to mention it. And he had written to my mother, but not included anything directed to me. I stared at the Malayalam. I only knew how to write my name, Priscilla, and Danny’s and could recognise those phonetic building blocks, but nothing more. I rifled through the other letters; no more from my father.

  The discovery left me in a bad mood, and although I knew I was forbidden during school hours, I opened the door and walked out of the bungalow, down to the bottom of our front yard where there was a makeshift seat I often sat on, made from a low-hanging tree branch. I heard from across the road the strident voice of a teacher above the clatter of typewriters, a secretarial class. I was hoping that I would see Jonah, and I did not have to wait long before he appeared at the top of the steps leading to the netball courts. He immediately looked over towards our house and spotted me sitting just across the road. He walked over, and without waiting for an invitation lowered himself onto the tree branch, which dipped down and then up again like a see-saw with the addition of his weight. In his hand was a basket of bread, eggs and milk – his weekly delivery – which he laid on the ground. My legs dangled from my shorts from the branch but his stretched out on the ground in front of him.

  He smiled. ‘No school today?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘And did you sleep well?’

  I nodded before asking, ‘And did you?’ and then I blushed as I remembered the slender arm and bare shoulder among his bedclothes.

  ‘I fell’ – he laughed – ‘I fell into a . . .’ He motioned with his hands.

  ‘A ditch?’

  ‘A ditch.’

  I risked a tentative smile, because he was grinning. ‘You didn’t get hurt?’

  ‘A little.’ He pulled up his shirt and pointed to his ribs, and I caught a glimpse of the gold chain again with the tiny hand against his chest. Then his shirt dropped. ‘But more important is that my bike did not get hurt,’ he added.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonah,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s my fault.’ When he did not respond I said in a small voice, ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Of course, no,’ he said. ‘I like to help you. And your mother.’

  ‘Why do you want to help my mother?’

  ‘It is not only me.’ He gestured around him, with a little chuckle. ‘You can see every man here wants to help her.’ He was smiling. ‘She’s very beautiful.’ And then he inclined his head at me. ‘And you will be a beautiful woman, Sissy, like your mother. And yo
u will have beautiful children.’

  His words warmed me; they were unexpected, but said so naturally and with such sincerity. As he spoke I could feel something pushing against my chest, as if it was the older me, my future self, bursting to come out of its chrysalis.

  ‘If someone wants to marry me . . .’

  He burst out laughing. ‘So many will. You will see.’

  ‘Why do you like helping my mother?’ I repeated, wanting to show him that I knew he had not answered the question.

  ‘Well, your mother is helping me.’

  ‘With your school work?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Why are you still at school, Jonah?’ And then I bit my lip because I could hear how rude the question sounded. ‘I mean . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I understand you, Sissy.’ Then he smiled. ‘You see me, and I am a man, but I still need to take exams and my English is not so good—’

  ‘Your English is very good, Jonah . . .’

  ‘It isn’t.’ He laughed. ‘I started my school in Mozambique but then I came here before I could finish.’

  ‘Mozambique?’

  ‘My mother was Mozambican. She didn’t speak English. She learned Portuguese.’

  ‘And do you speak Portuguese?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘And where did you live in Mozambique?’

  ‘In Tete. Do you know it?’

  I thought for a while. ‘I think Mr Cooper and Mr Lawrence have been there.’

  He raised his eyebrows, and was quiet for longer than I had imagined my announcement warranted. Then he nodded. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Because she died and then my father brought me with him, and my brother.’

  ‘You have a brother?’

  ‘Older than me.’

  ‘Does he work in Lusaka?’

  He shook his head. ‘In the Copperbelt.’

  I said: ‘How do you say hello in Portuguese?’

  ‘Olá,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘And thank you?’

  ‘I say obrigado. You must say obrigada, because you are a girl.’

  ‘Why was your mother Mozambican? Where did your parents meet?’

  He stretched his legs out, and I watched his profile. ‘You see, Sissy,’ he said, ‘we are tribes, not countries, in Africa. My father and mother are both from the same tribe. But my father was born on this side of the river, and my mother on that side. My mother’s father was a very good fisherman, and he had his own boat as well, which was a big thing at that time. He caught the fish, and every day before she went to school my mother had to sell the fish, in Luangwa. There was an Arab man who bought for his business and there were Portuguese and South African families. So my mother had to walk to their houses, deliver the fish, and then walk to school. My father, he worked on the river, and when he saw her one day he wanted her to be his wife. But first he helped her to carry the basket of fish to the houses, before she went to school. And when she was older and finished her school, she became his wife, his only wife. Even after she died, my father didn’t take another wife.’

  It was a beautiful story, simply recounted in those sonorous notes.

  ‘What was your mother’s name?’

  ‘Zakira.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Ten years now.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘It was her heart.’

  We were quiet, and I began to worry that I had reminded him of something sad that he preferred to forget but when I glanced at him I saw he was watching me, a small smile on his lips. I reached towards him tentatively and drew out the gold chain from under his shirt, my fingers brushing against his skin, to expose the small amulet that it held, so that it now nestled in my palm. It was a gesture of some familiarity, I knew, and my heart was thumping, but he did not seem to mind. There was still that smile playing on his lips as I asked him: ‘Did she give you this?’

  He nodded. ‘A hamsa. The Hand of Fatima.’ Then, when I said nothing, he added, ‘My mother was a Muslim, and she worked for an Arab family who gave this to her when she helped with their baby. They believe it protects us. Then she gave it to me because she believed it would protect me.’

  ‘Protect you from what?’

  He gave me a wide, toothy smile. ‘I don’t know.’ But the way he said it, it was clear that he did.

  ‘Are you Muslim?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, only my mother.’

  Then he plucked the amulet from my palm and dropped it back into his shirt. Still smiling he continued: ‘Now I ask you a question, Sissy. Did you talk with your mother?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About why you were walking in the night like that?’

  I shook my head. ‘We went to bed and then she woke up early.’

  He said gently, ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why you left like that?’

  I took some time, turning over the events in my head. ‘I heard something,’ I began and then started again. ‘I overheard Mr and Mrs Cooper talking about Ezekiel.’

  He was watching me.

  ‘Grace’s son, Ezekiel.’

  He nodded, his face attentive.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear what happened, Jonah? Why Ezekiel stopped working here?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘He should not have tricked you. He has this illness. And some people believe it is because of spirits. They believe the nganga must cure him. Until then, they think he will bring them bad luck also. That is why it’s difficult now for him to find a job.’

  ‘And do you believe that?’

  ‘No, no, Sissy.’ He smiled. ‘I believe in science.’

  ‘What do you want to be, Jonah, when you finish your exams?’

  ‘Maybe a doctor. Or maybe a science teacher like your mother.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe I could wear a sari.’

  I burst out laughing and he watched me. Then he looked away, stared at his feet, and kicked at the ground with the toe of his boots, before speaking again. ‘But they were talking about Ezekiel, Sissy. Why did you want to see your mother?’

  I waited, and didn’t answer, unwilling to repeat what I had heard: he could have done anything to her. And he did not press me, so we remained sitting side by side surrounded by unspoken words.

  Then I whispered, ‘Jonah, has my mother spoken to you? About my father?’ He raised his head, held my eyes as I continued. ‘About why he went away?’ And as I said the words the tears came to my eyes. Jonah looked away, was quiet for a long time, his eyes on the ground in front of us. He remained still, his hands clasped, and I watched his face, stroked his jawline with my eyes, the high cheekbones and full lips.

  ‘Jonah?’

  He turned to look at me as if he were suddenly reminded of my presence.

  ‘Has she, Jonah?’

  His eyes ran over my face as mine had run over his, and then he reached over and pinched my chin, a gentle playful gesture completely at odds with the solemnity in his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said finally, quietly.

  ‘So you don’t know why he went away and when he is coming back?’

  He shook his head, his eyes soft with gentleness. ‘He will come back soon. Don’t worry.’

  ‘How do you say don’t worry in Portuguese?’

  ‘Não te preocupes.’ He smiled.

  ‘Obrigado, Jonah,’ I whispered.

  ‘You need to say obrigada, Sissy. Because you are a girl.’ He pinched my chin again. ‘A beautiful girl.’ Then he stood up and handed me the basket of groceries. ‘Can you take this inside? It’s not too heavy?’

  I stood up and took it from him. Now the difference in our heights was evident, as he towered over me as usual, and he seemed to notice t
hat as well as he smiled down at me. He turned to leave but then stopped, turned back.

  ‘Why do you think your mother would talk to me?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. ‘She likes you.’

  He smiled again, but said nothing, and turned away. I watched as he walked back down the steps to the netball courts, as first his feet, then calves, legs, shoulders and head disappeared, and I went back into the house.

  13

  I MADE lunch, and my mother arrived, slightly harried, to say that the Coopers had asked if they could pay us a visit: to see me, and to assure themselves that we were all in good spirits. Perhaps, I thought, but did not say, they were worried that I had told my mother of the noise they had made, arguing. And it was not long after we had cleared away the lunch things and tidied the house – my mother plumping our few cushions and straightening rugs like I had never seen her do before – that we saw Mr Cooper’s blue car pull up and park in front of the wreck of my father’s car. Both adults got out, bearing bags of biscuits and tins of fish and meat, avoiding looking at the carnage – while Mary-Anne gawped with frank interest – before walking briskly up to greet my mother effusively.