The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  She was still staring at me, and again I caved in and looked down.

  Then she spoke quietly. ‘We’ve seen you coming and going with a series of different people.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘And your mother has not returned my phone calls.’ I looked up.

  ‘I’ve phoned the convent in Roma a few times. I phoned after the raid to make sure that you were all right. I left a message asking her to call me back.’

  I said nothing, only found that I was staring at my shoes again.

  ‘I’d like her to make an appointment. This is your last year in primary and we need to make applications for secondary school. I need to discuss this with her.’

  I recrossed my ankles and found that my throat was dry.

  ‘Sissy,’ she said, and her voice was not frosty, only firm.

  I looked up. Her brow was wrinkled but her expression was kind.

  ‘My father had to go back to India,’ I said. ‘And because of the raid were staying with Mr Cooper for a while.’

  ‘Mary-Anne’s father?’

  I nodded.

  ‘How long has your father been away?’

  I was stunned. I did not know. I racked my brains but I could not remember a date.

  When I did not respond, she continued: ‘Are you going back to India? Will you be attending secondary school here in Lusaka or in India?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sister Catherine.’

  ‘I see.’

  She looked thoughtful, began to doodle on the notepad in front of her. Then she raised her head and gave me that beige smile. ‘You’re not in any trouble, Sissy. I’d just like to have a meeting with your mother. Will you ask her to come and see me?’

  I nodded, and she nodded in turn at my teacher, who ushered me out of the room, her arm around me as if I were a patient. She squeezed my shoulder as we walked back to the classroom.

  I waited outside the school, my friends’ voices a hum in my head as they chattered about a television series they had been watching, the new music teacher, the film they had all seen at the weekend, when a van, emblazoned on the side with the logo of Mr Cooper’s agency, drew up, and the driver leant across, and opened the passenger door. ‘Sissy? I’ll be taking you home.’ I winced inwardly as I slipped into the seat, willing myself not to turn around to see if any of the teachers were watching: we’ve seen you coming and going with a series of different people.

  This man was young, with, unusually for that time, a full head of dreadlocks, tied back with a green band. He was called Tembe, he told me. He was a driver for the agency, a logistician. Was I enjoying school? How long had I lived in Zambia? He drove quickly and we arrived in no time at all. I got out at the gate and walked up the driveway as he gave a little beep of the horn in farewell. I walked around the side of the house and entered through the kitchen, which rather than being in that post-prandial quiet I had expected was abuzz with activity. Both Grace and my mother were at the counter, side by side, peeling and chopping a mound of onions and garlic.

  ‘Ah, Sissy,’ from Grace.

  ‘Hello, mol,’ from my mother.

  Danny was in the far corner with a bowl of flour, another of water, and several spoons, delightedly transferring one into the other, walking up and down from one bowl to another, with proud, wobbly steps, covering himself happily with the paste, too engrossed to look up.

  ‘We have some visitors for dinner,’ my mother said. ‘Mister . . .’ she stopped, ‘Charlie and Fee and someone else. I said I’d make chicken biriani.’ She smiled sweetly, happily.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ She pointed at the table. ‘Grace made you a sandwich.’

  ‘Thank you, Grace.’ I sat down and took a bite.

  ‘Wash your hands first.’

  I stood up again and moved to the sink. When I returned to my sandwich my mother asked, ‘Do you have any homework?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Have your sandwich, finish your homework, and then can you give Danny a bath?’

  I nodded and watched as they continued with the chopping, then stood up again, rinsed my plate. As I turned away from the draining board, I caught Grace’s eye. She was watching me thoughtfully, and she smiled but said nothing.

  In the bath, later, Danny said, smacking my arm gently, ‘Diddy’, and my eyes filled with tears, before I realised he was not saying ‘Daddy’ but trying to say ‘Sissy’. I felt a wave of tenderness for my baby brother. His hair was slick and wet, a black pelt covering his oversized head. His limbs had lost the rolls of babyhood; even though he was late walking he had made up for it with his energetic crawling and scooting around. I tapped his chest and said, ‘Danny,’ and he gave me his wondrous toothless smile, slapping his hands on the water in glee.

  Grace had been invited to join the party but had declined, taking her plate of food to the granny flat that served as her lodgings. Only one plate, no lights on in the annex until she entered – no mention or sign of Ezekiel. My mother appeared, dressed in the turquoise silk sari she had worn that afternoon of the school’s anniversary, with her hair falling down one shoulder in a loose ponytail. She was glowing. She appeared reinvigorated, as if the escape from the campus had injected a new energy into her, and responded to Mr Cooper’s compliment – you look beautiful, Laila – with a lowering of her lashes, and I had a vision of Mrs Cooper at the table, laying down her cutlery: good God, Sam. Mr Lawrence and Miss Munroe arrived with the other guest, a journalist who was stopping by on his way to South Africa and who, it transpired, was a regular guest.

  It was an attractive ensemble. The men radiated an American glamour; both my mother and Miss Munroe sparkled. I wore one of the Cooper girls’ hand-me-down dresses, hoping Mr Cooper would not recognise it, with my hair free from its plaits and clipped to the side with a decorative grip, and the bracelets and anklet I had received for my birthday. Mr Cooper was an attentive host, everyone admired my mother’s cooking, and she served and smiled and laughed, her bangles jangling and earrings swinging, more herself in this gathering than I had ever seen her with the Malayalees on the campus. Everyone present, I could see, appreciated her, without any scorn or cynicism. My father was a distant memory that night. Even though we had had jolly family dinners before, none had had the feeling of being under threat, as if we had dressed in our best clothes because we knew we might die tomorrow. We all ate as if this were the last meal we would enjoy, as if the helicopters would return, bombs would fall, and all that was near would burn to the ground. For we were alive, living, days after death had arrived just miles away from where we sat now; days after girls had run, terrified, to be scratched and bitten in the bush; days after governments gathered and the morality of revenge was dissected in their rhetoric. We were suspended above all this, determined to enjoy an evening of food and drink and company. And all this we could do because the land, the people, were not ours. Guests at Mr Cooper’s table, guests in this land. We could tidy things away and leave, while the others would have to stay. And not even two years after we had left, Rhodesia was returned to its owners, one flag lowered, another raised. As if our presence and then our absence had played no part in the unfolding events.

  These were not my thoughts that evening, though. That evening I was quiet, imbibing the view I was being offered of the adult world, watching how hands touched an arm, a glass was refilled. Mr Lawrence was seated next to me, and I had, on first taking my place, wondered if I should apologise for my brusqueness on the day of the outing to Munda Wanga. But he seemed so genuinely pleased to see me, pulling out my chair for me – oh good, you sit right here, Sissy – then smiling at me occasionally through the conversations but not dragging me into the limelight.

  Miss Munroe revealed her parents wished her to return to Ireland. And will you go? Not a chance. Go back for what? For the whole town to ask me stupid questions and for me to get bored out of mind? How is Cindy doing? This from Mr Lawrence to Mr Cooper, who replied: blooming, as you’d e
xpect. I try and call from work and she’s usually out. You know she doesn’t need me, Charlie. I only get in the way. My mother and Miss Munroe tutted in unison, but Mr Lawrence only smiled as he lit his cigarette and proffered his lighter to Miss Munroe, not asking after Ally and Mary-Anne. His eyes rested briefly on my mother, who had fidgeted at the mention of Mrs Cooper.

  At one point, after some bottles of wine had been finished and the men and Miss Munroe had glasses of whisky in their hands, the journalist had waved his cigarette at the two women, turned to Mr Cooper and Mr Lawrence: ‘You guys have quite a good thing going here.’ Everyone laughed and he continued: ‘I’m not sure I want to get on the plane to Jo’burg tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll be on the sofa tonight, by the way,’ Mr Cooper replied. ‘Young Sissy here is in the guest room.’

  At which point my mother seemed to remember me and said, ‘Time for you to go to bed, I think, mol.’

  I wanted to bite back, but found that, actually, it was only a fleeting reaction. I was tired of the adults. I stood up, murmuring my good nights to the gathering, preparing to leave the room, but Miss Munroe held out her arms and pulled me to her for a kiss, saying: come here, sweet, sweet girl. Her face was flushed, her make-up slightly smeared and her hands were hot on my cheeks. Mr Lawrence gave me a little wave from where he was sitting, and the journalist held out his hand, swapping his whisky glass to the other: it’s been a pleasure, young lady. Mr Cooper clasped the back of my neck briefly – good night, darlin’– as I leant forward to kiss my mother, who whispered in Malayalam: get into bed and I’ll come and see you.

  I washed and changed into my pyjamas, tiptoeing up and down the hall from bedroom to bathroom as the voices continued and laughter erupted from the dining room. As I was brushing my teeth, I leant out of the window. I could just spy Grace’s annex. It was dark.

  I slipped into the bed, clicked on the bedside lamp, and settled on my side. I had read only a page when my mother entered.

  ‘Don’t read for too long,’ she said, and again she spoke in Malayalam. ‘It’s really late and you have school tomorrow.’ Then she came forward and sat down on the edge of the bed, stroked my hair. Her skin shone in the night and her eyes glittered. ‘Did you enjoy the party?’

  I nodded.

  She leant forward so her head was on my shoulder. ‘They’re nice people, aren’t they?’

  I nodded again, and she laid her face against mine. I felt her breath on my cheek, tinged with wine, and after some minutes I thought she had fallen asleep. But she lifted her head and tucked the sheet around me. ‘Sleep well.’

  I watched as she turned off the bedside light, watched as she walked to the door, then stood, silhouetted in the doorway, before she left the room, shutting the door behind her. When I heard her re-enter the dining room and the door close on the noise, I switched the lamp back on, padded across the room and retrieved my notebook and pen. I scurried back to the bed and pushed the pillow up, leant the notepad against my knees.

  Dear Jonah, I wrote. How are you? I hope you are well. We are staying now with Mr Cooper until the school re-opens. Me, my mother and Danny. Tonight, my mother cooked dinner for some people and everyone enjoyed it very much. I paused, my heart thumping, then bent forward and continued: I hope you can visit me here. Do you know where the Coopers live? It’s where Grace works now. I hope you can find the house and come and see me. If you can’t, do you know where my school is in town? I know that might be quite far for you. I would like you to teach me more Portuguese. I remember how to say thank you but I’m not sure how to spell it so I won’t write it down. Please try and visit me because I miss you and I want to see you. I had written the last words in a rush, the words had tumbled from my pen. Then I steadied my breath and added: Yours, Sissy.

  17

  GRACE took the letter from me wordlessly and stared at the envelope with Jonah’s name written on the front.

  ‘Can you send this to him, please, Grace?’

  She said nothing but simply looked at me.

  ‘He’s my friend,’ I said, and I heard my voice tremble. ‘I’d like him to know where we are but I don’t know how to contact him.’

  She looked at me serenely. When we had first met, if I stretched my hands up high I could place them on her shoulders. Now she was my height, which made me realise she was a small woman, with a powerful body, one she needed to bear the weight of all she endured. She could have asked me then: why did you never write to Ezekiel? Do you remember how he left? I had felt an anger at my mother when I had observed her picking and choosing; now I was doing the same. Grace stood before me: her knitted cap on her head, her dress freshly ironed, white tennis shoes on her feet. She looked wholly familiar but at the same time exotic, from a world that began when she left the house and entered her annex. I remembered her dwelling near the campus and how my father and I had visited with her medicine. It was unlikely she had relinquished the small house to the local authority; most probably that was where Ezekiel was staying. I opened my mouth, to ask after him – not because I especially wanted to know of him – only because I thought I might then curry favour and she would do my bidding. But before I said anything, before I expressed a hypocritical wish to find out if Ezekiel was well, she spoke: ‘I will give it to Constance. She works next door.’

  ‘Does she know Jonah?’

  ‘She is his neighbour.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Grace.’ I heard my mother’s steps behind me. ‘Please don’t . . .’

  ‘Sissy? The driver is ready to take you.’ My mother had Danny in her arms. I turned to glance at Grace, but she had turned away herself and was at the kitchen sink. The envelope was not in sight. I walked out into the driveway with my mother. Mr Cooper had already left early in the morning to drop the journalist at the airport and from there had gone straight to his office. Tembe sat at the wheel of his pick-up and smiled his greeting.

  ‘Have a nice day, mol,’ my mother said.

  ‘What will you do, Mama?’

  ‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘I might see if I can do anything in the vegetable garden. I need to give Danny a haircut. I’ll see if I can help Grace with the cooking.’

  I climbed into the pick-up. My mother waved goodbye. As we drove away I realised I had not told her about the headmistress.

  There followed three days when each morning on leaving the house I remembered that I had forgotten to pass on the message, and this would then slip my mind completely until the next morning when I experienced the same flash of memory and the same stab of remorse. Mr Cooper went away for two nights. Grace slept on a roll-up bed in the kitchen the first night, Mr Lawrence came to stay the second – both arrangements put in place by Mr Cooper in case my mother felt anxious sleeping alone in the house. The evening when Mr Lawrence stayed, the three of us gathered in the living room after dinner. By now we were all comfortable in each other’s company, like old friends. I was in my pyjamas, curled up in an armchair with a book. My mother, in her nightdress and shawl, was settled on the sofa with a magazine Miss Munroe had passed on, while Mr Lawrence tapped away on his typewriter at the desk. I wanted to ask after his project, the spiritual healers, but my mother did not know of our late-night conversation from those weeks earlier, and I felt possessive of our encounter. I watched him from over the top of my book as his fingers found the keys expertly and his typewriter clattered. He was in a T-shirt and shorts, but with his glasses and his posture and his concentration, he looked like a pianist. Or a writer. I tried to imagine myself at a desk with typewriter in front of me, glasses on my nose, but could only project an image of his unshaven chin onto an image of mine.

  My mother suddenly raised her head, waited until there was a pause in his typing, then spoke: ‘Charlie, I’ve just thought. You can sleep in Mary-Anne’s room, can’t you? No need for you to sleep on the sofa.’

  Mr Lawrence turned around and smiled. ‘That’s sweet of you to worry, Laila, but I’ll be fine. I’m a sofa man myself.’ And then for so
me reason he looked embarrassed at his own words, cleared his throat and looked away, and my mother in turn averted her gaze, seemed flustered by his reaction.

  Mr Cooper returned late on Friday night. I heard him unlocking the door quietly, then whispers as my mother greeted him, sounds in the kitchen after; she must have been keeping him company as he had a late supper. We were invited to lunch at Miss Munroe’s friend’s house on the Saturday; on the Sunday Mr Cooper took us to the cathedral in the city, even though my mother had not appeared particularly intent on attending Mass. We emerged an hour later to find him leaning against the car, parked in the shade, as if he were a chauffeur, ready to escort us to the university campus where we had another invitation to lunch, with a friend of Mr Cooper’s, an American professor in the history department whose doctor wife was from Guyana. Their twin sons were three years older than Danny, and I spent a pleasant afternoon entertaining the small boys in the garden with a hula hoop and a rubber ball. We ended the weekend rested and replenished, and on the Monday school carried on as normal, even though I no longer knew what normality meant. It seemed perfectly reasonable that we were living in the Coopers’ home and among the Coopers’ friends, my mother and her children displacing the American wife and her family. Perfectly unsurprising that my father should have returned to India to conduct some mysterious business and be waylaid, unable to keep in touch. Perfectly acceptable that my mother should slip into this new life with an ease that made a mockery of her ease with her previous life.

  Tembe dropped me off after school and as I opened the gate I saw my mother walking on the road towards me, Danny on her hip, and propped up against the fence, Jonah’s bicycle. My mother walked past it, without noticing, drew up to me smiling, her hair tousled from the breeze and held loosely by a band.

  ‘How was school, mol?’ And without waiting for an answer, bumping Danny up and down – ‘He’s walking so much now!’ – she gestured further behind her. ‘It’s such a nice area, and we found a small park for Danny to run around in.’ Then, pulling one of my plaits, she said, ‘We’ll go one evening with you.’