The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  ‘That’s good. And how is your mother?’ He glanced towards the house.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘I see,’ then he patted the bag he had over his shoulder. ‘I also came to collect some things for Grace.’

  ‘Grace?’

  He shook his head, was quiet for a few moments. ‘It is not right, what she did, Sissy. To just leave without telling. But she asked me to help and she has helped me so much, so I must.’ He gestured to her lodgings. ‘She wants me to bring back some things.’

  ‘Is she well, Jonah?’

  ‘I think not, Sissy,’ he said gravely. ‘Her body is well. But here,’ he placed his hand on his heart, then his head, ‘and here, not so well.’

  We were both silent, as if paying our respects to the small woman who had helped us both and who had a heart so large and strong it was easy to forget that she could feel pain and falter and ache. Then he said, ‘I will just leave this,’ gesturing to my mother’s sari. I watched as he walked into the kitchen and placed the sari in a heap on the table, then came out and moved to Grace’s annex, to open the door.

  ‘She left something under one of the beds,’ I said, following him. But I did not continue because there was an odour in the small building: two rooms, a bed with a stove to one side, a bathroom to the other side. The stench was at odds with the quaint prettiness of the room – with the pastel-coloured quilt, the floral curtains on the large windows – and it was strong. Stale, foreign, something living and dead at the same time, and I wondered if I was imagining it, if it was an extension of the images of coffins and corpses. But Jonah was opening all the windows, and had left the door wide open, as if he had taken note of it too. He moved quickly, picking objects and throwing them into the bag, collecting a pile of folded chitenges from the small trunk in the corner. I wanted to put my hand over my mouth to stop the poisonous air from entering my nostrils, entering me, but I was worried that it would appear rude, and so I stepped further into the room.

  ‘She left something,’ I repeated, and Jonah turned to look at me. And then I felt his gaze wash over me, lift my feet, so I was lying horizontal in the air, and above me was my father’s face, his features blurred as if disintegrating, staring at me, and I was saying, turn it down, turn the music down, it’s too loud, but he took one of his hands and placed it on my stomach and pressed, until it felt like his whole weight was pressing me down, to stop me from floating up into the sky. But it was not my father’s hand, I realised, that was trying to tether me to the earth. It was someone else’s.

  ‘Sissy?’

  I opened my eyes, and it was Jonah I saw, with his high wide cheekbones, and his full lips, his square jaw. His face was full of concern, which he then tried to disguise with a small smile, as I felt his fingers brush my cheek. I was lying down, but not in Grace’s annex, even though the smell was still in my nose and mouth. I was on the sofa in the living room, in the Coopers’ house, the same place I had sat with Mr Lawrence looking at maps on the table. I turned my head, no maps on the table. I heard his voice – I’m a sofa man – and then remembered his awkwardness following this remark to my mother, and how I had known that there was something I had not understood. I reached my hand to my forehead to feel a damp cloth cooling my skin.

  ‘How are you feeling, Sissy?’

  Jonah’s voice was a balm.

  ‘Funny,’ I said.

  He nodded, touched my forehead. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He waited, and I began to feel a warmth returning to my limbs and the tips of my fingers, as if I was creeping back inside myself.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘I carried you,’ he said. Then, smiling: ‘You are not heavy.’

  The thought that I had been in Jonah’s arms sent a thrill through me, borne simultaneously on a ripple of self-consciousness; since my early years, I had only ever been carried by my father. The question of whether Jonah had carried me in a fireman’s lift, like that day by the lake when my father had swooped under my mother, or like a bride over the threshold, as I had seen in the cinema, distracted me for many minutes. I looked down now at my bare legs, and noticed that fine hairs had appeared on my thighs and calves; this metamorphosis no doubt heralded, as was everything else, by my father’s departure. Jonah would have noticed the down on my legs as well, and I could feel my cheeks burning. He might have taken note of my striped T-shirt, maybe even the shape of my not-yet breasts, and I glanced down at myself again, involuntarily. My feet were crossed at the ankles, and my T-shirt and shorts were arranged neatly over my body, as if I had been laid out for inspection.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said suddenly, as if reading my mind. ‘It was only a few minutes.’

  I placed my hands on either side of me and pushed myself up to a sitting position. The cloth fell off my forehead onto my lap, and he picked it up and laid it on the coffee table.

  ‘Can you drink this?’ He held out a glass of water, and I felt his hand at the back of my head as I took a sip. I drank thirstily, and felt a little better.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I’m still thirsty.’

  ‘Shall we go to the kitchen? Can you walk?’

  ‘What was wrong in Grace’s house, Jonah?’ I was loth to use the word ‘smell’. It felt so incongruous to be associated with a woman like Grace, who was always neatly turned out.

  But he understood what I meant, because he shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ and then he added, ‘I don’t want to know, Sissy.’

  ‘Is it about Ezekiel?’

  And again, he understood my oblique reference, nodded. ‘It’s possible.’ Then, ‘It’s not easy for Grace.’

  I fell silent, and must have been silent for some time because he prodded my arm. ‘Sissy? Can you stand?’

  I pulled my knees to my chest, so I could swing my legs past him on the sofa, and got to my feet, just as he stood up himself. I felt steady and stronger, and looked up to see him smiling.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Jonah?’

  He smiled again. ‘Thank you, Sissy.’

  I learned that he took his tea strong with lots of milk and two sugars, a fact that surprised and delighted me, and that he sipped it slowly. I poured some cordial for myself. And having him near me made me feel warm and whole again; the strange telephone call and the image of my father falling down a shaft on the other side of the world was easy to push to one side. When I offered Jonah the biscuits I had arranged on a plate, he took one and ate it whole, which also delighted me, and when I pressed him to take another, he did so with the little bow he used with my mother. He asked me more about school and told me about the work he was doing, and I wanted to ask him whether he could come and meet me at the school gates one day. But I laid the palm of my hand against my cheek, my elbow on the table as my mother had done the night before, and asked him, ‘Where did you meet the lady I saw you with at the anniversary?’

  ‘Juliette?’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘Where you usually meet a cook. In the kitchens.’

  ‘And she’s your wife?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Your girlfriend then?’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t think she thinks she is my girlfriend.’

  ‘But was it her’ – I could not stop now – ‘was she with you that night I came to your house?’

  He said nothing at first, then nodded. ‘Her husband died last year. And she has a son living with her mother in the village and she misses him.’

  ‘And will you marry her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ then, ‘maybe I should ask,’ before grinning widely, briefly.

  ‘Would you marry me,’ I asked, ‘if I was older?’

  The flicker of surprise in his eyes lasted only a second and he stopped for only a fraction of a beat. ‘No question.’
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  ‘Would you really?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Without doubt.’ His face solemn, as he placed his hands in front of him on the table.

  ‘I’m being serious, Jonah.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘Sissy’ – he shook his head, smiling –

  ‘you can marry a better man than me when you are older.’

  His words hurt me, more than he could have imagined, and my eyes filled with tears, which I tried to brush away before he saw, but he did, and I saw the expression in his eyes soften. But I did not want his pity or his tenderness. The tears kept coming. My heart was aching, my throat tight with all I could not tell him: that I loved him and that I wanted him to love me back. My nose was running and my cheeks were wet, but Jonah did not reach out to comfort me, lay an arm around my shoulders. My fingers found my mother’s sari, lying on the table next to me, and I buried my face in it, to absorb my tears and muffle the sobs I was unable to hold inside. Eventually my tears subsided and then we were quiet for many minutes. I felt a total humiliation and I had no wish to look at him.

  ‘You need to study hard and finish your school first, Sissy,’ I heard him say softly, and I managed to raise my head, my heart heavy, my eyes no doubt swollen and red.

  ‘Like your mother did?’

  He smiled suddenly, his eyes widening slightly. ‘You remember?’

  ‘I thought it was a beautiful story.’

  He nodded, his eyes running over my face. ‘It is.’

  ‘Is your father lonely now?’

  He tilted his head. ‘Maybe. But he has not taken another wife.’

  ‘I think my mother is lonely,’ I said. ‘And I think I’m lonely.’

  He heard my words silently, and we sat like this, looking at each other across the table, as if we were in a café, a restaurant, enacting the rituals of romance; this comparison elicited from the future I had sketched. Then he reached towards me and I thought he would pinch my chin or tap my nose. But he hooked a finger into the neckline of my T-shirt and traced its outline, as if drawing a circle on the skin around my throat, before I felt his hand open out to clasp my neck, his thumb stroking my throat. I stared back at him, the feel of his fingers against my skin silencing me – has he ever touched you? – until he returned his hand to his mug of tea.

  He said, ‘You are not wearing your hamsa, Sissy. The Hand of Fatima that I gave you.’

  I swallowed, found my breath. ‘I lost it.’ My voice faltered as I said the words; it was not as easy to lie to Jonah as it was to my mother.

  He did not react, nor appear to believe what I said. He watched me for some time, his eyes not scanning my face as they had done before, but this time holding my eyes, and looking at me with a different gaze which made my heart stop.

  ‘Then,’ he said, raising his hands to meet at the back of his neck, and drawing them forward, the gold chain now twined between his fingers, ‘wear this until you find it. Or until I can make you another.’

  He leant forward to clasp it behind my neck, his face now near mine. His breath reminded me of rain, and his skin of trees. I could see into his shirt, his chest, his throat, and the line of his jaw. I wanted to kiss him but had no idea how to begin so I laid both my hands on his shoulders, and he smiled at me. ‘Don’t lose this one.’

  I shook my head, and then he seemed to wait, holding his position patiently, for me to have my fill of feeling his warmth beneath my fingers. I dropped my hands and he straightened up. ‘I will stay,’ he said, ‘until your mother comes.’

  And this brought me back suddenly to where we were. ‘You need to go!’ I had barked the words, and he looked surprised at my tone.

  ‘I will stay—’

  ‘No, you must go now.’

  ‘I cannot leave you when—’

  ‘Mama won’t like it, Jonah. You need to go.’

  My words fell into a silence, and my heart thudded. He tilted his head as if waiting for me to explain but I said nothing; I felt faint and strong at the same time. ‘They’ll be back soon, they phoned,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine and you mustn’t be here.’

  ‘Sissy—’

  ‘Please, Jonah. Mama will be really cross.’

  He gazed at me solemnly.

  ‘She found my hamsa,’ I whispered.

  He said nothing, only continued to hold my eyes. And I told her I loved you because I love you, Jonah – but, of course, these words only stayed in my heart.

  ‘And she doesn’t think you should be my friend.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘She said,’ I hesitated, ‘that grown men don’t make friends with young girls.’

  His teeth flashed in a sudden grin, before he became serious in the same instant, and nodded. He did not look angered by what I had said, or even offended. He seemed to be mulling over something, and I wondered whether this expression was an attempt to hide a deep hurt he might have felt at my mother’s words.

  ‘That is true,’ he said suddenly. ‘Your mother is correct, Sissy, and you should obey her.’

  ‘She doesn’t understand . . .’

  ‘You must obey your mother, Sissy,’ he repeated, and he stood up, as if to show me that he was convinced himself by my mother’s directive. ‘I will leave,’ he said, ‘because I don’t want to make trouble for you.’ And I remembered he had said the same words to my mother, that night he had brought me back, when I had leant against his chest on his bicycle. ‘But you have a fever, Sissy. You must tell your mother. Will you do that?’

  I went to the door, but when we saw the wind whipping up the dust and the trees leaning sideways as if in prayer, he turned and said, ‘Stay inside, Sissy. And be well.’ And then he was gone, the bag bumping against his back as he jogged to the front of the house. I ran to my bedroom window and just caught sight of his bicycle disappearing at the end of the road. I stayed there for a few more minutes until the blue car swung into the driveway, my mother next to Mr Cooper and, just visible, my brother on her lap.

  22

  I HAD forgotten to take the soup out to defrost, but my mother did not scold me; her sari lay in a crumpled heap on the table, but she did not seem to notice. She was bright-eyed, her cheeks somewhat flushed. She looked eager yet restless, as if released from her worries over Danny. My brother went down to sleep in a docile fashion, sucking his thumb greedily, and over the soup Mr Cooper mumbled about the storm coming, but neither adult spoke much. In fact, they seemed to be avoiding each other’s eyes as if they were suddenly ill at ease in each other’s presence. Now I worried that they had had an argument earlier in the day. Perhaps Mr Cooper’s goodwill was being depleted, we were an extra burden. But I was tired, too tired to speculate on these matters, and too tired to tell my mother about the strange episode of the film music that had emanated from the phone line.

  When I undressed in my room for my bath, I looked at myself in the small mirror propped up on the chest of drawers. The gold necklace, the exquisite tiny hand, blended with the tones of my skin, whereas against Jonah’s it had stood out in contrast, like a filigree. I fingered the hand, let it nestle where it reached, against my diaphragm, the chain forming a V between my two not-yet breasts. It was beautiful. But if I was wearing it, then what protection did Jonah have? This pendant did not belong to me: I had one, carved for me, with that exact purpose, in the room where my mother slept. I knew then that I would disobey her. If I waited a few days, she might well forget its existence and not notice its absence. And where she had kept it was not a place that she was likely to be checking frequently. She had chosen it precisely so she could forget about it. If I reclaimed my pendant then I could return the gold chain to Jonah. I looked in the mirror. I raised my hands to the back of my neck and imitated his actions. I would unclasp it as he had done, lean forward and place it around his neck. And I would kiss him then, I knew.

  I had never seen anyone kiss on the lips. The films we watched in India avoided the act with elaborately contrived scenarios; there was much cheek-to-cheek pressing bu
t no mouth-to-mouth contact. The British and American television programmes and films which constituted the diet here in Zambia were similarly censored, with sudden leaps and bounds in the plot so the protagonists would be on the beach one minute staring into each other’s eyes and then in a car the next minute, hurtling through a tunnel. My father had kissed my mother’s cheek often, snuggled his face into her hair and neck, but I had never seen them touch their lips to each other. I could only thus assume that, despite knowing that those muffled sounds I used to hear were evidence that they made love, they must have done so without kissing. Mrs Cooper had once greeted Mr Cooper at the door when he had arrived from work, and he had made a sound of appreciation, as if he was tasting something delicious, before asking: does this mean I’m in your good books again? Don’t count your chickens, Sam, Mrs Cooper had said, and he had replied, I wouldn’t dare, Cin, I wouldn’t dare. And then there had been a sucking sound not dissimilar to when Danny plugged in his thumb. But I had not seen anything, only Mrs Cooper’s back, with Mr Cooper’s hand sliding around to her hip. The closest, I realised, I had come to seeing a kiss was when Jonah had leant close to the young cook, Juliette, his body pinning her into place, her face upturned to his, poised at the ready. He had kissed the cook, I was sure, when Danny and I had removed ourselves, and while I knew I was no match for a woman of her experience, I hoped I would not fare very badly.

  Now, I bent forward and pressed my lips to the surface of the chest of drawers, the cool wood reminding me of how Jonah smelled as fresh and natural as a tree. The girls at school had mentioned closing eyes and tongues, but how to orchestrate all these effects in one practised move was beyond me. I heard my mother returning from the bathroom, calling out – your turn, mol – and I straightened up guiltily. I spent my bathtime plotting about not only when I would retrieve my rightful possession – my pendant – but when I would present Jonah with his, sealing my thanks with a kiss on his mouth.

  I slipped into bed, opened my book and there was a knock on the door. My mother came inside and sat down on the covers beside me.