At first, all I could do was to stare at the door after it banged shut. Then I let out such a cry of anguish that Bella must have heard me from outside.
‘What happened?’ Bella calls, panic in her voice as she runs in. She tugs at the sheet covering my head. ‘Did you fall?’
‘No,’ I manage, turning reluctantly from where I’d buried my face in the pillow. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Your friend has gone?’
Yes, I nod, trying not to start crying again. Bella takes my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You know, sometimes it’s good to cry. Let it all come out.’
And for several more minutes this is all that passes between us, me sobbing and she squeezing my hand. And then Bella tells me that God loves me, which almost sets me off again.
‘I think it makes a difference to believe in God,’ she says, ‘because the people who don’t trust God, when those people are getting old it’s more difficult because they get angry. Everything is bothering them and they don’t understand the rest of the people.’
I nod, reminded of my father, as she speaks.
‘I think,’ she says, ‘well, I was thinking of building a place in my country. You know, a place for getting old. But better than here, because in my country, in Nicaragua, you have already sunshine and good food, you have already good music and beautiful flowers and books, you know.’ She stands up now to tidy the books she has seen caught beneath my bedcovers. ‘So you must come to visit me in my country.’
‘I’d love to, Bella,’ I say, and making an effort to appear cheerful, I cautiously swing both legs out of bed.
‘And tonight you’ll go to dinner, no?’ Bella pats my hand.
‘I’ll try.’ I manage a smile. No more moping around, I tell myself. No more doubting. I mustn’t let this get me down. I must simply get myself home and have a proper sort out with the DMV, the bank, and my apartment. As we hug I’m enveloped by her sweet perfume.
‘Dulce y Cabana,’ she tells me when I ask, and I know from her smile that she knows that I know what this is. She knows that I recognize it as expensive, as having class. She’s told me that her life has not always been as hard as it is now. That once upon a time she used to live in New York, in midtown Manhattan, where she was able to afford many things, even her own maid. She’s also told me that she holds a university degree, as do her brothers and sisters, many of whom own mansions in Managua.
‘Dulce y Cabana,’ I repeat, deliberately echoing Bella’s mispronunciation. ‘Sweet shelter, how perfect.’ And then the phone rings. ‘It’s my friend,’ I whisper, covering the handset. ‘It’s Sunshine.’
‘Sunshine is good!’ she whispers back, as she waves goodbye.
I apologize to Sunshine for having shouted at her. I admit that I overreacted and that, contrary to how it might have appeared, I appreciate what she was trying to do for me. ‘Books can always be replaced,’ I say, hoping she’ll sense how difficult this is for me to acknowledge, let alone believe. But she doesn’t seem to notice. And now I’m fed up of listening to her sobbing down the phone, yet I’m still trying to be the mature and wise one because that is what I’m supposed to be at this age. I remind myself that Sunshine is still young and has her hands full with looking after the children. I’m older and ought to be wiser. I should understand that she was just careless and not deliberately trying to hurt me, not even when she suggested a conservator. But I’d told her so many fucking times, that I never wanted to be looked after by strangers. I’d told her more than once that if it ever came to that I would prefer to find a way of quietly slipping into that good night ahead of time. She knows this. And while I understand that what she said earlier was uttered in a moment of anger, I now have no faith that when the time comes she will honour my wishes. But I’m tired of crying, so after we say our goodbyes I make my way to the sink and wash my face. No point in wallowing in self-pity. What is done is done and I’ll wait until I get home to see how bad things really are. Consider the birds in the sky, I remind myself. Consider the birds in the sky.
To cheer myself up I decide to dress nicely for dinner. Thinking of my red leather jacket, I look for it in the wardrobe. ‘Red-leather-yellow-leather,’ I whisper, reminded of a childhood game. But whoever did my packing had only packed dull-looking clothing. The only colourful items are a green T-shirt and a Walt Disney sweater, neither of which belong to me. It makes me wonder if some of my own clothes might be hanging in other people’s wardrobes. I also wonder if this strange looking T-shirt and sweater might belong to people recently deceased. ‘All the more reason then, to dress with panache while I still can,’ I announce, while choosing trousers and a loose fitting blouse, neither of which flatter my figure. But once I’ve twisted my hair into bantu knots and added the lipstick, I don’t look too bad. Antonio always liked my red lipstick. Chanel was his choice. So now I’m ready. Except. One more thing. A book. This way, if I’m unlucky enough to sit next to someone crazy, then at least I’ll have something to read.
When I arrive in the dining hall, someone’s phone is ringing and because it’s a catchy ringtone, I take a few jaunty steps and sing along.
‘Ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.
Cryin’ all the time.’
When I was younger, I used to be sceptical of old people who claimed to feel ‘as good as new’ but here I am thinking exactly that. My hips are getting better and Elvis has put me in the mood for a bottle of Chablis. Now, instead of wearing nondescript trousers with a cotton blouse, I imagine I’m dressed in one of my cocktail dresses – the yellow chiffon with dotted Swiss, for example. Or better still, I’ve glided in on my white peau de soie gown, the one with gold trim at the waist and an open back. This would explain why everyone has now turned to stare. For it was Antonio’s favourite too; though it might not have been, had I confessed that the dress was an anniversary gift from Caesar. The Home’s steamy dining hall disappears, replaced by the foyer of our house in Chanakyapuri.
This was my favourite of all the ambassadorial residences with its modern design and tropical gardens that always reminded me of Lagos. I’m standing by the entrance, which is tastefully decorated with paintings and sculptures. Caesar believed in showcasing the best of Nigerian art and because he had such a good eye we were owners of works by Enwonwu and Onobrakpeya even before they became well known. This is the house where, in the early 1970s, we hosted our first head of state dinner with senior Indian ministers, business leaders, and other ambassadors. So here I am, greeting guests with a touch of my gloved hand or the offer of a cheek for those who preferred to go with kisses. ‘Good evening sir! Welcome. Welcome madame, what a delight to see you again. Ambassador, what an honour – please do come and meet our head of state.’ And all the while I’m busy casting an expert eye over the floral arrangements of orchids and bird of paradise and watching my staff weave gracefully amongst our guests balancing spicy canapés on silver trays. I make mental notes of various people I wish to introduce to others, as well as where I might reseat the lone bachelor who was invited for the sole purpose of equalling out the number of men to women around the dinner table. Rather than place him next to the banker’s wife as I’d been instructed, I now decide to seat him next to pretty Olivia, who looks thoroughly fed up with her ever-pontificating ambassador husband. And so the evening continues, as such functions did, filled with superficial chit-chat until the men retired to discuss the important things and the women were left gossiping and complaining about their servants. Then I would sneak off for a smoke in the gardens or a protracted visit to the powder room where I always kept a book of poetry. It was rare that I found myself missing the pomp and ceremony of those evenings, and yet tonight I long for just a moment of that time when I might enter a room and know that heads would turn. Know that every member of my staff would be attentive to even my smallest, most discreet request. Know that as hostess I had some power, at the very least, to request a drink. So what’s the worst that will happen if I now ask for a glass of wine? Still dancing, I make my way to an empty table, not noticing at first that people have started running. In the commotion that follows, I feel someone grab hold of my wrist. I think it’s an earthquake so I try ducking beneath a table. Then I feel someone lift me up.
‘My walker?’ I ask. ‘You mean all of this fuss is just because I left my walker behind?’