Seven

I have no place to go after Rosa is sent away. Everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of her. My cubie is the worst. We spent hours together in my room, and I have embryo pictures on all of my walls. The music room isn’t much better. She used to sketch there beside me, while I practised the piano. The dining hall, the courtyard, the classroom block – they’re all the same. There isn’t an inch of campus that we didn’t share. Even sick bay. Especially sick bay. On my first day without Rosa, I go to the school nurse with a headache. Only I can’t stay. Being in the infirmary makes me feel worse.

Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t I see? I keep asking myself the same questions, over and over again. Classes are over now. I’m supposed to be putting the finishing touches on my E2, and studying for final exams, but I can’t concentrate. Does Siya know? Did Rosa tell him before he left? I wish that I could talk to him. That he’d left a phone number in London, or an address, at least. Mrs. McBain says that Rosa will return to write her exams. I hope so. I hope that she listens to her parents. I don’t think that they’ll really give her a choice. She’s not ready to have a child. She’s still a child herself.

Most of my essay is written. All that’s left for me to write is the conclusion. One or two pages. Three, at the most. I want to wrap up the paper with a discussion of folk music and pysanky, to connect my title page to the rest of the essay. I’ve placed a photograph of my Forty Triangles egg on the title page – but unless I explain it, the picture won’t make sense; the person who is reading my essay won’t understand the significance of the Easter egg.

In fact, the whole concluding section of the paper is supposed to be like a story. It’s the part of the essay where I explain my reasons for writing about Ukrainian folk music. I want to say something about my grandparents immigrating from Ukraine, and how they struggled to keep their culture alive, and what my parents have taught me about my heritage. Folk songs are an important part of it. But they’re not everything. That’s what I really want to say. Then I introduce my pysanky. Because they’re a part of it, too.

I can’t write it, though. Every time I try writing the conclusion, I get stuck. I have too much to say. It doesn’t seem like enough, talking about folk songs and pysanky. There’s more to it than that. I consider adding a paragraph or two about Ukrainian dancing, and the Ukrainian costumes that my mother made. A few sentences about embroidery, maybe, which is related to costumes. Still, I feel as though something is missing. Food? I could write ten pages on Ukrainian food if I wanted to, and another ten on what it’s like to sit through an Orthodox church service. Then I’d need to explain that my family hardly ever goes to church, except for weddings and funerals, and why.

The problem is that, if I’m not careful, my conclusion will turn into a separate essay altogether. At some point, I’d like to mention Sister Maria and the Ukrainian music that she worked on. How she came to St. Paul after the war, why she left Europe. I can’t discuss my Ukrainian heritage without talking about her because she’s a part of it, too, even though she wasn’t interested in folk songs. I’m just not sure how much I should say about her, how far back I should go. Someone could write a book about Sister Maria. Where do I begin?

Or maybe I should drop the story conclusion – drop the pysanky altogether – and just write a regular conclusion to my essay, focused on the music and nothing else.

But Rosa was crazy about the pysanky. I have to include the pysanky in my essay. They were her idea, after all. She thought that my essay wouldn’t be complete without them, and she’ll be crushed if I leave them out. I just wish that I’d told her more before she left, that we’d talked more about being Ukrainian. It would have helped me figure out my conclusion. We could have sorted out what I should and shouldn’t say.

I wish that Rosa had talked to me about Siya, too, before she was sent away. I wish that she’d told me about her pregnancy. We could have come up with a solution, together; a way to hide it until the end of the school year. I could have talked to Mrs. McBain, tried to reason with her. Sitting at my desk, staring at my Extended Essay, I run through a dozen different scenarios. Siya and I could have approached one of the doctors at the hospital. We could have taken Rosa to the hospital in Malkerns, or the clinic near Manzini. I could have talked to her about her options, Siya would have lent her money. I wish that Rosa had talked to me months ago. Birth control pills are sold over the counter in Swaziland. You don’t need a prescription. Rosa knew it. Why didn’t she use them?

After a week has passed, and I still haven’t settled on an ending to my essay, I set it aside. I set my books aside, too, since I haven’t gotten much studying done either. Then I take a pad of paper and a pen to Rosa’s old cubie, and I sit at her old desk to write her a letter. I tell her that I need her here. That I miss her, and that I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend.

But everything will be all right, I write. Just come home.

Come home soon.

•••

A week before final exams begin, Mrs. McBain asks me over to her house again.

I’d like to believe that she’s concerned about me. That she’s worried about how my studying has been going since she sent Rosa away. But I know that Mrs. McBain has another reason for seeing me. Our Extended Essays were due yesterday. All senior students were supposed to hand in their papers to their supervising teachers. Mine isn’t finished.

With classes over, Mrs. McBain and I haven’t seen much of each other. I try to avoid her as much as possible, and she hasn’t exactly gone out of her way to check up on me. A few times, when she’s been on duty, she’s asked if my studying is going well. I’ve nodded, politely. Otherwise, we’ve hardly spoken.

As I make my way through Mrs. McBain’s garden, I run through the little speech that I’ve prepared for her. A speech that’s long overdue. I think back to the way that she blacklisted me for being friends with Rosa, and how she tried to tell me how to write my Extended Essay. The way she forced me to sing at the Rotary Club luncheon in Katja’s costume, and then sent Rosa away behind my back. I haven’t forgotten any of it, and I won’t. While I’ve been at Waterford, Mrs. McBain has been nothing but heartless and mean, trying to control me. Always telling me what to do. I’m going to give her a piece of my mind once and for all. I have nothing to lose. My essay is almost finished. I’ll show her everything that I’ve written, all seventy pages, and then I’ll explain that I’m waiting for Rosa to return before I write my conclusion. It’s Mrs. McBain’s fault that the essay isn’t complete. I just can’t finish it while Rosa is away.

Once I’ve submitted my E2, and written my final exams, I’ll never have to deal with Mrs. McBain again. I can’t wait. I’m sad about leaving Swaziland, but I’m looking forward to getting away from her. And backpacking in South Africa with Rosa. Any day now, Rosa should be back. I’m counting on her to go through with our plans. I’ll convince her, if I have to. The trip will do her good. We’ll have lots of time together to talk about what’s happened, and I’ll give her plenty of time alone to sketch. Drawing will help her heal. Like the children at the hospital.

When I arrive at Mrs. McBain’s house, she and her husband are in the kitchen, setting out a pitcher of iced tea, two glasses, a plate of chocolate cupcakes. Mr. McBain says a quick hello, then disappears. As Mrs. McBain pours me a glass of iced tea, she offers me a cupcake. I sit, but I don’t touch the glass in front of me. I don’t take a cupcake.

“This must be a difficult time for you, Colleen.”

I say nothing, keeping my eyes on the floor.

“It’s difficult for all of us,” she says, shifting in her chair. “The end of the year. It’s a terrible time. And I am sorry that we needed to send Rosalind away. I know that you two were very close.”

When Mrs. McBain mentions Rosa, I look up from the floor, to glare at her across the kitchen table. Then I stare down at the floor again.

“I suppose you want to talk about my essay.”

“Partly. Yes, partly. I haven’t received it yet. But I understand that you’re having some trouble finishing it. I understand that you’ve chosen not to write an original composition after all.”

I raise my eyes. “Katja?”

Mrs. McBain nods.

Now I’m not sure how to proceed with my speech. Katja has already told her about my Extended Essay. I should never have confided in her.

“You should know, Colleen, that you are far and away the most talented student I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching. I shall miss you.”

I look up again, briefly. Long enough to see that there are tears welling up in Mrs. McBain’s eyes.

“You have always done excellent work. First-rate work. And I’m sure that your Extended Essay is no exception. You can hand it to me when you’ve finished it. There’s no rush. I know that Rosalind’s situation has been hard on you. Perhaps I haven’t been as supportive as I could have been.”

I’m speechless. I wasn’t expecting this.

“I’m sorry,” says Mrs. McBain, touching my arm.

How can I tell her off now?

“Actually, I didn’t really call you here to talk about your essay. I called you here to talk about Rosalind.”

Mrs. McBain gets up from the table, then moves toward the kitchen counter, leaning against it as though she needs something to hold her up.

“There is no easy way to tell you this, and I wanted to avoid upsetting you before the exam period. But I know that you’re anxious for news about her.”

“You’ve heard from Rosa? How is she?”

“Colleen,” she says, sitting down again, “I’m afraid that Rosalind won’t be coming back.”

“What do you mean? She’s not going to write her exams?”

From the drawer in her desk beside the kitchen counter, Mrs. McBain pulls out a small, cream-coloured envelope. She presses it into my hand. “I think you should have this.”

“What is it? A letter from Rosa?”

So far, I’ve sent three letters to Rosa in Zambia. She hasn’t answered any of them.

“Read it,” says Mrs. McBain, sighing. “Please.”

I open the envelope, unfold the sheet of paper inside. It’s a letter, handwritten on fancy, gold-embossed letterhead. The name on the letterhead is Florence Richardson, m.d. I scan the contents of the letter quickly once, then I scan it again. And then I read it a third time, slowly, carefully, from start to finish, pausing on every word. It doesn’t take long. The letter is just a short note, really. To the point.

When I’ve finished, I refold the letter. I push it across the table.

“This must be a joke.”

“No. It’s not a joke.”

The letter says that they found her shortly after she arrived home, and that she was laid to rest in a cemetery in Lusaka. In time, the Richardsons intend to establish a scholarship at Waterford in her memory, for art students.

I get up from the table, numb. Mrs. McBain tells me to take some time before I go. She follows me to the door, asking me to stay awhile and talk with her. I keep walking. She calls out for me to stop, to come back. But I walk straight out the door of her house, and through her garden, and across the playing field toward the hostel.

When I reach the hostel doors, though, I turn. I don’t want to see the other girls, don’t want to walk past Rosa’s old cubie, don’t want to go back to my room. Her embryos are still up on my walls.

So I head out along the path beside the senior hostel, past the college water reservoir that’s still low with the dry weather, and deep into the hills behind the school, where Rosa liked to walk. From here, high above the college, the world looks different. The buildings are like doll’s houses. Miniature paths, miniature trees, all neat and orderly, everything in its place.

I know, of course, that I can’t sit here forever, rocking back and forth with my knees pressed to my chest. Eventually, I have to come down from the hill. Sooner or later, I have to go back to my cubie and face Rosa’s drawings. Not just her drawings. The photos of her that I’ve taken over the past year, the stone carvings that we bought at the market downtown. All of the ticket stubs that I saved from movies we watched at the theatre in Mbabane, and the brochures from the universities in South Africa that we were thinking about applying to.

When I get back to the hostel, I’ll have to contact Siya, too. Rosa’s mother requested that we let him – the father – know. But he won’t be back from Europe for another month, so I’ll have to write him a letter, and send it to the ministry in Mbabane. Poor Siya. At least if I could tell him in person.

As the sun begins to set, I start to wipe my eyes, start making my way down the hill.

On the path that leads down to the hostel, beside the sign at the border of the campus – the sign that separates Waterford from the rest of the hill – I stop for a few minutes to catch my breath. I’ve never paid much attention to the sign. It was painted by a group of students in one of the lower forms. You are now leaving Waterford Kamhlaba United World College of Southern Africa, it says, in letters that are slightly crooked, slightly uphill on the plywood sheet.

At the bottom of the sign, in the lower right-hand corner, there’s a painting of the college mascot, the phoenix, in black and white. Half-hawk, half-angel, it’s engulfed in fire, stretching its enormous wings upward to escape the flames. I like the painting. I think it’s good. It has imagination.

Though Rosa, I’m sure, would disagree.

Rosa would find all kinds of flaws in the students’ drawing. Real talons don’t curl like that. Put those wings on a real bird and he’d topple over in an instant, never take flight. She’d redraw the phoenix, turning the flames into a fiery womb, and transforming the phoenix into a baby bird with tight wings wrapped around its body to protect it from the fire. In fact, she’d redraw it and redraw it until there was no fire around the phoenix at all, just glowing red coals. Until it wasn’t even a baby bird anymore. She’d redraw it until it became a tiny fetus – an embryo with wings in a warm little incubator, but an embryo nonetheless.

An embryo like all the rest.

•••

The call comes after I return from my walk in the hills behind the senior hostel. Shelagh comes to my cubie to get me. She says that Katja sent her to find me. Katja picked up the phone when it rang. I should run to the common room. It’s long distance, and important. The person on the other end of the line says that it’s urgent.

For a split second, I think that it must be Rosa. Then I shake my head. It can’t be her. She’s gone.

“It’s a man,” says Shelagh. She overhead Katja saying “sir” on the phone.

Then it’s Siya. I take a deep breath as I pick up the phone. I have to tell him about Rosa, and I’m not sure how.

After Katja passes the phone to me, she stays in the common room. Not right next to me, but close by. She and Shelagh whisper quietly as I press the receiver to my ear.

“Hello? Siya?”

It’s not Siya.

It’s my dad. Why is he calling me?

“Is everything okay?” I ask, my heart in my throat. Katja and Shelagh glance over at me.

“Well,” says Dad. “That’s why we’re calling.”

He pauses.

“You know we don’t want to give you bad news on the phone. But we – well.”

Mom cuts in on the extension. “We don’t really have a choice.”

“Mom?” says Dad. “Do you want to tell her?”

“No, no, Dad,” she says. “You go ahead.” Her voice sounds far away.

I should ask what’s going on, but I can’t speak. Someone is sick. Or dying. There’s been an accident. A death? I should ask who – Sophie or Wes.

“Sophie’s fine,” says Dad, as though he’s read my mind. “Sophie’s just fine. Wes, too. They’re fine.”

“What is it then? Is it you, Dad? Mom? Are you okay?”

“It’s your cousin Kalyna,” says Dad. “Mary and Andy’s girl.”

What’s wrong with Kalyna?

Dad clears his throat. “They found her this morning on the outskirts of Vegreville. Just south of the pysanka.”

Mom interrupts. “The big pysanka in Vegreville.”

As if I don’t know the pysanka that they’re talking about.

“What do you mean found her? Who’s they? Who found her?”

“The police,” says Dad. “They think she must have wandered away from the house sometime last night. Mary didn’t even know she was gone. You know Kalyna. She was always disappearing.”

“What do you mean – was? Is she – are you saying that she’s –”

Dad sighs. Mom is sniffling.

“Colleen,” says Dad, “Kalyna didn’t take a coat with her. God knows what she was thinking. God knows if she thinks – if she thought – at all. We’re having a cold winter. Colder than usual. It’s been getting down to minus fifteen, minus twenty at night. She must’ve gotten lost and disoriented, then hypothermia set in. She just curled up on the ground and went to sleep.”

I can hear Mom blowing her nose in the background before she hangs up the extension. Dad covers the receiver for a moment and there are muffled sounds, muffled voices.

While Dad tells me about the funeral arrangements, I see Kalyna sitting beside me on the piano bench in our living room, her head bobbing up and down, side to side, in perfect time with the music, and I see her in Dauphin, singing along as Corey plays his tsymbaly. She’s crossing herself in the Szypenitz church while Father Zubritsky chants, and chasing after me in the Edmonton airport with her silly lei, to wish me a Bon Voyage. To say Aloha. I don’t want to think about her dying alone. Shivering in a snowbank next to the giant pysanka, without a coat or blanket. I want to remember her like she was when she stayed with us. When Sister Maria held Kalyna in her arms, and rocked her to sleep.

I should be used to the feeling that washes over me. The nausea, the dizziness. I’ve been through it before, when Sister Maria died. I felt it earlier today, when Mrs. McBain told me that Rosa isn’t coming back. After I’ve hung up the phone, Shelagh and Katja come up beside me, to walk me back to my cubie. I think they know that I’ve had some bad news because they put their arms around me as we make our way to my room. Maybe they’ve heard about Rosa, too. But they don’t say a word, and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk.

What I want is to go to sleep, and then wake up to discover that Kalyna isn’t gone. That Rosa is back in her cubie. That this whole day was just a bad dream.

But I can’t sleep. It’s still sweltering outside. We haven’t had rain in months, and my cubie is like an oven. I think somehow that rain would make me feel better. It would make everything come to life again, in green and red and gold, and it would cool the air, and wash away the dust.

The rain would wash away my tears, too. Bathe the salt from my cheeks. Carry me far from here on a giant, gentle wave, all the way home.

•••

The next flight from Manzini to Johannesburg leaves in the morning. If all goes well, I’ll get on a plane to London at noon, then catch a direct flight from London to Edmonton. In two days, I should be back in St. Paul, in time for Kalyna’s funeral.

Mrs. McBain says that, under the circumstances, the college can waive my final exam requirements. My grades over the past year have been excellent. They speak strongly enough for my academic performance. She’d like to have a copy of my Extended Essay before I leave, but I don’t need to sit my exams.

I have Mrs. McBain to thank for arranging my last-minute flight. Mrs. McBain and Katja. After I spoke to Mom and Dad on the phone, Katja went straight to Mrs. McBain’s house to tell her that I’d received some bad news. Then the two of them showed up at my cubie door, and sat on my bed with me, smoothing my hair while I cried, passing me fresh Kleenex.

For a while, I couldn’t talk, and they didn’t ask about the news from home. Eventually, though, I calmed down enough to explain. To tell them about my cousin Kalyna. Not just about her death, but about her life. I told them everything. How Kalyna used to be normal, and how she changed after her nervous breakdown. About the year she spent living in our house, all the hours I spent with her at the piano. Mrs. McBain and Katja nodded as they listened, taking turns rubbing my back. Katja held my hand the whole time, tightly, like she was never going to let go. And the words poured out of me. I was like a dam that had suddenly burst.

I told them about Sister Maria, hiccuping as I described the way she played the piano, and the numbers on her arm. I told them about the day that Sister Maria met Kalyna. The way she soothed my cousin by speaking to her in Ukrainian. And I told them about Sister Maria’s funeral. How much I miss her. How I think about her every time I play the piano, every time I hear a piece of music. When I wake up in the morning, and before I go to sleep at night.

It never occurred to me that I could make it home for Kalyna’s funeral. Mom and Dad didn’t even ask. But Katja said that I should try, and Mrs. McBain drove me down the hill late in the afternoon, to her travel agent in Mbabane, to inquire about changing my ticket. It all happened so quickly, I hardly had time to take in what was happening. When we got back to campus, Mrs. McBain walked me back to the senior hostel. She left me with Katja while she went to see the headmaster about my final exams.

So I’m going home tomorrow. Just like that, I’m leaving Africa. I don’t know how I’ll get all my things packed in time.

One by one, though, the other scholarship girls appear at my cubie door, along with Thandiwe. They offer to help me take down my posters, fold my clothes. There isn’t room for all of us in my room, so Katja sends them away with armloads of my belongings. She takes charge. Shelagh and Nikola are to wrap my knickknacks in newspaper, all the stone carvings I picked up in the market, and the Swazi candles. Maria will put all of my books in boxes, which they’ll mail to St. Paul after I’ve left. Hannah and Thandiwe are going to fill my hockey bags with clothes and shoes, bedding and camping gear. Whatever doesn’t fit, they’ll send by post.

Katja stays with me in my cubie. She says that she’ll help me take down my posters, all of my photographs from home. The embryo drawings that Rosa gave me over the past few months. I tacked up her pictures everywhere – over my desk, above my bed, around my window.

We work in silence for a few minutes, our backs to one another. I lean over the desk, Katja kneels at my bed. Since Rosa was sent away, we’ve come to a kind of truce – though we’ve never actually discussed it. I’m not sure if this is the right time to talk to Katja about what’s happened between us. I don’t know if this is the right place. But I’m leaving tomorrow. I might not have another chance.

I speak slowly, and softly. “This means a lot to me. Everything you’ve done to help me. I don’t know how to thank you.”

I look over my shoulder at Katja. She keeps working, keeps her back to me.

“I wish we’d gotten off to a better start,” I say, “at the beginning of the year. I wish things had been different.”

Gradually, I work my way around my cubie, pulling down pictures as I go. Rosa’s red and green Christmas embryo, surrounded by holly. Her cartoon drawing of a fluffy Easter embryo – a cross between a baby duck and a baby bunny – inside an Easter egg, popping its chubby cheeks out of a crack in the shell. She won’t have another Christmas, or another Easter.

“You were right,” I explain, “Ukrainians did a lot of terrible, awful things – during the war, before and after the war. They did kill people. They murdered Poles and Jews. I’ve known that for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it to you.”

I’m shoulder to shoulder with Katja now. Both of us are kneeling on my bed, staring at the same wall as we take down the last of Rosa’s pictures – a series of charcoal sketches, black on white. Embryos with blank expressions on their faces. Empty eye sockets. Of all the embryos Rosa gave me, these are my least favourite. I don’t know if they’re supposed to be young or old, male or female. They look half-finished to me, only half-formed. I’ve never understood them.

“I have nothing against Polish people. Really. I never have. I can’t even remember anymore why I got so defensive with you, why it was so important that I prove you wrong. I’m sorry. If I could take it back – that piece of paper I gave you – I would.”

We’ve finished with the pictures. My cubie is bare again. But Katja keeps her eyes on the wall in front of us, the wall beside my bed, while she reaches into her pocket.

She pulls out the notes that I made for her, from Ukraine: A History. The pages are dog-eared and covered in creases. They’ve been folded and refolded a dozen different ways.

“I’ve carried this around with me all year,” she says. “This history lesson. More than a history lesson. It reminds me of how stubborn I can be, even when I’m wrong. History isn’t so simple. I wanted to tell you. I stood outside your room many times. I tried to knock. I just couldn’t. Then Rosa was sent away. It was my chance to show you what I couldn’t say.”

Katja turns to face me. She still can’t say it. But I don’t care. I’ll say it for her.

“That we can be friends.”

Katja nods.

Shelagh and Nikola appear at the doorway of my cubie, wondering if I have more knick-knacks that need to be wrapped. I pick up two carved wooden masks from the bottom of my closet, and the tiny figurines that I bought at Ngwenya Glass – a hippo, an elephant, a lion, a giraffe. The masks are for Sophie. She can put them up in her apartment. I bought the figurines for Wes.

I tell the girls that I can wrap these myself. I’m finished taking down the pictures from the walls of my cubie. I explain to them that I have nothing else to do – except finish my essay.

“How much is left?” Katja asks. “How long will it take you to finish?”

“An hour, maybe two.”

I’ll write a quick conclusion. Nothing fancy. Anything to get it done.

“Then for heaven’s sake go finish,” she says. “Go down to the music room. We’ve got your cubie under control.”

I shake my head. I feel bad, leaving the girls to finish my packing. And I don’t want to face my essay.

“Imagine that Rosa is by your side, helping you.”

When the tears start spilling down my cheeks again, Katja puts her arms around me. We hug for a long, long time.

“Think about your cousin. Don’t push away your memories. Write for your old piano teacher, Sister Maria. Imagine how proud she would be to read your essay once it’s completed.”

The truth is, I’m not sure that Sister Maria would be proud. And I think that I knew it all along, deep down, the whole time I was working on my essay. Right from the start. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to write the conclusion. Sister Maria wouldn’t be proud. Far from it. She’d be downright disappointed, just like Mrs. McBain. Sister Maria would say that my essay topic isn’t challenging enough because folk songs are too simple, too easy. If she were here, if she had her way, I’d be writing about Ukrainian composers. Continuing with her work. It’s what she wanted, the reason she left me her boxes of music.

And if Kalyna were here, sitting beside me at the piano in the music room? If Rosa were at the desk next to the stereo, her sketchbook open to a fresh page? They would tell me to carry on. Kalyna would be humming “Tsyhanochka,” and clapping her hands in time with the music. Rosa would be studying my title page, coming up with theories about how pysanky are just like folk songs: timeless, never changing artforms that are passed down over the centuries, repeated perfectly by each new generation.

But folk songs do change. That’s the whole point of my essay. I don’t know who wrote the songs, or what they sounded like when they were first performed. My oldest recordings are from the 1950s, so I’m not even sure how my grandparents sang them, if they sang them at all. Instruments changed when Ukrainian immigrants came to Canada. Over the years, their children dropped words to songs, and lots of Ukrainian dance bands translated songs into English. These days, they play folk music with synthesizers, electronic accordions, and electric guitars. They add rock and roll rhythms. I’ve heard folk songs played to samba beats, with Spanish guitar in the background. I’ve heard them played with saxophones and trumpets. I’ve heard them rapped.

Pysanky have changed too. How do I know that the designs I make are authentic? Baba never taught my mom. Our family learned how to make them by looking at a book, with electric kistkas that Mom bought at the Ukrainian Bookstore in Edmonton. And Rosa didn’t even use the designs that I showed her. She drew embryos on her eggs. Of all people, she should know – she should have known – that pysanky are different each time you make them.

Flipping through my essay in the music room one last time, I finally see what my paper is missing. I’ve said everything there is to say about how Ukrainian folk music has evolved in Canada. My harmonic analyses are solid. With the recordings that I’ve collected, I make a clear case for the ways in which new instruments were introduced, and lyrics altered. But I don’t explain why the changes took place, and I don’t say whether it’s a good or a bad thing that the songs are never the same. I have to make a decision. It’s time for me to take a stand.

I just can’t stay focused on my essay. I keep thinking about flying home, about what it will be like when I step off the plane in Edmonton. According to Mom and Dad, Kalyna’s funeral is going to start early. Ten o’clock in the morning, at the Ukrainian Orthodox in Szypenitz, with Father Zubritsky presiding. My flight arrives at eight, and the drive to Szypenitz will take close to two hours. Which means that we’ll make it just in time. I won’t have much of a homecoming. A few quick hugs at the airport before we head off to the church.

The burial will follow the funeral service. Dad said that, a few years ago, Auntie Mary and Uncle Andy bought plots for themselves at Szypenitz. They prepaid all of their funeral expenses so that the family wouldn’t have to worry about money when the time came. Kalyna is going to be buried next to her dad. One day, Auntie Mary will take her place beside her husband and child.

To take my mind off the funeral, I plunk a few notes on the piano. With my right hand, I play some of the songs from my Extended Essay. Chervona rozha, the red rose. Oi u luzi chervona kalyna, in the cranberry grove. Tears drop onto the piano keys. It’s hopeless.

Poor Kalyna. The ground will be so cold. It isn’t right that she’s going to be buried in winter. Spring would be better, warmer. And I can’t believe that Father Zubritsky is going to bury her. Is he still alive? I don’t want him chanting at her grave – hospode pomylo, hospode pomylo – like a voice from the dead. Kalyna deserves a different funeral, a different farewell. Something brighter. She had enough darkness in her life.

Outside the music room doors, as I play hospode pomylo on the piano, a group of Swazi women gather to sweep out the practice rooms, dust the pianos. They’re the same women who clean the hostels and do the students’ laundry each week. When they work, they sing. I love to hear their voices. One woman always starts with a single line, then another responds, repeating the first woman’s melody an octave higher. Then everyone joins in, singing in perfect, four-part harmony. Kalyna should have music like this at her funeral. Music that makes you want to dance and laugh. Music that makes you feel good.

Not hospody pomylui, or vichnaia pam’iat.

Quickly, before the cleaning ladies finish in the practice rooms, I grab some of the manuscript paper that Mrs. McBain keeps in the piano bench. Then I transcribe parts of the song that they’re singing. It doesn’t take long. I’m good at melodic dictation, we’ve been working on it all year. And it doesn’t matter if I can’t understand their words.

Because I’m going to change them.

I’m going to replace the African words with Father Zubritsky’s words.

In fact, I’m going to change the melody of their song, too. I’ll keep the basic, four-note motif, but I’ll add on to it with parts of folk songs from my Extended Essay and the first few bars of Vichnaia Pam’iat. So that the new song – my song for Kalyna – will sound partly African and partly Ukrainian, with some Ukrainian words, and some English words. All of the minor chords from the Ukrainian music will have to go. I want it to be a song of celebration, not mourning. With an upbeat tempo.

I know that Father Zubritsky will never allow me to sing my song at Kalyna’s funeral. But, then, I couldn’t sing it anyway. The performance of the piece will require two voices, at least. Preferably four. Ideally, a whole choir of singers.

What matters is that I write it.

For now, I’ll call it “Kalyna’s Song,” though I’m not writing it just for her. I’m writing it for Rosa, too, and for Sister Maria, and for me. When I’ve finished, I’ll make it the conclusion to my essay. I can’t think of a better way to complete it. Mrs. McBain will be pleased.

At dinnertime, I’m still writing. The cleaning ladies left the music wing an hour ago, but I still hear their voices in my head. I hear them singing my composition. Lifting it off the page, bringing it to life. And it’s beautiful. Their voices give me shivers.

When Thandiwe comes to find me later in the evening – sent by Katja, to see how I’m doing – the song is almost finished. I want it to end the same way that it begins, with one voice singing a single melody line, a simple phrase – the original four-note motif. I think, though, that the final words should be different from any of the words in the rest of the song.

While I play the four notes for her, Thandiwe stands over my shoulder.

Then she glances through the sheets of manuscript paper that I’ve filled with my writing, making suggestions as she goes. Hospody pomylui. Vichnaia pam’iat. Mnohaia lita. None of them fits. They’ve all got too many syllables. And I need a new phrase, one that I haven’t used before.

Thandiwe smiles. She has an idea.

“Hamba Kahle,” she says, counting the syllables on her fingers. Ham-ba Kah-le.

I like it. It’s perfect. I’ll keep it. Why didn’t I think of it myself?

Hamba Kahle is how Swazi people say goodbye in their language.

Hamba Kahle.

Go well.