Baking Cakes in Kigali (25 page)

“No. I didn’t know her then. We’ve only been married a short while. If she had known me then, she would never have married me. I was a mess. And if she knew what I’d seen she’d never have let me come back here. Absolutely not. She would have worried too much about me.”

Angel was quiet for a moment. She wanted to say that it was important to tell the truth, but then she remembered her
own lies, the ones for which she had been asking forgiveness just moments earlier. Then she thought of her daughter, who had concealed from her the truth that her marriage was over, leaving Angel to discover by accident from the household help over the phone that
Baba-Faith
had not lived there for months, and she thought about what other truths Vinas may have concealed, and about what Thérèse had said about a lie holding love in its heart. Then she thought about the testimony that witnesses might give about Leocadie’s mother in the prison in Cyangugu, and about Odile, and what she might have witnessed and experienced. And then she did not want to think anymore.

“Sometimes,” she said with a sigh, “life can be too complicated. But, Kwame, you must come to this special wedding that I’m organising. I’ll be sure to give you an invitation. Perhaps what you’ll witness there will help your own wound to heal.”

“I hope so, Angel.”

A loud hoot sounded on the other side of the gate. Pius was on his way back from church with the red microbus full of happy and excited children, and it was time to go home. On the way, Jenna was more animated than Angel had ever seen her.

“Oh, Angel, thank you so much!” she kept declaring. “Akosua’s helped me to see where I’ve been going wrong with my literacy class, and how to put it right. And it’s great to know that I’ve been doing at least
some
things right!”

“Jenna, you need to calm down,” Angel warned. “Remember that when you get home, you need to look like somebody who has been talking to God. You need to look like you have peace in your heart.”

AFTER
a satisfying lunch of spicy beans cooked with coconut and served with sweet potato and cabbage, Pius retired to
the bedroom for an afternoon nap, and Angel settled with Titi, the children and Safiya in front of the television. Ken Akimoto had recently returned from one of his trips home to America, bringing with him a new collection of films that his family had taped for him. Angel had chosen one of them that Sophie had said would be fine for the children to watch.

Less than half an hour into the film, someone knocked on the door. Not welcoming the interruption, Angel went to the door instead of simply calling for the visitor to come in. It was Linda, saying that she wanted to order a cake.

“I can see that you’re busy, though, Angel, so maybe I should come back another time.”

“No, no, Linda, I’m never too busy for business. But we can’t talk in here. Would you like to go out into the yard?”

“Not a good idea with these sudden rain storms—and it’s probably still muddy out there from the last one. Come upstairs to mine.”

“Okay, let me just get what I need and tell my family where I’ll be, and I’ll see you up there in a minute.”

Angel gathered a Cake Order Form, her photo album, her diary and a pen, and set off up the stairs to Linda’s apartment, trying very hard not to think about what Linda might have been doing in her apartment that morning while Jenna had been out. As she ascended the final flight of stairs, she decided that it would be easier to focus instead on Bosco, and the desperate love that he had once felt for Linda; there was nothing awkward or unethical in that story to make her feel uncomfortable. In fact it was a happy story now, because Bosco had decided to love Alice instead.

She found the door open and Linda inside opening a bottle of Amstel. A sleeveless black T-shirt stretched tightly across her full breasts, ending about ten centimetres above where her short denim skirt began, and exposing a silver stud in her navel. Her long, dark hair was tied back loosely in a ponytail.

“Come in, Angel, have a seat. Would you like a beer? Not that local Primus or Mützig rubbish. They say Amstel’s illegally imported from Burundi so they’re cracking down on it. It’s really hard to get now, but somehow Leocadie still manages to find it.”

“No, thank you, Linda. I don’t drink.”

“You’re not a Muslim, are you?”

“No, I’m not a Muslim, I’m just somebody who doesn’t drink.” Angel settled herself into a familiar-looking chair.

“You don’t know what you’re missing, Angel. This place is so much easier to take when you’re not stone-cold sober all the time, believe you me! Can I make you some tea instead?”

“That would be very nice, thank you.”

Linda moved across to the far end of the living room, which served as the kitchen area, and switched on an electric kettle. Her apartment had only one bedroom, and Angel was relieved that the door to it was shut. She did not want to be faced with the sight of an unmade bed or any other evidence of the morning’s activities—sinful activities that Angel herself had made possible.

“I’ve just come from having lunch with friends at Flamingo. Have you eaten there?”

“The Chinese? No, it’s too expensive for us to eat out. We’re a family of eight.
Eight!”

“Oh, but you should go out sometime just with your husband. Leave the kids with your Titi and get him to take you to the Turtle Café one Friday night. Great live music, sexy Congolese dancing.” Linda swivelled her hips provocatively.

“
Eh
, Linda, I’m a
grandmother!”
Angel laughed. “That is not a place for people as old as Pius and me.”

Linda smiled as she poured boiling water on to a teabag. “Maybe not. But I’d go mad if I had to eat at home all the time. Milk? Sugar?”

“Yes, please. Just three sugars. But I’ve been with Pius
to functions at a few places here: Jali Club is very nice, and Baobab. And a colleague of his had a small birthday dinner at Carwash. A friend of mine has a restaurant in Remera called
Chez Françoise.
Do you know it?”

“No, I don’t. What kind of food do they serve?”

“Barbecued fish and chicken, brochettes, chips, that kind of thing. And if you want to hold a party there, Françoise can order one of my cakes for dessert.”

“Oh,” said Linda, handing Angel her mug of tea and sitting down opposite her with her bottle of beer. “Now, that sounds interesting. What kind of place is it?”

“It’s like a garden, with tables and chairs under shelters made of grass. And the cooking is done there outside as well, over a fire.”

“That sounds like just the sort of place I’m looking for. I want to throw a small party next weekend, but this flat’s too small and I don’t want to cook. I thought of asking Ken if I could use his place, but it’d be nice to go somewhere different.” Linda lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Go and have a look at
Chez Françoise
and see if you like it. Bosco knows the place; he can take you there.”

“Bosco? Who’s Bosco?”

Eh!
thought Angel, and she knew at once that she could never, ever tell Bosco that Linda did not know who he was. Aloud she said, “Bosco is Ken’s driver.”

“Oh, right. But I’ve got my own car, I’ll just get some directions from you.”

“Okay.” Angel took a sip of her tea, the second time she had had to drink English tea that day. At least she had had a good cup of properly-made tea when her family had got home that morning. “Is it a party for your birthday, Linda?”

“God, no, it’s a much more important celebration than that. I just heard yesterday that my divorce is now final.”

Linda raised her bottle in the gesture of a toast and took a large gulp of beer.

Angel did not know what to say.
Wazungu
these days did not take their marriages seriously. Divorce meant that you had failed in your marriage, and to fail was never a good thing. How could failure be a reason for celebration? Really, it should be a reason for shame.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Angel. My marriage was a bloody disaster. Mum and Dad bullied me into it. They wanted their daughter to marry a nice conservative career diplomat, the son of their nice conservative friends. Trouble was, he was as boring as hell, so I rebelled and got involved in human rights work, which of course was an embarrassment to his precious career.”

Angel wondered if Linda’s human rights work could not also be an embarrassment to the CIA. But perhaps it did not matter if they were not actually married. Certainly Jenna’s work as a literacy teacher could not embarrass him—although of course it would embarrass him if his bosses ever discovered that one of their agents was not able even to detect a covert operation that was under way in his own home.

“So, do you think that your husband is also going to celebrate this divorce?”

“God, yes. He certainly won’t be crying into his sherry, that’s for sure. Now he can find himself a wife who’ll keep her mouth shut and be totally uncontroversial, a sweet hostess for embassy functions.”

Angel thought of Mrs Margaret Wanyika, who was exactly the kind of wife that an ambassador needed: well-groomed, unfailingly polite and always in agreement with her husband and her government’s policies. She tried to imagine Mrs Wanyika wearing a tight, short T-shirt and a mini-skirt that showed off a pierced navel, sitting opposite a guest at the
ambassador’s home, smoking a cigarette and drinking beer from a bottle in the middle of the afternoon, speaking her own mind after a morning in bed with her neighbour’s husband. No, nobody would recognise her as an ambassador’s wife if she behaved like that—and Ambassador Wanyika would certainly chase her away before anybody confused her with a prostitute.

“I can see that you two were not a good match.”

“We were a bloody disaster. Thank God we recognised that before we brought kids into the world.” Linda lit another cigarette. “So this party, Angel. It’s to celebrate my escape, so I want a cake that suggests escape or freedom in some way.”

“Do you want to look through this to get some ideas?” Angel offered her photo album, but Linda waved it away.

“I’ve seen loads of your cakes at Ken’s. I’ll leave the design up to you. I’m sure you’re much more creative than I am.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it very carefully so that I don’t disappoint you. But I’ll need to know how many people will be at the party so that I know how big to make the cake, and then we can work out the cost.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Linda opened another bottle of Amstel as they filled out a Cake Order Form, and then she opened her purse and counted out the total price. Angel saw that her purse was extremely full of banknotes.

“I couldn’t be bothered with deposits, Angel. Now I know I’ve paid you and I don’t owe you anything.”

“Thank you, Linda.” Angel folded the proffered banknotes and tucked them into her brassiere. “You know, it’s interesting that you’ve told me about a divorce today, because I was planning to come and tell you about a wedding.”

“Oh? Whose wedding?”

“A wedding of two people that everybody in this compound knows.”

“Oh God, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Omar’s going to marry Eugenia? Prosper’s going to marry your Titi? Dave the Canadian is going to forgive Jeanne d’Arc and marry her?”

Linda collapsed into laughter and Angel joined her, laughing harder than she had in a long time. Her laughter forced tears from her eyes, and she had to delve into her brassiere for a tissue. It was quite a while before she was able to speak.

“No, none of those, Linda. No, Modeste is going to marry Leocadie.”

“Oh, great. Doesn’t she already have his baby?”

“Yes. Beckham. But they’re not people with family; they’re alone. So I’m going to be the mother of the wedding and I’m asking everyone in this compound and this street to help out with a contribution, because all of us are their family.”

“Of course I’ll contribute.” Linda stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her purse again. “Do we get an invitation to the wedding if we make a donation?”

“Yes, of course.” Angel could see that Linda was deciding how much to give. “You
Wazungu
who are earning dollars are able to contribute very well. It’s nothing to you, but it’s everything to people who have nothing.”

Linda reconsidered and fingered an additional note.

“And let us not forget that even now, on a Sunday afternoon, it is Modeste who is outside guarding your vehicle from thieves.”

Linda took another note from her purse.

“And Leocadie is the one who is able to find Amstel for you when it is very difficult.”

Linda took two more notes from her purse and handed the money to Angel, who tucked it into her diary to keep it separate from the cake money that was in her brassiere.

“Thank you, Linda. You’re a very generous somebody.”

————

LATER
that evening, Angel found herself seated in another of the compound’s one-bedroom apartments, this time on the top floor of Ken Akimoto’s side of the building. So far she had visited all of the people in the compound whom she already knew well, and she had collected a sizeable amount of money from them for the wedding. Sophie had given her a big brown envelope in which to keep it all so that she did not have to walk around with banknotes bulging out of her diary. But Sophie and Catherine had surprised her with their reluctance to contribute money—and their reason was not that they were volunteers with little money to give.

“How can you ask us to contribute to
bride-price
, Angel?” Catherine had asked, looking appalled. “Why should we contribute to the purchase of a woman by a man?”

“Or at least, the purchase of her womb and her labour,” Sophie had clarified.

“No, no, that’s not how it is,” Angel had hastily explained. She had forgotten about the sensitivities of
Wazungu
, especially
Wazungu
who were feminists. “I’m just saying
bride-price
because that’s what people here understand. But Modeste has no family who want to buy Leocadie for their son, and Leocadie has no family who want to sell her. This money that I’m collecting is for Leocadie and Modeste and Beckham, to pay for a nice wedding and to give them a good start as a family.”