Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun (5 page)

I remember seeing Morayo on previous occasions, walking in Cole Valley. We’d never spoken but we’d nodded to each other, black person to black person. I’d always assumed she was African American until I overheard her speaking, and then, judging from the vaguely British-sounding accent, I wondered if she too came from the Caribbean. Originally. She certainly had class, which was immediately noticeable in her mannerisms and dress. Once I saw her sitting alone in one of the neighbourhood cafes with a cup of tea, an almond croissant and a book. I imagined a waiter arriving with a plate of smoked salmon, truffles and caviar. Not that the French cafe on Cole Street had such fancy dishes, but her sitting there, so tall and poised, made anything seem possible. So what a surprise, but also a shock, to find her several months later, here in the Home looking quite ordinary in plain slacks and baggy T-shirt. There are some people in life that one just never expects to see in a place like this, doing physical therapy.
‘Reggie Bailey,’ I introduce myself, as we pass each other in the hallway.

‘Morayo Da Silva,’ she replies. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Pleasure to meet you too – Morayo, if I may?’ I would like to ask her how she’s doing. If there’s anything I can do for her. But her trainer is waiting and I’ve never liked this man who thinks he has an incredible physique when in fact he doesn’t. So I step politely around them and move on to where I will wait until my wife is ready.

I usually try to arrive at the Home in time to have breakfast with Pearl and stay for the day. I then leave after dinner, taking the bus to and from our house. It’s less expensive this way and I don’t have to worry about parking. I’m here almost every day, but I still feel guilty. The nurses tell me there’s no need. They say it’s easier sometimes when I’m not around, which I know is true, at least when Pearl is being washed, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling badly. For months I’d managed to look after her by myself and when it was just the two of us she didn’t make a fuss. I know of course that there’s no pattern to the disease, no rationality to the jagged paths it scissors through my wife’s brain, yet this doesn’t stop me wishing for logical explanations. And though on her more lucid days Pearl used to insist that I start another life without her, and just remember the good times, this wasn’t something I could ever do. If I’d been her, I wouldn’t have wanted to be left alone. And I know that if she were the sort of person to say what she really wanted, instead of always thinking first about others, she would have wanted me to stay.

I sit in the garden while they give Pearl her bath. Shortly, once it’s all done, I’ll return. She’ll be clean and have no memory of the bath. But for now I wait in the sun, on the bench, facing the main entrance. People come and go, buzzed in and out by the receptionist, who sits with her back to the outside world filing her nails and texting. All day long she’s on that phone. All day long. She’ll do well in old age, doing exactly as she’s doing now.

There’s a back entrance for deliveries, but this is the main scenic entrance for visitors and doctors. Sometimes, when watching new arrivals, I’m tempted to point out how poorly the Home is designed. I’d like to dissuade people from coming, especially if they appear mean or crotchety, for Pearl’s sake. There are enough of these sorts already and fewer of the kindly ones. I think of Morayo and wonder if she’s married. I wonder who visits her here. I’ve seen her with children. Grandchildren?

I check my watch. Quarter to ten. Now they’ll have finished with Pearl’s bath. They’ll use two white towels to dry her and then they’ll dress her and brush her hair. They’ll sit her down and dab powder onto her face, then rouge, in two slanted rectangular blocks along the cheekbones, or what used to be cheekbones where now there is more skin than bone. Then they’ll let her choose a lipstick and chuckle while they paint it on, for Pearl likes to smack her lips, making it tricky. Pearl will smile when they hold the mirror up for her to admire their work. I always tell Pearl how beautiful she looks after her bath, which is a compliment to her as much as to the nurses who smile so encouragingly while I struggle not to curse. Or cry. But for
now the sun warms my skin so I stay some extra minutes. I squeeze the tennis ball that I always bring with me. If I had three I might try juggling, but with one I only squeeze then release, squeeze then release.

Looking across at the flower beds I wonder why they didn’t build a tennis court or, at the very least, install a table-tennis table in place of all the flowers. The architects must only have thought of women when they designed retirement homes, and assumed they liked to sit and stare solemnly at gardens all day. Pearl preferred tennis to gardening, which was why our garden was always a practical one, filled with vegetables and herbs for cooking, rather than flowers. I can see Pearl now in her short pleated white skirt. I see her anticipating my serve, rocking back and forth like Billie Jean King, exaggerating to make me laugh, to distract me. I was always the better player but she was the smarter player, the smarter everything, and with tennis her strategy was to keep going until she’d exhausted me. I chuckle and shake my head.

Pearl never used to wear cosmetics – only a sliver of eyeliner on occasion, but never lipstick, nor rouge. She was beautiful without it. Often I find an occasion to wipe off the bright lipstick and rouge that the nurses like on her. It’s a strange negative intimacy, but our only one these days apart from when we’re sitting, holding hands, like one of the sad old couples featured in the Home’s glossy brochure.

I can’t pretend that I’ve never hoped Pearl might die, and not just for her sake. I dream of being held. Of being touched. Of being desired again. Of being recognized. Of not having to worry about what other people might one
day think of this, might already be thinking. I fear that one day they’ll say I must stop touching her when there’s no way of knowing if I have her consent. I’m also afraid of the day when I’ll stop wanting to touch her in this way. Afraid because that day has long since come and gone. I squeeze the tennis ball, tighter and tighter, before letting go.

The boys have gone to bed and Ashok and I return to work. This is the way it is on weekday nights in our household. Ashok sits behind his computer at the kitchen table, checking legal documents and sending emails, while I move about tidying up. Thankfully, tonight there are plenty of leftovers. Saves me from making sandwiches for the boys’ lunch. I divide the pasta equally between two Tupperware boxes and sprinkle each with Parmesan – slightly more for Zach and less for Avi, my picky one. Then I admire my creation – wholewheat fusilli speckled pink and green with pancetta and zucchini. I’m good at this and still consider turning my culinary skills into a business. But yoga is what most excites me these days even though, of all my entrepreneurial ideas, it’s the least liked by Ashok and his family. While Ashok says I can do whatever I want, I know what he’d prefer. Status matters to him, so while he’d happily boast about his Sunshine
doing a graduate degree he wouldn’t do the same for a teaching qualification. Not for yoga at least. Which is ironic given that yoga brings me closer to India, but I suppose not in the way that his high-class family desires. I reach for the box of cherry tomatoes, cut a few in half and wedge them, artistically, on top.
Snap, snap,
and there, lunch is done. Into the fridge they go with a Pink Lady apple on top of each.

‘Chocolate?’

I take the bar from Ashok, break off a square then give the rest back. His shoulders are hunched so I massage them and then nuzzle the back of his neck. Aroused, he pushes his laptop away, pulling me round for a proper kiss.

‘Don’t go,’ he pleads, his arm tightening around my waist.

‘I’m not going,’ I whisper, ‘it’s just that …’

He frowns as I wriggle free.

‘I’m trying to help Morayo with all of these papers,’ I explain as I spread them across the kitchen table. Ashok nods, but I know he’s disappointed. I wonder if I should explain that it’s not that I don’t want to make love, only that after a long day of attending to others I’m craving space. And even if it means that I continue to look after others, at least it’s my choice rather than one of my duties as a mother. But we’ve had this conversation before so I stick to Morayo. ‘Have you ever heard of the Abdul Rahim Centre for Rights to Education? I can’t find anything about it online and I’m worried because Morayo seems to have sent them quite a lot of money.’

‘Sounds like a scam to me,’ he mutters.

‘But just because we can’t find anything about it online doesn’t make it suspect, does it? I mean she is Nigerian, so perhaps it’s small and one of her relatives connected her? I must be able to find something, somewhere.’ I tap the countertop with the end of my pencil, still thinking. Maybe Ashok’s right. Maybe I’m too uptight. Maybe we just need to make love more often. Maybe I should worry less about getting up in time to take the boys to school. Let them be late sometimes. Let them eat Cheerios instead of French toast. Let them go to school with hair uncombed and teeth not brushed or flossed. But who am I kidding? Putting things in order is what I do best. It’s who I am.

When Morayo first asked me to be the executor of her will, I joked that she would outlive me. She’d always kept herself so fit with all her walking and yoga. But sure, I said, of course I’ll be your executor. So I read the will and was relieved to see that none of Morayo’s money was bequeathed to me. She’d left everything to charity. That was the way it should be, I told myself. And yet a part of me still hoped that she might leave me a little gift. It wasn’t that I needed it, but I longed for something to call my own, something I could deposit in our joint account and proudly say to Ashok, ‘Look babe!’

I find Morayo’s will in the filing cabinet and begin flipping through it as I walk back to the kitchen. There’s no mention of an Abdul Rahim Centre and no mention of anything connected to Nigeria except for where it’s written, ‘In the event of incapacitation or death, my ex-husband, Caesar Da Silva, is to be informed.’ I sit with it for some minutes,
staring absently at the front page where Morayo is listed as ‘resident of the City and County of San Francisco, California.’ Given all the other places Morayo has lived, I wonder how she must feel when she reads that line, or the line under ‘personal information’ stating that she’s single and doesn’t have children. She’s told me how much she once wanted children. I imagine that was painful.

‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough for her already?’ Ashok asks, looking up from his laptop.

‘Not compared to what she’s done for us. Think of all the stuff she’s done for the boys.’

‘I know,’ he sighs, ‘and I’m grateful, sweetie, but she must have other friends that can help, doesn’t she?’

‘Not close friends that she’d trust with her bills. Not anyone else that lives here.’

‘Then why doesn’t she get a conservator or something?’

‘A conservator, are you kidding?’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Saying what? That I should abandon her? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘You know that’s not what I’m saying.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘I’m just saying that you can’t keep doing everything for her. I know you’ve got the biggest heart Sunny, but you
just can’t do everything for everybody. That’s why you get so tired.’

‘Well if you don’t want me to be so tired then maybe you can help. Like, maybe do the laundry sometimes? Take the kids to school. Pick them up. Even just pick up your socks. That would be nice.’

Ashok closes his eyes and wearily shakes his head so that even before he says, ‘Look honey, I’m sorry you think I’m a really bad husband,’ I can guess what he’s thinking. He’s thinking,
so this is where we go from chocolate and kisses. This is what I get when I tell you to hire a cleaner; tell you to get a babysitter. Is there nothing I can suggest that makes you happy? And do you ever stop to consider what it feels like to be me? What it’s like to be the sole breadwinner in this house? To be the one person everyone relies on.

‘I never said you were a terrible husband,’ I snap, ‘you know that’s not what I was saying. I’m just saying, there’s nobody else to help Morayo. Certainly nobody who would know about her stuff in Nigeria.’

I must have told the houseboy at least a thousand times not to disturb me with telephone calls at mealtimes. And yet here he is, hovering by the table, telling me that someone called Sunshine is on the line.

‘Just take a message,’ I shout. ‘How many times must I remind you not to interrupt me when I’m eating? And especially not when I’m dining with my honourable good friend.’

‘But, sah …’ Solomon stalls.

‘What?’ I snap, glancing in annoyance at the ball of eba still held between my fingers – too cold now to swallow. This wasn’t the first time my houseboy was annoying me today. In the morning he’d been late with breakfast and his fruit salad had tasted of onions, suggesting that he hadn’t properly washed the kitchen knives. What was going
on? Had he found another job? The thought of this now disturbs me. As annoying as Solomon can sometimes be, a trustworthy houseboy is hard to come by in Lagos. So I soften my tone and tell him that unless it’s the American president, this Sunshine person can wait. What kind of name is that anyway? Sunshine!

‘Yes sah, I can take a message.’

‘Honestly,’ I sigh, shaking my head as my friend laughs at the sight of Solomon scurrying away. ‘Sometimes you really have to wonder at the intelligence of these people. Now where were we?’ And just as I’m dipping my eba into the sauce, Solomon returns.

‘Excuse me, sah, but the person it’s concerning is Mrs.’

‘Then take a message. For Mrs!’

‘But…’

‘But what?’

‘This one na for Mrs Da Silva. E no be for Madam.’

‘Oh for goodness sake!’ I struggle to release my napkin, wound too tightly around my neck. I keep tugging at it, brushing aside my friend’s attempt to assist me. The last thing I want is for him to notice my fumbling. ‘Just take the phone to the office,’ I shout at Solomon, still battling to untie my napkin while trying to hide the shaking in my right hand. Once in the office, I snatch the handset from the houseboy and order the door closed behind me. What I then hear on the other end of the phone is an American
accent from which I can only decipher a few words. I try inserting my hearing aid, but my wretched hand is shaking so violently and the damned thing screeching so loudly, that I have to abandon it and shout for the person to speak up. Finally, after the forever it takes the woman to inform me that Morayo is not in fact dead, my voice returns.

‘Who are you, calling me from America? You can’t even introduce yourself properly before you start telling me that my former wife is lying in hospital. What kind of way is that to begin a conversation? And what kind of name is “Sunshine” anyway? No, listen to me. I’m telling you, never telephone someone without introducing yourself, without explaining things properly, without putting things in context before jumping to “so-and-so had an accident”. Ehn? Are you listening? What you should have said from the beginning was that she was recovering but instead you just said “accident” and “hospital”, so what was I supposed to think? That someone is calling me all the way from America in the middle of the night to tell me that my wife, my ex-wife, is dead? Even now, I don’t even know who you are. Who are you anyway, making me shout? Are you her nurse or what?’

‘Well, Caesar, if you could just let me respond –’

‘Ambassador is my title.’

‘Ambassador, I was only calling to see if you might help. I was wondering if you knew of any of the Nigerian charities that Morayo supports, or might have supported over the years.’

‘What?’

I sit for a moment, stunned that this woman had the audacity to drop the phone on me. How dare she! And how dare she ask me about Morayo’s affairs? Was she trying to swindle me? Was this some sort of fraud? It’s been years since Morayo and I were properly in touch and yet I’d just been thinking of her, as I always do around her birthday. ‘Stupid me,’ I find myself muttering. Why hadn’t I thought to ask the woman for her number? I shouldn’t have been so rude. Just this week I’d googled Morayo to see if there was anything new and then checked to see if her textbook was still in print. I remember how proud she’d been when she first published the book, one year after completing her Masters. I’d been proud of her too, but jealous of the fact that she seemed more alive in her new-found world of academia than in the embassy life that I thought we shared. The fact that I hadn’t encouraged her was my mistake. Except that I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late. One day, out of nowhere, she announced that she was leaving. I got home from work and there she was, suitcase already packed. ‘Go then!’ I’d shouted more out of consternation than anger. For years I’d blamed her for our separation; whenever people asked why she’d left, I told them she’d had a nervous breakdown just like her mother, brought on by the death of her father. It was easier to blame her than having to examine the ways in which I’d failed her, and especially so when rumours of past affairs began to surface. Some people were even suggesting that the reason Morayo had gone to live in San Francisco was because she’d fallen in love with a woman. If this were so, then there was nothing I could have done to save our marriage. If she was born attracted to women then what difference did it make that
I’d been married before, or that I wasn’t able to give her children, or that my job had ceased to be of interest to her. It meant that her initial attraction to me must have been based on something other than love. Perhaps she saw me simply as a means to an end – as a way of living outside of Nigeria and travelling the world. But deep down I always knew that I couldn’t escape blame that easily. Whether or not any of the rumours were true, I knew that there was a time when our love for each other was real. I remember the funny way she had of laughing through her nose. The eyebrows. Mischievous. Sensuous. I remember the warmth in her hands and the cold in her feet. Those feet that used to chase mine under the sheets. More than fifteen years we’d been together, M. and I. And after we parted she never did remarry. I thought she would, but she didn’t. Feeling discomfort beneath my eyelids I squeeze my eyes shut and instinctively pat my shirt pocket looking for eye drops. I tilt my head back ready to moisten, only to be surprised. My eyes were already watering.