The first professor was becoming jealous. “Maybe this girl is dying,” he said, and he pulled me round to face him. “The Professor of——cannot be trusted. Why do you need more than one professor? Don’t I give you enough money? Don’t I give you enough loving?”
No one in Uganda has enough money, except for Asians and politicians, who spirit their money away overseas. I kissed him, and said life was very expensive, so maybe I would have to make more money. And then I was lying on the floor, and there was warm blood coming out of my mouth where I had fallen against the table. I saw he was ashamed, but it wasn’t enough, and I slapped him, hard, with my strong peasant hand.
He said, “God forgive me,” as he had once before, and pulled on his clothes very quickly, trembling, over his pock-marked shoulders and hairy pot belly.
So then I had to write my essays alone. But perhaps what he told me saved my life. I found other teachers to help with my essays, and help pay my fees, and buy me dresses. Though many were honest, some were not. But I never said ‘Yes’ to the Professor of—, and six months later, the thin girl died.
Mary is happy when this section is finished. Mary, in fact, has told a lie. It is perfectly true that her professor hit her. It’s true, as well, that he was sorry. But she was too young and afraid to hit back.
So her autobiography has made her stronger.
She looks at herself in the dressing-table mirror.
I, Mary Tendo, am becoming a writer.
33
Now Mary Tendo goes back to the smart street, with the scruffy house, with the tall white steps. She is going to get it right this time. Everything is better the second time. If she could have her life again, Omar would not leave her, she would not lose Jamie.
Climbing the stairs is like a mountain, but she hopes she is looking less like a missionary. She thought about wearing a hat, or sunglasses, so that Zakira would not recognise her, but this seems too much like a detective novel. Instead she wears plain black trousers and sweater, clothes she has bought very cheap in the market, but which make her feel like a Londoner, since everyone in London seems to wear black, with the orange coat swinging open on top. In these clothes, people treat her differently, as if she is no longer simple-minded. And she has dug up a rose-bush from the garden, which she intends to give to Zakira. The roots were a problem, but they’re neatly coiled in a plastic bag inside a smarter paper one.
Mary rings loudly but nothing stirs. Still, she is so sure she will be successful that she waits for a minute, then rings again.
This time she hears heavy feet approaching, and the door opens the length of a hand.
It’s not easy to see if it’s the same woman. “Zakira?” says Mary.
“What do you want?” The woman’s voice is very English, like the newsreaders on BBC World Service, which Mary listens to at home with Charles. As educated as Miss Henman is, or even more so, Mary thinks.
And yet, she’s thinner-faced than Mary remembers, in the half-dark of the half-open doorway. “Good morning,” Mary says, and smiles, but the woman looks at her fixedly, coolly. Mary begins to doubt herself. “You are not Zakira?” she asks, slowly.
“I hope I am,” the woman says, softly. “Could you kindly tell me who you are, now, because I can’t stand here chatting all day. I’m very pregnant, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Mary’s heart sinks with a sickening lurch. Zakira is pregnant. Has forgotten Justin. Has found another man. Mary’s mission is doomed to failure. How terrible, that Zakira is pregnant. Last time, of course, she had been clutching a plant, which must have hidden her big tummy.
“I come from Justin,” Mary continues, doubtful. “Justin has sent this flower for you,” which is not quite true, but she holds out the rose, heavy with earth in its sheath of thick paper. The woman’s eyes open wide with shock. There is a pause and then she says, mutedly, “From Justin. You had better come in,” and so Mary follows her down the stairs and in through Zakira’s white-painted front door.
Mary sees with approval that the flat is very tidy. Big expensive vases, containing no flowers. Some beautiful lamps, ornate metal and glass, which have a look of North Africa. There are many books, but they are all on bookshelves. A table with a laptop, covered in paper. Of course, Zakira is doing an MBA, the famous degrees that makes everyone rich. Mary wishes her kabito could have such luck…Justin loved this woman, and she gave him up. She looks a little older than Justin, Mary thinks. Zakira is probably too proud, too lucky. She will have her baby, and grow powerful and wealthy — but Mary cautions herself against envy.
She sits on the sofa while Zakira makes tea. She will not allow Mary to help her, but returns with two cups, and this time she smiles. But as she sees Mary without her coat, a glaze of anxiety chills her expression and her eyes become sharper, assessing her.
“How do you know Justin?” she asks, abruptly.
“I care for him,” says Mary, smiling, and Zakira’s mouth contracts with dislike.
“So did I,” she says, and half audibly, “What a waste of time that turned out to be.”
Mary is puzzled and starts again. “I am in England working for Justin’s mother.”
“His mother!” says Zakira. “His mother is a bitch.”
Mary cannot help laughing, and puts down her tea, in order not to spill it on Zakira’s sofa. Then she covers her mouth, and becomes very grave. Obviously Zakira is not interested in Justin. No wonder, since she is pregnant by another man.
“I am sorry,” Mary says, and stands up again. “I think I have come here by mistake. When do you expect your baby?”
“Christmas,” says Zakira. Mary’s struck with sadness: how lucky to have a Christmas baby. How different it would be if the baby were Justin’s. There is a long pause. Zakira, watching her, sees something sympathetic in Mary’s expression, because she suddenly says, “Have you got children?”
“Two,” says Mary, without thinking. And then realises she is thinking of Justin. “One,” she corrects herself. “His name is Jamil. He had to go and live with his father. I do not know what has happened to him.”
“Jamil? That is an Arabic name.” Zakira looks at her with more interest. “I was born here. But my parents are Moroccan.”
“His father is from Libya. A Muslim. I miss my son nearly every day. But a boy, you know. He must see his father.” Mary says the words she has said so often, but she does not believe them any more. Sometimes she wishes that Omar were dead.
“Did Justin’s mother send you to tell me to stay away?” asks Zakira. “She puts the phone down on me, you know.”
“I do not really come here from Miss Henman,” Mary hurries to say. “I come from Justin.”
Zakira stares for a long moment, deciding. And then she says, “Well, it’s Justin’s baby.”
And Mary claps her hands, and jumps in the air. “It is Justin’s baby! I am so happy! I am Mary Tendo. I was Justin’s nanny.”
A small tear starts from Zakira’s eye. No one has been happy about this baby. “My God, you’re Mary. I’ve heard so much about you. Is it really you? When did you come back?”
An hour later, they are walking together, even more slowly than Mary usually walks, towards the house where Justin must be sleeping.