The Book of Secrets (37 page)

Athena, of course, did not lose anything, everything was paid for in advance, but it was close. Mr. Eisen got very nervous and told Ali to go easy from then on. Ali, too, had got a bit scared; things had gone a little too fast. He’s always been cautious since then.

Mr. Eisen died in 1966. His wife and daughter sold us their share and went to live in Israel.

Overnight, our fortunes had changed. The children, Rehana and Hadi, went to public schools; we moved to Eccleston Square and from there to Beech Grove in Hampstead. And yes, when Beech Grove was fixed up it was all over the community newspapers — yes, gold taps, antique-raj chandeliers, a Rolls-Royce used by Pandit Nehru at Harrow, and so on. As I said, there was no stopping Ali; such publicity didn’t daunt him.
Nouveau riche
, so what, he still says; it is still
riche
; weren’t the Normans
nouveau
once? And didn’t the English live in caves once? But of course he
was conscious, we were conscious, of who we were; in England, how you speak, how you dress, how you sit — it all matters, is what you are.

Athena Finance Company is rather unique, I think. It has its offices on Carlton Place, near Trafalgar Square. From the windows you can see the parade of the queen’s Horse Guards in the morning. That never fails to impress clients, all dignitaries of foreign nations. The company undertakes international projects. It is a bank and contractor. It facilitates governments in buying services overseas. First, by offering financing, when required. And then by overseeing the project — secondary contracting, shipping, and so on. Of course risky loans are guaranteed — by a government, or an aid agency; another bank.… There have been projects in the Shah’s Iran, in Manila, and in South America. Once the company became known, projects kept coming in — Ali knew princes and ministers. And he, of course, was our prince; many — all — of his clients believed that. Even the English media believe something of the sort. When the tabloids reported Rehana’s engagement, they called Ali a son of an oriental chieftain.

Arms: he may have dealt in them if he thought it safe; he is a cautious man. There was a scientist from Qatar who wanted to build a Qatari bomb. It was to be called Algebra I; “algebra” is apparently derived from Arabic. Athena didn’t bite. Then a Quebec man wanted to build a long gun. Ali wouldn’t touch him. The man was later assassinated. Coffee from Uganda. There was a blend we drank in those days, which we laughingly called Ugando-Colombian. Idi Amin was in power then, and the coffee was smuggled …

It’s difficult to say what, exactly, came between us … many things, I suppose. Marriage is a kind of death, isn’t it — the end of youth and freedom, everything that made you attractive and beautiful — the beginning of responsibility. With me the bitterness
and disappointment of my parents’ rejection; the hardship and toil when we began in London. A dingy room, a crusty landlady, cold winters, used and ill-fitting winter clothes, and, to top it all, a baby. Nothing like hardship to kill a romance double quick, is there? And then when the breaks came, we thought we’d begin anew. You know when I was a schoolgirl my friends and I wrote in each other’s autograph books: Friendship is like china. Well, love even more so. He drifted away … a simple home life was not exactly where he wanted to stop — he wanted more, and more, until I think even I was not enough.

Even after all the tuition in etiquette, I don’t think I quite measured up. I was still the same old me … couldn’t take to wearing hats … couldn’t quite act the princess; and I was still religious. With the political problems back home, the confiscation of property, my family had finally made contact, needed my help, and I helped them, sometimes brought them home — those nieces and nephews visiting London — which didn’t go down well, I tell you.

Ali was derisive of Indian ways by then. He began more openly to have flings with women, and he travelled a lot. It was in Peru that he met Rosita. I knew the moment he returned that this was something special. She’s Argentinian, with some British ancestry; and she’s somewhat younger than I am — of course — with two children by a previous marriage. A very nice woman. And, yes, glamorous — ideally suited to him. She was brought up in the European way, you see. She insisted the settlement with me be generous and amicable. So I am still one of the family. It’s as if he has two wives.

Beech Grove is mine. It’s a splendid house of white stucco exterior with dark oak inside, built in the 1930s. It has a long gravel driveway and a simply beautiful garden. The kind of house we saw in magazines when we were young. When you look out on a summer morning, especially after a rainfall, it’s a sight to fill your heart with calmness and the joy of living. There are always offers
to buy it, from embassies. Rehana and Hadi would like me to sell it, too, to be closer to the City. But I shan’t sell it.

It is like a mother, Jackie says — she is my Filipino maid — because you always come back to it, it is there, and it is nice and warm. I have a small car that I do my shopping with, and go to mosque.

Jackie and I have long talks sometimes. She keeps me up to date on all the Filipino girls in the neighbourhood. Who’s having an affair, who’s been fired, who’s going back, who’s got a job offer in the Gulf, or Japan, or Canada. I don’t want to lose her, but sooner or later she’ll go. Saturdays, I have lunch with Rehana and accompany her shopping. Sunday afternoons, Hadi comes over and spends the night.

Last year Ali was on the New Year’s Honours List — finally, quite a few years after the Falklands. Only then did I feel denied, and hurt at not being at his side. But that’s not everything, is it? I am still Mrs. Ali.

Ever a traditional Indian wife, you like to call your husband “he,” Rita. And what about the Falklands, Rita? Was this the Argentinian connection through Rosita, some service rendered in the war?

She declines to comment.

From the personal notebook of Pius Fernandes
May 1988, Dar es Salaam

She’s bought khangas for Jackie, her Filipino maid, a large Makonde carving for Ali, and gold jewellery for herself. (“I just can’t resist.”) The coffee shop is crowded and sticky, but a welcome refuge from the blazing Somora Avenue outside. The street curio-seller from whom she’s promised to buy something takes an occasional peep in at us through the window where we sit. He’s so desperate, I’ve concluded, he’ll wait a week if he has to. It’s a pity, in terms of quality he just can’t compete with the Indian wholesaler on Market Street.

She will go to the game parks in Arusha for a few days, then she’ll return and leave almost immediately for London.

There are questions still unanswered … about this girl who has made such a place for herself among us — Mariamu — who stole the Englishman’s diary and like that book refused to lie buried. Who murdered her in such a terrible fashion, exacting a man’s toll
from her? What was her relationship to Corbin? And, most important surely for Rita, who was Ali’s father?

Rita looks at me over her raised cup.

“The coffee here has such a raw taste to it — you can buy Tanzanian coffee at Selfridges, you know, but it’s not the same.”

The buyers here get the last choice from the local crop, I want to tell her, but desist. The long eyebrows, they captivate me, and the sparkling eyes — were they really always so brown, those eyes?

This is perhaps the last time I’ll see her like this, admire her openly, at this age, in a way I had not dared to before. Only days ago, months it seems, she extracted jokingly a pledge from me to pay a price for these tête-à-têtes, her information. That price I have long guessed: silence, an injunction on these proceedings. She’s going to name it here today, but how?

“Do you think Pipa ever learned the answer to the one question that obsessed him all his life?” I ask her.

She draws a quick breath, then: “I don’t know.”

“I would like to believe that Mariamu finally told him, relieved him of his misery before he died … through some sign perhaps …”

“We’ll never know, will we?” she says, a little too quickly, I think.

She becomes quiet, sips at her coffee. She has something — several things — on her mind, I can tell, and she’ll let me fumble through to them.

“What else?” she says at length.

“It’s all so maddeningly incomplete, so unsatisfactory, isn’t it? Half-formed pictures, suspicions —”

“You can’t know everything about the past, can you?”

“It’s not that at all. But there are certain things.… For instance, the girl Mariamu, violated, murdered, have you wondered — ?”

“A stray soldier, perhaps … that’s most likely, isn’t it? The family didn’t come up with anything else at the time.”

“I wonder. Perhaps they should have.”

“Yes? Why do you say that?”

“Maybe I carry Corbin’s bias too far …” I pause to warn her: “You may not like me for saying this, Rita —”

“Go on, now,” she attempts to scold, smiles, then adds: “Tell me first and let me decide.” And she sits back attentively in a mock gesture, waiting for me to expound.

“All right. It’s about the stepfather, Rashid. I never liked him. Even now he lurks in the shadows. Following the girl about so possessively, claiming to speak with the spirit who haunted her — making her do terrible things — surely not out of fatherly love.”

“Ali told me about his reputation in the family. He
was
strange — but would he have killed her? And why?”

“In a fit of jealousy?”

“I thought you’d say that. And that the family suspected but kept quiet about it. Yes, possibly. But how can you be
sure
?”

Outside the window, the curio-seller has now crossed the street to stand beside his wares. But he’s watching, ready to come over and pounce on this lady tourist as soon as we emerge.

“Did Ali ever …”

“Yes?” she prompts.

“I’ve always wanted to ask this. Did Ali ever try to contact Corbin after Pipa’s confession — in England, I mean, after he returned home in the fifties? Or was it too embarrassing?”

“We met Sir Alfred in London in the sixties, once, at an annual independence-day function. All la-di-da and formal. There were no other meetings — as far as I know. His wife was there — a rather batty old woman.”

“And? The conversation? What was talked about?”

“Well, just the usual things — about the old country — nothing
personal. It was a short encounter, and he knew so many people from the colonies who were clamouring to say hello and to shake his hand …”

“Amazing. And Ali — what did
he
feel about this afterwards … at having seen Alfred Corbin?”

“You’ve got to understand Ali. He’s not one to dwell on the past. It was never mentioned in our home. I was not interested, either. We had a family and our future to think of, we were out in the big world, we had made something of ourselves in it.”

And if not for the re-emergence of the diary, I’m thinking, you would not have had to deal with that past, would you, Rita?

Her hands in front of her on the table between us, the fingers interlocked. Nails not overly long, painted.

She is the object of much attention, and not only mine. A few tables away, a man and woman sit, publishers, lamenting the death of their industry. They are both known to me, have eyed Rita rather suspiciously. A beggar woman in rags dives into the restaurant and heads straight for my well-dressed companion but is shooed off by a waitress and angry customers. The waitress brings two meat pies. I pick one up. Outside the window the curioseller is back, holds up a gigantic, grotesque Makonde figure.

“Oh dear, I suppose I shall have to buy something from him after all, but not
that.
”

And she is looking at me, smiling.

The same mischievous, enchanting smile of ages past. She switches it off. We’re back to ourselves, wait in silence. Could we ever have come close? Is it possible to re-live that time and determine what could or could not have happened? She’s speaking.

“You’ve never asked me … about us — you and me. I wonder why you’ve not asked.”

“Afraid of the answer,” I mutter. Then: “If it had been me would you have —”

“You’ll never know,” she says.

“Is it something only I will never know — or something even you don’t know?”

She does not answer, says nothing for a while, and then: “Let me ask you this — would
you
have run away to London with a girl, risking all, as Ali did?”

There’s nothing to say. I didn’t, did I? Why this torment now — but I asked for it.… 
Would
she have?

“And there was Gregory, of course.” She smiles mischievously.

“What about Gregory?”

“Well, your friendship with him was rather peculiar to us girls. Gregory was a homosexual, as you know. Gay, he would be called today.”

“Are you implying …” I am astounded, to be the subject of this inference … but then what made me think I was free of this kind of speculation.… “I’ve had my share of women, if you have to know —”

“What was between you and Gregory … only you know that. If you do.”

Her eyes all aglow, passionate, like the girl she once was, Rita leans forward. But this time so confident, her experiences so much more deep, varied, felt. I have lived, she seems to say.

“And if you don’t know these things about yourself …”

And so comes the injunction.

If you cannot know these things about yourself, she tells me, what arrogance, Fernandes, to presume to peep into other lives — to lay them out bare and join them like so many dots to form a picture. There are questions that have no answer; we can never know the innermost secrets of any heart. Each dot is infinity, Pius, your history is surface.

And how unfair, these speculations, to those who’ve lived a little more intensely than their neighbours, and so revealed a little more of themselves. What of respect for their secrets, their
humanity? Of course the past matters, that’s why we need to bury it sometimes. We have to forget to be able to start again.

Yes, why make public our pasts, belittle ourselves, when we’ve come so far. So what if he isn’t a chief’s son in exile, what if he was a Kariakoo boy covered with turmeric … a ball boy for Europeans … a garden toto … once you’ve arrived no one wants to know. Look at the Americans. And not only them. All the nobility, the dukes and barons, even the kings — who knows from where they came, who cares? So why should my Rehana lose face, why should Hadi’s future be compromised …