This shop was stuffed as full as the Zanzibar shops had been empty. It excited me. I checked to see how many flavours of Campbell’s Soup they carried and discovered it was as many as the supermarket (though fewer of each and at a much higher price). When I took one from the shelf to buy, a child came around immediately and replaced it. There was no problem here with supply, I could see—no problems with importing restrictions, bribing officials, or finding transport. The only concern here was satisfying the fussy demands of the spoiled population. I felt I was storing information I could use.
“Dear Marcella,” read the letter. “Since there seems to be no sign of you returning home in the near future, I’ve decided to buy back the ice-cream business from you. The enclosed cheque covers what you originally paid plus a bit more, since you did make a go of it. Isabella is well and says she will write soon, but you know how she is. I can’t say I think you made a wise decision, but good luck anyway. Love from, Stella Fernandez”
The cheque was for two thousand pounds, more than was due to me at the official exchange rate and much more than she could have obtained on the black market. Somehow, against all the rules, she had been able to write a cheque drawn on Barclays Bank in London. I held it to my lips and blessed Mrs F
“Hello?”
I could hear music in the background.
“Hello, my name is Marcella D’Souza, I’m a friend of Latif Kamara.” I was nervous and felt ridiculous to have pinned so much on such a slender hope. “Can I speak to Monique or Gabrielle?”
“Monique! C’est moi!”
“Pardon?”
“Monique. It’s me, silly.”
“I’m Marcella. I wonder if Kamara said anything about me.”
“Kamara? He’s here. Kamara, there’s a woman for you. A Marcella. Sounds ever so nice. Tres gentille.”
Kamara’s raspy voice was in the background, and his laugh.
I broke in: “No, he said I should talk to you.”
“To me?”
“About staying?”
“Staying where?”
I heard the clink of bottle on wine glass near the receiver. I took a breath, hope running out. “With you, I think.”
“Oh, he says you’re from Zanzibar. Is Zanzibar in the Indian Ocean, like Mauritius? I thought so. Of course you must come and stay with us. Gaby, we’ve got a new sister from Zanzibar. She’s coming to visit. Goody! When are you coming? Oh, Kamara says you’re Indian. Is that right? We’re Creole—we don’t know where we came from.” Monique’s peal of laughter started at the phone and trailed away to include the rest of the room.
“I’m Goan. We’re Catholics.” I thought that was enough.
“Oh, us too. We’re Catholics. Non-practicing, of course. We had the French, you know. In Mauritius. Did Zanzibar have the French?”
“I don’t think so. The British.”
“Oh, too bad for you. No wine. We had them both. When are you coming?”
“I’m not sure. Would next weekend be all right?” “Oh, yes. Next weekend would be perfect. You can have our sofabed. Come any time. Be spontaneous.”
“I want to pay you something, of course.”
“Oh, goody. Money. But don’t worry about it too much. There’s always rich men.” She shouted the last words away from the phone for someone else’s benefit, then lost herself in giggling.
“Thanks,” I said. “You don’t know how grateful I am.
“De rien, cherie. See you next weekend.”
“I told you before that you should go to the doctor with that cough.” I had coughed through the night, keeping Geoffrey awake.
“Maybe it’s this house. Or the damp here.” I had no wish to go to the doctor. I was unreasonably possessive of my cough, and Geoffrey was unreasonably impatient about it. Outside the window by our bed, the early morning sky was grey. I turned towards Geoffrey’s warm body, put my hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going to London.”
He was silent.
“I have to leave,” I added, to make it clear. “Not just because of the cough.”
He twisted free of my hand, pulled the pillow over his head and beat the bed with his fist.
“Geoffrey!”
He turned back towards me and sat up. “I know,” he said. “I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?”
“No, no. You’ve been good to me, bringing me home. I’m grateful. But I shouldn’t be here, should I? I’m not what you need.”
“It’s my fault. I’m just not good with women. I thought I could overcome it with you. I love you, Marcella.”
“Geoffrey, stop it. Don’t say anything. Just let me leave.”
“Where will you go? What about money?”
“I have friends in London.”
“You do?”
“Friends of Kamara. Monique and Gabrielle. Remember? And some money from home arrived.”
“So you can afford to ditch me now.”
“Geoffrey, don’t. You’re not happy with me here. Don’t pretend you are. Reading isn’t Zanzibar. And even in Zanzibar...”
I wanted this over; I wanted to be out the door. Geoffrey had managed to find some tears and they were rolling down his cheeks. “We’ll be friends,” I said.
“You can always come back if you get stuck. You’ll ask me for help if you need it, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I replied, determined that I would not.
So, now that I’ve worked around to her, brought Monique to me in Vermont, I’ve drafted a letter to her. I can send
