MY LETTER TO GABRIELLE IS GATHERING DUST. IT HASmade it into an envelope, but the envelope has not yet progressed further than being propped up on the kitchen cabinet, where I also prop up my electricity and telephone bills before paying them. So far it has escaped several mailings, left behind each time like a jilted bride. Neither have I sealed it closed, in case I need once more to review the contents. For a while a letter to Geoffrey stood next to it, but in the end that one winged off to England on its own.
In the letter I ask Gabrielle to ask Monique to ask Ad- nam to tell her what has happened to Benji. For nine years I have not asked, and for nine years Benji has not tried to find me. Adnam forbade Monique to have any contact with me and I knew at Cookham Wood that my letters might be read by the prison authorities. So I’ve waited, and now I’ve written my letter and am afraid to send it. Homely Vermont dust gently collects on it, a letter that might tug all the world to me.
Julia noticed. She picked it up. “This letter has been sitting here for weeks.”
“Yes. I can’t decide whether to send it.”
“Then why did you write it?”
“Haven’t you ever written a letter and then hesitated to send it? Put it aside until you could decide?”
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone do that? But I always send them in the end. Otherwise it’s a waste of time.” She laughed.
“To your boyfriend?”
“Usually.”
“And how does it work out?”
“Good. Sometimes I say things I regret, but it’s good he knows I have these thoughts. He should know that about me.”
“Don’t you think it’s better to keep quiet sometimes? Not to stir things up?”
It was not a good question for a twenty-one-year-old too eager to have firm opinions of her own. “Look,” she said, “if it still bothers you enough to write a letter, it’s not settled. Don’t worry so much about how it affects other people. If it’s unresolved for you, it’s probably unresolved for them. It seems to me you have some issues about your past and you need to find closure or something to move on.”
Closure, issues, resolution. I’ve tried to insert these words into my life. I would close Bayswater, close Zanzibar. Resolve the Benji issue. I would move on, a mental migrant.
“Who’s it to, anyway?” asked Julia, looking at the envelope rather than me. I could see that this was her way of claiming friendship, to presume to be my advisor as I was hers, and I did not want to rebuff the attempt. “To a friend,” I said. “Asking about another friend who I haven’t heard from in a long time.”
“Your old boyfriend in England? Your partner?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Then why don’t you just send it? You don’t seem to be interested in anyone here. What have you got to lose?” When Julia is earnest deep lines form on her young forehead.
“Peace of mind?”
“But if you have that, why did you even bother to write the letter?”
“You’ve got a point.”
I wasn’t looking for a man in London any more than I am now. I’d just left a limp and teary one behind in Reading, which tugged at me a little. The relationship that was on my mind now was the one between me and London, and for that I fancied I would need all my wits about me. I had loved arriving at Paddington station with a single suitcase in my hand, no one noticing me. A burglar in the garden of the rich. The taxi ride to Hereford Road was a solitary thrill. I dared myself to be equal to the buildings, to master the streets. Now, ringing the doorbell for a second time, depleted by the effort to be equal to a city, I was left dumb and disconcerted when the door was flung open by a man.
I stood there, my anorak dripping, flustered by the thought that I had returned to the wrong house and might never again find the right one. The man was smiling at me but talking into a phone held in his left hand. In his right he held a wooden spoon that was still steaming. I remember that his eyes sparkled. That he looked Indian. That he wore an apron with a picture of a panda on it. He laughed heartily, but it was at something on the phone, not me. To me, he smiled and nodded, moving aside to make room. When I failed to move, he gestured in front of me with the steaming spoon, a curry-scented wand, and when I still did not move he said into the phone, “Excuse me just a second,” and muffled the receiver against his shoulder, explaining to me, “You’re Marcella, aren’t you? Come on in. Sorry I can’t say hello properly”—he glanced towards the phone—“Business.” Then he stuck the spoon into the same hand that held the phone and reached out to yank me from the spot on which I was stuck so that I ended up almost in his arms. “Let’s shut out the English weather. Gabrielle and Monique are in the living room. I’m Benji. Welcome. Talk to you later.” Then, into the receiver: “OK, I’m back.”
The basement living room was music, mellow warmth and colourful cushions on the floor. No books, I noticed. A television was on, and it took me a second to understand that the cheerful French song
