For those returning to their American homes, I’ve set summer tasks. They have to think like someone else. One has decided to be an Indian migrant and find where in his hometown he can buy the makings of a traditional Indian wedding. A black scholarship student has undertaken to become fluent in the comparative merits of the golf courses and country clubs of his city. A rich girl will be finding out how to eat for nothing. A boy has to think like a girl and I’ll want him to know where to buy tampons and eyeliner. A girl has elected to become expert in the accessories of pick-up trucks and their significance to boys.
I’ve set everyone in motion but myself. They say summer in Vermont can be hot, with lots of insects. I feel like something is ending and nothing is beginning, and that I’m about to walk off a cliff. I am starting to fear loneliness. The students will be gone and too much else is gone. London’s gone, and my home there. Zanzibar’s gone. Family’s gone. Mrs F is gone. And Benji is gone. Geoffrey knows I’m here, of course, and writes sometimes— simple reports on his life, routine hopes for mine—and I wish I wanted that more.
Julia is going to Bangladesh for the summer to work for something called Bangladesh Rescue. She says I inspired her to do so, but I’m not sure how. Since Geoffrey and his friends, I’ve not much cared for good works towards the disadvantaged races that I inadvertently embody. But I’m happy to see her enthusiastic, and I’ve tried not to point out to her that she is following in the footsteps of her Mennonite missionary father from whom she was trying to escape. The idea of any of my students rescuing Asians makes me edgy. So much simplicity meeting so much complication. And then, I think I might miss Julia.
Julia asked me, “Did you ever get a reply to that letter?”
I had to answer truthfully. “Yes.”
“And was it as bad as you feared?”
I thought. “No. It wasn’t bad. But I didn’t find out anything about my friend either.”
“So, I didn’t do anything too terrible, mailing it?” “No, Julia, it wasn’t terrible as it turned out.”
“Thank goodness. I was worried. What will you do now?”
“I have the address of someone who should know.” “And you’ll write to this person.”
“I already have,” I admitted.
“I hope so much that you find him. Maybe he’s looking for you too. Maybe he’ll come and visit. Love is the most important thing, isn’t it?”
Her forehead had creased; she really wanted an answer to that question. Julia had been showing me the letters from her boyfriend across the country. They were perfunctory, with a breeziness that makes me believe that he is not as earnest or honest as she. I suspect he sleeps with other people and wishes she would do the same. Now I tell her, “Love is important, but you shouldn’t depend on it. Make other plans.”
The letter from Gabrielle read:
Dear Marcella,
It was so good to hear from you and to find out you are doing well. College professor! Who would have thought of it ten years ago? Vermont sounds lovely. I am so happy you have found a place like that after everything you’ve been through. I’ve missed you for the last year. Would it be selfish to say I’ve even missed my visits to Cookham Wood and our conversations there? "You learned so much. I would never have guessed that we Mauritian Creoles came from Zanzibar if you hadn’t found out!
I seem to be the only one that nothing happens to. I’m still living on my own in Hereford Road, and I’m still a sister at St Mary’s Paddington. (Since you were in the property business, you might be interested to know that the businessmen who knocked down my dear old St Mary’s in the Harrow Road and built flats there could not rent them after the eighties bubble burst.) They make us work even harder these days, if that’s possible. I have to take new exams just to keep the job I have!
But all this must seem very far away for you, and you want to know about Benji. None of us have seen him or heard from him, and of course it’s been quite a few years now. I haven’t been sure what to do about your suggestion that I ask Monique to ask Adnam. She’s in Abu Dhabi now, trying to be a Moslem wife. I don’t think Adnam tells her anything about his business, and he doesn’t bring her when he visits London. Honestly, Marcella, I feel worried about my sister, and I don’t want to do anything that will make her life more difficult. I think she may have had some sort of nervous breakdown. Her letters are very short and the writing shaky. Once or twice she has called me at night, but it’s always as if she fears someone is listening. It’s awful to hear her that way. She’s always been a little bit of a child, you know. I wish I could do something. I’ve never even seen my nephew!
But I’m sure you are right. Adnam is the person most likely to know what has happened to Benji, especially since the BCCI went bust (their branch in Queensway in now a Cullens grocery!). But do you really want to know, Marcella? Don’t you think that if he had wanted to get in touch he would have found a way? After all, he has this
