Sankofa(19)

“Robert,” I say.

“Anna. I thought I’d stop by. I was in the area. I brought you some flowers.”

He thrusts the bouquet at me and our fingers brush. The flowers are expensive. Not the limp supermarket variety, wilting from the shop. These have come from a florist. There are none in our neighborhood.

“Can I come in? Please?”

I step aside and we go to the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea?” I ask.

“Yes, please.”

When he tries to open a cupboard, I stop him.

“It’s fine. I’ll do it,” I say. I put on the kettle. “Sugar?”

“One teaspoon. Same as always.”

People change, I almost reply, but I am done with my barbed one-liners. I know how much sugar he takes, and how much milk and how long the bag should sit in the hot water.

“You didn’t call back and you didn’t respond to my note. I was worried.”

I saw the woman at his office Christmas party. It was my single sighting of her in person. She worked hard on her appearance. Pencil skirt, stilettos, toned calves from squats or some other repetitive exercise. I was the frumpy wife by then. Overweight. She was the only other black woman in the room. I’d asked about her. She was junior to Robert. Out of his sphere. They’d never met, he told me.

“You’re looking well,” he says.

“I’m wearing pajamas.”

“Still the best thing I’ve seen this week.”

“It’s only Tuesday.”

I turn my back to him. His compliments are a sort of tool to bend people to his will. Store attendants gave him discounts. Air stewardesses upgraded us. I always thought it was a harmless use of his charm. Now I wonder if he did more than charm some of those listless women.

“I remember this.”

He is by the fridge pointing at a family photo of the three of us on holiday. We’re facing the sun and smiling with squinting eyes. This photograph, for some reason, escaped the cull. Perhaps because most of Robert is out of focus.

“Do you remember? We ate so many gelatos that day. It was perfect, wasn’t it?”

“Your tea’s ready.”

“Thanks,” he says, but he does not leave the photograph. “The three musketeers.”

I can feel myself being pulled into Robert’s version of events.

“I had a meeting with a divorce lawyer.”

“I see.”

We sit at the kitchen table opposite each other. I should have made some tea for myself. I lace my fingers together and unlace them.

“Rose is right. We can’t stay in limbo forever,” I say.

“It was Rose’s idea?”

“It’s a good idea,” I say, steering him back to the point.

“Is it? You know how I like my tea. I know how you like your boiled eggs, rock-solid yolk. I know you still don’t sleep on my side of the bed because you hate sleeping next to the window. You can’t just throw away twenty-six years, Anna. You’re making a mistake.”

“You made a mistake,” I say.

I’ve produced it. The barbed one-liner. Silence except for the sound of Robert swallowing his tea.

“Yes, I made the mistake,” he says, and cracks his knuckles, a habit I detest. “I’m sorry, Anna. I’ve been sorry for the last year. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want you to do anything. I want you to have not done something. To have not slept with your colleague.” My delivery is harsh and staccato. I can feel anger threatening my equilibrium. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

“All right. I’m sorry I brought it up. How are you? The last time we saw each other was after the funeral.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “You’re growing a beard.”

“No. Just haven’t shaved in a week. Nobody to impress.”

He’s still handsome, still has a job, still roughly the same weight as when we met. It will be easier for him to find another partner.

In counseling, Robert had said I was emotionally distant.

“Don’t blame me for your infidelity,” I replied at the time.

“It’s true. You push everyone away. Me, Rose, your mother.”

“Can I leave now?”

“There you go. Always running.”

The session ended soon after.

The kitchen is warm. I get up to open the window and stay by the sink.

“Look, I don’t want us to argue,” he says.

“We’re not arguing. I just said I went to see a divorce lawyer.”

“I don’t want lawyers.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. How are things? How’ve you been keeping busy?”

I want to tell him about Francis Aggrey. He is the only person I’ve wanted to tell since I discovered the diary. I am used to him making the plans for us. It began on our first date when he chose the restaurant. I’d never met anyone so sure about art, wine, or subjects he could know nothing about, like pig farming.

I’ve met more men like Robert since. The confidence is inherited, along with all their other ideas. Robert’s father worked in the City, as did his father before him. What seemed like ambition was only deep passivity. I was the pioneer, not Robert. I had crossed every barrier to end up in that pub in the City, a tremulous trainee architect who none of her colleagues could place—not black, not white, not male, not posh.