Someone Else's Shoes(110)

“They don’t even fit her, you know, if that’s why he wants them. She has clown feet. Actual clown feet. I hate them,” Nisha says. “Almost as much as I hate him.”

“Babe. Sit down,” says Jasmine, reaching an arm out. “You’re spinning out. It’s okay.”

Nisha looks down at Aleks, who is still sitting. His face is full of sympathy, of understanding.

“The shoes mean nothing,” he says soothingly. “They are nothing. Just a means to an end. Think about your future. What they will win you. This is all that matters.”

“Get her another drink, Aleks,” Andrea says.

“I don’t want another drink.” Nisha stares at the shoes, sitting on the coffee-table. And then almost on impulse she picks one up, turns it over carefully in her hands. She looks at them, her face dark.

“Babe. Seriously . . .” Jasmine begins.

“He said I had to bring him the shoes, right? That was the deal. But he didn’t say they had to be in one piece.” Before anyone can stop her—amid the shouted protests to Stop! Stop!—she is wrenching at the shoe, pulling at it, bracing it over her knee until with a crack the heel comes off in her hand. And out of it spills a glittering shower of diamonds.

The room falls completely silent.

“What the fuck?” says Jasmine. Nisha stares at the hollow heel in shock. And then at the floor.

Aleks is the first on his knees. He carefully scoops up a small handful of the tiny gemstones and deposits them one by one on the coffee-table, where they sit, glinting under the overhead light, dotted with carpet fluff and tortilla crumbs. Nisha makes to speak but no sound comes out.

“Okay,” says Jasmine, tilting her head to one side. “Well, I guess he really did want the shoes.”



* * *



? ? ?

A group of kids are wheelie-ing their bikes up and down the walkways outside Jasmine’s apartment, catcalling to each other and dropping firecrackers on the paving. One has a small moped, and occasionally Nisha hears the roar of its engine and the thunk thunk thunk of its rider taking it down a small flight of concrete steps, the squeals of occasional girl passengers. Normally this would have left her wild with rage. But tonight she barely registers it. She lies in the narrow bunk bed, her mind humming as she thinks about the ramifications of what was in the shoes, the discussions they had in the last sober hour before everyone left.

Everything has become horribly clear to her now: the way Carl would insist she wear them as they traveled between countries, even though they were frankly uncomfortable for flying; his rage when he discovered they were no longer in her possession. He had used her like a mule. How many times had she unwittingly transported gems for him? They had prized off the other heel and there were more diamonds in the left shoe. None of them knew their value, but she guessed it was in the region of hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps more. The diamonds are a good size, beautifully cut; the largest is the width of her thumbnail. They had no magnifying-glass in the tiny apartment but she would bet on superior clarity.

“Oh, my God, babe. There’s your settlement.” Jasmine had placed her hands on her knees, leaning forward to gaze at them. “There. Is. Your. Settlement.”

Andrea had murmured to herself, “It’s like a story. Now you can tell him to get stuffed.”

She thinks of the trips to Africa they had taken over the past few years, other pairs of shoes he has bought her: dark blue Gucci dress shoes, cream Prada platforms. Had any of these been altered in the same way? Had she been an unwitting mule every time? Were these blood diamonds? Stolen? Contraband? And here is the worst of it: she, the ignorant courier, could have been caught at any time. Arrested. She has meant less than nothing to him. How could any husband care about someone he would use in that way?

She climbs out of her bunk, taking care not to wake Grace, and pulls on the old lavender dressing-gown she has become used to wearing. It smells comfortingly of Jasmine’s home, her fabric conditioner. It is almost 2 a.m. She makes her way to the living room and quietly opens the door onto the balcony, where she lights a cigarette. She checks the time, then dials a number.

“Ray?”

“Hi, Mom.”

His voice is low, ominously quiet.

“Are you okay?”

There is a short silence. She takes a long, anxious drag on her cigarette. “Ray? Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “Yeah.”

“You don’t sound good.”

“I don’t want to be here any more, Mom.”

“It’s not much longer. I promise.”

“Emily and Sasha left and it’s just me and the eating disorders. Everyone else is going home at weekends. I just watch TV on my own.”

“I know.”

He gives a long sigh. “You’re going to say you’re not coming yet, aren’t you?”

She closes her eyes. “Soon, baby. I have the shoes. I do have the shoes. Things are happening. And I have some things to discuss with your father about . . . about the settlement. Then I will come and get you.”

“I feel like . . .” his voice is soft, resigned “. . . I feel like you’re never coming.”

“Why would you say that?”

“When I was ill. That time you said you were going to come, and Dad made you go to Toronto. I was so sad, Mom, and you guys just went to Toronto. You just took his side.”