The Other Language(68)
After this experiment Mrs. D’Costa had enough good sense not to ask them again. She thought it wiser to sit and wait for the Dobsons to return the invitation. It never came. If by chance she’d cross their car on the dirt road, the Dobsons would limit themselves to waving a hand and keep driving on.
Often in the evening the breeze would carry the sound of Margie playing the piano, or sometimes she’d hear Keith’s voice calling for Justin, the houseboy they’d taken with them from their previous home, or laughing out loud about something. It was like receiving snippets of a parallel life she had no access to.
“Oh well,” she said out loud to her face in the bathroom mirror. “If they want to keep their privacy, just let them be.” But she knew better.
As the holidays neared, Margie showed up a couple of times by the cottage on her way to the junction. Sometimes she would just honk at the end of the driveway without even getting out of the car, with the engine running. The last few times Margie apologized for being always in such a hurry—she told Mrs. D’Costa that she was terribly busy getting everything ready for Christmas. Their two sons were coming with their wives and children, and there was so much to do. Where should she get the turkey for Christmas dinner? Was it necessary to book one? Would Anne know a good, reasonably priced fundi for repairing the thatch roof of the garage?
Mrs. D’Costa had prepared for Christmas well in advance, as she always did. Early in November she had mailed handmade cards to her children and nephews; with Hamisi she had collected doum palm fruits and all sorts of pods in the garden to make their own Christmas decorations. They’d painted them in silver and gold and scattered them around the house. They’d painted a few shells too, which they hung on the branches of the trees, and they looked really pretty. On Christmas Eve she’d attended the usual tea party at the East African Women’s Society (she was a senior member) and the next day she had Christmas lunch with Ada, as they’d done for years.
Finally, early in the morning on Boxing Day, Justin, the Dobsons’ houseboy, showed up at the cottage with a note. Margie was asking her for supper that evening so she could meet Tim and Mark, their wives and the children.
It was an extremely cheerful evening. Mrs. D’Costa found the boys as handsome as their photographs. The wives, Tara and Ruth, were charming and the children adorable. Mark, the older son, was a lawyer in London; Tim a cook in New York.
“A chef,” Margie made sure to make the distinction. “It’s much more than just a cook over there, of course. Tim was on Zagat’s ten best chefs list last year.”
Tim gave her a look, trying to silence her, but she ignored him.
“There was even a profile written on him in one of the papers, I think it was The New York Times, isn’t that right, darling?”
Before leaving, slightly tipsy from the wine, Mrs. D’Costa kissed everyone except for the children, who wouldn’t let her, invited them all to pay her a visit (you can come anytime, you’re always welcome! Just walk up the stone steps from the beach), but they smiled and thanked her, without making a specific plan.
Before New Year’s, the whole crew of youngsters had gone to the island of Lamu to meet other friends, Margie told her. They’d met by chance at the big Nakumatt supermarket by the Likoni Ferry.
“They fly to Nairobi on Sunday and then straight back home from there,” Margaret said, pushing her cart along the aisle.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping to see them again,” Mrs. D’Costa said.
Margie sighed.
“I feel we’ve had such a little time with them, I’ve hardly realized they were here. I’m afraid that after a few days they get bored with us. Especially Tara and Ruth.”
“Nonsense! They had a marvelous time on the beach. I could see them from my veranda playing and snorkeling. They loved it here. Who wouldn’t? We live in paradise.”
Margie nodded, only half listening, and kept searching the aisle. She examined the label of a pricey French coffee and waved the package in front of Anne’s nose.
“Any idea what this is like? Ever tried it?”
“Heavens, no. I only take Nescafé.”
“Oh well, I’ll give it a try. Keith loves his morning coffee. Perhaps it will remind him of Paris.”
She gave Mrs. D’Costa a faint smile and dumped the French roast in the basket full of imported groceries. Margie didn’t wait for her at the checkout, and Anne saw her Range Rover pull away.
Three weeks later, at two in the morning, Justin knocked frantically at the door of the cottage. He was shaking and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Bwana Kee amekufa. Kugia nyumbani tafadhali, Mama naogopa sana.”
Mrs. D’Costa sprang into instant action mode; she knew she was at her best when it came to emergencies. She put on some clothes, woke up Hamisi, asked him to get in the passenger seat of the car and drove to the Dobsons’ at full speed on the bumpy dirt road.
Margie was in hysterics. Keith lay in his bed in his boxer shorts and an old T-shirt. He was dead. Heart failure, most probably. Mrs. D’Costa administered a Valium to Margie, gave orders to the house staff to make chamomile tea, sent for Dr. Singh and asked for Tim’s and Mark’s phone numbers. As it often happened, there was no signal at the house and the landline was down. Margie kept shaking her head between sobs, unable to offer a solution, so Mrs. D’Costa drove straight back to her own house and called from there. She found herself calling England and the United States, having to explain a couple of times who she was to the person on the other end of the line as they had no immediate recollection of her name. She then proceeded to explain in a steady tone that their father was dead, thank God he hadn’t suffered, that she was terribly sorry but they needed to book the first flight out if they wanted to make it to the funeral. Then she added in her matter-of-fact way: