Love in Revolution Page 17

  But people were arrested anyway.

  Ana Himyana disappeared in the middle of August; but she wasn’t the first, by a long way, or the last. I heard about it from Miren, who lived near the Himyana place. She sent me letters sometimes – her father came to visit Papa, to give him news and smuggled antibiotics – and I remember taking the envelope and opening it in the garden, in the shade of the wall, the place where Skizi and I had first talked. It was so hot that there was sweat dripping off my forehead and on to the paper before I read it.

  Dear Esteya, I really miss you . . . Things are horrible here and I’m so bored!! My skin is all pimply, I’m so glad you can’t see me, I think it must be the lack of vitamins. Mama says oranges are packed with nutrients but when that’s absolutely all there is to eat I don’t think they’re enough, do you? And garlic soup for dinner and supper every day! If I see another garlic clove I shall DIE . . .

  Papa’s friend in Irunja says things are bad there too – the streets are quieter, but it’s because everyone’s leaving, and going over the border or into the country to find food. The water keeps getting cut off there too – I never thought I’d be glad I lived somewhere with a well . . .

  How are things in town? Papa says a lot of people are hiding inside with the shutters closed, but I expect you’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, no one would dare to arrest YOU! Did you hear about Ana Himyana? There were guards on the road in the middle of the night a few days ago, and then we got woken up by someone pounding on the door. We were pretty scared, I can tell you, but when Papa opened the door it was only Mrs Himyana in hysterics, saying they’d taken Ana away. I never would have thought it, she was always so thick with the guards. I thought she was like you, not needing to be scared like the rest of us.

  There was more, but I didn’t read it. I sat, feeling my heart pound, fiercely pleased. It was justice, that was all. She deserved it. I thought about how it must have been: the guards pulling her from her bed, her hair tousled, her eyes red with sleep, not looking like a film star any more. Or did they wait downstairs for her, with insolent good manners, or pat her bottom as she walked out with them, head held high? I hoped not. I wanted it to have been horrible for her. I hoped they’d trashed the Himyana house while they were there, and spat in Ana’s mother’s face and hit her father with the butt of a rifle. I hoped they’d put Ana up against the wall and ripped her shirt off her and –

  I put my hands over my face, feeling sick. I hated Ana. I did. I hated her. This was what I’d wanted. Wasn’t it?

  I took deep breaths. I felt exhausted, empty. I realised, distantly, that I didn’t hate her, any more. I was too tired to hate anyone.

  And then, in a flash, I was afraid. If I wasn’t angry any more, I wasn’t sure I was anything.

  I stayed where I was for a long time, until the heat had lessened. Then I went upstairs, to where Martin was sitting at his desk, reading one of the bourgeois novels that he’d wordlessly refused to surrender. I stood in the doorway until he looked up.

  I said, ‘Ana Himyana.’

  He blinked, and nodded. Then he stood up and went over to the wall, stepping over the mess on the floor. He wrote her name on the plaster, the most recent name in a long list.

  I watched him write it. He spelt it wrong, with two n’s, but I didn’t say anything. Then he stood back and looked at the wall. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked.

  I followed his eyes, and for a strange split second, instead of seeing Martin’s wall, I saw the wall of Skizi’s hut. Instead of Martin’s neat handwriting, I saw the scrawls of excrement. LEECH. WHORE. BOURGEOIS.

  I raised my eyes to the space at the top, too high for Martin to reach easily, above the names. Skizi’s name should have been there; Skizi’s name should have been there, first on the list. But there was just a blank space. No one would even know there was anything missing. When everyone else disappeared, they left their names at least; but it was as if Skizi had never existed.

  I reached out and grazed Ana Himyana’s name with my fingertips. Glamorous Ana, flirting with the guards.

  I said, ‘At least they get it right once in a while.’

  Then I went and sat in my own room, on the bed. I got the pello ball that Skizi had given me out from under my pillow. And I threw it against the wall, over and over again, like a prisoner in solitary confinement.

  The list grew longer and longer, spreading across the wall like mould. From time to time I went into Martin’s room to look at it. It was always the same; he would be at his desk, reading, and I would pick my way over to the wall and read the new names. Sometimes I knew about them already; sometimes one would be a surprise.

  Then I’d leave again, without saying anything.

  But for some reason it never occurred to me that it was dangerous, just for the names to be there.

  Autumn

  Thirteen

  The summer died slowly. The weather cooled, going straight from white-hot to grey, and autumn came, the storms giving way to endless, misty rain. The shops had notices in the windows. NOTHING OF NOTHING.

  And then, one afternoon in October, Miren’s father came to see us, unannounced. I was in the attic with Mama, sorting through clothes to find some that were shabby enough to wear but still thick enough to keep us warm, and I heard the door open and close. The sound was faint but unmistakable; so few people came to see us that Mama and I both froze, sharing a look. If it was one of Papa’s patients, they would have knocked at the door to the dispensary, at the side of the house . . .

  We stood up, without a word, and clambered down the ladder to the landing, careful not to make any noise. Then we heard Miren’s father’s voice, and grinned at each other in relief.

  Papa said, ‘Come in, I was just sorting some –’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Well, I –’ In a lower voice he said, ‘My wife and the children are upstairs, but I don’t have any patients here, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I must talk to you, Anton.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Papa said.

  ‘And your son – none of your son’s Party friends – you’re sure no one’s here except your family –’

  ‘Yes,’ Papa said, ‘as I said, only my wife and the children are here. Bernardo, are you feeling quite all r–’

  ‘Good, good,’ Miren’s father said, interrupting him. He was speaking too quickly, as if he was running out of breath on every word.

  I heard my father open the door to his study, and two sets of footsteps as they went in. The door shut.

  Mama took hold of my wrist and pulled me towards the top of the stairs. When I turned to frown at her, she put her other finger to her lips and pointed down through the banisters at the door of Papa’s study. She breathed, ‘Come on . . .’

  It took me a second to understand; then I said, too loudly, ‘You want us to eavesdrop?’

  She smiled. Suddenly, disconcertingly, I saw what she must have looked like when she was my age; but it only lasted for a split second, and then I saw the new creases round her eyes, the strain in her expression. ‘You know Bernardo,’ she said softly. ‘If he knows there are women listening, he won’t say anything sensible.’

  ‘But . . .’ I wanted to laugh – at her, at how shocked I was.

  She started to walk down the stairs quietly. She didn’t look back at me, but she didn’t let go of my arm either, so I had to follow. She had grey in her hair; I hadn’t noticed that before.

  When we got to the hall, she let go of me and leant to put her ear against the crack between the study door and the door frame. I stood there, watching her face. She seemed to have forgotten I was there. Very faintly, I heard Papa’s voice, forced and jovial, as if Bernardo was one of his patients.

  ‘ . . . on then,’ he was saying. ‘What’s the trouble? More shootings in Irunja? More corpse pits?’ His tone was brisk and businesslike, as if he was enquiring about a rash of pimples or a nasty cough.


  Mama closed her eyes, as if that would help her to hear better.

  ‘More arrests here, in town,’ Bernardo said. ‘Mainly Socialists and Anarchists, couple of Catholics . . . business as usual . . .’ He laughed, but the sound of it made me wince, and I imagined Papa frowning and glancing quickly at his medicine cabinet. I might have been right; at any rate, after a few seconds I heard the clink and glug of pouring, and the chink as Papa put the brandy bottle back on the sideboard.

  Papa said, ‘Pull yourself together, man. Drink this and calm down.’

  ‘Calm down? Anton – do you know why I’ve come? Not to chat about the news in town, I can tell you! It’s . . . You know Miren, my daughter Miren –’

  ‘Of course I know –’

  ‘She talks to the guards a little bit, trying to keep them on our side, you know, not everyone has your adv–’ Bernardo stopped, as if he was suddenly uncertain of what he was saying, and I heard him gulp. ‘Talks to them, calls them “comrade”, never really approved but she was right to do it, Anton . . .’

  ‘Certainly,’ Papa said, but he wasn’t agreeing, only trying to keep Bernardo on track.

  ‘She gets to hear things that way, you know, things that aren’t in the newspapers, well, nothing is, these days, is it? But the gossip, the talk in the Party, things trickle down from the top, never thought Miren would be so useful, of all people . . .’ He started to laugh again. I crouched opposite Mama and put my ear to the door. I couldn’t help it.

  ‘All right, Bernardo, stop it!’ Papa had raised his voice, and he caught himself and took a deep breath. There was a pause, and another glug and clink: he was pouring a drink for himself. He never drank alcohol during the day. I didn’t look at Mama.

  In a quieter voice, he said, ‘Come on. You want to tell me something, don’t you? It’s all right, Bernardo. Whatever it is, spit it out.’

  ‘They’re coming for you,’ Bernardo said.

  I thought I heard the rattle of glass against teeth. Then there was a sharp click, as if Papa had put his drink down.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘They are,’ Bernardo said, and that painful note of mirth was back in his voice. ‘Us, too, because we’ve got a well in our courtyard and they want the water. But they’re coming for you, soon.’

  ‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’

  ‘The talk . . . the gossip in the Party . . .’

  ‘From Miren? Honestly, she’s simply being over-imaginative. I may not be proud of my – of Leon, but I –’ he hesitated – ‘I thank God every day that his protection is allowing me to go on with my work.’

  ‘Leon is the problem, Anton. They say he’s not . . . He’s being edged out . . .’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Papa said again. ‘You think the guards know more about the situation than Leon himself? We would know, Bernardo.’

  Bernardo didn’t answer. I looked up and met Mama’s gaze, but her eyes were empty, as if she hadn’t heard. I put my head against the crack again. I felt strange, as if everything was very distant and cloudy.

  ‘Come on,’ Papa said, and laughed; but his laugh had something in it like Bernardo’s, as if the hysteria was contagious. ‘We mustn’t let things get blown out of all proportion. The Party is taking preventative action against civil war, that’s all. I mean . . .’ He faltered. ‘I don’t mean the arrests are right. But there’s logic in them. You said yourself, Anarchists, Socialists . . .’

  ‘Catholics, Royalists, Zikindi, people who’ve been a bit rude to the guards . . .’

  ‘Yes, all right!’ Papa broke off and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was wet, blurred. ‘What I’m saying is that we are safe. Even if we didn’t have Leon, we’d have no reason to –’

  ‘You’re not listening, Anton. Leon has enemies. That means that you have enemies. You’re not safe.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Papa blew out his breath, and his footsteps crossed the floor to where the window was, looking out into the courtyard. ‘It’s kind of you to come all this way to say this to me, Bernardo, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t pack up immediately and run away from my responsibilities here. We’re all under a lot of pressure and it’s very easy to blow a few bits of gossip out of all proportion.’

  ‘Anton . . .’ I could hear the frustration in Bernardo’s voice, but it was mixed with fatigue, and a kind of resignation. ‘We’re leaving. We’re going to my aunt’s place in the country, and – you won’t mention that to anyone, will you, Anton? – with any luck we’ll find a way to get over the border, I’ve got a cousin who lives there . . .’

  ‘No, I won’t mention it to anyone,’ Papa said.

  Then there was silence, apart from creaking floorboards as one of them shifted his weight.

  ‘Anton . . . you’re sure . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Papa said, cutting him off. ‘Thank you for your concern. And I’m very glad to have the opportunity to say goodbye, before you go. I shall miss you. But I don’t think we need to worry about ourselves.’ It sounded as though he was reading the words out of a book.

  ‘Thanks for the drink.’ I heard a little click as Bernardo put his glass down; then there were footsteps crossing to the door. I stumbled backwards, grabbing for the handle of the door to the drawing room and pulling it open just in time. Mama leapt up and together we half waltzed, half scuffled through it. It should have been funny, but neither of us was laughing.

  Bernardo paused in the study doorway, and then his footsteps went back into the room. I heard him say – clearer than before, now that the door was open – ‘Oh, Miren gave me a letter for Esteya. Shall I leave it on the hall table?’

  Papa murmured something, and Bernardo came out, walking past the drawing room and putting the envelope on the table with a crisp papery sound. He let himself out, and the front door shut behind him heavily. The silence in the hall was very thick, like syrup, or dust.

  Mama didn’t look at me. She took a deep breath and went into the hall, then into Papa’s study without knocking. I couldn’t bring myself to move. I leant against the wall and listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything; then Mama raised her voice, and I heard her say, ‘But – Anton, the children – if he’s right, and Leon is in trouble . . .’

  ‘How dare you listen to my private conversations!’ The door slammed, muffling Papa’s voice, but it was still audible, just. ‘You know what Bernardo’s like – scaremongering, full of his own importance. Please don’t –’

  I put my hands over my ears, not quite knowing why.

  But Papa was right, wasn’t he? If something had happened, with Leon and the Party . . . we’d know. If we were in danger, Leon would have told us. And even with that list, growing and growing on Martin’s wall, I didn’t believe that we could be next.

  My parents’ voices rang and blurred in my ears. I made an effort not to understand what they were saying.

  I couldn’t stay where I was. I crossed the hall, picked up Miren’s letter and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs to read it. It wouldn’t be anything very interesting; the usual things, news that wasn’t really news, complaints, maybe with a little sentimental bit at the end to say goodbye. The thought of it gave me an unexpected pang. Once Miren was gone . . . She’d been my best friend, for years, all through school. It was only when I met Skizi that everything had changed. And poor Miren had hardly noticed.

  The flap of the envelope peeled up cleanly. I took out the sheet of paper and scanned it, already almost bored.

  We’re leaving, although Papa says I mustn’t tell you where. I don’t exactly want to go, but I’m always afraid now, and maybe there I won’t be. I’ll miss you, Esteya, even if we don’t see each other very much and you don’t even answer my letters. Remember the fun we used to have at school?

  Papa is going to visit your father to tell him about what the guards said to me, about your brother, so I expect you know already. There isn’t much to say, except that there are rumours that he�
��s not as central to the Party as he was, and that other people are writing the leaflets now. But from the way the guards were saying it, it sounded as if he was in trouble, and they were pleased – you must know that lots of people don’t like your family because of Leon and because you all had food over the winter and special privileges and that sort of thing . . . So please, please be careful. I never thought I’d have to say that, but please, Esteya, I’m frightened for you.

  In a way, though, I’m glad I can give you this warning. That’s because I’ve got something to tell you that you might be angry about, but honestly I had to do it. I needed to make friends with the guards, in the spring, because Papa kept saying things about the Party, and Mama asked me to . . . And, a long time ago, ages ago, last summer in the holidays, I saw you going up to the Ibarras’ hut on the hillside and you were with a Zikindi girl and I saw you both there together and that she was living there, and so when I was talking to the guards I told them about her, because they had targets for undesirables. I don’t know if she was still there when they went looking for her. I could have asked them, but I didn’t. Anyway, I’m sorry. But now I’m warning you about Leon, and that makes us quits, doesn’t it?

  Please don’t be angry with me. It was just that I had to give them something – information, I mean – to make them like me.

  And when I saw you together I thought she was leading you astray, and –

  I folded the letter along the crease and put it back into its envelope. There was something about doing it that made me feel queasy. For a moment I wasn’t sure why; then I realised it made me think of the letter I’d written, about Ana Himyana. I shut my eyes and tried not to think. From the study I could hear snatches of words: ‘For the children’s sake, then, Anton!’ and Papa replying, ‘Who is the master of this family?’