Love in Revolution Page 8

  I opened my mouth, but my throat had tightened and I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Stop looking like you killed someone,’ she said, turning away. ‘For God’s sake, Esteya, stop caring so much. Take it easy. Otherwise you’ll never survive.’

  ‘I can’t help caring,’ I said. ‘And I am sorry.’

  ‘More fool you then,’ she said. ‘You’re doomed.’ It might have been a joke, or it might not.

  I said, ‘I love you.’

  She turned back to look at me, but I couldn’t read her expression. There was a silence, as if she was giving the words time to settle. Then, still expressionless, she leant towards me and brushed her lips over mine. It was so brief it wasn’t a kiss, but something else. It made me shiver.

  ‘Doomed,’ she said again. ‘You’re doomed.’

  The train to Irunja was packed and baking, humid with evaporated sweat and too many people breathing at once. Leon had promised to meet us at the station, but even so Mama’s face was tight and unsmiling as she waited on the platform for us to leave. Martin waved as the train jolted slowly into motion, but she only stared at us, lips pressed together, motionless. The night before she’d begged Papa not to let us go, and they’d argued until the early hours of the morning. Martin and I had listened, crossing our fingers, as words echoed up the stairs: bread riots . . . don’t like the things I hear on the radio . . . dangerous . . . only children . . . We never heard any of Papa’s answers, but he won anyway, in the end. We’d only had a few hours’ sleep before we had to get up again, and now I felt so light-headed and odd that I almost wished Mama had persuaded him to change his mind.

  I leant my head against the window and closed my eyes, feeling the vibrations resonate through my skull. I thought of Skizi, asleep, curled up in just her shirt and with her hair all over her face, the way she’d been the last time I saw her. A flower of warmth unfolded in the base of my stomach and spread downwards.

  Martin said, ‘Esteya,’ and elbowed me in the ribs.

  I opened my eyes, ready to snap at him, but he was pointing at the newspaper someone had left on the floor. There was a picture of Angel Corazon, with a footprint over his face, and an article that took up the whole page. The headline was: THE DEVIL’S OWN LUCK?

  I looked at the photo. Even in grainy black-and-white, he was beautiful. I remembered the way he’d moved, the way he’d known exactly where the ball was going, every time. Angel Corazon . . . even the name had a kind of magic.

  ‘He didn’t lose a single point, his last match,’ Martin said. ‘Not a single point. Imagine.’

  ‘It’ll be harder against Hiram Jelek, though . . .’ We stared at each other, and for a moment I remembered what it had been like before I met Skizi, when I could think about other things. Martin grinned at me, and I grinned back. ‘Wow, Martin – we saw him play his very first match, his first game ever, we were there . . .’

  ‘Yes, when we’re old and grey we can tell people about it,’ Martin said.

  ‘And today . . .’ I left the pause hanging, because it was too much to say that he might win the King’s Cup. It was tempting fate.

  We looked at each other for a few seconds longer, almost laughing with excitement. I wished Skizi was there, but I was going to see Angel Corazon again, see him play pello, and that was something . . .

  Martin’s smile faded, and he turned his head, as if he didn’t want me to see his expression. He said, ‘Esteya, where have you been? Even when you’re at home, you aren’t really there . . . I miss you.’

  ‘Nowhere,’ I said.

  He turned back to look at me, opening his mouth, but before he could speak there was a noise from the other end of the carriage. I heard a scuffle and a shout, and then the door burst open and a kid in a ripped shirt flung himself through, almost falling to his knees. Two policemen came in after him, swinging their truncheons. The noise in the carriage faded. Everyone was watching, their faces closed and tense.

  The nearest policeman said, ‘You haven’t got a ticket. Get off the train, you little bastard.’

  The kid glanced over his shoulder, tried to speed up, and caught his foot in the strap of someone’s suitcase. He tottered for a moment, then fell forward, landing heavily, only a few feet away from me. He had a red patch on his forehead that looked like it would be a bruise, later. He couldn’t have been older than I was. He said, ‘Please . . .’

  The other policeman took a deep breath, looked round at the people in the carriage, and said, ‘Hey, mate, let’s just leave it, OK? He’s only a kid . . .’ His face was gaunt and unshaven and he had purple bags under his eyes. There was a rusty brown stain across his shirt, just where it said IRUNJA POLICE.

  The policeman nearest us snorted, and charged down the aisle. He grabbed the kid’s collar and twisted, so that the kid choked and swung round, scrabbling at his neck. ‘Get – off – the – bloody – train!’

  ‘But – I want to go to –’ The kid struggled for breath, his eyes watering. No one in the carriage moved.

  The policeman half lifted, half pushed him down the aisle, past where we were sitting, and through the door behind me. I didn’t turn round. There was a metallic kind of bang, and a gust of air and dust blew into our faces. There was a scream too: a brief, cut-off kind of scream.

  And silence. It was real silence, somehow, even though it was filled with the clank and rumble of the train’s wheels. No one looked at the other policeman. We kept our eyes lowered, our faces deliberately blank. For a moment the air crawled on my skin, like the heaviness before a storm, unbearable; but slowly, unbelievably, the sounds in the carriage bubbled back to normal, and that terrible expectant silence was gone. Or . . . not quite gone. But hidden.

  We looked out of the window for the rest of the journey, without speaking, trying to pretend nothing had happened.

  The streets of Irunja were full, packed with people sweating in the heat and elbowing each other, everyone fighting to get to the arena. Every bar had a notice in the window – TELEVISION HERE – and people spilling out of the doorway, clutching their drinks. Leon’s grip on my wrist tightened, and he pulled me closer to him, as if the flood of people could sweep me away. On the other side of me, Martin had looped his fingers through the belt-loop of my shorts, and every time he took a step the waistband cut into me. It was hard to breathe in the crush. Leon was swearing quietly under his breath.

  Martin said, ‘Well, Irunja isn’t how I remembered . . .’

  I glanced at him and shrugged. Irunja wasn’t how I remembered it either – last time it had been quiet, cleaner, with fewer beggars and no overflowing drains – but then neither was Leon. I wondered what Papa would say if he could see Leon like this, pale and thin and with a dark, louring look in his eyes that he hadn’t had at home, even when he was at his most fervent.

  ‘See the banners?’ Leon said. ‘That’s the arena, there.’

  They were red and green, two long, thin flags hanging slack in the heavy air. I felt my heart give a funny bounce. Red and green, Hiram Jelek and Angel Corazon. I glanced around and imagined the roar of this crowd, the people in the bars, the noise, when the game started . . . I caught Martin’s eye, and he stared back, as if he was too excited even to smile.

  We had to batter and push through the crowd, as if it was a wall; but finally we went past the guards checking tickets, past the policemen, who looked us up and down with their hands on their guns, and got to our seats in the stand on the north side. Leon wiped his glasses on his shirt, glancing round. He looked tired. When he caught my eye, he smiled, but as if it was a duty.

  ‘Thanks for the tickets, Leon.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Papa said he hoped none of your professors saw you and disapproved.’

  ‘My prof–’ Leon started to say, and then stopped suddenly, as if he’d caught himself before he made a mistake. ‘Oh. Yes. No, well . . . they’re working us pretty hard, but, well, pello, you know . . .’

  Martin had turned his head to sta
re at him; now he narrowed his eyes. ‘You do still have professors, at the university?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t be stupid,’ Leon said, peering over the shoulder of the woman in the seat in front, trying to read her programme.

  ‘And you are . . .’ Martin said slowly, ‘you are still studying at the university?’

  Leon’s jaw clenched, but he carried on staring at the woman’s programme. He said, ‘Hmm . . . Hiram Jelek has to be the favourite . . . but Angel Corazon, well . . . yes, of course, Martin, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Just . . .’ Martin looked at me, swallowed, and didn’t finish his sentence. We both knew that Leon was lying: there was no point talking about it any more.

  And then the referee appeared, in neat black and white, with his notepad and his striped flag and the white silk bag that held the ball. He was followed by an official who stood in the middle of the court with the King’s Cup in his hands and announced something. The crowd was roaring so loudly no one could hear what he said, but it didn’t matter because there was a drum roll, and someone drew aside the curtain over the entrance to the tunnel of draped red-and-green silk that led from the changing rooms.

  I saw the announcer’s mouth make the shape of ‘Angel Corazon’.

  My heart pounded in the roof of my mouth and behind my eyes, as if it was inside my skull.

  He came out into the arena, blinking a little in the sunlight. He was smaller than I remembered, and more muscular. He was wearing clean clothes with a green sash, and even though the noise was deafening he hardly looked at the crowd, just stared at the wall and then at the ground. But he was still beautiful.

  ‘Hiram Jelek,’ the announcer said. I didn’t think it was possible for the noise to get louder, but it did.

  Hiram Jelek had been one of my favourite players, before I’d seen Angel play. He was big but elegant, with a film-star moustache and dancer’s feet. He bowed to the crowd, his hand over his heart, and a few wilting red flowers pattered down on to the clay around him. Someone – a woman – shouted, ‘Marry me!’ and a younger woman shouted, ‘No, marry me, she only wants you for your money!’ The crowd laughed. Hiram Jelek winked, and said something to the referee, who guffawed as if it was terribly witty. Then he turned and shook hands with Angel, adjusting his red sash with the other hand. He wore it over his shoulder, with panache. I noticed suddenly how many people in the stands were wearing red.

  ‘Five minutes warm-up,’ the referee said, still beaming at Jelek. He nodded to the other official, who passed Jelek a string bag of warm-up balls. Angel stood still, his face set, waiting for Jelek to take his place on the court. I could see his hands trembling.

  They started to warm up. The noise of the crowd faded a little. The balls bounced back and forth against the wall, fast but straight, and both players shifted lightly from foot to foot between shots. They looked like friends having a knock-up; but you could see the tension in Angel’s shoulders, the gleam in Jelek’s eye when he broke off to wave at someone in the stands and inclined his head when the crowd applauded. I didn’t want to think he was doing it on purpose, to put Angel off, but there was something in the quirk of his mouth, under that flamboyant moustache . . . Leon leant his chin on his hands, frowning; on the other side of me, Martin whistled tunelessly through his teeth, as if he was sizing up the players’ form.

  Martin said, ‘He looks tense, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Big occasion,’ Leon said, without looking round. ‘Lone peasant standing up against the full weight of the established order . . .’

  Martin started to say, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sa–’ and then subsided, rolling his eyes.

  ‘He beat the Bull,’ I said. ‘And the Bull beat Hiram Jelek.’

  ‘Yes, but only a couple of times, years ago,’ Martin said. His tone was reasonable, academic, and I wanted to hit him. ‘You have to say Corazon’s the underdog . . .’

  Now they were practising serves. I watched Angel, and the cold hole in my stomach got bigger. He didn’t look good. His serves were clean, but straight and slow, and he was frowning every time.

  Martin nudged me with his shoulder. ‘It’s only a game, Esteya. Relax.’

  ‘He had nothing to lose, before,’ I said, and my voice sounded hoarse. ‘Now he’s under pressure.’

  Jelek served with his last ball, and nodded to himself, looking satisfied. He walked to the sideline and stood with his hands on his hips, watching Angel. His smile broadened, and he bent, picked up one of the flowers on the clay and tucked it jauntily behind his ear.

  ‘He’s going to lose,’ I said. ‘Angel’s going to lose.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said.

  The referee rapped on his desk, and the crowd settled to a kind of murmur. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the final of the King’s Cup is about to start.’ He cleared his throat, and glanced at the royal box, which stood on stilts at the back of the west stand. ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances, His Majesty has been unable to join us, but . . .’ He faltered, and then gestured rapidly at the players, beckoning them forward to bow anyway. They swapped a look, then Jelek shrugged and bobbed his head at the empty box. Angel frowned, and looked around, as if he was waiting for someone else to tell him what to do. The murmur of the crowd got louder, and now there was a strident, cheated note in it: they’d been looking forward to the King’s grand entrance. It was traditional. And now the players had to bow to nothing . . .

  Leon said, ‘The King’s a coward. Scared he’s going to get shot. Scared someone’ll notice how fat he is, and cart off his carcass to feed the hungry masses . . .’

  Martin said, ‘So who’s going to present the Cup, at the end?’

  The crowd muttered and subsided slowly. Angel nodded to the box, still looking as if he didn’t understand what was going on. Then he walked back to the middle of the court. My heart was banging against my ribs, and the atmosphere was already simmering, as if the crowd’s resentment only increased their excitement. I took a deep breath, scanning the rows of people opposite.

  There was a still, pale face that caught my attention: a grimy, golden, intent face, with dusty hair falling over the forehead, and narrowed blue-green eyes . . .

  Skizi.

  I felt my heart stop, and start again; and as if she felt my gaze, she looked straight into my eyes, and smiled.

  The referee said, ‘First game, Mr Jelek to serve. And . . . play.’

  Six

  I stared at Hiram Jelek, the blood rushing in my ears, my eyes refusing to focus on the ball in his hands.

  Skizi, here.

  How did she . . . ? Part of me wanted to know how she’d got a ticket – how she’d got the money for the ticket – but the rest of me didn’t care. She was here, and suddenly my heart was racing even faster than it had been, and my bones were singing.

  The crowd quietened down, and I heard the grunt and smack of Jelek’s serve. Someone’s shoes skidded on the clay, and the ball thudded on the line. I saw it through a haze. The official called, ‘Out,’ but his voice and the applause at the end of the point were muffled, as if I had cotton wool in my ears. Skizi, here . . .

  I kept my eyes on the court, my face blazing, praying that Martin wouldn’t notice anything.

  ‘Ten love,’ the referee said.

  I didn’t even know who had won the point. I turned my head and looked at the blackboard. The girl chalking up the points was simpering, brushing her hair back over her shoulder, trying to catch Jelek’s eye. CORAZON v JELEK, 0–10.

  Then I looked again at Skizi. She was watching, still as stone. Most people were looking at Jelek, who was about to serve again; but she was staring at Angel. I wondered if we two – we four, with Martin and Leon – were the only people rooting for him. Surely he had family here, or friends . . . ? But I scanned the front rows of the stands, where they would have been – where Jelek’s glamorous wife and younger brothers were sitting – and there was no one wearing green. I suddenly wished I was.

  I clasped my hands
in my lap, squeezing until it hurt, and watched Jelek serve.

  He served well. It was lethally fast, and it spun off the wall and went wide, just clipping the sideline. Angel moved, but not fast enough, and he seemed to catch his foot on something. He stumbled sideways, too late.

  ‘Fifteen love,’ the referee said, and the crowd cheered.

  Angel managed to get his hand to the next serve, but his return was straight and slow. Jelek had time to adjust his stance, twist backwards and then put his whole weight into smashing the ball straight back at Angel’s face. Angel made a surprised, frightened noise, like an animal, and ducked. Everyone laughed; and it was funny, or should have been. Someone called out, ‘Careful of your good looks, mate!’

  The ball bounced a good two metres inside the court, and rolled to a stop. The referee said, ‘Twenty-five love.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Martin hissed. ‘He looks like someone drugged his coffee.’

  I shrugged. My mouth was too dry for me to speak.

  Jelek took the ball from the official, rolling his shoulders, and then stood for a few seconds flexing his wrist and bouncing a little from foot to foot. Angel stared at him, a crease between his eyebrows, and I felt a surge of frustration, that after all the other matches he’d played he still wasn’t used to a bit of gamesmanship . . . I wished Skizi would call out to him, the way she had when he played the Bull.

  Finally Jelek served, and it was as good as I expected it to be. This time Angel lunged for it, stumbled, and fell over his own feet. He dropped to his knees on the clay, catching himself awkwardly on his hands.

  ‘Thirty love,’ the referee said. His voice was very flat.

  The crowd had started to mutter restlessly: the excitement was turning to resentment. They’d paid to see a proper match, not some clown who couldn’t find his backside with both hands . . .

  Angel stood up. His face was very white, and I could see his hands still shaking, even from where I was sitting.

  Jelek got ready to serve again.

  ‘I don’t want to watch this,’ Martin said. ‘This is going to be horrible . . .’