Now, with Prudence and Lionel gone, she had been battling her loneliness in various ways. She’d started working daily in the garden—she had landscaped most of the garden at Mtwapa herself—and now with Hamisi’s help she dug a small pond that they filled with papyrus, water lilies and tiny fish. She attempted to teach English to some of the children living in the bush behind her property and had gone to great lengths to organize a Sunday class in her house. Only a couple of them showed up, brought by their mothers, who squatted outside on the floor of the veranda while Mrs. D’Costa sat at the table with the children. She gave them notebooks and pens and started her first lesson conjugating the verb to be. The children—who had never sat at a table before and had never seen a house like hers—looked terrified. They were unable to follow what she was saying (despite the years she had spent in the country, her Swahili was still poor and too heavily accented), and as soon as one of them started crying, the other followed suit. The mothers apologized. The children were not used to wazungus. They were shy and they “had fear” of her.
That same year, during the monsoon, Anne spent endless afternoons under the pounding of the rain against the tin roof. She played solitaire over and over, reread cover to cover most of the yellowing paperbacks on the shelf—old thrillers, a couple of Daphne du Maurier novels, The Field Guide to Birds in East Africa. In between the daily power cuts she’d listen avidly to the BBC World or talk to her dogs, and one afternoon she finally resolved to teach Hamisi gin rummy so that they could play it together after dinner. He wasn’t as engaged by the game as she’d expected he would be, so she let him win most of the time in the hope of luring him into playing another hand and then another. It was essential that she keep spirits high and not indulge in dark thoughts. It was too late to turn back. And besides, even if she’d wanted, there was no other place waiting for her to turn back to.
Margaret Dobson—Margie to her friends—back in the days of old Mombasa had been a celebrated beauty, with the perfect marriage and the perfect children. A slender blonde with light blue eyes, she bought her wardrobe in England and always had a string of cultured pearls dangling around her neck. For Mrs. D’Costa she’d been just an acquaintance—they didn’t belong to the same Mombasa circles—but Anne had always admired her style from afar. Thus it was with extreme pleasure and surprise that two years after the terrible accident she learned that Margie and her husband, Keith, were looking to leave Mombasa to retire on the south coast and were coming to look at the Wiltons’ plot of land. News of their visit had reached her via Saleem, the old askari who still lived on the premises, looking after the empty house. He came almost every evening to drink a cup of masala chai with her cook, Hamisi, to shake off the loneliness. The two men sat on the baraza outside the kitchen talking in Digo. Mrs. D’Costa enjoyed the sound of their soft cackles that seeped from the backyard into the house while she read a book with Pickle and Chutney snoring at her feet.
As soon as she heard that Margie and Keith were coming to pay a second visit to the property, Mrs. D’Costa sent Hamisi over to the house next door with a note asking the Dobsons to stop by for tea. She then instructed him to bring out the nicer cups and to serve tea under the flame tree on the lawn, where they could have a good view of the sea. For the occasion she washed her hair, put it into rollers and wore a dress with a large floral print.
“It would be lovely if you came to live here,” she said, pouring the tea into the floral porcelain cups. How exciting to have the Dobsons, of all people, sitting on her wicker chairs looking out at the ocean.
“Yes, it would. Wouldn’t it, Keith?” Margie asked her husband, her face eager and cautious at once; she was clearly afraid to commit herself without his approval. He nodded briefly, seemingly impatient with this impromptu tea party, and looked the other way.
He was tall and imposing, quite handsome still. As a young man he’d had a classic appeal, dark haired, with a roguish face with thick eyebrows over green eyes. That wild Irish look that aged well. He had maintained his stature and bulk. Time seemed to have only made him more interesting.
Margie had been the one to keep the conversation alive. After commenting on the tragedy that had ended Lionel’s and Prudence’s lives she noted that it seemed that many of their old friends had followed a similar journey: from their society days at the club, the up-country safaris with the children and ayahs in tow, to retirement on a quiet beach, looking forward to silence and lots to read. Mrs. D’Costa agreed, out of politeness, despite the fact that she’d never been part of the “society days” at the club nor had she been on safaris with ayahs. Clearly Margie had no recollection of how distant their life had been from hers in the days when she and Keith had pink gin at the club every evening. In fact, so many years later, none of her white friends seemed to remember how different things had been before Independence, Mrs. D’Costa thought, but she wasn’t the kind of person who would make a sarcastic remark. She disliked feeling any bitterness.
The sea glowed like an iridescent sheet of mercury. A heron flew low over its still surface, and one could hear the sound of its wings flapping. Two fishermen came walking from the other end of the beach in their tattered shorts, squatted on their haunches by the edge of the water and started to wash themselves, rubbing white sand on their dark skin, in the bluish light of dusk.
“Look at that reef, Keith,” Margie said encouragingly in her lilting voice. “It’s just like a gouache, isn’t it?”
Her husband didn’t answer.
“You could start painting again,” she added.
Keith ignored her. He lifted a stale Barvita biscuit from the plastic tray but put it back. He’d never possessed good social skills, that much Mrs. D’Costa remembered about him. He was always brooding, intimidating; the rare times they’d met in the past she’d never dared start a conversation with him. But now that the Dobsons had landed on her turf, she was the one who was supposed to show them the ropes. If they came here they’d have to rely on her, at least in the beginning.
“It’s very peaceful indeed, this beach,” Keith finally conceded, perhaps with a hint of sarcasm.
“I hope peace is what you’re looking for,” Mrs. D’Costa said, an eyebrow raised, “because here you’ll find plenty of it.”
On the first of each month Mrs. D’Costa drove the twenty miles to the small junction that people proudly called town and stopped at the hardware store to pay the rent. The so-called town was a mix of moldy one-story buildings in need of whitewashing clustered around the post office, the hardware store, the gas station and the bank. A line of wooden stalls along the main road sold wrinkled vegetables and dried fish. The butcher’s sign had ribs and loins drawn by a childish hand. Slabs of meat covered in flies hung on hooks against the bright blue wall. Young men shielded by cheap sunglasses and rasta hats were smoking ganja by the bus station, while the eternal Bob Marley song blared from a portable radio from one of the wooden shacks that sold fries, hard-boiled eggs and sweet masala chai.
Mrs. D’Costa didn’t dislike coming to town, didn’t think of it as charmless or ugly. The memory of European architecture for her had faded, and these days she couldn’t recall much of the geography there and hardly ever thought about it anyway. To her the town was just any African town and she expected nothing more of it other than what it offered.
She actually had always looked forward to her visits to the hardware store. She enjoyed having a chat with her landlord and she liked the smell of sawdust, the dim light filtering from the skylight, the old teak cabinets filled with antiquated brass locks and hinges. Mr. Khan was a chubby man with thick tortoiseshell glasses who seemed always to be sitting in the large chair in the front of his shop, propped up by several pillows because of his bad back. The Khans were a wealthy Gujarati family who’d come to East Africa looking for opportunities and had been successful shopkeepers for generations. Mr. Khan was no longer the one in charge of the shop; his son Kublai had now taken over the business, but the old man still liked to sit by the cashier under the fan, just to sip tea and greet clients while wrapping a pound of nails in a scrap of old newspaper, give out some change, shout an order to one of the younger guys who sawed wood in the backyard. Though balding at the top, he wore dangling white mustaches and kept the rest of his hair rather long, so that he was beginning to look more like a Chinese sage than an Asian shopkeeper.
Young Kublai greeted Anne at the door, smelling of incense and Lifebuoy soap.
“Good morning, Mrs. D’Costa. How are things at the cottage? Did Hamisi manage to fix the faucet or should I send you one of my fundi?”
“No need to, Kublai, thank you very much. Hamisi and I managed. We have a pretty good toolbox. I’ll let you know if it holds, otherwise we’ll have to replace it, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. You know that we are always here to assist you.”
Kublai Khan bore his noble name graciously. Somehow he reminded Mrs. D’Costa of her husband when they’d first met. Kublai too had exquisite manners, a mane of jet-black hair and thick eyebrows. His English was perfect, his words always carefully articulated. He’d been an exceptional student and had spent a few years in England right after high school to study as an engineer but didn’t like it there and had left.
The weather, he’d said laconically. And I missed my folks.
So he’d come back to the family’s empire within the small perimeter that circled the gas station, the tire center and the hardware store, where members of his clan had been undisputed kings for three generations. A melancholic young man, one could have said of Kublai Khan, someone who at some point had followed an impulse in the belief that he could’ve become a completely different person than the rest of his kin. But that sense of a calling had never quite come through. That was part of the reason Mrs. D’Costa felt a special empathy toward him. Like her, he too, had a dent.
Right behind the lumberyard one could get a glimpse of the Khan women dashing around in their starched saris, scurrying back and forth from the kitchen of the house. The smell of roasted cumin, mustard seeds, turmeric and cardamom wafted through the dimly lit shop. A pale little girl with skinny legs brought a bowl of food to her father and grandfather. Fresh chapati and shrimp jeera.
“Would you like to taste some, Mrs. D’Costa?” Kublai asked, placing the bowl on the counter.
“No thank you, Kublai, Hamisi is waiting for me to take my lunch at home.”
“Please. My daughter-in-law is a very good cook,” the elder Mr. Khan interjected.
“I have no doubt about that, Mr. Khan! I can surely tell when a curry powder is homemade and ground with a mortar and pestle.”
The old man laughed. “Of course, of course you can, Mrs. D’Costa. Did you learn your cooking from your mother-in-law?” he asked gently. He knew of course that her in-laws were Goans and that they’d lived in the old town in Mombasa.
“Yes, she taught me everything. When I first came over all I knew was meat, boiled carrots and potatoes!” She started laughing too. “And she was very particular, you know. We had to roast each spice separately, and make fresh powder every morning. She just refused to use the leftover curry from the previous day.”
“That is the way. That is the way,” Mr. Khan said. “In our house it was the same. My late wife also had the same rule.”
He leaned slightly over the dark wood counter and lowered his voice in a complicit tone.
“She made sure the daughters-in-law didn’t use the kind you buy at the duka. You know how the younger ladies now prefer to take shortcuts in the kitchen?”
“Of course. Everything comes in a box, these days. But it surely doesn’t taste the same.”
Mrs. D’Costa slid the envelope filled with banknotes over the counter.
“One day I’d like you to taste my Sunday curry, Mr. Khan. I suspect you won’t be disappointed!” she said in an unusually exuberant voice and, as she heard herself, she felt her cheeks blush as she hadn’t in God knows how many years.
Mr. Khan took the envelope and joined his palms together over his chest.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. D’Costa. And remember, if you have any problems at home, just give us a call and we’ll send someone to fix it for you.”
In the car, on her way home, Mrs. D’Costa thought about Mr. Khan. She felt so at ease in his company; he was such a nice, courteous man and she would’ve liked to get to know him better. She wondered whether she had been too forward mentioning Sunday lunch. She knew the rules, of course, when it came to Asian family etiquette. The upper and lower caste issue—although unspoken—still existed to some degree and her strict mother-in-law would have surely disapproved of her asking a shopkeeper to lunch.
Oh well, we’re all outcasts here, after all. Which means we are all the same in the end, Mrs. D’Costa thought. The idea made her smile.
She left the paved road and turned left, on the winding dirt track that took her home through the coconut plantation. Every time she made that turn she was greeted by the sudden shift from the blinding light of the main road to the shady coolness of the bush. She loved the way the sun filtered through the branches of the mango trees lining the road, projecting dancing shadows on the red earth.
Thinking of what she’d said to Keith Dobson only a couple of days earlier, she nodded to herself: she was lucky to have found such a place to live.