Yes, they argued but there had been some favours over the years. Precisely three. Peter had asked Max’s advice and Max had whispered to him about a particular stock. When the price tripled Peter gave the Agostinos half an impala. He’d killed it himself. Marion was horrified but eventually had to concede the sweet tast of Karoo meat. Before his death Max had offered another financial tip that paid off. How is it her husband could help others make money but lose all of his own? Anyway the point was the Jameses owed the Agostinos. It was time to call in the favours.
The thought seemed to settle Marion, bring a calm she hadn’t felt for months, not since Max’s financial acrobatics had become apparent to her. The inevitability of bankruptcy had surfaced the way the ghost comes only after the body is dead and buried.
Of course she would now need to swallow her pride to ask Hortensia for help, but that wound would eventually heal. It would be a small price to pay for a chance not to die a pauper. Marion rehearsed the words she would use and looked through her binoculars across at her neighbour’s house – No. 10 Katterijn Avenue. The words were hard to form. Since the first lines she’d scratched on tracing paper over fifty years back, No. 10 was hers.
Corbusier claimed a house was a machine for living in. Marion, to her studio master’s amusement, explained her position. Didn’t we have enough machines? Did everything have to be likened to cogs and wires in order to make it worthwhile? A house is a person, she’d argued, to the sound of guffaws from the rest of the class. But she’d pressed on and turned in her essay. What was house design if it wasn’t the study of armour, of disguises, of appearances? The most intimate form of space-making, the closest architects might ever come to portraiture. Interesting, interesting, the teacher had said, but not substantiated enough. Marion thought him an idiot with a mind as narrow as a pin and did not allow his tepid response to dampen her own enthusiasm. She’d wanted to design houses the way other girls her age wanted babies.
How do you go to someone who has taken your baby and ask them to help you with something delicate? The pleases and thank-yous. Marion tried them in her head; they wouldn’t come. Not even slowly. Unless there was some other way to do it … She could go to the funeral, for instance, play up a bit. Marion’s mind moved through the steps. The phone rang.
‘Yes, darling … Yes, I wondered … I see … I wasn’t asking for that much money, Marelena. I didn’t even mention an amount. I just needed to know that in the event … Well, tell your hubby I don’t need his money, then. I have an idea anyway, so maybe I won’t need your help after all … I’ll tell you when I’ve worked it all out … What do you mean, why am I being so … I realise that, Marelena … Yes, you too … okay. Bye.’
Marion eyed the painting. Send flowers, go to the funeral, then wait some days; at the right moment, strike. Worth a try.
Back on the porch, Marion drank her tea but it was cold and she could only taste bile. After No. 10 was complete and the Norwegians living in it, nothing had alleviated that sunken feeling in the bottom of Marion’s belly. Not a marriage to Max, not one child after another. Not starting her practice. Nothing.
FOUR
‘WOULD YOU LIKE to see him?’ the mortician asked Hortensia.
I’ve seen him already, Hortensia thought, but she nodded. You were supposed to nod, you were supposed to want to say goodbye one last time in private. The world was funny, encouraging you to speak to dead bodies. Hortensia tried to get comfortable on the low couch with missing studs while the woman – had she called herself Meredith? – made a phone call. ‘Are you ready for her?’ the woman said into the receiver.
Hortensia tuned her out. The nice thing about being old is that you can literally moderate your hearing, and these days there was little worth listening to. The mortician’s office was two chairs, the couch and a wide desk with nothing on it except a pair of hands belonging to … Meredith (maybe) and a lamp that made Hortensia wonder if the woman worked nights. All the furniture was low; it looked as if someone had tried to go for minimal and chic, but ended up with cheap instead. Meredith, a large woman, bulged out of the chair, a Raggedy Ann doll sitting for tea with Barbie furniture. Hortensia studied her, unashamed when the woman caught her eye occasionally. The thing about turning off your hearing is you lose all inhibition. Hortensia examined the mottled skin of the woman’s arms that poked out from black puffy sleeves. Her chubby wrists. She had a strange birthmark on the tip of her index finger, a dark splodge of ink-black that had the effect of making her look grimy.
‘Pardon?’ Hortensia said, turning the dial.
‘Sorry for the wait. We’re almost finished preparing him.’ She pushed her chair out and rose. ‘Be right back.’
Hortensia shrugged but not enough to be seen. This was another skill of her age: the infinitesimal shrug that let you pour heaps of blame, hopelessness and a sense of being victimised onto the world without having to contend with any resistance. Meredith – or was it Judith? – closed the door behind her, only to open it again a few minutes later.