Peter and his lover had made a baby. How? Hortensia asked herself stupidly. When?
At night the house seemed to know there was one less person in it. Hortensia couldn’t sleep. Since Peter’s death she’d returned to their bed, which she’d vacated when his disease started taking up so much room. The sick and their medicines require surface area; when death rounded the corner, she demanded a lot of space. Being back in the bed was strange, back on her side of the bed, deferring now to a ghost. A ghost so real she was unable even to fling her leg across the middle of the bed, lie on his side. It didn’t feel right.
After turning several times to find an elusive comfortable position, Hortensia rose and attacked the pile of books by the bed. She’d moved the pile from the guest room and installed it back here, where she would sleep till she died. Towards the bottom of the pile were the design tomes. There was a stash of thick magazines, the page corners curling. Peter had once chided her for worshipping magazines with not one human on any page. Even the advertisements relied on images of things. Beautiful things, she’d retorted. And there was nothing wrong with that.
She fingered the spine of her beloved textbook. Hefting it out toppled the pile. The book sat like a boulder in her lap. She scanned the pages. The sweet rapture of a perfectly replicated pattern, the simple beauty of a design that was complete, that had everything already, too much and too little of nothing.
It had been days since Hortensia had been up to the Koppie. It felt good to stand high and look down. However, coming back, along Katterijn Avenue, her mood soured. There was Marion, puffing towards her with that damned dog at her heels.
‘I need to speak with you.’
‘What?’ Hortensia folded her arms.
Spring was still almost a month away but the days were longer, the time between rains seemed to be lenghthening. Marion was showing off the results of a recent trip to her hairdresser. ‘What’s that truck doing there?’
Hortensia looked over to where Marion was pointing. A builder’s truck was parked just by No.10.
‘It’s parked.’
‘I know that. Don’t play with me, Hortensia.’
‘Marion, I am not in the mood. My husband is newly dead, I’m in mourning.’
Marion said nothing.
‘The truck is there because I contracted it to be. I have a meeting, in fact, and would rather not be late.’
‘You’re doing some work on … the house?’
‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘Well, you ought to have let us know at least. The committee. Good faith.’
‘Marion, there is no such rule. And you may not realise it, but Katterijn is not a block of flats and you are not the chairperson of the body corporate. That house is mine and, yes, I’m making some … improvements.’
Happy to have landed a lasting blow, Hortensia sidestepped the woman and her mutt.
‘What sort of improvements?’ Marion called after her.
‘Obvious ones,’ Hortensia responded.
The truck was there because it was a welcome distraction, a sensible alternative to thinking about Peter and this child.
Initially, especially when Hortensia had not yet realised that No. 10 was designed by Marion, she viewed the house favourably, or at least she thought it acceptable. It cost an obscene amount of money, but they had that much and many times more. Copious interior and exterior pictures had been sent to Ibadan by the estate agents. There were of course permits to apply for and papers to sign – whenever are there not? They signed them, they came. And soon enough Hortensia heard through the Katterijn ramble of gossip that No. 10 had been Marion’s first-ever design. Apparently Marion had been vying to own it herself. This explained the kind of reception Hortensia had received from Marion when they first arrived.
It was a hot day and the walk up the Koppie had left her thirsty. Hortensia chatted briefly to the builder, explaining her ideas. After she left, Hortensia sat in her study and asked Bassey to bring her a glass of ice cubes. She liked to dip her fingertips in and run them along her temple.
The heat was welcome, though, as was the lack of rain. The weather was encouraging for the works that were about to commence. The fewer rain-days, the better. No delays, no gaps leaving room for all the thoughts she was trying to keep at bay. The building works were to be Hortensia’s opium. To this end, ever since the idea had occurred to her, she’d been busy with it. Knocking down walls would mean new plaster. The chore of trying to match a new can of paint to the existing was hopeless. So new paint it was. A few sheets of wallpaper for special places. She took the samples to bed. During the day Hortensia made labelled and dimensioned sketches for the contractors. Today she was preparing a work schedule; it gave no consideration to rain-days.