Hortensia nodded. It was dark outside; there was not much to see in the quiet street – the people of Katterijn (forever impervious to Hortensia’s common sense) had expressly asked of City Council that no street lights be erected – it’s a conservation area, they insisted; street lights will only dampen our chances of seeing the stars.
‘She said about me that I could have … Well, she spoke about her home. Childhood memories. About cows.’
‘Cows?’
‘Cows. She liked the way they grazed. And she said about me that I am a hard woman, that when she was still young and new at my house she used to weep.’
‘I see.’
‘And then she said that she wanted to fly.’
‘Fly?’
‘I hadn’t heard properly. It was a bit embarrassing; I thought she’d said “die”. And I asked her. Can you imagine? But no, she’d said “fly”.’
‘Fly.’
Agnes had also given Marion something.
‘Look there.’ Agnes had pointed to a corner in the room.
Marion rose.
‘Inside the cupboard.’
Marion opened the door to a smell of mothballs, a stash of old newspapers, frocks on hangers. And a half-unwrapped painting she just then realised she really loved, a painting she would sell in order to live properly, but would be sad to trade. They’d picked the frame together: Stefano was four, Marelena was almost two and had marvelled at the gilt edges, Marion had agreed it was striking, Max paid for it.
‘I don’t understand how this got here.’
‘By error. I didn’t know until I started going through the boxes Niknaks had packed from the house. I didn’t even know what it was. And then, once I knew what it was … how can I say? I’d heard you talking about “the painting, the painting”. How much you needed it. So I thought … after the doctor said, “there’s only small chance.” I thought … maybe I should keep it. I was angry, somehow. With you. I can’t explain.’
‘No—’
‘It doesn’t matter what happens; a person should be true. Here is your painting. It’s safe.’
‘I’m sorry, Agnes. Agnes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Grudgingly, Hortensia agreed to look after the painting. The works at No. 12 were completed, snags done, insurances sorted. All the money Marion and Max had ever had was apportioned out to the many debt collectors, some in suits, some in vests, some in T-shirts, their sweat-rings ponging up the hallway. The house was going to auction. Marion was to stay at Marelena’s for the time it took to – as unsuspiciously as possible – find a buyer for the Pierneef. Marion fantasised about affording a modest flat; she’d attempted a spreadsheet to work out how many years she could go on living and keep getting her hair and toenails done. Marelena called with last arrangements about when Marion was moving in.
‘Hello, Marelena, how are you? … Good, how are the girls? … Yes, I’m okay. I was just walking through the house … Yes, and guess where I’m standing right now? In your bedroom … Of course it’s still your bedroom, don’t be silly … No, I’m fine – just that, I’ll miss it … Hmm? … Yes, midday tomorrow is fine, I’ll be next door … Okay, bye.’
NINETEEN
ESME CONFIRMED HER flight times. It was like waiting for the sky to fall.
Marion came to visit. She let herself in. Hortensia hadn’t asked for the key back.
‘Your hair is growing,’ Marion said, watching her standing in front of the mirror.
‘As hair is wont to do.’ Hortensia had her head turned; her tennis elbow was acting up and she strained to reach the back parts. She cringed. ‘Knots,’ she said.
‘Do you …’
‘What?’
‘Can I help?’
Hortensia paused, her hand stayed afloat in the air for a few seconds, then she brought it down to her side. She wanted to say something but couldn’t think what. She walked over to where Marion sat on the edge of the bed.
‘You … you need to stand. I can’t crouch. My leg.’
Marion stood up and took the comb from Hortensia, who settled on the bed.
‘Comfortable? Your leg?’
Hortensia nodded. ‘Be careful.’
‘Okay. Like this?’
Hortensia’s neck strained, then loosened. ‘Alright,’ she said.
‘You know,’ Marion said, once she felt she’d found a rhythm, bringing the comb through in slow, gentle motions, ‘all these years and we never even … I wanted to invite you over once, to see my collection of Olivetti typewriters – I know you would have loved them so much. I had a 1950s “Lettera 22”.’
‘You just wanted to show off,’ Hortensia said.
‘Yes. You’re probably right.’
They laughed.
‘Do you think things would have been different? With someone different?’ Marion asked.
Hortensia winced as her short Afro snagged in the teeth. The grey hair parts were more tender, which was unfair because they were more coarse than the hair on the rest of her head, more prone to knotting.
‘Sorry.’
‘Gently,’ Hortensia whispered.
Marion laid the fingers of her free hand on Hortensia’s forehead. Her fingertips were cool and damp.
‘Sorry,’ she repeated.