The Worlds Within Her (24 page)

But, you see, after he was shot, the first minister ordered a police guard for his room, he visited him, and saw to it that the section of the hospital's parking lot beneath my husband's window was closed off for the duration of his stay, so he wouldn't be disturbed by car noise. All of which, of course, served to increase the people's suspicion of my husband. There are those who claim that this was part of his game — but I am not sure. I prefer to believe that the first minister was shocked by the attempt on my husband's life, that his humanity rose above his politics. If I didn't believe that, I would have to conclude that our island never had a chance — and I choose to believe in that one shining moment, my dear, when everything seemed possible.

And I believe that my husband, too, believed in it. And this was why part of him was grateful for the first minister's consideration. I think my husband was like the rest of us, Mrs. Livingston — a complex of selflessness, self-interest and venality … Human motive being what it is, my dear, we are simply not equipped to judge one another.

No, the attackers were never caught. There were those who suspected the first minister, and others who suspected members of my husband's entourage. Our world was turning Byzantine, but that we recognized only afterwards, when it was too late. When my husband had recovered, the first minister suggested the London posting as a means of being out of harm's way, of letting things cool down — or, as some suggested, of simply getting my husband out of the way. Normally, my husband would not have accepted, but I believe he was touched.

No, he always maintained that the first minister was a bastard, but he wasn't a killer. If my husband had suspicions he kept
them to himself. He never removed the dented medallion afterwards, not even to shower. He was struck by his luck. I remember him holding the medallion in the palm of his hand and saying, with awe,
But gold's such a soft metal …

But there's more, too, you know. I also suspect this was a period where he lost himself — a consequence, I think, of being shot. My husband would sometimes sit up alone late at night, thinking, and caressing the scar on his neck. I would wake up in bed, finding myself alone, and I'd go looking for him. He was invariably in the porch, in the dark, his fingertips massaging at that spot where once there was a hole — rubbing and rubbing as if expecting a genie to arise from it with answers to all the questions he could articulate. Not once did I disturb him. He left no room to do so. And looking at him wrapped so tight in his invisible cocoon, I came to see that he was waiting — or perhaps searching — for a better self. No one, not even I, could contribute to that search.

And then London came up, and I think he thought he'd found that new self, and he was impassioned by it — sufficiently so that he broke a promise he'd made to me the night before we left.

The electricity had failed, as it often did back then, and we were in our room finishing the packing by the white light of a hurricane lamp when I suddenly found myself sitting on the edge of the bed unable to move —

No, the muscles themselves were not paralyzed. It was a question of desire. I had lost all
desire
to move …

No, I was not afraid. I was more startled than anything else.

My husband sat beside me, took my hand — an unusual gesture for him, one he would not have made were we not alone — and made me a solemn promise that he would no longer allow his work to impede our life together. We would go out
in London, to theatres, to cinemas, to restaurants. We would walk and visit the sights. We would have people in, and accept invitations to dinner.

My hand moved in his, my blood quickened. I felt that he must mean it, for he had never spoken this way before. The scar on his neck was, for him, a mark of his mortality.

And right there, Mrs. Livingston — and I tell you this so that you will understand the intensity of the moment — right there with the door closed but unlocked, in the glare and hiss of the hurricane lamp, we shed our clothes and shattered the light.

JIM WAS STARRY-EYED
even in exhaustion. Yasmin, needing rest, sent him to the hospital entrance to wait for her mother's taxi to arrive. He would then take her directly to the nursery to see her granddaughter.

He had spent the long hours of the night with Yasmin, holding her hand, feeding her crushed ice, doing his best to coach her in the breathing techniques they had practised in the pre-birth classes. From time to time he had gobbled a chocolate bar or munched on nuts and raisins to keep up his energy for, as the night proceeded, as the contractions grew ever more ferocious, she came to depend on his strength, on his subdued encouragement, to keep going. His attention had not lagged for a moment.

And after a final excruciating push — her hand crushing his, the nurses shouting like cheerleaders — her daughter had emerged, large-eyed and silent as if herself stunned by the miraculous arrival in a world of bright light. Jim took the swaddled
baby in his large hands and entered a world of marvel drawn in whispers and tenderness. When, seconds later, he placed their daughter in the cradle of Yasmin's arms, they were together dazzled by the beauty of what they had wrought. For an eternity of moments, with the baby blinking contentedly up at them as at intimate strangers, they journeyed into a world of their own, all pain forgotten, all fear drained away. Never had Yasmin felt so light, so unencumbered. She felt she could fly.

When her mother came to the room, she pressed Yasmin's head to her chest and whispered, “Well done, Yasmin, dear. Well done.”

Later, without warning, Charlotte bustled in, the head of a large stuffed dog peeking out the top of a beribboned gift bag.

She pulled a chair up to the bedside, unfurled a length of toilet paper from the roll in her bag and blew her nose. “So,” she said, “how wad it? Like pushing an elep'ant through your thinuses?”

Yasmin laughed through her exhaustion. “Not the sinuses. Worse.”

“Whoopdedoo,” Charlotte said, brandishing another length of toilet paper. “The miracle of childbird.”

Her sarcasm sobered Yasmin. Her friend's attitude seemed an attempt to diminish. For yes, it was a kind of miracle: to have this growth — alien to the body yet wholly integral to it — emerge sentient and fully formed from within yourself. Miraculous. What other word would do?

So she said nothing, merely constructed a wan smile.

“So where's the little whippersnapper? Why idn't she here with you?”

“Visiting hours. People like you arrive in hordes, sniffling and sneezing and pulling toilet paper from their handbags. It's
safer to keep 'em behind glass. Go take a look. Go.” She shooed her away.

“How'll I recodnize her?”

“Just look for the most beautiful baby, you silly twit.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

“Jim and my mom are there. They'll show you.”

Charlotte, putting the roll of toilet paper back into her bag, paused at the door. She turned to Yasmin, and in a tender voice said, “Yas, how
do
you feel?”

Yasmin was silent for what seemed a very long time. How did she feel? The answer that eventually took shape in her mind seemed so utterly simple, she hesitated before saying it. “As if my entire body is sheathed in a silken glove,” she said quietly. “As if no one had ever done this before, or ever will again. Charlotte, I know this'll sound dumb, but I feel —”

“What, Yas?” Charlotte's eyes were suddenly wet.

“Blessed,” Yasmin whispered.

WHEN SHE SEES
Cyril striding out of the trees, a long-handled hoe balanced on his shoulder, a sheathed machete flapping against his thigh, she is immediately struck by the jauntiness that the morning has brought to him.

As he nears the house, she sees that there is relish in the way the sleeveless undershirt clings sodden to his skin; relish in the baggy grey trousers tucked into the high tops of his rubber boots; relish in the mud that clings to the boots.

When he peers up at her and waves — “Mornin'!” — she sees relish most of all in his deep, steady breathing, and in the brightness that is new to his eyes: a brightness that comes from a place and a time within himself.

“You look years younger,” she calls out.

He rewards her with a smile breathless in its serenity.

A few minutes later he brings her towels. “I'm afraid,” he says apologetically, “that the water pressure too low for a shower, and we ain't have a bathtub. But —” she sees his eyes twinkle, “— you could have a heavy sprinkle if you want.”

DO YOU KNOW
what my biggest disappointment with London was, my dear? It was those tiny backyard gardens. Somehow I had expected to find only grandeur everywhere. But those gardens! As my husband said once, all you have to do to water them is spit from an upper window …

You think them charming? I suppose, but there was a dankness to them, a suggestion of a kind of underlying swampiness that afflicts all England really. Even on the hottest of days — and it did get hot, my dear — the place never truly seemed to dry out. It was a place I felt at home in, but never comfortable. I never learned my way around, you know, not even London. Took taxis everywhere if I was alone — and if my husband was with me, walking around, say, he would lead the way, map in hand. I never had to puzzle my way through the streets.

But this — wandering around with my husband, resting on park benches and watching the swans, stopping in at tea rooms
for a spot of refreshment — did not last long. It couldn't, you see. He soon was unable to afford the time off — and then he didn't want to. That's the kind of man he was.

I remember the day this became clear: that his promise to me no longer held. One afternoon his meetings were abruptly cancelled — someone on the other side of the negotiations was ill — and he called to tell me to get ready, he'd be by to pick me up for a walk along the Thames and an early dinner.

My dear, I swear — I shed my resentment faster than I did my clothes for a quick shower. In no time at all, I was dressed, made up and waiting for him in the living room of our flat. I was literally breathless. Now, I'm aware that this probably strikes you as pathetic — that I should be so exhilarated at so simple a prospect. But this was more than a walk and dinner, you see. This was the resurrection of the promise through an unexpected crack in his work.

So I sat in the living room and waited.

And waited.

Shadows grew long in the street outside. Others congregated in the living room. Eventually, I kicked off my shoes, slipped off my earrings, and washed my face clean of the makeup of which I had grown ashamed …

Angry? My dear, it is one of my failings to balk at anger — for which I reproach myself, I assure you. A question of trust, you see. It takes me a while to decide whether anger is justified or not — and by then it's usually rather late in the day. There are those, my son-in-law among them, who admire my patience. If only they knew …