A Sorority of Angels (16 page)

Shaba leaned over, picked up the envelope, and examined the five one-hundred dollar bills. Then she sniffed them.

“They smell dirty, his ambassadorial and political body odor.” She returned them to the envelope with disdain. The envelope tapped her palm. “Five hundred dollars – an expensive erection. Alise, let’s look at this from an unemotional view. As far as he’s concerned all he wants to do is stick you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I won’t say this, understand, if he loved you. He pays you twelve hundred a month for your half of this apartment, sees you once or twice a week. In a month’s time that makes ten times, figuring a couple of times a night. Math wise, it comes down to you’re a cheap screw. The girls on Eighth Avenue make more.”

“Shaba, that’s horrible.” Alise grinned. “Awful.” The grin changed to laughter and increased as depressed feelings released.

Shaba continued the ranking. “I count the days I know you two get together…and how about the few in between?”

“We sneak in a few…at the office.”

“Goodness! Now you’re down to twenty bucks a pop! And when here, you cook for him and pay for the food. You’re a maid, a cheap screwing maid. I always knew you were a classy broad.” Her sarcasm was humorous.

Alise looked at Shaba lovingly knowing she tried to lift her spirits.

“I wish I could look at it your way. I’m the aggressor more than he is sometimes. When he’s himself, he’s loveable…and humorous, makes me laugh.”

“Honey, you don’t marry a guy because he makes you laugh. You’re not an idiot. He showed his soul when the chips were down. How funny is he now? What will he do if you played hard to get?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out. Tell him you’re in pain for a month that you closed the shop.”

“A month? I’ll die without loving him for that long.”

“Pretend you’re circumcised. I would handle the problem differently. I would shut him off then listen to him grovel, beg, and scheme to find the shop key again – like
Lysistrata,
the ancient play by Aristophanes. To end the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta, the women got together and refused to have sex until men found a way to end the war. The women won. Go on a sex strike. Be stronger. He might discover you’re a person, not a sex object. He may panic at losing a sure thing or worry there might be someone else, might even discover he cares for you.”

“Shaba, that’s good psychology. He wouldn’t care if I had someone else. I’ll tell you something new. He’s a friend of Defense Minister Kabani of Syria, both bachelors. He hinted the other day at lunch that when Kabani visits here in two weeks, I act nice to him and ingratiating as if offering myself as a gift from his loyal ambassador. He can’t afford to provide him with other female company chancing publicity or scandal, and that I’ll be discreet about it.”

“Wooo-weeeee!” shouted Shaba. “Wooo-weeeee! You are without a doubt the Joan of Arc of total abuse by the male of the species. It’s your torch, honey, to carry as you see fit. Damn, Alise, it’s an unhealthy relationship.”

Alise withdrew, her hands moving along her stomach.

“I wish I could have this baby,” she mumbled.

She projected far into the future. Shaba understood. She edged closer and removed Alise’s hands from her stomach.

“Don’t torture yourself. Have it. I’ll help you to raise your child. Once you give birth, your inconsiderate lover may repent. He’ll have to provide you with support. If he fails then expose him publicly. Okay? I promise you all the support I can give.”

Alise shook her head. “No, Shaba. All that’s no good.”

“You’re convinced?”

“After talking to him tonight, I have no choice. I don’t want to chance losing him.”

Shaba shook her head – love and weakness.

“Since I’m returning home at the end of next week. If you must abort then do it when I’m here.”

Alise replied in a low tone Shaba barely heard.

“I’ll do it early next week.”

At eleven the next morning, Erron Horsford called Shaba at her office for a luncheon date. She accepted. Unlike Pilar, Shaba refused to wear losing her two children everywhere. Shaba was socially active, outgoing, and positive. Anguish remained private, and she never felt sorry in public although agony and pain remained unbearable.

Shaba dated aloof of serious involvement, her form of external mourning and deprivation. Although men tried to corner her, she remained elusive. They soon abandoned the chase. When her occasional desire for physical contact surfaced, she suppressed the yearning with verbal maneuvers. After all, she reasoned, she was a married woman, unhappily but married.

She honored her marital commitment to a man she never loved.

Erron Horsford continued the chase. She failed to understand why. His closest physical contacts were two goodnight kisses on the cheek at her building’s front door. They dated periodically during the past four months, yet spoke often on the phone.

Erron persisted, thwarted more times than accepted by Shaba. Often he hoped for her initiative. Shaba accepted his luncheon invitation without hesitation after he urgently announced it was important they meet for what he considered a crisis.

Shaba had a habit, a personal tradition of always dressing up on Fridays to make the day a special occasion. Her philosophy evolved to celebrating the end of the workweek and starting the weekend looking her best.

Before leaving her office at noon, she scrutinized her twenty-eight year old face anticipating wrinkles. Her face remained smooth and taut. After straightening and adjusting the black and white vested slack suit and light green blouse, she headed for the Dorset Hotel on 52
^nd
Street adjacent to the Museum of Modern Art.

Erron Horsford waited in the lobby overflowing with enthusiasm when she entered through the revolving door. Erron wore a blue suit and matching shirt and tie. He was twenty-eight with cropped hair.

“Erron, what’s wrong? What’s the urgency? Are you all right?”

“I’ll tell you over lunch. You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” Shaba looked around in a humorous vein. “If we keep meeting in hotel lobbies I’m going to wonder about you.”

“Stay on your toes. Can we have a leisurely lunch? The food and ambiance in this restaurant is too good to rush.”

“Leisurely,” she replied as they waited at the entrance to the dining room. “I warned you about Fridays. I go first class today.”

“How well I remember and why I recommended this restaurant. You don’t scare me, lady.”

“I should, you fool.”

The maitre d’ offered a cordial greeting and seated them. They each ordered a Bloody Mary.

“Okay, Erron. Why must you see me? What’s important that’s going to cost you this expensive lunch?”

He reached inside his jacket’s right side pocket, pulled out an article clipped from the front page of
The New York Times,
and unfolded it.

She waited, curious. A rendering of a map of Africa accompanied the article with the title – War Continues in Congo. The Congo inset map was gray. Provinces in the war-torn eastern highlands were shaded in black.

“I read it this morning, first thing I do each day,” countered Shaba. “I review newspapers for clippings about The Democratic Republic of the Congo, magazines also. I stay as current as possible.”

“Aren’t you concerned at all?”

“The tragedy isn’t news to me.”

“I’m afraid Congo may change from a democracy. I believe this article is something to be alarmed about – about the rekindled hate, ethnic strife, and brutal and inhumane war in the east, especially in Ituri province. Shouldn’t you be alarmed?”

Shaba leaned her chin on her flattened intertwined fingers topped with a smile.

“Is that your urgency to see me?”

“Yes. I know you’re going back next week.”

“And you’re concerned I may be unable to leave the country again?”

“Concerned about your safety. A broader war is a possibility if these reports are correct.”

“You’re forgetting I’m married to a general. If dangerous in Kinshasa, he’d say so. And that’s a long way from the east. I spoke to him three days ago to notify him of my return. He stated internal progress and stability are in control. Phone service restored but no cell towers yet. I won’t go back if unsafe. Thank you for your concern.”

“I feel better. What do you feel like ordering?”

“Pate and Bouillabaisse and white wine.”

“Damn gold digger,” he mocked.

“I warned you about Fridays. If it’s any consolation, I’m happy to see you, and being with you makes the day perfect.”

“A major consolation. Order twice.”

Shaba looked at him warmly. “Are you really worried about me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone said to me in a long time.” She relayed the sincerity by reaching out and touching his hand. “A wonderful compliment.”

“Must you go back?” he asked. He looked disappointed.

“Been gone more than a year. Time to face my past to see if there’s anything left to my marriage.”

“If there isn’t?”

“Then I’ll return and continue with my work.”

“If there is?”

“I’ll try and begin fresh. Maybe have more children. I miss being a mother.”

“What’s your opinion?”

Shaba let the glass linger on her lip.

“I’m not optimistic. Marriage is a serious commitment in my country. I have to review my obligations. Divorce isn’t as rampant there. My country is entrenched in tradition.”

“Does he love you? I mean, if you were my wife, I’d never consent to stay away from you for a year, let alone a week.”

“There’s room for doubt, and uncertain I want to continue living in a military world. It reeks with death. If anything, I may attempt persuading him to leave the army. If he can then the marriage may be salvageable. Otherwise, you can buy me lunch when I get back. Better, I’ll treat.”

They ordered their food. Erron ordered Quiche Lorraine and Stuffed Flounder Almandine.

“Erron, I want you to know I appreciate and value your friendship.”

“Sometimes I’m unsure what you feel.”

“I have a high regard for you and always looked forward to see you, be with you. You must know this should I decide to stay there. Your friendship is a prized possession. Meeting you has enhanced my stay in New York.”

Sadness enveloped his posture. “And I want you to know, my dear Shaba that I will pray for your return.”

“A true friend will wish me happiness in my own world.”

“As a friend, I do wish you happiness in your Congo. As Erron Horsford, young, handsome, African American, struggling art director in the mad, mad world of advertising I want you back.”

“To help you in your struggle?” she kidded.

“No. To give meaning to my life.”

Shaba was touched. “You’re getting heavy.”

“Honest is a better word. Since there’s a chance I may never see you again, you can’t leave without knowing I will forever miss you.”

The compliment nearly brought tears to Shaba. “I don’t know what to say, or how to handle your wonderful compliment.”

He reached out and held her hand.

“There’s more you should know if this is our last meeting.”

“What now?”

“Take with you the knowledge that I love you.”

I love you – three powerful words Shaba never heard from a man.

“I accept you’re a friend to depend on if I need help. I won’t accept how you feel because you don’t know me.” She laughed to change the mood. “It’s a good thing you didn’t talk like that months ago. I might have had a serious problem with you.”

“I didn’t have the courage then.”

“Coward, waiting until the last minute when safe.”

“I had no choice. The specter of never seeing you again strengthened me. As a friend, I wish you enormous happiness. Selfishly,” he fondled her fingers, “I hope unhappiness pursues and overtakes you and brings you back to me.”

Shaba smiled, delighted at his caring.

For the first time in her life, she felt romanced.

She liked it.

No, she loved it.