Love in Revolution (5 page)

I said, ‘No, I don’t mind.’

She looked straight into my eyes. I stared back. Her eyelashes were short and surprisingly dark against her eyes. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones, tiny flecks of brown on golden skin. I thought of my paintbox: gold ochre, Chinese orange, burnt sienna.

The church clock struck four, distant and clear in the heavy air.

She said, ‘I have to go.’

‘Where to? Where do you live?’

‘You go to the nuns’ school, don’t you? With the red uniforms?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and suddenly prickled with sweat at the thought that she’d seen me in my uniform, my lumpy red jumper and high red socks. ‘It’s nearly the end of term, though . . . You –’ I stopped. No, I couldn’t imagine her in school uniform – in anything other than her shabby boy’s shirt and ragged trousers – let alone actually
at
school. It was like trying to imagine the sky wearing clothes.

She laughed. ‘Me, at school? No. But I might see you around.’ She swung one leg back over the wall, ready to drop out of sight.

‘No, wait – wait –’

She stopped, and waited.

I didn’t have anything to say. I stared for too long. I blushed again and fiddled with my plait for an excuse to hide my face.

There was a pause. Then I heard her trousers rustle, as if she’d got something out of her pocket.

‘Catch.’

She half threw, half dropped something over the wall at my feet. It thumped on the stones and darted into the shadows in the corner of the courtyard, so I had to crouch down and scrabble for it.

The ball. Angel’s ball, scratched and dusty, the leather giving at the seams, the stitching darkened and rusty for the length of a fingernail. I held it in my hand, not quite believing it.

‘You took it,’ I said.

‘He left it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then give it back.’

I looked down at it. The ball that killed the best pello player ever. If she’d stolen it . . . The Zikindi stole everything that wasn’t nailed down. That was why no one wanted to get too close – that, and the smell, and the lice . . . But Skizi didn’t smell, I thought stupidly. Or if she did, it was of something good, like grass or olive oil . . . I kept hold of the ball, pressing it against my leg like a bruise. I said, ‘Give it back?’

She blinked, unsmiling, then drew one knee up on to the wall and rested her chin on it.

I tried to hold her stare. But I couldn’t do it. When I looked back at her she was laughing.

‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘You know you want to.’

I felt myself smile, reflecting her grin back to her. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

We looked at each other. The sunlight had softened from the midday glare into something richer. She had a sheen of moisture over her cheekbones, deepening the gold of her skin, like varnish. I wanted to touch her.

She raised a hand to me, in a sort of salute. Then she slid off the wall, disappearing in one swift movement like a lizard, so quickly I hardly believed she’d been there at all.

I brought the ball up to my face and touched it with my mouth, smelling the dust and red-dyed leather. I breathed in, not quite knowing how I felt or what I was thinking. Then I went inside.

That night I couldn’t sleep. It was hot; even though I’d opened my window as wide as it would go, there was no breeze coming through it. The moon was lopsided and bright white.

In the room next door, Martin’s bedsprings clanked and resonated as he turned over. There was a thump and he swore, as if he’d banged his elbow against the wall. He couldn’t sleep either.

There was a noise from the street below my window. A key in a lock; then the front door creaked as it swung open, then slammed. Something made a muffled noise halfway between a crash and a tinkle.

Martin’s bedsprings jangled and went quiet. His footsteps crossed the room, from the far corner to the doorway. When I opened my door he was standing on the landing in his pyjamas, looking down over the banisters. He looked round at me, but didn’t say anything. When I opened my mouth he shook his head at me.

There were heavy steps coming up the stairs; two, then a stumble and three more, before they stopped.

Martin said quietly, ‘It’s Papa.’

He’d dropped his bag on the floor when he came in; that was what had made the noise. Now he was dragging himself up the stairs again, with uncertain, clumsy steps.

Martin glanced at me, and in the moonlight spilling through the window his face was outlined in black and white like a woodcut. ‘He’s drunk.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said, and then stopped.

Papa was on the first landing now. He paused, and took his hat off, looking round vaguely for the hatstand that stood by the front door. Papa never got drunk; but he
was
drunk.

There was the sound of a door opening, and Leon stood in his bedroom doorway, blinking through his glasses. He was still wearing his clothes, as if he hadn’t been asleep. He said, ‘Papa?’

Papa looked round. ‘Leon,’ he said. ‘Still awake?’

‘Yes . . . writing a – something for my – a letter.’ A silence. Papa stood still, fumbling at his tie and swaying. Leon said, ‘Papa? You’re . . . back home very late . . .’

‘He’s dead,’ Papa said.

Leon took a step forward, reaching out as if he was going to take Papa’s elbow to support him, but he checked himself. He said, ‘The Bull? Dead . . . ?’

I saw Martin rock backwards, gripping the banister as if he was going to lose his balance. He breathed out sharply.

‘Deaf, are you?’ Papa said, raising his voice. ‘Dead. Got a headache, slipped into unconsciousness, and then died. All in – what? – four hours. I expect you’re pleased, Leon. “Death to the oppressor.” Isn’t that your line?’

‘No,’ Leon said. ‘I mean . . . Papa, he’s
dead
? I never . . . It was only . . . Papa . . .’

‘You disgust me,’ Papa said. ‘You and your bloodthirsty, childish politics. You should have been there tonight. You’d have been ashamed of yourself.’

Leon stood there, watching him.

‘Death to the oppressor, eh? Pray God you never know what death looks like. A little boy, playing at violence and cruelty . . . Why don’t you go tomorrow to offer your respects to the Widow Toros? That will teach you some respect.’

‘Papa, you’re drunk,’ Leon said.

Papa raised his hand, as if he was going to hit him. He stood like that in the moonlight for what must have been ten seconds. Then he dropped his hand and laughed. It didn’t sound like his voice.

‘My Communist son,’ he said. ‘What did I do, to deserve you? If your mother could see you now . . .’

There was silence. I felt Martin look at me, but I couldn’t turn my head. Leon was very still, the planes of his face pale and smooth, his rumpled shirt like marble. He stared at Papa for a long time. Then he went back into his room and shut the door.

Papa put his hands in his pockets and stood rocking gently, looking at Leon’s bedroom door as if Leon was still standing there. Then he made a noise like a hiccup – a kind of hoarse gulp – and turned away. He stepped out of sight, and I heard their bedroom door opening and Mama saying, ‘Darling? What time is it? What’s wrong?’ before Papa shut it again, muffling her voice.

I didn’t want to look at Martin, but in the end I had to.

He said, ‘The Bull’s
dead
.’

‘Yes.’ I hadn’t said anything; I would have had to mention Skizi. But I looked away, ashamed, because out of all of them Martin might have understood.

‘You don’t seem . . .’ Martin cleared his throat, pressing his fingers into the banister as if he was playing the piano: something loud and slow, like a funeral march. ‘Don’t you care?’

I shrugged.

‘We saw him get killed. I mean . . . We saw Corazon
do
it.’

‘Yes.’

He looked at me for a moment longer, and then turned and went into his room; but he left the door open behind him. I followed.

Martin walked towards his bed, but he didn’t lie down; he just stood there, looking up at the press clippings. Hardly any moonlight came through his window, but there was just enough to see the grey of the newspaper against the plaster.

‘Do you . . . ?’ He paused.

I waited.

‘Do you believe what Leon says, about the revolution coming?’

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that. I said, ‘Sometimes.’

He glanced at me with something warm in his eyes. He said, ‘I do. I think he’s right. Like before a storm. You can feel something coming. Something’s going to happen.’ He took a breath. ‘It scares me. It scares the hell out of me. It feels like the world’s going to end.’

I thought of Papa, drunk, shouting at Leon; of the Bull, dead. Then I thought of Angel Corazon, and the Zikindi girl, and the pello ball under my pillow.

‘It doesn’t scare me,’ I said.

There was a silence. Leon was moving about downstairs, making the floorboards creak.

Martin turned away, tilting his head to look at the grey grainy cloud of newspaper on the wall.

He said, ‘I wanted him to lose. I was glad when he got knocked down. I liked seeing the blood.’

There was another pause, as if he was waiting for me to say something.

‘I
liked
it,’ he said again. ‘Didn’t you?’

I didn’t answer.

He reached up, took hold of the nearest corner of newspaper and pulled, ripping the paper away in a great strip. He let it hang for a moment, tore it loose, and dropped it on the floor. He grabbed at the last rags of grey with both hands, scrabbling at the wall until it was clear, with only the lighter patch of plaster to show where the cuttings had been.

Then he sat down on his bed and pulled his knees into his chest.

I said, ‘Martin . . .’

‘Go away.’

‘It’ll be all right.’

‘Go
away
,’ he said again. So I went.

Three

The schoolyard was heaving, full of red uniforms and faces to match, already flushed and sweaty in the heat. I shouldered my way through, ignoring the snippets of sentences: ‘Dead? Really, properly dead? – No, just a
little
bit dead! What do
you
think? – Honestly, where have you been? Haven’t you
seen
the papers? My favourite player
ever
– Urgh, no, give me Hiram Jelek any day . . .’ Yesterday afternoon, as the news spread through the town, there’d been people crying in corners, sobbing into one another’s shoulders; but now everyone had settled down to enjoy the drama. Everywhere there were black ribbons and black garters and black stockings; Ana Himyana even had a huge black rose pinned to her shoulder. I pushed past her, and the silk petals rustled and skimmed my cheek. One of her friends said, ‘Hey, watch it!’ but I didn’t look round. I heard someone else yell, ‘Esteya! Is it true your father was –’

I caught sight of Miren across the other side of the yard and made a beeline for her. Good old Miren;
she
wouldn’t ask about Papa . . . I threw myself down on our bench, dropping my satchel at my feet. ‘Phew, it’s hot. I can’t wait for the end of term . . .’

Miren jumped and yelped. There was the clink of glass on wood, a glugging noise, and then a pool of black ink spread out and started to soak into the grain of the bench. A half-empty ink bottle rolled off the edge of the seat and smashed. ‘Now look what you made me do!’ She was holding a soggy bit of black rag, ink dripping on her skirt.

I swiped at the puddle with my handkerchief, but it turned my hands and the handkerchief black in a few seconds without making any other difference. I said, ‘Sorry . . . what were you doing, anyway?’

‘Dying some toilet paper black,’ she said, looking down at her skirt. She winced and hurriedly put the soggy clump down. ‘For a rose. Did you see Ana’s? Hers is silk, naturally, but I thought if I . . .’ The toilet paper sat in a black mush, oozing ink.

I looked at it, turned the corners of my mouth down and said, ‘I’m not sure it’s going to work, Miren.’

She nodded. ‘I had a black ribbon, but Mama borrowed it, and she said black garters with red socks were cheap and fast, and when I saw Ana’s rose . . .’

I looked at Ana and her friends, in spite of myself. She was laughing and stroking her rose with her slim white fingers. She was wearing red nail polish; no one else could get away with that.

‘Doesn’t it look lovely?’ Miren said. ‘And the poor Bull . . . I’ve cut out every single article and photograph. I
wish
we’d been here on Sunday.’

‘Why?’

‘Because . . . well, you were there, weren’t you? It must have been . . . so
dramatic
. The very last game he ever played . . . What was it
like
?’

I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell anyone about it; or not Miren, anyway, not like this.