The Map of Love (3 page)

‘Samantha Metcalfe,’ says Deborah. ‘She teaches at
SUNY.’

‘Is she — are they — together?’

Deborah makes a face as she leans into the freezer. ‘For the moment, I guess. Why?’ She straightens up and grins at Isabel. ‘Interested?’

‘Maybe.’

‘He’s fifty-five,’ Deborah says, putting two tubs of ice cream on a tray. ‘And —’

‘— old enough to be your father,’ Isabel completes, smiling. ‘Is he really involved with terrorists?’ she asks.

Deborah shrugs, arranges wafers in a blue porcelain dish. ‘Who knows? I’d be surprised, though. He doesn’t look like a terrorist.’

Isabel picks up the bowls and follows Deborah out of the kitchen.

When she sits down, he turns towards her. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you, you know.’ His eyes are still smiling.

‘No?’

‘No, really. Really. You just looked so solemn.’ ‘Well —’

‘So, carry on. You were telling me about birthdays.’

‘What I meant was — well, for us, this is only the third time we’re seeing a new century come in. And we’ve never had a millennium. So maybe we’re —’

‘Like a small kid? That’s been said before.’

‘What? What’s been said before?’ Louis leans over from Isabel’s right, his high forehead catching the candlelight. He is proud of his receding hairline and wears his black hair brushed back like a Spaniard’s.

‘You can’t do that,’ Deborah cries.

‘Can’t do what?’ asks Louis.

‘Butt into a conversation like that. This isn’t Wall Street. This is —’

‘Why not? It wasn’t a private conversation. Was it a private conversation?’

‘No, no, it wasn’t,’ says Isabel. ‘I was just saying that all this fuss about the millennium —’

‘Oh,
not
the millennium,’ Laura says, putting her hands to her head; ‘millennium, millennium, everywhere you look it’s the millennium. I thought you didn’t want to do the millennium?’

‘What are you doing?’ asks Louis. ‘I thought you were due to complete —’

‘She’s added on an option —’ Laura begins.

‘But that’s just the point,’ Isabel says. ‘I think maybe the
millennium only matters to us because we’re so young — as a country, I mean. Maybe it would be interesting to see what people in a really old country thought of it.’

‘It’s an angle,’ Deborah admits.

‘India,’ Louis says. ‘Maybe Raji can help you there. Raji?’

The bearded head turns from conversation with Samantha.

‘What does India think of the millennium?’ Louis demands.

‘Why don’t you ask her, man?’ A flicker at the corner of the dark lips, but the eyes don’t smile.

‘Come on, Louis, you know better than that,’ says Deborah.

‘Fucking inscrutable,’ says Louis.

‘Let’s have coffee through in the living room,’ says Deborah, standing up.

‘What is it you want to do?’ he asks as they walk into the living room.

‘I thought I’d go to Egypt. See what they think of the millennium there.’

‘Egypt? Why Egypt? Why not Rome? That’s an old country.’

‘Yes, but Egypt is older. It’s like going back to the beginning. Six thousand years of recorded history.’

‘Are they having a millennium there? Do you take cream?’ Deborah hands Isabel a cup of coffee and waits, the small silver cream jug poised. ‘Don’t they use the Muslim years?’

‘They use both,’ he says. ‘And they have a Coptic calendar as well.’

‘I know they celebrate both New Years,’ Isabel says, pouring herself a few drops of cream and handing the jug back to Deborah.

‘Any excuse for a party.’ He smiles. ‘I won’t have coffee, thanks. We have to be going soon.’

‘I was wondering,’ Isabel ventures, ‘if you could give me some pointers. I’ve been there before, but it was a long time ago, and I haven’t stayed in touch.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find people will remember you —’

‘There, you see, you’re laughing at me again.’

‘My dear, not at all. I’m sure you made a powerful impression. What were you doing there?’

‘I did a Junior Year Abroad —’

‘Don’t you just adore these apartments?’ Laura says, joining them.

‘They’re so gracious.’

‘This one is beautiful,’ Isabel says. ‘And I love the red walls.’

They all look around the high, galleried room.

‘Call me,’ my brother says to Isabel. ‘Do you want to call me? I’ll think of a few people you can go and see. Look, let me give you my number.’ He feels in his pockets. ‘Do you have a card or a piece of paper or something?’

She looks in her handbag and passes him a small white notepad. He takes the cap off his fountain pen and scribbles in black ink.

‘Can you read this? When do you want to talk? Do you have a deadline?’

‘Yes,’ says Isabel. ‘Imminent.’

‘OK. Call me. We’ll talk.’

He turns back. ‘Are you OK getting home? Can we drop you off somewhere?’

‘I’m fine,’ Isabel says. ‘I’m on the other side of the Park. I have a cab arranged.’

The sky throws back the lights of the city, into her windows and who knows how many others. Isabel kicks off her shoes and stands looking out over the massed treetops below. If she were to open the window and lean out she would see, beyond the darkness, the lights of the Plaza and then down to Fifth Avenue where — is it her imagination or can she see a glow where Tiffany’s windows are? Tempted to open the window, she puts her hand on the catch, but it is a freezing February night and she turns back to the room and switches on one table lamp. Two years on, she is still enthralled by the freedom of not being
half of a couple, by the pleasure of coming home to silence, by not having to feel relieved if Irving has enjoyed the evening or to make it up to him if he hasn’t — by the absence of resentment in her life.

It is after midnight and yet she is full of energy. She crosses over to the desk and checks her answering machine. Nothing. And nothing on the computer or the fax. She goes to a bookshelf and picks out
Who’s Who:

Thirty-seven years of music, and five years of words. And it is in these last five years that he has hit the news. In her bedroom, she flicks the television on and catches Jerry Springer, pointing, haranguing,
‘You
had his baby — you
deliberately
entrapped him —’ A fat woman with mascara running down her face along with her tears yells back, ‘He needs to get
real —’
Isabel hits the mute button, goes into the bathroom and turns on the taps.

Hair caught at the top of her head with a giant black butterfly clip, a rolled-up towel wedged behind her neck, the water pale green pools shimmering amid soft hills of foam, she slings her legs over the edge of the tub, lets her arms float and settles into this, her favourite position. The automatic thought comes that it would be nice to have some music but she pushes it aside. How many times has she put on a disc only to be irritated by it after a few minutes? And then she’d have to pad out on wet feet and switch it off before it drove her crazy. She couldn’t do it with the remote because of the position of the player in the bedroom. No, she would settle into the silence, and when it needed to be broken she would shift a
part of herself and the soft lapping of the water would give her the sound she needed to hear.

Would tomorrow be too soon to call him?

Pharaonic toes, Irving used to say, when he was still talking about her toes — about her. Long, straight, even toes that could belong to any one of those sideways figures in the reliefs and the wall paintings, except hers were pale, not brown. She spreads them and frowns to focus on the neat, square-cut nails with their one coat of white pearl. Not chipped; good for another two or three days maybe. And besides it’s winter now and who’s going to see them? She lets her leg fall and slips further down into the water. Toes to go with the name. It was her father who had explained to her her name. Isa Bella: Isis the Beautiful. ‘So you see,’ he’d said, that summer’s day, in the woods back of the house in Connecticut, ‘you have the name of the first goddess, the mother of Diana, of all goddesses, the mother of the world.’ She had been walking at his side, carrying a long stick with a fork at the end, engaged in a divine task: holding it out, waiting for it to tremble, to tell her she had found water, there under the grass-covered earth. And then, on the swing, as he had pushed her, and she rose higher and higher with each thrust, a chant had formed in her head
Isa — Bella, Isa — Bella …’

Keeping time with small splashes in the water, Isabel drifts into memories of her father, her small hand secure in his big, warm grasp, their feet kicking up the spray as they paddle on the beach in Maine — her mother slightly apart, anxious, holding her breath almost, fearing that if she relaxed for a moment, if she let go, this child would be snatched from her as the other had been. Jasmine Chirol Cabot had never stopped mourning her son; she had held on to the birthdays, the Buddy Holly singles, the photographs. Isabel had grown up with a brother sixteen years her senior who was forever fourteen and turning for a second from the fish in his hand, from the ball in the air, from the snow-covered slope ahead, to squint into the camera. An absent brother.

Would tomorrow be too soon to call him?

She slips all the way down into the bath, butterfly clip and all, until the water closes over her face and she feels the tingle in her scalp as it penetrates her hair.

Cairo, May 1997
I am obsessed with Anna Winterbourne’s brown journal. She has become as real to me as Dorothea Brooke. I need to fill in the gaps, to know who the people are of whom she speaks, to paint in the backdrop against which she is living her life here, on the page in front of me.

I go to the British Council Library, to Dar al-Kutub, to the second-hand bookstalls even though they’ve been moved from Sur el-Azbakiyya up to Darrasa and browsing among them is no longer so pleasant. I even write to my son in London and ask for cuttings from old issues of
The Times.

And I piece a story together.

London, October 1898 to March 1899
The light is like nothing Anna has ever seen before. Day after day it draws her back. Day after day it scatters itself on the rich carpets, on the stone or marble floors, on the straw matting. It streams through the latticed woodwork, tracing its patterns on mosaic walls and inlaid doors and layered fabrics, illuminating flowers and faces and outstretched or folded hands.

Anna looks down at her own hands, folded tight in her lap: her wedding band gleaming dull against the pale skin, her knuckles raised ridges of paler white. She unclenches her hands, stretches out the fingers and replaces the hands gently, open, on her knees.

On a low bed, pressed into a pile of silken cushions, a woman lies sleeping. Above her, a vast curtain hangs, through the brilliant billowing green of which the fluid shadows of the lattice shutters can be made out, and beyond them, the light. One wedge of sunshine — from the open window above her head — picks out the sleeper’s face and neck, the cream-coloured chemise revealed by the open buttons of her tight bodice. A small amulet shines at her throat. Anna glances at her watch: she has ten more minutes.