Her Husband’s Secrets. Louise Mangos

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СКАЧАТЬ I really was beginning to feel like a slut. Or at least an intruder. I recalled the barman warning me that Matt was a Casanova. Jealousy instantly rose like the bow of a sinking ship, but Anne felt compelled to continue.

      ‘She and Matt were together for a while. It was a highly forbidden relationship, not only because of the faculty-student rule, but also in the eyes of her family. When her younger brother Kafia enrolled at the college the following year and saw what was going on, he reported Leila to their parents, and they took her away immediately. She had to return to Mogadishu and plans are underway to get her married off as soon as possible to avoid scandal. She wasn’t even allowed to write to me when she left. Kafia is still at the college, though I think he will graduate this spring, and he sometimes tells me about his sister.

      ‘I think he feels guilty having ratted on her, but the family doesn’t care, and to make things even worse, he has a beautiful blonde American girlfriend. The inequality of that makes me sick. Lucie, I don’t think there is anything … but Matt, he’s …’

      ‘Did Matt and Leila have, you know, an intimate relationship?’ I asked, knowing that prejudices around prearranged marriages meant people wouldn’t look favourably on one of their princesses minus her virtue.

      ‘Of course they were, Lucie; what century are you living in?’ Terri said as she changed into her pyjamas. ‘I heard she was hoping to find a way to stay, or at least to come back later, but I don’t know what’s going on now that she’s gone. I guess the link to her family was too strong. Too bad for her. Good for you, though, eh Lucie? He’s quite a catch, despite his reputation. Guys like that usually get what they want and hightail it outta there. Know what I mean?’

      Terri howled with laughter as she made her way to the bathroom across the hallway, and I smiled uneasily. I wanted to ask about Matt’s rough streak, but I couldn’t believe that someone who had laid his fingers on my cheek so gently could be violent. Her flippant comments validated the barman’s assessment of Matt, but I was sure her judgement was false. People surely couldn’t believe that Matt would remain faithful to a girl he might never see again.

      I turned back to Anne, and saw the apology written on her face.

      ‘Anne, thanks for telling me. You know, I’ve really fallen for him.’ I leaned back on my pillow and closed my eyes.

      ‘It’s not too late to shut it down, Lucie,’ said Anne quietly. ‘That way no one gets hurt. And I mean you. You could be getting yourself into more hot water than you imagine. There’s some weird stuff going on with his family. Anyway, it’s not for me to judge. I knew Leila, but I don’t know Mathieu very well, only rumours from François. I’m sorry to have ruined your magical night.’

      ‘Oh, let the girl enjoy the thrill of the chase,’ said Terri as she came back into the room. ‘As long as she knows the consequences. They all think with their dicks around here.’

      I pretended to laugh it off, but felt a fragment of sorrow as I turned on my side and tried in vain to sleep, thinking how naive I might have been to believe in a fairy tale.

      * * *

      ‘Dis-donc, Lucie, are you okay?’ Yasmine asks.

      I realise my eyes are hot with unshed tears. I rarely show my emotions. To protect myself in this place, and to protect my own sanity, I try to remain aloof. My supposed crime alone elicits a bizarre respect from the others, a morbid fascination. If the authorities thought I posed a danger to the other inmates or the guards, I would have been placed in the high-security block. But they know I am not an evil person. I didn’t commit first-degree murder. I am even housed in the same block as the mothers.

      ‘I’m getting a cold. I have a headache,’ I say pathetically, blowing my nose loudly.

      I screw up the paper and throw it into the toilet, flush it angrily to try to banish the memories. I’m still cross with myself for revealing vulnerability. I sit back on my stool and sigh, steadying the ragged breath in my throat.

      ‘Do you have a partner, Yasmine? Someone in France? In Algeria? I’ve never asked you.’

      Good to change the subject, but I regret sounding so chummy.

      ‘Not really,’ she says. ‘There was a man I was seeing in Lyon. Jean-Claude. He was a sous-chef in a high-class restaurant. But it is not easy, dating a chef. His hours were so irregular. We could never see each other on the weekends.’

      Yasmine’s eyes glaze for a moment, then she laughs and shakes her head.

      ‘I can’t go back to Algiers. There is nothing there for me. My parents are … they no longer exist. They are dead,’ she says with a hesitation that makes me think they haven’t actually gone from this world.

      She’s a pretty girl, unusual yellow-green eyes and long dark hair. I think about her chef boyfriend. If he knew about Yasmine’s activities, he might have thought it wasn’t easy dating a bike thief. Irregular hours, erratic wages. In truth I think her timetable would have suited Jean-Claude, her work typically carried out during the hours of darkness, when the odd cyclist might be enjoying a meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

      The irony is that Yasmine works in the bakery now. I don’t think I could stand the job, too much of a challenge to resist all that warm, yeasty bread. I’d balloon up within days, constantly cramming in irresistible comfort food. I’ve seen others let their bodies go all too easily. But Yasmine has resisted. She’s proud of her achievements in the kitchen. I wonder if she thinks of Jean-Claude from time to time when she’s working.

      I haven’t asked her before about a partner. I often see her in the cafeteria holding another inmate’s arm, Dolores. Yasmine hangs off her like a lover. I wonder whether she is merely a tactile Mediterranean type, someone who thrives equally on non-verbal communication, or if it’s something more.

      I keep my distance, especially in the confines of my cell. Perched on my stool, I watch her sitting on my bed. I’m itching to take my photos away from her.

      I’ve become scrupulously neat, colour-coding my clothes, grey and grey and grey. We don’t wear a prison uniform, and it’s ironic that with the freedom of the dress code I have chosen to wear monochrome. As if my need for colour has been wiped from my palette. I keep my T-shirts and trousers neatly on my shelves like the new season’s fashion in a department store, each folded to centimetre precision. I resist the urge to put the photos back in order. I’ll wait until she’s left the cell.

      ‘You should hang more of your pictures on the wall,’ says Yasmine. ‘I hate all this white everywhere, so impersonal. If we cannot paint, then wallpaper is necessary, and yours will be … picturesque.’

      ‘It’s a prison, Yasmine; what do you expect, Ritz drapes and shag-pile carpets?’ I laugh. At least I have a few plants to bring a little green into the room.

      ‘Oh, you know what I am meaning, all that stuff,’ she says pointing to the sketchbook on my shelf. She gets up from my bed, the pile of photos slipping back onto my blanket.

      ‘Lock-up time soon, I’ll see you later,’ she says, raising a hand as she leaves the cell, the door still ajar.

      ‘Yeah, let’s do dinner sometime,’ I shout sarcastically after her.

      She laughs as she sashays down the corridor back to her cell. Could it be that she actually enjoys being in this place? Her air of purpose is unsettling.

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