Another Country. Anjali Joseph

Чтение книги онлайн.

      That night, she couldn’t sleep. Disoriented, she walked to the kitchen, got water, turned down the blast of the heater, wondered, and silently enquired of her surroundings, like the white-glaring kitchen tiles, What do you want from me?

      She turned on the television: nothing; turned it off, sat exhausted on the floor cushion. The space was snug around her, a small cabin in a large ship.

      She got up and put on a cassette, the first of two in a neat cover printed: ‘Le Nouvel Italien sans peine’.

      Paolo was telephoning Marco.

      Marco non è a casa.

      ‘Marco non è a casa,’ repeated Leela joyously, freed from embarrassment. It was three in the morning; the world was closed for business.

      ‘Who’s calling?’ the woman who had answered asked.

      Sono Paolo.

      Ciao Paolo. Sono Francesca.

      ‘Ciao Francesca!’ Leela repeated with Paolo.

      Marco was not at home, but Francesca would tell him that Paolo had called. He would be back later; he had gone out. How long was Paolo in Milan?

      Leela rewound the dialogue. Though she had moved on to other lessons, she remained attached to the simplicity, perhaps the stupidity of this one, which constituted its sweetness. How transparent they were, Francesca and Paolo! Francesca in a householderly way withheld her identity until she’d verified Paolo’s. The two of them shared their Dantesque names without chuckling over the fact; and Marco, ineffable, slightly mysterious, yet obviously lovable and loved, Marco was not at home.

      She spent the next five minutes replaying in her head the conversation she, after a pause of hesitation, had had with Simon’s answering machine two days earlier. At the start of the week, he had telephoned, said that ‘the other night’ had been fun, asked what she was doing at the weekend, and said he had to go to Dijon for work but would be back on Friday. ‘Maybe we can do something?’

      Why had his apparent diffidence not rung true?

      ‘Yeah, sure, I’m around,’ she’d said quickly.

      ‘Great, give me a call.’

      She’d called on Friday afternoon and left a message; it was now Saturday night, and she hadn’t heard from him. Perhaps he’d stayed in Dijon for the weekend? Perhaps he had friends there? Perhaps he’d met someone, or he wasn’t interested. But he’d said – he’d asked her. But his tone of voice –

      She didn’t want to think about this, and would think about it for hours tonight while time failed to unspool under the fluorescent light. She searched for a cigarette and found one with a baggy fold. She lit it at the cooker and began to smoke without pleasure. The tape whirred and clicked. She pressed play.

      ‘Premier dialogue. Un appel de téléphone.’

      Pronto.

      Buongiorno. E possibile di parlare con Marco, per favore?

      Marco non è a casa.