Unfamous Page 9

  *****

  https://callmechiara.blogspot.com/

  Charade Unmasked

  Posted by Chiara on October 08, 2010

  “How do you know all this?”

  Stacey turned from the laptop to me, her forehead straining to look confused.

  “How do you know what they did, what they said? We’ve only just found out that they were even there – have you found something online?”

  “Think of it as a ‘non-fiction novel’,” I suggested, “like Truman Capote. You have seen Breakfast At Tiffany’s, yes?”

  She nodded, though I suspected her expertise ended with a cheap repro poster.

  “Well, Truman Capote wrote that, and then a few years later he wrote In Cold Blood, which was a novelisation of a real-life mass murder.”

  “What – and you think my mother was murdered now?”

  “No, I don’t, I’m just saying it’s a legitimate way of writing about something that happened where we don’t have a lot of information. Historians do it all the time.”

  “So none of this happened?”

  “Who knows? Maybe it did. We know they went to a fancy-dress Halloween party and your mother was probably pregnant. The rest of it’s just context, really. It’s nothing we could get sued over, we’re not making any allegations, just filling in blanks.”

  Stacey gurned, thinking physically, like a cartoon character.

  “And the whole book is going to be like this, is it?”

  “Not the whole book – we will just imagine the circumstances of your parents meeting, then move on to your actual life story.”

  She looked unhappy at having to share the billing.

  “This needs to be a one-fell-swoop sort of thing,” I went on, trying to convince her. “We need to own your mother’s story as much as your own. Anything we leave out, some other writer will grab hold of and research and report and reap benefits from. This is your story and you deserve to be the person to tell it.”

  Via myself, of course.

  “So?”

  I didn’t need her approval, if I was writing the book I would do so how I wanted; if she could write she would have scrawled it down herself. But having her blessing would make the whole process a lot easier. I could let her potter around, do the odd bit of research, watch some old movies in the hope something leapt out at her, and she could leave me in peace to hit my daily wordcount.

  “Fine,” said Stacey, her eyes glaring on the ‘i’ sound. “Get on with it then.”

  ‘Estella had not consciously been looking for a father for her child, but she also knew she could not raise it alone. The money she made from pawning her meagre jewellery would only last so long, and to get her child into an English school would cost a lot. She had fought with herself over contacting her mother, allowing her to know a grandchild was imminent (and would need feeding), but pride prevented her from picking up a pen or making the trip to the telegram office. She would fend for herself, for themselves, as long as she drew breath. But this man, this friendly, kind-faced man with his sad-eyed wife, he seemed to know her already, perhaps in a way no-one ever had. If he had correctly named her mother, did he know she was her daughter? And could he see her burgeoning belly?

  “Not many people know Louise Dulac these days,” Estella said. “No, I suppose they don’t,” replied the diplomat, “but old movies are a real passion for me. I... I shouldn’t really admit this, but I have used my influence before to get hold of old reels, on the pretext that I am screening the movies for people much more important than myself.” His wife looked surprised at the admission, but all three of them laughed, more at the idea such a cultural end could be considered an abuse of power than because it was daring.

  “How did you come to know her work, did someone mention the resemblance?” he asked, innocently. “Do you really think we look alike?” teased Estella. “Oh yes, very much so. I think it’s the dimples...” He cleared his throat and clutched his wife’s hand, feeling himself to have crossed a line of impropriety. “Oh, people often say that,” she replied, trying to reduce the colour in his cheeks through kindness.

  “Is the dress original, vintage?” asked the wife, speaking – quietly – for the first time. Estella smiled indulgently; “I do hope it looks that way but, no, it was made for me by a woman in the Medina. She is a genius.” The wife’s eyes widened, inspecting the detail and the finish like someone who had worn couture enough times to know the signs. “It’s amazing work, I had no idea there were such talented dressmakers so close by.” She looked like she longed to say more, but did not quite know how. “I would be happy to introduce you, she loves to make western designs but doesn’t often get the chance,” said Estella. “If you turn up with a page from Vogue she can usually have a copy done by the end of the week.” The wife’s face shone, like a mirror suddenly tilted towards a well-lit window. And yet there was still a sadness, like something had taken a chunk of her happiness out and not only was it conspicuous by its absence, but the hole left behind could not be concealed from prying eyes. She was evidently bereft.

  Now was not the time for Estella to ask about the source of such sadness, now was a time to consolidate a new friendship, to sow seed for future meetings, to make acquaintances with people her own age, who knew something of her world, to create a network that could support her when the baby came. Should she share her joyous news?

  She didn’t have to. She and the wife, who she had now learnt was called Hilary, took a break from the party to inspect (and use) the loos. “You can always tell the quality of a hotel by its toilets,” Estella confided in a whisper en route. “If they have skimped on the stalls, don’t book a suite!” As it happened, the bathrooms were immaculate marble, the fixtures highly polished and all in working order. “Book away!” giggled Hilary, as the two women placed their orange-filled flutes on the counter, before disappearing into cubicles for a minute or two. They continued their chat back at the counter, restraining stray hairs and wiping away tiny smears of liner and gloss from their eyes and lips. All was laughter as they made to return to the party – until Estella took a sip of her drink.

  It wasn’t her drink. The light and life was gone from her face as surely as if the liquid had been thrown forcefully at her. “This isn’t... what is in this?” Hilary’s shock became guilt as she took an exploratory swig from her glass. “I am so sorry, we must have picked up the wrong glasses,” she fussed, taking Estella’s glass from her. “What was in that?” asked the frightened girl. “Nothing,” insisted Hilary. “It’s just a screwdriver. Orange juice... and a little vodka. That’s all.” An inky black tear started to roll from the corner of one of Estella’s eyes, discoloured by the kohl and mascara. Hilary took a linen hand-towel and stopped it from reaching and ruining the dress. “Are you allergic to alcohol?” she asked, confused by the extreme reaction to a cheeky measure or two of secret vodka. Estella shook her head, then smoothed down the front of her dress, pressing the fabric tightly against her stomach. “I am pregnant.”

  Hilary felt a confused rush of emotions, like several people all shouting different things at the same time inside her mind. Joy, for her new friend. Guilt, at having made her drink. Relief, that such a small amount could have done no harm. And sadness. Most of all sadness.

  “That is wonderful news, congratulations! Here, have a seat.” Hilary dragged an inlaid stool from the corner of the room up to the counter and helped Estella down on to it, as if she were full-term and about to give birth. “Don’t worry; in England, pregnant women are advised that a couple of drinks a week don’t do any harm. A mouthful won’t make any difference, I am sure you’ll be fine.” Estella smiled back, weakly. “I am sure you’re right, it’s just that I haven’t drunk a drop since I found out and it was so unexpected, it might as well have been poison...”

  “This makes no sense,” said Stacey, rudely reading over my shoulder.

  “It’s only a first draft,” I explained. “It’s a bit rough but I will polish it up
.”

  “No, I mean it makes no sense that Estella would have that reaction to drink.”

  “Why not?” I replied. “Pregnant women are very sensitive to these things. Some, like my mum, refuse to take any sort of medication at all, just in case.”

  “That is exactly the point I am making,” said Stacey. “My American mum took lots of ‘medication’, right? She was an addict. I can’t see how a mouthful of vodka is going to upset her if she is shooting up on a daily basis.”

  I saw her point. That is the problem with making up someone’s story, of course – actual facts tend to spoil things. But I liked the scene, it felt believable, and I didn’t want to have to add in nasty track marks to my vision of the glowing-with-health Estella.

  “Have you had a lot of health problems?” I asked Stacey.

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Have you?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Actually, it is. If your mother was addicted to heroin during her pregnancy, it would have affected you. Obviously you were a live birth and we can’t know if you were premature; you don’t look especially small to me, either. But if you have any birth marks or defects, any severe allergies, they could be a sign.”

  Stacey looked thoughtful, as if picturing herself rather than remembering.

  “Nothing like that, no.”

  “Then maybe your mother wasn’t addicted until afterwards. Maybe this” – I tapped the screen – “could have happened and could explain how your parents found out about the baby. It is possible, yes? That’s all we are after. Possible.”

  “I suppose so,” she conceded, sulkily. “So why did she get into drugs when she had a baby to look after – especially if, the way you tell it, she was so paranoid about harming it, me, that she wouldn’t even drink alcohol?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, turning back to my work. “I’ve not written that bit yet.”

  “I think I should get more input into all this – I mean, it’s my story, not yours.”

  Stacey leant over the table, like a storm cloud threatening to rain on my parade.

  “Sure, I think that is a great idea. But you couldn’t remember much of your early childhood when we tried last time.”

  “I couldn’t remember it? You’ve never been there! You’re making it all up!”

  I had been there, to Marrakech at least, I wanted to remind her, and it was all still pretty fresh in my mind, but now wasn’t the time.

  “I am expanding on what we know,” I replied, as calmly as I could, “I’m not making things up. Your parents are real people, I haven’t created them. The Mamounia is a real place, too. I am just helping them all make sense together. Feel free to try and do it yourself – it’s harder than it looks. I don’t just bang my hands on the keyboard and words come out in the right order, you know, there is some skill involved. But if you think you can do better, I can pack up and go home right now. Good luck to you.”

  I didn’t get up from the table, I just waited for a response. And waited.

  “I didn’t say I want to write it myself,” she said, as if trying to contain her anger, “I just want more input. I want it to read like I remember it, not how you imagine it.”

  “Fine. How do you remember it, then?”

  “Obviously I wasn’t born yet, so when you get to describing where they lived...”

  Stacey was of the breed of people who desperately want to be involved in everything until they find out the work required, like a child begging to be picked for a team who then scuffs their shoes on the sidelines until the final whistle; ‘I want to write it, I do... in a bit. Give me a shout, I am off for a snooze.’

  “OK,” I said, glad the kerfuffle had finished. “I will plough on and then, when we are at home with Estella and her newborn, you can come and add some colour.”

  So Stacey slunk back to the sofa, to catch the end of the Hitchcock, and I went back to the sumptuous Ladies’ toilets at the Mamounia.

  ‘Hilary’s maternal instinct, recently awakened then so cruelly made redundant, returned to her in full force. She stroked Estella’s forehead, careful not to disturb the painstakingly set waves framing her face. “If you are worried, I could arrange for you to see our doctor. He is excellent, ex-Harley Street. He attended to me when...” She wished she could suck those last five words back inside herself but Estella was far away, cradling her stomach and inhaling deeply. “How far along are you?” asked Hilary, having realised Estella was thinking only of the life within her at that moment. “Three months,” she replied. “But I have only known for a week or two.” Such ignorance was unimaginable to Hilary. “You’ve only just found out? But were there not signs? I mean, I have heard of women who have given birth on the toilet, not even knowing they were pregnant, but I have always thought they must be idiots. You are clearly very bright.” Estella laughed. “Not bright enough to not be single and pregnant, 6,000 miles from home.”

  Hilary was used to meeting a mélange of accents at almost every social event she attended so she had not been surprised to hear Estella’s American intonation. On first glance, she assumed she too was someone’s wife – women were a rarity in this line of work, they tended to be appendages – so to hear she was single... why was she here? And now the surprise pregnancy... so many questions came to mind but she thought of only one she could ask and not sound either intrusive or judgmental.

  “Have you thought of any names yet?” It was a question that looked ahead only to a healthy baby, thriving in the care of a doting mother, not to a wretched infant born to a drunkard – or worse, not born breathing at all. A pang almost winded her, but Estella had begun to speak and the gasp went unheard.

  “Well... it’s silly really, but in my mind it’s definitely a girl. I can’t imagine having a boy, I just can’t. I’m not an especially girly girl myself – I used to have long hair but I have never been one for make-up and skirts – but I feel such an affinity with her, like she already understands me and I her, that I can’t imagine I am carrying a boy. I just can’t. So I haven’t come up with any boys’ names.” Still shocked by the power of her memory to leave her reeling, Hilary forced out, “But you do have a girl’s name?” Estella laughed again. “You will hate it, I am sure. But I think it fits.” Hilary longed to grab back her adulterated glass and gulp down the vodka to steady herself, but it was out of reach and the action would be too telling; “Try me.”

  “I wander around the Medina a lot, window shopping without the windows. And the shopkeepers know me now so they don’t hassle me to buy any more, they just let me look at the merchandise and people-watch instead. And I am down there so much now that it occurred to me that I might even end up giving birth there. So I thought... Suki. As in, born in the Souk. As in the market. It’s ridiculous, I know, but...”

  “I like it. I really do. It’s thoughtful, it’s fun, and ‘Suki’ is so unusual. Is it Japanese?” Hilary tried to keep speaking so there was no room for remembrance to fill the air around her. “I don’t know... I suppose it does sound Oriental,” replied Estella, who was herself again, insofar as Hilary knew her, anyway. “I should probably look it up before she is born, in case it means something dreadful!” She laughed and Hilary joined in, a little too late and a little too heartily. “Suki from the Souk!” she sang. “I don’t like it, I love it. You must call her that. Suki from the Souk!” It became a mantra to her; as long as she said it, she drowned out all other noises, all other newborns.

  The women linked arms and left the bathroom together. The diplomat was surprised they had taken so long, but they looked so merry and friendly when they returned that he did not give their conversation a second thought, simply providing them with fresh glasses of orange as they returned to his side. “I think I will have champagne this time,” said Hilary, whispering to her husband, “we have something to celebrate.” Estella nodded ever so slightly, and flattened out the front of her dress once more before raising a finger to her l
ips to denote secrecy.’

  I looked up, to invite Stacey to read this latest section, to involve her in the process as she had requested, but she was asleep, as Doris Day’s on-screen piano recital ended badly. For someone so intent on uncovering her ancestors and claiming her inheritance, spiritual and financial, she was going about it slowly. The family tree could have grown new branches by the time she woke up and got moving.

  ‘The rest of the evening involved only smalltalk but Hilary knew she and Estella were linked now; they had shared a moment of great terror together, and come through it unscathed, stronger. Although she was sure the baby was fine, she insisted she would arrange a visit to Doctor Harris anyway, “to be on the safe side.” “It’s my gift to you... two,” she said, as she staggered unsteadily towards the horse and trap laid on to take her and her husband back to their flat in the new town. “You are too kind,” said Estella, “too kind.” She was staying at the hotel, so she waved off the couple and returned to her room.

  The journey home was short for the young couple, yet still scenic. At Hilary’s intoxicated insistence, they took the road to the marketplace and circled, before turning up Avenue Mohammed V. Satisfied, she slumped back into the seat, murmuring “Suki from the Souk” for the remainder of the journey, to her husband’s puzzlement. He tipped the driver excessively by way of apology, then helped his wife down the steps and into their apartment building where, as luck would have it, the lift was operational for once.

  He would ask about it all tomorrow: Suki, Estella and the excessive alcohol – Hilary only ever drank socially, and then she sipped. Attempting to keep up with the intake of other full-time wives and their state-subsidised husbands led only to cirrhosis. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to their loss, in which case he could hardly admonish her; he had immersed himself in overtime over the past couple of months, and his absence was probably as harmful and hurtful to Hilary as her becoming a drunk would be to him.

  But come the next morning, he simply did not have the words. He knew what to say in every social situation, how to extricate a foolhardy citizen from a foreign foul-up, but had not the first idea how to ask his wife if she was drinking because of the very premature baby they’d lost. They had not named it, although the sympathetic staff at the hospital had suggested it would help with the grieving process, nor had they held any kind of ceremony to mark the passing of a life. They had simply gone on as before. Hilary had stopped eating for a while, so her pre-pregnancy clothes now fit again, and they had taken advantage of poor telecommunication links back to Britain to not alert their families to what had happened. For now, only they knew that the baby they had so longed for had been stillborn. Come the due date, they would have to tell everyone but, as Hilary lay dishevelled on the bed, he knew it wasn’t today. They would move on, keep taking assignments further and further from home until everyone maybe forgot that they had ever been expecting, or assumed the worst and it was never mentioned. A conspiracy of silence; a child that had never been.

  Although Hilary had enthused about Estella expecting, he was wary. Another man in his office had recently become a father, and he had kept the news from Hilary, not mentioning the drinks party to celebrate that he had declined, binning the invitation to the Christening. He had spent time the previous evening avoiding speaking to him but fortunately he had left early – to spend more time with his wife and child, no doubt.

  It wasn’t that he himself was not pained but he was, by nature, a coper. He had boarded then spent time in the Army before entering the diplomatic corps; bottling things up and putting on a brave face was the first and most important thing he had ever learnt. But his wife was softer, less able to internalise her troubles. She hadn’t wept outside of their home and seldom in front of him, but he feared finding a trigger that would unleash weeping even he could not staunch. And a pregnant friend was surely a trigger that would only get bigger over the coming months. Perhaps now was the time for them to move on?

  “She is considering calling it Suki,” croaked Hilary from the bed, not moving. “She’s not with the father any more and I don’t think her family knows about it.” He said nothing; perhaps she was still drunk and he could pretend this had never happened when she sobered up. Whenever that would be. “She is American... Are you listening?”

  At this, Hilary lurched to prop herself up on her elbows. Uncharacteristically askew – even in sleep, she was typically neat, her hair tied back, her face washed clean – her light brown hair was clumped on one side of her head like a handful of windswept straw, her make-up from the previous evening an inch or so lower down her face than when she had gone to bed. But she seemed alert, attuned. “We should help her out. She is all alone. She needs people around her.”

  He reluctantly responded, clearly unable to wish it away. “What should we do, what can we do?” “I want you to arrange a full check-up with Doctor Harris” – her voice wavered a little around the ‘r’s – “and when the baby is born, we will help her out.” “You mean, financially? I am sure she can support herself.” His wife’s eyes had a passion to them he hadn’t seen for months. “Emotionally. We will be her family.”

  Of course, what she really meant, as he saw at once, was that Estella and her offspring would be their family, their proxy baby and new best friend. But he simply said, “Yes. If you think that would help her, help her baby” – he subtly emphasized the ‘her’ each time – “then I think that would be a wonderful thing for you to do.” ‘You need a hobby’, he thought to himself, ‘and I think grief is too demanding.’

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