Aminatta Forna - The Hired Man

Matthew only grunted. At that moment Laura came back from the supermarket; her clothes and hair were wet, she’d run from the car. Grace pointed to the rainbows. Laura pushed her wet hair from her face and craned her neck. ‘Mattie, have you seen this?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’

Laura insisted. ‘Come and look, before they disappear.’

‘I said I was cool.’

Laura moved to behind Matthew’s seat, she put her hand on his shoulder, bent and kissed the top of his head. Matthew pushed her hand away. ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, I’m fine.’

‘Why don’t you want to see the rainbows?’

‘Because I don’t, that’s why. Just drop it, will you, I said I’m fine.’

‘Come on, Mattie. ’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, I said drop it.’

Laura flinched, but persisted. ‘Not until you tell me what the matter is.’

‘Oh OK. Well where shall I begin? Um, no TV, the phones don’t work, no Internet. Nothing to do all day, every day. It’s fucking boring here, that’s what.’

‘You’ve scarcely given it a chance.’

‘This was your idea, not ours, and just because it’s your fucking fantasy to live in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean it’s everyone else’s.’

The mood changes. The sky darkens, the rainbows are snatched away. The clouds close in, the temperature drops and down comes more rain, heavy and sullen this time. The caravan closes up, the locals drift away.

After Matthew had left the room Laura raised her head and gave a little sniff, which meant she was being brave. Grace, standing by the window, said, ‘Wow, that was a mood killer.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ I said. ‘Matthew shouldn’t speak to you that way.’

‘Leave him, Duro. It’s just his age, he’ll grow out of it.’

I was silent.

‘You don’t have children, Duro, otherwise you’d understand. I’ll talk to him later.’

I breathed in, I said, ‘There is no English television channel here, but you can get Internet at the library and there is a café in town called the Zodijak where you can get it too.’ And because I needed to leave the room I went outside to bring the bags in from the car. Laura urged me to wait for the rain to finish, I pretended not to hear.

Soon afterwards I went to the outbuilding where the Fićo was parked. I pulled away the cover and began an inspection of the vehicle, something I’d been meaning to find time to do. The body was in reasonable condition, a few spots of rust here and there, along the edge of one window. Despite the day’s rain this is a dry climate, as you know. The car was unlocked, I opened the driver’s door. One of the seats was split and the foam bulged, but here again the car had survived the years and the rats well. I fetched a torch and crawled under the car to inspect the chassis; I assumed it would be sound and it was.

The rain had eased off. Back inside there was only Grace, eating biscuits from the packet along with a glass of milk; she looked up at me and smiled. I fetched the car battery and the engine oil I’d brought in a day before and returned to the outbuilding where I stowed them next to the car. I shook out and replaced the cover. Along the wall of the outbuilding was a shelf where the rakija had been stored. I ran my hand along the underside, snagging my finger on the splintered wood. I searched until I felt what I was looking for: a row of hooks and keys. I shone the torch on them, inspected each one until I found the key for the Fićo.

Laura complimented my hands. She sat opposite me while I worked the splinter out of my thumb with the pin she had given me; when she offered to help I held my hand out for her. After the splinter was gone she held onto my fingers, lifting my hand to the light the better to examine it. Piano player’s hands, she said.

Piano player’s hands. I liked the things Laura had said. True, I take care of my hands. I take care of them not despite my work but because of it. My nails are trimmed to a length of one millimetre, and by the side of my tub I keep a Lipari pumice stone. My sister Daniela gave me my first manicure; she was training as a beautician and had done my mother’s hands and those of my sister Danica. I begged her to do mine next and sat with my fingertips in a bowl of soapy water. Daniela massaged my hands and rubbed in my mother’s rose hand cream, she painted my nails with a clear varnish and when it wore away I begged her to do it again, because I liked the way they looked so much. Daniela gave me a small piece of shammy leather wrapped around a matchbox and taught me how to buff my nails.

Laura’s hands were slim and tapered, with polished, almond-shaped nails. On her left hand next to her wedding band she wore a gold ring, set round with diamonds, on the other hand a small silver ring in the shape of a heart.

Laura said, ‘You don’t talk much, do you?’

I said, ‘What do you want me to say?’

She’d bought Pag cheese because she read about it in a book and wanted to try it. I told her where to go, because even though the cheese comes from the island, in fact you can buy it just about anywhere. Laura had been to the market in Gost and was disappointed. I know what she wanted: cheese and cured meats, olives soaked in oil and vine tomatoes, like in Italy. Instead she found imitation-leather jackets, mobile-phone covers and pickled vegetables. I explained that Gost market has always been like that. In years gone by the farmers sent their produce away to a central distribution point to be sold. What they didn’t send they kept for themselves. Laura invited me to try the cheese and wanted to know what I thought about it and I said it was good, though the truth is, it was only OK. While Laura enthused about the cheese Matthew rolled his eyes. Laura wanted everything to be special: the cheese the best cheese, the house she had found the best house in the best town. She was pleased there were no English people here.

We were alone in the house, the cheese between us on the table. She said, ‘Tell me about your family.’

‘I was raised here in Gost.’

Laura waited. ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Well tell me more.’

‘We were very happy.’

Laura laughed a great deal at that.

‘What’s funny?’ I said.

‘Sorry, Duro, but, well you’re the only person I’ve ever met who said they came from a happy family.’

‘Yes,’ I repeated. ‘We were happy.’

‘What did your father do?’

‘He worked in the post office.’

‘A postman?’

‘Not postman. In charge of the sorting office. My mother had different jobs. She helped in the school kitchens. I used to see her every day at lunchtime. When I was little I liked it a lot but when I was older I was embarrassed about it, I don’t know why. Because my other friends saw her there too maybe, and I worried she would become the butt of their jokes like some of the other staff members. She found another job, went to work in the fertiliser factory. We were five: my father, mother, two sisters and me.’

‘Do they all still live in Gost?’

‘One of my sisters and my mother moved away. My father and my other sister died.’

Laura’s smile disappeared, she said, ‘Oh.’ Her eyes slid away from me. ‘I’m sorry.’

I saw that it was up to me to put the conversation right again, to steer it back to where Laura would feel comfortable, something bereaved people learn to do. I said, ‘It was an accident. In any case they’re gone. My other sister lives in the capital with her husband, work is easier to find there, not too much of it here. My mother wanted to be around for her grandchildren when they came. There it is.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘There it is.’ She still had the olive stone in her mouth, which she sucked and turned around with her tongue while she looked at me. This and the fact I had been made to talk about myself made me uncomfortable. I was about to make an excuse and go back to work when a car drove by. Laura’s eyes followed it through the window as it passed. ‘There must be a party.’