Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

Omar’s story is long and fractured, full of ‘if and ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’. There has been a possible sighting, in Baghdad. But it comes at three or four removes. The source is ‘a crazy boy called Mohammed’, the cousin of a cousin of Omar’s new wife — Omar is going to meet him tomorrow. Mohammed is one of the rash young men who trekked to Iraq as volunteers, hoping to fight the Americans. He came home, injured, some time after the war, and spent months in Tripoli recovering. “He says the volunteers had a terrible time. No one in Baghdad was ready to trust them. The civilians were worse than the military. You see, people think they are suicide bombers. No one was going to let them fight—”

“I do not care, Omar. Tell me about Jamie.”

“There is a zoo, you know. A zoo in Baghdad.”

“What are you talking about, a zoo? Is Jamie alive? Do not torture me.”

“Be patient, Mary. Let me finish my story.”

And so she stands and suffers, clutching the phone, while the story continues at Omar’s pace.

Baghdad Zoo was in a desperate state, because of the bombing, the shortages. There was a blind bear, some mangy wolves that once belonged to Saddam Hussein’s son, everything half-starving or half-mad. “According to Mohammed, a Libyan was there. He heard about him from another volunteer. This boy was young, like Jamil, and from Tripoli, helping out because there was no one else. Mohammed is not sure of his name. But then Awatef asks Mohammed if it could be Jamil, and he says maybe. But only maybe. Then I ask him on the phone, and he says he thinks it is.”

“He is not certain.”

“He is not certain. I think he never met him, he just heard about him.”

“It could be nothing,” says Mary, slowly.

“It can be everything,” says Omar. “You know our son, how he feel for the animals, how he wants to take care of them.”

“If it is him,” asks Mary, suddenly agonised, “why hasn’t he rung us? Does he hate us, Omar?”

“Perhaps he is ashamed of running away. Perhaps he is ill. Or perhaps it is not Jamie. Mary, I am going to Baghdad next week. I could not go before, because my wife — my other wife — is ill, Mary. I cannot leave her with the little son.”

“The other son,” says Mary, sadly.

She sits, face blank, the tears streaming steadily, for several minutes after putting the phone down.

News. Some news. It is better than nothing.

But it is so much worse, as well. Stirring up all she has tried to bury. Hope is painful, like the pains in her hands after going outside in the UK winter — the worst pains come when she is back in the house, when the blood pushes slowly back into her ringers.

Mary goes upstairs and washes her face, and puts on lipstick, and starts cooking lunch. Whatever happens, people have to eat. She hears the door open as the Henmans come back. “Coo-ee, Mary. Are you all right?” And in fact, in an hour or so, she is all right.

But a little hope can grow too quickly, even in darkness, with nothing to feed it.

She prays to Jesus, “Help me to hope. But help me not to hope too much.”

Two days later, Vanessa and Mary Tendo set off for the village, with Mary driving, since she’s always enjoyed it, and Vanessa responsible for map-reading the puzzle of lanes at the end of the journey. Justin is not coming, after all. At the last minute he has cried off, claiming to have a painting job to finish for his father. (It is true, but he also means to sleep with Anya, who does two hours on Saturday morning. He’s noticed she means to sleep with him . Justin has almost stopped being depressed.)

“You are coming as a friend, and not to work,” Vanessa says to Mary, regally, as the two women pack the car. “I wish that Justin would come as well, but he is being obstinate.”

“I think he has something to finish for Trevor.”

“Oh honestly, Mary, it’s not a real job. Tigger’s only getting him to help as therapy. He could sometimes try to please his mother.”

“He has to be a man now,” says Mary.

“As if I did not want him to be a man!” Vanessa stares at her, indignant, but something in what Mary says strikes home, and settles there, so they do not quarrel.

Mary has remembered something she needs. “I have forgotten my Bible,” she says to Vanessa.

“Oh honestly, Mary, you won’t have time to read it. The whole village will want to talk to us.” (As Vanessa says this, she hopes it will be true, that they won’t think her weird for bringing Mary, that they won’t be, well, racist , that Mary will be happy.) “In any case, we really must get started.”

But Mary looks unhappy, and gazes at the house. “There is something else that I have forgotten.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to buy it in the village. Now get in, Mary, we have to go.”

“Vanessa, I think it is important—” But Vanessa’s in the car, and has slammed the door.

So Mary gives up, and climbs in beside her. God will protect them, if he chooses to.

Soon they are whizzing down the motorway. Mary Tendo loves speed, and drives rather fast, mouthing Luganda oaths at men who try to cut in. She leans forward slightly, towards the windscreen, and seems to scan the far horizon. It is as if by leaning, she can make them go faster, like a sprinter dipping towards the tape. She uses the horn with brutal vigour, marking each time she changes lane.

After a bit, Vanessa says, “You don’t look awfully comfortable like that, Mary. If you keep leaning forward, you’ll strain your neck.”

Mary smiles and nods, but she keeps leaning forward. They are going 90, and burning up the distances, but Vanessa is anxiously aware of the lorries, enormous as houses, thundering beside them. It is as if Mary enjoys a good race. She never willingly yields her space. Of course, she must be a competent driver. When she was younger she drove Justin everywhere.

“Perhaps we could slow down a little. We don’t have to fight to stay in the fast lane. ”

The volume of traffic is slowly mounting as the late October day gets underway. If anything, Mary is leaning further forward, her eyes screwed up tensely, her dark head bowed.

“Mary, honestly, that is a very odd position.”

“But Miss Vanessa, I must drive like this. Do not worry, I am a very good driver.”

“Why must you, Mary?” Vanessa is indulgent. Perhaps it is a Ugandan style of driving. (But wasn’t Uganda famous for car crashes?)

“Because, Vanessa, I am very short-sighted. When I lean forward, I can see the road.”

The speedometer is showing 95.

“What do you mean? Don’t be ridiculous!” Vanessa shouts as Mary swings out and edges a petrol tanker out of their way. They both have to shout; the noise is deafening, and Mary is adding to it, blaring her horn. “Do you actually know what short-sighted means?”

“Yes, Vanessa. It means I perhaps need glasses. I sometimes wear glasses when I am driving, but today I left my glasses in, the house.”

“You’re crazy! You should have gone back for them!”

“Miss Henman, you said that we must leave.”

As the argument intensifies, she seems to go faster. Vanessa sighs, and shrinks back in her seat, and consults the still safe surface of her map, and attempts to fold herself into that miniature world, to ignore the thunderous, terrifying racetrack, but when she shoots a glance across at her driver, she sees that Mary is enjoying this, she is gripping the wheel in her strong broad hands, her eyes gleaming, her lips curving upwards or muttering gentle encouragement to herself as she cuts up yet another juggernaut, and leaves another man making gestures in her mirror, the impotent rage of the defeated male ape.