Helen Oyeyemi - The Opposite House

Papi: ordinary boy or extraordinary boy? When Mami used to corn-row his hair for him he would think of something and get impatient halfway through and wander around the house looking for the book with the paragraph that was perfect for that starburst of thought. Even if Mami worked quickly she could only get half of his head done at once, then for the rest of the day he would go around with his fingers marking several places in several books, one half of his head neatly plaited, the other half a mass of curls with an afro comb quivering in it. He looked like a retired rapper in denial. Eventually he’d stop in front of a mirror, tut and say, ‘Chabella, I thought you had finished? Somebody needs to take these plaits out.’

Chabella started enlisting me to corn-row the other half of Papi’s head so that we had a better chance of making his hair presentable. But one day he defied us. He went out and came back with his head shaved. He stood dramatically in the doorway and crowed, ‘Ha!’

My Papi loves salt so much he can eat it sprinkled over thinly sliced tomatoes; if he feels his blood pressure rushing he reaches for more salt in case it’s his last. My Papi is so fond of conclusions that he reads the last three chapters of a novel before he reads the first. My Papi dreams of small children who will call him their abuelo . But all that means is that if I want revenge I will have them call him ‘Grandsire’, curtsey or bow, and ask if he will take one lump or two.

Only with Papi can I forgive at the exact moment that he hurts me. It is as Chabella said: there is nothing wrong with my father except that he stopped listening to me. But Awe is not my mother, Chabella is, and she is not on my side. I thought she was fighting Papi and sugar and England with her tears and flowers, but really she has been fighting me, too.

The doorbell rings so urgently and so many times that it wakes me. I go to the main door barefoot, rumpled, and disoriented. Papi has sent Tomás to pick up my plane tickets. When Tomás comes in, I see that he’s surprised by how dark the flat is. He draws in a deep breath and says, ‘Why does it smell so damp in here?’

I could tell him about the leak, but instead I say, ‘Because it is England.’

He is abashed, as if it’s his fault that I’m not going to Habana. He shuffles his feet while I go through my bag for the tickets. I am slow finding them, but I do not think to withhold the plane tickets because I do not think. When I find them, I hand them to Tomás without taking them out of the envelope.

Tomás says, ‘Maja, I did try to talk to him for you.’

I hug him and he resists at first, then he folds into me.

I say, ‘Why couldn’t Mami talk to him for me?’

Tomás lets go of me and says, ‘Mami’s ill.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

He pauses, fumbles for the root of the problem.

‘She can’t find her Santeria beads.’

I am laughing now. I can’t give a reason for it, but my brother wants to know why. His face comes very close to mine and his hands form fists; I press a hand down on my chest as if somehow that will silence me, but instead my hand falls onto my stomach, and we both look, we both look at the bump. Tomás eases away. His voice is shaky. ‘She’s lost her beads. It’s not funny. Papi and I talked about getting her some more, but apparently they’d have to be consecrated and all this stuff and you know that’s enough to send Papi mad because he doesn’t trust babalawos . But this thing with Chabella. . oh. You should come. She’s. . I don’t know. She tutors and she cooks and she makes those paper flowers and she just sits there and she’s so sad. It doesn’t sound like anything. But. . you should come.’

I cross over into the bedroom and bring Tomás the collar. When he sees it, he sits very still and looks as if he has forgotten how to breathe. He thinks I am heartless to still be holding the collar after what he has told me. He doesn’t understand that Chabella and I are fighting. I hold the collar out to him, draw it back.

Tomás whispers, ‘Please give it back. You don’t know how sad Mami is.’

(No.)

‘Why are you blaming her? It was Papi who said you couldn’t go.’ When I don’t reply Tomás says ‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you. Why didn’t you say anything to us?’

I will not answer him.

‘Hormones,’ Tomás says, to goad me.

Tick, tick, no answer. But as soon as he leaves, I call home. Mami answers and her voice is hoarse and thin, and I think, Fight me better than this .

And she does. Chabella says that she is fine. She does not talk to me about the collar. I say I have been tired lately, and of course she is concerned and of course she thinks she has something that will help. Should she bring it over? I say ‘No’ louder than I mean to.

Amy Eleni is brusque with me when she calls. ‘Now, tell me what’s the matter, Maja.’

I am sitting up in bed with my head against the head board; the phone is pinned between my shoulder blade and my ear. My arms feel weak. I didn’t want to speak to her, but Aaron gave me such a look when he handed me the phone. I tell her, ‘Nothing. I’m pregnant. Nothing. I’m going to die.’

‘Shut up! Aaron’s worried sick. You tell me you don’t want to see me, you act all fucked up, but because I’m your best friend you know I can’t just let that stand. Another thing: you sleep all the time.’

‘OK, it’s sleeping sickness.’

‘Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?’

I shut up.

Amy Eleni says, ‘I read my class a wonderful poem, a stunning poem, the Elizabeth Jennings love poem about stargazers, and the only comment I had was anonymous — it came from the back, and it was “I don’t get it, man.” They think they have to “get” it. When I talk about Shelley, this same kid at the back shouts out, “Who’s Shelley?” When I talk about Marvell or Donne, this boy or deep-voiced girl shouts out, “Who’s Marvell? Who’s Donne?” When I talk about Shakespeare, this little shit at the back shouts out, “Who’s Shakespeare?” I look and look but there’s about eight of them with their hands over their mouths. Their last teacher was male, and he cracked after someone spat on his head; he couldn’t identify the culprit and everyone thoroughly denied it, so maybe they’re expert liars or maybe they got this man so nervous he imagined saliva. They’re trying to. . well, anyway, I won’t do it, you know?’

Suddenly I am telling Amy Eleni about Magalys and Papi and Mami. I talk for a long time.

Amy Eleni says with certainty, ‘Listen Maja, I think you’re pulling a Vertigo on me with this distraught chat about oh, something missing in your Cuba memory and how you feel so trapped by your dad not letting you go. The reason why you’re not going is that you know it’s not what you need — what you need is here. If you really needed to go back, you’d come to the regretful conclusion that it’s none of your dad’s business and you’d go anyway. Wouldn’t you? There’s nothing between you and yourself. If Madeleine Elster or Judy really needed to kill herself, then between that person inside her telling her that she had to go and Scottie saying, “Hey you’re pretty and I like you so don’t die,” Scottie didn’t stand a fucking chance. The Elster chick, or Judy, or whoever, she could have just shot herself in the head if it all got too much. But she didn’t. She let Scottie get in the way.’

I listen to Amy Eleni breathing on the other end of the line, and I listen to the leak. I listen to the African news channel that Aaron is watching next door; I don’t listen to what the newsreader is saying, but to how she is saying it, her tone of perpetual astonishment.