Chinelo Okparanta - Happiness, Like Water

It was then that I understood. That there was something else to it.

Ifeinwa toys with the ring around her finger, turning it clockwise and then counter-clockwise. Celeste sips from her glass of wine. I watch them both.

‘The next step is deciding a date,’ Celeste says.

Ifeinwa nods. ‘It might be far, the date,’ she says. ‘You see, the traditional wedding will have to be done in Nigeria. Planning for all that will take some time.’

Celeste turns to me. ‘I imagine it’s a lot to plan,’ she says.

I nod.

She begins to rise from her seat. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘It’s certainly getting late. Thank you for the wine. But time for me to head back home.’

Ifeinwa rises and walks Celeste to the door. I rise too.

At the door, they hug. I stand behind Ifeinwa, and when they are done with their hug, my hands find their way to Ifeinwa’s waist. They rest there, lightly, in the groove between her waist and her hips. Celeste looks in the direction of my hands. She doesn’t move to hug me too. Instead she raises a hand and waves.

It is some time, five or so minutes, before I open the tube of designs. I slide the designs out, and I announce to Ifeinwa that I should have returned the tube right away to Celeste. I tell her that I will run downstairs with it. Who knows, perhaps I will catch Celeste still on Lenox Street, maybe at worst on Beacon Street.

Ifeinwa only nods. For a moment I think I see a question forming in her eyes. But she shakes it away. ‘Well, hurry up,’ she says.

Just outside our building, there is a courtyard. The courtyard is all concrete, save for the swings and slides and see-saws, which are plastic and metal and nearly colourless in the dark.

We are standing beyond where the courtyard is, at a distance from the entrance of the building. We are one level above the courtyard, at the top of the steps that lead to the street. We stand there, because there is where Celeste has chosen to wait for me.

I lean on the black metal railing near the top of the steps. It is a little to the corner, not directly visible from the steps.

Celeste leans against me. A cedar tree hovers above us. Its aroma is spicy but also like the scent of berries and nuts: it mixes well with the lavender of Celeste’s body.

There is a little light coming from a street lamp not far away, which causes there to be shadows. Our shadows on the grey concrete walkway are long.

Celeste leans harder against me so that I can feel the pressure of the railing on my bottom and on the backs of my upper thighs. She buries her face in the crook of my neck. She kisses me there. They are light — barely there, the kisses — like the brush of a butterfly’s wings.

‘Lucky man that you are,’ she says. ‘Having your cake and eating it too.’ The words come out muffled, but I feel her lips on the skin of my neck. I feel them mouthing the words.

I rub my chin. My fingernails rake through my beard. The sound is something like discord, like the rustling of leaves, only louder. ‘It’s not ideal,’ I say.

Celeste says, ‘What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.’

I stay silent for some time. Then, ‘No,’ I say. ‘What she doesn’t know certainly cannot hurt her. Besides, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.’

She chuckles softly. She kisses me on the lips and lingers. She teases and bites and lingers some more. She tugs at my waistband and pulls out the hem of my tucked shirt. She runs her fingers under the shirt. She moans. Beneath our feet the cones of the cedar crumble.

It is probably after midnight by then. There are no children’s voices emerging from the courtyard, no adult chatter, no laughter. Just the sound of a cone or two falling to the ground, the sound of Celeste and me crumbling them under our shoes.

There are the rustling of perhaps a pair of squirrels, their tiny feet cutting across the concrete and the grass. The crickets chirp, those mating sounds that are a little like sounds of alarm.

My hands move against Celeste’s body wilfully, as they have done all these years, all the mornings and afternoons at the firm, or in the apartment, while Ifeinwa is away at class.

I slide her skirt upwards, so that it bunches at the fullest part of her hips. I place my legs between her legs, force her thighs open that way.

She is tugging at the front of my trousers, at the zipper there, when the shadow emerges from the direction of the courtyard, from the direction of the steps. I look up to take it in completely with my eyes. When I do, I see that Ifeinwa is the shadow, that she has stopped in her tracks, and that she is watching me. She holds her arms around her body, because, of course, in that dress, she is cold.

Even in the near darkness, there is something pure about her face. It is after all artless and unprocessed in a way that Celeste’s is not.

Ifeinwa’s face isn’t angry, only more than a little bewildered. She jerks her head around as if she doesn’t know where to look.

I allow Celeste to continue with my zipper. I pull her skirt further up. I lift her until her feet no longer touch the ground. I raise myself from the railing so that I’m no longer leaning on it.

Celeste raises her legs, wraps them tightly around me so that they take up the space between the railing and my back.

I kiss Celeste forcefully, defiantly. I unbutton her blouse so that her brassiere shows from the front. I am astonished by my cruelty, so I pretend that Ifeinwa is not really there.

‘Nonso!’ Ifeinwa screams. She steps forward, continues towards me. Celeste tenses up. All movements cease.

I loosen my grip on Celeste. I lower her so that her feet return to the ground. She pulls her skirt back down over her hips, her thighs. She does not bother to cover her bare chest. She turns so that she is facing Ifeinwa.

‘Chi m o!’ Ifeinwa exclaims. ‘My God!’ Then, ‘Nonso, what are you doing? What have you done?’ She glares at me, then she turns her head, her eyes so that she is no longer looking at me, so that she is looking directly into Celeste’s face.

‘Sorry,’ says Celeste. It comes out forcefully and soft at once. It is the second time that I see her apologize. It is not sincere. She says the word, but her eyes are cold and impenitent, as if she is resenting the fact that she should have to apologize at all.

My eyes shift from Celeste to Ifeinwa. For a short while, I take turns between the two of them, glancing erratically from one to the other. Finally my eyes settle again on Celeste. I observe the look of self-satisfaction, now even a little more like triumph, on her face. The realization is something like the movement of air, slow-forming, impalpable at first, then building and building until it is quite visible to my eyes, until the branches shake and quiver in the wind, until the leaves hop and skip about. I scowl, because it is only then that I realize my servant role in all of this.

That same scent of lavender is emanating from her but suddenly it appears acrid, like the odour of fufu, except worse. It is terrible, the stench, the most offensive one that I’ve breathed in all of my life.

Still, I breathe. A deep, resounding breath, before a painful silence.

This past summer, Papa finds out that it’s thyroid cancer, and Mama calls me on the phone to tell me what it will mean. ‘First he’ll need surgery,’ she says. ‘And then, very likely, radiation. I’ll need all the help I can get,’ she adds, and I can tell that she is serious: her accent is heavy — English, but with the cadence and intonation of Igbo — the way it often is when she has something important to say. ‘Your papa,’ she says, ‘don’t worry about him. He’s a sick man now. Besides, he knows better.’