Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

For the first time since her death, I cried. I cried over the wasted time, conversations in which all I did was mock her accent and taste; time wasted in aching to be white like her and blaming her for the failure as if she were the one barring me from entry into a privileged world, as if she were begrudging me a gift she could give.

It was noon when I woke up, the pale light coming in through the curtains. The house around me was silent. I walked around and there was no sign of either Tony or Kornelia. In the kitchen I made myself breakfast and was annoyed that there was only one bun left in the bread bin. Where did this entitlement come from? It was as if I had regressed to a younger version of myself, lost my bearings, and was coming back expecting to recharge. But so far this was not the homecoming I expected. The things in the room were still there, even more numerous in daylight. The telephone rang and I picked it up. It was Grusha Babiker and I felt a sense of relief, as if she, from her home in Khartoum, was coming to my rescue. We had not spoken since my mother died. Now the words tumbled out of me; I told her about Kornelia, about my mother’s things dumped in my old room.

‘They are yours — you must not let this Kornelia take them. Listen to me, Natasha, you need to go over everything carefully. Take the valuable things and give the rest to charity. Do it now, do it today. You are actually lucky, you arrived just at the right time. That woman must have been plotting to remove them out of the house and taking them downstairs was just the first step.’

I managed to laugh at her paranoia, her willingness to think badly of Kornelia. What did I know about her? She was the only cleaner Mum hadn’t found fault with. We bumped into her once at the Bon Accord Centre, all decked out, almost unrecognisable. Her English kept getting better with time. She had a son in Torry Academy and a husband still in Warsaw. Every Christmas she gave Tony and Mum a box of chocolate liqueurs.

‘Tony is gullible,’ Grusha was now saying. ‘I’ve always said that about him. A simpleton where women are concerned.’ She knew things about him from way back before he met my mother. I had heard variations of these ‘Tony, the playboy of Khartoum’ stories before. ‘But really, now, he could do better,’ she concluded.

I agreed with her and promised to deal with my mother’s belongings. It was my responsibility after all. I should have done it months ago. But this was not why she was calling. ‘I tried your mobile,’ she said. ‘The number that Tony gave me. But it was off. For days now. So I am really happy to find you at last. Not that I have good news. Your father is not well, Natasha, and he is asking about you. If you can’t come then at least phone him, Skype with him in hospital. It would mean so much for him just to hear your voice, just to know that you are well. He is proud of you.’

Anger made my neck stiff, my voice impatient to end the conversation. I decided to change the subject. ‘How is Yasha?’

She seemed taken aback, her voice distant as if she was thinking of something else. ‘He’s busy, you know. More and more, he is involved in human rights abuses and with these recent upheavals there’s been more for him to do and more cases to defend. I will tell him you asked after him.’

Galvanised by this conversation, I rolled up my sleeves and started to work. Immediately I found what I badly needed, a laptop and a mobile phone. I could get myself a temporary pay-as-you-go SIM card, I could download my work from a USB onto this laptop. An hour later Tony found me cross-legged on the floor, still sifting through things, but I had already filled three black bin liners ready to give away.

He stood at the door of the room. It seemed he was alone, but I was not going to ask him about Kornelia. ‘If we pack my car and yours,’ I said, ‘we could take the bags to a charity shop.’

‘Sure.’ He looked surprised but also relieved that I was doing all this.

‘Unless you have something else in mind?’ I folded a purple dress. I folded a pair of leggings.

‘No. It’s got to be done.’ His shoulders were slumped but he looked better because he had gone for a haircut.

‘Remember,’ I picked up a deep red velvet dress. ‘She wore this not last Christmas but the year before.’

He shook his head and stepped into the room, sat on the bed. ‘Keep it. Don’t give it away.’

At least he had stopped saying, ‘I’m gutted.’ I must have heard him say it a hundred times. On and on like a mantra. ‘I’m gutted, Natasha.’

I stood up to try on a black jumper. It looked baggy enough to fit me. Just about. A large A5 envelope caught Tony’s attention. He extracted it from the box it had been thrown into, pushed down by a travel pillow.

‘X-rays,’ he said. ‘That time she twisted her ankle in Prague. We had it X-rayed. Do you have a bag for rubbish?’

I pointed to the one nearest the window. He dropped the envelope into it and turned back to pick up the travel pillow. ‘I suppose I could use this, no?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The more you keep the better. I just thought you had gone through all this stuff?’

‘No,’ he said, rummaging inside a shoulder bag. ‘Kornelia did it all.’

Now that her name was mentioned there was an opportunity for him to expound. But I sensed a weariness in him and I accepted it. He did not owe me an apology or an explanation.

‘Would Naomi like these?’ I pointed to a pile of fitness-related things — a Slendertone Abs Belt, a power ball, pieces from a dumbbell set.

‘Yes, I think she would. She said she might drop by tomorrow on her way into town for more shopping.’ He was beginning to systematically look through the box nearest to him.

Naomi was a good ten years older than me. I had always looked up to her and she was generous, giving me time and encouraging my studies. Often I did things to impress her, feeling that she knew more than me, that she had an edge and access to privileges that were beyond my reach. If she was not who she was, down-to-earth, accessible, without malice, I would have envied the uncomplicated way she got on with her life, the sense of rootedness and belonging that was out of my grasp. I would even have envied her closeness to Tony. ‘Will the boys come with her?’ I asked him now.

‘Not this time.’ Tony adored his grandchildren. I had never seen him happier than when he was playing football with them in the back garden or taking them out for the day.

‘Look,’ he said, holding out a large baby doll dressed in a white christening dress. I had never seen it before. ‘I bought it for her on eBay,’ he said and smiled. ‘Vintage 1960s. To substitute the one that got confiscated at the airport.’

‘You knew that story too?’

‘Yes, she told me she never got over it. It still made her angry. She had felt chuffed with herself, participating in the Olympic Games in Rome, coming home to a special welcome; instead they confiscate her new doll at the airport. So I got her to describe the doll and we went online together so that she could show me what it looked like. She didn’t imagine I would actually buy one for her until it came in the post.’ He tilted the doll and the eyelids with their thick lashes closed over the blue eyes. The hair was also plastic, shaped as if it were combed back. ‘Do you want it, Natasha? She would have liked you to have it.’

He held it out for me and even as I took hold of one hard, chubby arm, I felt a stab of irrational dislike. A familiar envy. Yes, this was the baby my mother would rather have had, creamy pink with blue eyes, a child with blonde hair that she could comb straight and pat down, not me.

We worked together, Tony and I, until it became dark outside. We packed the two cars and headed into town, braving the Christmas rush. We made it in time to the charity shop before it closed. Buoyed by a sense of achievement we decided to go for a drink and a bite to eat. It was not easy to find two parking spots but we managed in the end. The road in front of the vodka bar was thronged with a farmers’ market. Various stalls sold cheeses, organic vegetables and fish. It seemed like a long time before we were seated with a menu in our hands.