Niyati Keni - Esperanza Street

‘Looks Italian,’ Lola Lovely said, leaning forward to finger the lapel of Alice Robello’s suit.

‘Milan. Joey and I were there last year on vacation.’

Aunt Mary sat back in her chair. ‘America is ready,’ I said from the door. They looked up at me, surprised. They hadn’t noticed my return.

‘Perfect timing, eh?’ said Frankie Reyes. Then, apologetically to Aunt Mary, ‘I’d just been wondering what your Monica had made for dinner.’

As they settled themselves at the dining table, Alice Robello said, ‘Rome, Florence, Bologna, Milan, Venice, Rome.’

‘So much art ,’ said Joni Reyes.

‘Did you get to the Brera gallery in Milan?’ said Aunt Mary. ‘There’s a very moving painting there of a march by agricultural workers. Fiumana . It puts me in mind of tomorrow.’

‘We saw a lot of paintings.’

‘Everyone does the gallery thing,’ said Joni Reyes, ‘but after a while, the paintings all start to look the same, don’t you find?’

‘This particular one— ’ Aunt Mary said.

‘And Leonardo Da Vinci!’ said Alice Robello. ‘I said to Joey, wouldn’t that David look great in our lobby?’ Everyone laughed. Even Aunt Mary smiled.

‘Will you be at the rally, Mrs Lopez?’ Judge Robello asked.

‘Oh, I’m not one for crowds, Joey,’ Lola Lovely said.

I stood in the corner of the room, watching for cues from Aunt Mary. I’d learned so much from her about generosity. Her eyes flickered over the serving dishes, noting what was left, what might need refilling. I knew she took in her guests’ plates too, noticed who had eyed an out-of-reach dish more than once. When she looked up at me, I stepped forward quickly, trying to anticipate each request. I knew the painting Aunt Mary had mentioned. I’d seen it in one of her books and would have liked to tell her that I’d been moved by it too, by the way the figures emerged from the canvas like ghosts, like stories waiting to be told. Of course I didn’t, though later I decided that she’d have liked to hear it, even if it was only from me.

After dinner, the guests returned to the sala and I brought the coffee through. I thought I’d tell Cora who her coffee had been served to the next time I saw her. I imagined her eyes full of mischief and fury.

Aunt Mary tried again as everyone settled back in their seats, Frankie Reyes leaning against the piano. ‘We really must talk about what is going to happen to these people if we don’t do something.’

‘Why?’ said Judge Robello. ‘You’re not even one of them, Mary.’

‘Exactly!’ said Lola Lovely, her voice triumphant. I looked at Aunt Mary, her dismay, and I thought that, after all, the judge was right. She, like the rest of them, would endure the storm to come; it would be the likes of America and I that would be washed away.

After that, no more was said about it. They talked instead about their children and their plans for university, about the coming year’s vacations, about the scent of oleander, the feel of good silk. When they left, Aunt Mary shut herself in her study and was still there when I retired to my room for the night.

The small square of my window was still dark when America woke me the next morning. ‘Quit grumbling,’ she said. ‘I left you as long as I could,’ though I hadn’t said a word. I followed her to the kitchen where I was met by rows of cooling bread rolls and sponge cakes already sliced into rectangles in their trays. Aunt Mary was up too, dressed for the day in a blouse and skirt, her hair neatly pinned even at this hour. She smiled at me as I came in and though my entire body ached for sleep I smiled too, for the kitchen, rinsed by a blue-grey light from the yard and filled with the round, dark smell of baking, felt welcoming. Aunt Mary had prepared coffee and she poured out a cup for me, stirring in a spoonful of sugar without my having to ask. She tapped the spoon on the cup’s rim to shake off the drops, frowned as the sound rang out in the thin early-morning light. She looked pale and I wondered if she’d slept at all. She placed the cup carefully, almost noiselessly, on the table in front of me.

America sat down beside me and started to slice tomatoes and cucumber, humming softly to herself as she worked. Aunt Mary moved about in silence, an absorbed look on her face. She fetched a tray of rolls from the counter and placed it on the table. I put down my cup and picked up a roll, split and buttered it, sprinkling sugar inside before closing it up again. Aunt Mary sat down opposite me and started to layer sandwiches. ‘Not quite so much sugar perhaps,’ she said. ‘I doubt many of the Greenhills children bother to clean their teeth properly.’ She emphasised the last word. I hadn’t thought to ask who the food was for. I buttered the next roll more heavily and Aunt Mary, watching my hands, smiled at me again. ‘I thought,’ she continued, her tone almost apologetic, ‘that the symbolism might not escape Eddie Casama and his consortium.’ I liked the way she said symbolism: easily, without pause, as if certain I’d understand her.

Around us, the boarding house lay still and we worked without interruption; Benny had left for Cora’s before even America was up and Dub was still in bed. When, eventually, I heard Dub on the stairs, I pushed myself back from the table and started to assemble his breakfast. I examined my face in the polished surface of his breakfast tray as I placed his food on it. If anything, I looked worse. The swelling had subsided but the bruising had risen and spread and was livid to look at. My arms were no better but I had worn a long-sleeved shirt with my shorts, resisting the urge to roll up the cuffs when they got in the way.

I took the food through to the dining room and arranged it before Dub on the table without raising my eyes. I started to pour out a coffee. Dub smiled up at me but, on seeing my face, looked away again unhappily as he had done several times over the preceding days. He picked listlessly at his plate, and though he opened his mouth as if he might say something, he seemed each time to reconsider. I withdrew to the kitchen to let him eat in peace.

A little later he came through into the kitchen. He looked about at the trays of rolls still on the counters, the skyscrapers of newspaper-wrapped cake on the table. America leaned forward, ready to swat his hand, but Dub thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and bent down to speak to his mother. America nudged me. I got up from the table and walked through to the dining room to retrieve Dub’s breakfast tray. He’d hardly touched his food. I covered his plate before I returned to the kitchen, kept my back to America as I scraped the remains into the waste bin. Her eyes were on me as I turned back.

A strong yellow light washed the kitchen now, accentuating the lines around America’s mouth and cutting shadows under the carton flaps as she packed up the food. As she filled each box I carried it through to the hallway and, when the last of them was done, Dub and I loaded everything into a taxi under Aunt Mary’s direction. His eyes swept over the dark stains on my hands and face as we worked.

The back seat full, Aunt Mary climbed into the front of the cab. The driver waited, his brown arm languid out of the open window, fingers gently drumming the warming metal as Dub moved over to his bike and kicked it off its stand. Together, they pulled out of the drive for the short ride to the jetty where Dub was to help his mother unload, before doubling back to Prosperidad and Earl’s garage.

Back in the kitchen I skulked about, finding small tasks and avoiding America’s gaze. ‘You plan to sneak about here all day?’ she said eventually. I buffed the spoon I’d just washed, studied my upside-down reflection. ‘I might not know all the details,’ she said, ‘but I’ll bet you’re the last person who should be shamed by how you look.’