Banishing Verona (7 page)

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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Banishing Verona
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“He's convalescing and you're not helping. I mean, you are today, but in general you're not.” Her voice shrilled. “He could live for another thirty years. Do you want to be at loggerheads the whole time? You said you'd give a hand in the shop, and now you don't answer our calls. You're driving him mad.”
Zeke jerked his head, although he wasn't sure what he meant to convey: Yes? I hear you? No? Even before seeing the shop he had known they needed him. He tilted his tea so that little ripples appeared. “What about—?” Surprisingly Maurice's name was right there, waiting to be used, but he had no intention of doing so. Let him be a blank.
“What about him?” Her earrings swayed: simple gold hoops. “On good days I have a drink with Maurice on the way home.” She raised her cup, then paused. “Is that what you think? That I want you to take over the shop so I can bolt with Maurice and not feel like a total bitch?”
He felt her gaze boring into his forehead, trying to find a way inside, and turned his own on a scaly pineapple, once a sign of welcome, as the many stone ones on doorsteps and gateposts testified, now a fruit they sold only occasionally. Had he thought that? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that his father's anger was suddenly there in the shop, a weight across his shoulders, heavier than a sack of potatoes or a box of bananas.
“This is not the rest of your life,” said his mother. “This is now, and you can always change your mind.” He wanted to protest that that was like asking one of his clocks to run backward, but her mouth kept moving. “Of course I'm going to wait until Don's okay, and I'll tell you right now he won't appreciate my loyalty. He'll think I've cheated on him twice over, once in loving Maurice and a second time in standing by him. Mark my words.”
She gave Zeke another hard stare, as if somehow he were to blame for this too and, reaching into her pocket, produced a little black tube; soon her mouth was the familiar glossy pink. Zeke
seized their mugs and carried them to the sink, where he set to work washing the disappointingly small pile of dishes. He wanted to run out of the shop and keep running until he reached his father. Then he would explain that, as soon as he finished the chef's kitchen and found the non-niece, he would devote himself to fruit and veg full-time for as long as they needed him. He was scrubbing the tea stains from the last mug when the bell pinged. The first customer was through the door, and he and Gwen were in motion.
Once Zeke had asked Phil why he had taken him on, and Phil had said, I saw you at the shop. It was true that, without thinking, Zeke could keep a running total in his head, while tipping broad beans onto the scales and slipping peaches into a bag, but he had forgotten what hard work it was and how noisy. So many people clamoring: Are the avocados ripe? Any watercress? After only an hour his legs ached and his hands smelled of apples and potatoes and money. When he went to the cooler to fetch another box of mushrooms, he had to fight the urge to close the door and sit down in the chilly dark. As a teenager, when he first started working in the shop, his mother had explained over and over that he couldn't simply ask people what they want. He had to be polite. But they've come in to buy something, he'd argue. Why beat around the bush? This isn't beating around the bush, Gwen said. This is showing that you appreciate their custom. Finally he had written it out on a card—1.
Hello
. 2.
How are you?
3.
Nice/nasty day.
4.
How can I help you?
—that he kept in his pocket. Although he seldom referred to it, his social skills did improve. Today, however, he rapidly gave up on 1, 2, and 3 and took refuge in the kind of behavior which used to exasperate his parents, regarding people's ankles rather than their eyes.
From this perspective the boots worn by Mavis were interchangeable with those of many of the younger customers. “Hi, Zeke,” she said, in her velvety voice, “Mavis. I'd like a pound of tomatoes.”
As he stammered out the prices—so much for the ordinary
tomatoes, more for the fancy ones—he wondered was she back with Phil or did she just happen to be in the neighborhood?
“I'd better have the fancy ones,” said Mavis. “Nothing is too good for Brenda.”
She offered exact change and accepted the tomatoes. And then, with five customers waiting, she hugged Gwen and told her how well she was looking and that she hoped Don was on the mend. For the first time that day Zeke saw his mother's lips part in a way that suggested something other than anger or despair.
 
 
By six o'clock he could barely speak; every muscle and tendon ached as he carried in the crates, put the perishable items in the cooler, and washed the floor. His mother was still thanking him when he announced he was off and let himself out of the shop. The streetlights were on and the streets were busy with people coming home from work or heading out for the evening. Among the crowds, Zeke walked more and more slowly until he came to a stop outside a kebab restaurant. As he stared at the meat, revolving indefatigably on its spit, going to Soho seemed out of the question; he would never manage a tricky conversation with Gerald. Tomorrow, he promised the non-niece. Cross my heart. He headed back to the shop, retrieved his van, and drove thankfully home.
He was locking the door of the van when a man's voice called his name.
“Hey, Zeke, where have you been? I was just calling you.”
In the gloom he turned to see Emmanuel hurrying toward him, waving. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Aren't you flat on your back?”
“Obviously not. Let's go inside. I want to talk to you.”
Definitely his old friend, and yet he too was different. As he ushered him into the hall and upstairs, Zeke understood at least one part of the change. No longer did Emmanuel reek of sweat faintly masked by his grandmother's Christmas gift of Old Spice.
Instead he smelled as if three hospital nurses had just bathed him from top to toe with sandalwood soap. Inside the flat, other changes became apparent. In fact, if Zeke hadn't met him first in the dark, he might have failed to recognize him. Gone was the silly little Dostoyevsky beard; gone the peculiar haircut, shaved sides, long on top, that Emmanuel had cherished for the last two years; gone the hooded sweatshirts and unraveling scarf. Now, in sleek dark clothes and a leather jacket, he looked as if he worked for an auctioneer or an estate agent, rather than wielding a paintbrush.
“So,” he said, “you met my friend.”
Emmanuel refused to say another word until he had a beer. In spite of Zeke's protests, he rooted around in the fridge, contemptuously pushing aside yogurt, hummus, anchovy paste, and grapefruit juice, until he found a bottle he must have brought with him the last time he came around, six months ago, and, oddly, failed to consume. Both the exercise of power and the immediate prospect of alcohol seemed to calm him, draw him back from that brink of swearing and ranting that he needed to fall over every few weeks, not so much out of anger, Zeke had decided after observing the phenomenon on several occasions, as to remember who he was. For himself, Zeke poured a glass of water and sank down into the nearest chair. His emotions were swirling and scattering like leaves in a playground on a windy day; he glimpsed joy, rage, hope, amazement, jealousy, frustration, and exaltation flashing by.
At the table, Emmanuel sat back down and, with a fussy little gesture, adjusted his trousers. Why, Zeke wondered, was his friend suddenly dressed like a fashion plate? Only two black hairs beneath his nose testified to his former scruffy self. Throughout their acquaintance, Emmanuel had always seemed to take for granted his own innate and infinite attractiveness. Once on a hot
summer's day as they drove to a job, Zeke had remarked on a rank odor filling the van—maybe a cat had got into the back and peed?—only to realize when they reached the house and the smell followed them indoors that it emanated from his employee. Both his mother and Phil used to ask, with some frequency, why he kept on Emmanuel. Better the devil you know, Zeke would say, shifting his shoulders up and down in the way he'd seen people do when they wanted to emphasize their helplessness. How could he explain that, within a few weeks of hiring him, he had discovered Emmanuel to be selfish, pettily dishonest, inclined to ferret out the worst in people, boastful, clumsy, and lazy? On the credit side, he showed no sign of noticing that Zeke was different. He never made allowances or offered those little sidestepping evasions by which other people signaled their awareness, but persisted in inviting him to the pub, swearing, lying, telling jokes, all just as if he were dealing with a normal person. In response, Zeke did his level best not to force him to acknowledge his mistake.
Now Emmanuel raised the beer bottle, drank, wiped his mouth, and at last allowed himself to be questioned.
“Your friend?” said Zeke.
“Verona,” said Emmanuel. “The big girl.”
His hands started to describe a curve and stopped. Later, recalling his tone, Zeke guessed that Emmanuel found her intimidating and was anxious that no one, least of all himself, should be aware of this. But that was hindsight. At the moment everything else was swept away by the huge, wonderful fact: Emmanuel knew her. She was a person with a name, Verona, and a history. She had not simply vanished, with her suitcases, into the endless streets.
“Where is she?” he said. “Have you seen her?”
He had made a mistake. Emmanuel, taking another drink, demanded to know what had happened. On learning that Zeke had let her stay at the Barrows', he gave a whoop.
“I don't understand,” said Zeke. “Why pretend to be their niece when she was your friend?”
Emmanuel sprawled back in his seat, laddishly. “I told her what a Goody Two-shoes you are. You'd never have let a pal of mine stay at the Barrows'.”
“But didn't she realize they'd go berserk when I asked about her? Even if she didn't want to tell me, she could have left a note.” Now that her story was beginning to make sense, he could allow himself to be irritated. His interview with Gerald and Ariel had been severely unpleasant.
“Maybe,” said Emmanuel, with a bland stare, “that wasn't her main concern.”
Her name was Verona and he had met her in Thailand. Remember, when he went last year? Zeke did indeed. Emmanuel had taken off three whole weeks during the busy spring period. The flight is eleven hours, he had said. I can't just pop over for a fortnight. Zeke had nearly gone mad trying to keep up with work until Phil had agreed to help out. Other painters, Zeke knew, didn't mind falling weeks behind schedule—some even seemed to relish their customers' escalating fury—but he couldn't bear the pleas and insults rampaging around in his brain. Emmanuel had returned heavily tanned and even more careless than usual. Twice he'd used the wrong paint. Zeke had wondered if he might be suffering from sunstroke or drugs. Wasn't Thailand one of those places where a joint cost no more than a bar of chocolate?
“I was gobsmacked when she got in touch,” said Emmanuel. “To be honest, I didn't think I'd made much of an impression. Mostly she palled around with a couple of dykes.” He shook his head in a way that alerted Zeke simultaneously to the meaning of the word and to Emmanuel's attitude toward such a wasteful proclivity. “Then it turned out she needed a place to stay. I should have phoned you but I wanted her off my back, and you know how it is—you feel less of a prick when you make a suggestion—so I sent her to the Barrows'.”
In the midst of his amazement, Zeke completely understood this part. People were always getting themselves out of sticky situations
by offering his services. No, I'm afraid I can't help you move house/fix your toilet/paint your living room, but my mate Zeke is ever so handy and has all the time in the world.
“I'm sorry about the last couple of weeks,” Emmanuel said, tapping the beer bottle on the table—short, short, long, short, short, long—as if sending a message. “My back really was killing me, but it's on the mend. The physiotherapist says I should be able to start work again next week.”
“I still don't understand. Why send Verona to the Barrows'?” The pleasure of saying her name almost lifted him out of his seat.
Emmanuel's mouth turned down, like an open umbrella. “It was all a weird rush. One minute I was watching the telly and the next she was standing in my hall with two suitcases, saying she needed a place to stay. Gina was due in half an hour and you know what she's like.” The umbrella flipped over; Zeke had no trouble identifying his smile as smug. “So I said the first thing that came into my head. It never occurred to me that she'd wangle a bed at the Barrows'. Crazy,” he concluded.
Not crazy, thought Zeke. Mysterious. And what is the point of mystery if not to lead us into new places? “She's going to have a baby,” he said.
“I noticed. She didn't strike me as the type, but you never can tell.”
“Does she have a job? Where does she live?”
“You know what holidays are like,” said Emmanuel, which of course Zeke didn't. Life was hard enough at home, where at least he knew roughly the number of dustbins in the street, without venturing to a place where they might not even have bins or streets. “A group of us came out on the same flight and we hung around together. There was a couple—Trevor and Sara—and the rest of us mixed and matched.” He raised his beer bottle and drank.
What does this have to do with anything, thought Zeke, but experience had taught him that Emmanuel often grew sullen if interrupted. He did his best to listen patiently to an account of how one
day Trevor had got into trouble in the water. Everyone else thought he was joking, but Verona had swum over and hauled him out. “When they got to the beach, we all ran up to see if Trev was okay. He coughed and spluttered for a couple of minutes. His face was that ghastly green we painted the Padillos' living room. Then he walked off toward his hut without a word. That was the last we saw of him. Next morning the manager told us that he and Sara had left to look at temples.”
What was Emmanuel telling him, that Verona was courageous and observant? That Trevor was the father of Ms. F? “And?” Zeke said, keeping firm hold of the table.
“And,” said Emmanuel, “that's how I became friends with her. The chick I had a crush on left for Tokyo. Trev and Sara headed for the hills. The dykes went home. Verona started to hang out with me.”
“You?” As soon as the syllable left his mouth, he heard how it sounded. Quickly, he asked the question that Emmanuel regarded as his due whenever a woman aged between sixteen and sixty came up in conversation: did she fancy him?
“Who can say? We went on a couple of expeditions, ruins she wanted to see.”
How many hours, how many days of her company lay behind that sentence? “Do you know where she lives?” he asked again. “Does she have a job?”
“I think her parents are dead. She has a brother who's some sort of businessman. That's all I know.”
“Does she have a job?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? There was a kind of rule that we didn't pester each other about life back home. Still, with most people you found out what they did pretty quickly. Not Verona. One day she was talking about being a cleaner, the next she was chatting about market research. After she rescued Trevor, someone told me she worked in radio, not famous but well enough known not to want to spread it around.”
Zeke nodded. This made sense. If he closed his eyes he could hear her distinctive voice, deep and warm and a little hoarse, as if even late in the day you were the first person she'd spoken to and what she most wanted to do was invite you to a splendid party. “Why did she suddenly need a place to stay?”
“Boyfriend trouble? Landlord trouble? I'm not exactly Mr. Sensitivity, but the way she showed up out of the blue, why wasn't really in order. Didn't you ask?”
For a moment Zeke was taken aback. Had he really failed to pose such an obvious question? Then he remembered. “I thought she was the Barrows' niece,” he said, and described her advent on the doorstep with the suitcases.
Emmanuel bobbed his head. “She said you were cool.”
The five words took up residence a few inches above the table. Zeke stared at them. “You've spoken to her.”
He didn't realize he was standing until Emmanuel rose too and put a hand on his arm. “Hey, take it easy. You look like you've seen a ghost. She phoned.”
The light above the table was swinging—one of them must have knocked it—and Emmanuel's face was going in and out of shadow as if he were two different people. “She phoned,” Zeke repeated. “When?”
For a few seconds he understood why one might want to pry open the plates of another person's skull, not to harm them but to retrieve essential information. Emmanuel sat down, making the same fussy gesture with his trousers, and began to tap his empty beer bottle again, though no longer rhythmically. “A few days ago,” he said. “She said you'd been very kind and she was worried you would worry about her.”
“Where is she? How I can reach her?”
“She was calling from a pay phone. We kept having to shout over the announcements, like in a station or an airport. She said to tell you she'd be in touch. I gave her your phone number—home, not mobile. Sounds like you two got something going.”
One of Emmanuel's eyelids drooped in a way that Zeke recognized
as both comment and invitation. Trying to fend off either, he asked the first question that came to mind. “Why are you looking so posh?”
Instead of telling him to get lost, Emmanuel shifted from side to side in his chair. Gina, he mumbled, had won him a makeover. He had spent a whole day getting his hair cut and learning how to coordinate his wardrobe. “A Saturday,” he added, as if Zeke might think this was why he hadn't been at work.
Zeke nodded, trying to imagine his obdurate employee spending a day choosing shirts and trousers; then he thought of the women involved and the scene made sense. “It was really interesting,” Emmanuel went on. “We leap to all these conclusions about people based on their appearance, without even knowing that we're doing it. Take shoes, for instance. You can always tell a homeless person by their shoes, even if they've got everything else together. Expensive shoes are the same, they send a message: Here's a person who won't bounce a check.”
Zeke pictured Verona's shoes: the suede boots she wore when she arrived and the next day's trainers, nice blue ones he'd warned her might easily get messed up.
“You should try it,” Emmanuel was saying. “It doesn't cost that much. Gina says you're okay looking.”
Very slowly and very clearly, Zeke said, “Do you know her last name? Do you know how to find her?”
Emmanuel faltered, stopped, peered at Zeke, and sat back in his chair. “You've got a crush on her,” he announced. “Who'd have thought it? After all the chicks I try to set you up with, you fall for a woman ten years older who's in some sort of major trouble.”
Zeke stood up and took a step toward him.
“MacIntyre. And no, the phone number she gave me is wrong.”
She had a name, two names, she was not just a ghost of the system. Forgetting about Emmanuel he gave a little jump, and at that very moment his clocks began to strike, all nine of them, almost in unison.
“Well,” said Emmanuel, pushing back his chair, “ask not for whom the bell tolls.”
“You can't just leave. What do you mean by trouble? Why is everything so confusing?”

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