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Authors: Gina Frangello
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taken to regaling me with South African fables. When he returned from the pub, drunk and smelling of a world of men, he twined his body around mine on our sunken mattress and whispered, “In South Africa, this bed could be dangerous.” Then told me the legend of the Takoloshe, a demon some superstitious blacks in his country think sneaks into homes at night to steal souls. In reality, he said, the deaths are caused by gas leaks in
faulty, old-fashioned stoves, which is why believers say the demon is tiny. His eyes were bright as he explained, his hand trailing circles on my stomach. Yank had not returned to the flat with him, though I heard Sandor puttering around next door. Joshua kissed my neck over and over again, and I knew he was apologizing even though he didn’t need to. He whispered to me as if telling me an urgent secret, “The ones who die are always those closest to the ground.”
But Nix, I already know that is a lie.
I T HAS BECOME a matter of now or never. Clutching
London A to Z
(zed!), Mary rides the Tube to West Kensington and disembarks, an excited dizziness overtaking her the way it might a devotee of Virginia Woolf upon arriving at Bloomsbury Square. Turning left out of the station, she walks the few blocks to one of the places she crossed an ocean to see. Ten Archel Road, the flat where Nix lived for four short months. The building is white stone, not so different from Arthog House, unremarkable. Mary cannot go in because she has no key, but she stands outside imagining Nix rushing up and down its steps on crisp fall nights, buzzed and smelling of pub smoke, perpetually searching for her keys. Nix being Nix, in high-heeled boots and her swingy camel coat, hair flattened by London rain.
Mary sits on the steps. There should be more to do here, but what? She avoided coming for so long that the coming itself has taken all her reserves, leaving nothing for gesture or ceremony. Through her tights, the December cement is cold on the backs of her thighs. She gets up.
Around the corner she looks for the Indian restaurant, and there it is. There it is! She expected a takeaway joint (Nix mentioned getting her meals to go), but no, the place is upscale if also gaudy, decorated in heavy reds and golds. Through the window, the woman at the hostess stand is unexpectedly beautiful, elegant, serene. She can see the woman returning her stare, so she nervously rushes inside.
“Hi!” The word comes out too loudly and the woman jumps, as though Mary may be concealing a gun. “Is Hasnain around?”
The woman’s sphinx face is blank. “No.”
“Oh! Well, I’m a friend of his—can you tell me when he’ll be working?”
The woman says, “There is no Hasnain who works here.”
By the way the woman has said it, it is clear what she means, but Mary cannot let the smile of anticipation off her face. She cannot admit what she is hearing. If it is not
this
Indian restaurant, then which one can it be? There are hundreds in London, and this one is around the corner from Nix’s flat, just as Nix specified in her letters. She says brightly, “Hasnain doesn’t work here anymore? Do you know where he works or how I can get in touch with him?”
The woman looks very young, really, no more than her early thirties. Suddenly Mary realizes how delusional she was when she walked in—she had assumed herself face-to-face with Hasnain’s mother. There is no way this woman could be the mother of someone older than Nix. She feels unhinged. The woman is right not to trust her.
The woman says, “There is no Hasnain.” She has not spoken slowly, but Mary hears her as though through underwater.
Later there will be no memory of leaving the restaurant. She will ride the Tube, transferring at Earl’s Court and heading to the Baker Street Station, then veering right (past the shop where Nix purchased cappuccino every morning on her way to class?) until she reaches Regent’s College, inside the majestic Regent’s Park. There
faulty, old-fashioned stoves, which is why believers say the demon is tiny. His eyes were bright as he explained, his hand trailing circles on my stomach. Yank had not returned to the flat with him, though I heard Sandor puttering around next door. Joshua kissed my neck over and over again, and I knew he was apologizing even though he didn’t need to. He whispered to me as if telling me an urgent secret, “The ones who die are always those closest to the ground.”
But Nix, I already know that is a lie.
I T HAS BECOME a matter of now or never. Clutching
London A to Z
(zed!), Mary rides the Tube to West Kensington and disembarks, an excited dizziness overtaking her the way it might a devotee of Virginia Woolf upon arriving at Bloomsbury Square. Turning left out of the station, she walks the few blocks to one of the places she crossed an ocean to see. Ten Archel Road, the flat where Nix lived for four short months. The building is white stone, not so different from Arthog House, unremarkable. Mary cannot go in because she has no key, but she stands outside imagining Nix rushing up and down its steps on crisp fall nights, buzzed and smelling of pub smoke, perpetually searching for her keys. Nix being Nix, in high-heeled boots and her swingy camel coat, hair flattened by London rain.
Mary sits on the steps. There should be more to do here, but what? She avoided coming for so long that the coming itself has taken all her reserves, leaving nothing for gesture or ceremony. Through her tights, the December cement is cold on the backs of her thighs. She gets up.
Around the corner she looks for the Indian restaurant, and there it is. There it is! She expected a takeaway joint (Nix mentioned getting her meals to go), but no, the place is upscale if also gaudy, decorated in heavy reds and golds. Through the window, the woman at the hostess stand is unexpectedly beautiful, elegant, serene. She can see the woman returning her stare, so she nervously rushes inside.
“Hi!” The word comes out too loudly and the woman jumps, as though Mary may be concealing a gun. “Is Hasnain around?”
The woman’s sphinx face is blank. “No.”
“Oh! Well, I’m a friend of his—can you tell me when he’ll be working?”
The woman says, “There is no Hasnain who works here.”
By the way the woman has said it, it is clear what she means, but Mary cannot let the smile of anticipation off her face. She cannot admit what she is hearing. If it is not
this
Indian restaurant, then which one can it be? There are hundreds in London, and this one is around the corner from Nix’s flat, just as Nix specified in her letters. She says brightly, “Hasnain doesn’t work here anymore? Do you know where he works or how I can get in touch with him?”
The woman looks very young, really, no more than her early thirties. Suddenly Mary realizes how delusional she was when she walked in—she had assumed herself face-to-face with Hasnain’s mother. There is no way this woman could be the mother of someone older than Nix. She feels unhinged. The woman is right not to trust her.
The woman says, “There is no Hasnain.” She has not spoken slowly, but Mary hears her as though through underwater.
Later there will be no memory of leaving the restaurant. She will ride the Tube, transferring at Earl’s Court and heading to the Baker Street Station, then veering right (past the shop where Nix purchased cappuccino every morning on her way to class?) until she reaches Regent’s College, inside the majestic Regent’s Park. There
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