Read Online The Cinnamon Tree by Aubrey Flegg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aubrey Flegg
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door as he left. The woman came over, kissed Yola quickly on the cheek and said, ‘I’m sorry I am late, but I forgot that the Embassy would be closed over lunch. Anyhow, we’ve got all your papers sorted out, we just have to get them all in order, then the next thing will be to do some shopping. Coffee?’
It was when Isabella said ‘coffee’ that Yola realised her voice had the added charm of an accent. Hans had said that she came from Angola. Of course, she would speak Portuguese.
The desk seemed to be covered with papers, all to do with Yola’s impending exile. She had had no idea that it would take this much work. There was a passport, a visa for Ireland and there were medical reports from the hospital about her amputation. She began to feel uneasy – how would she manage in Ireland on her own? Her stump began to hurt, throbbing and burning from the battering it had got in the car. She had a sudden guiltyfeeling when she found herself thinking, I don’t need a new leg, I’m getting on fine on crutches. I didn’t want anyone messing with me!
‘Why … why are you doing all this for me?’ she asked in a small voice. Isabella leant back and looked at her, head on one side, serious for a moment.
‘Yola, my friend, don’t ask. We do it because we want to, like your Sister Martha wants to, like your father wants to. You see, Hans has told me all about you. If you ask too much “why”, either you will get cocky – I think you can be cocky, yes?’ Yola smiled. ‘Or you will start to feel guilty. You will get a new leg, you will learn a little at school; that’s all we want. You can decide yourself then what you do with your life.’
‘But who … why?’ wondered Yola.
Isabella laughed. ‘Too many questions, Yola.’ She swept the papers together. ‘That’s enough philosophy. Come on, let’s go shopping.’
Yola was happy again.
Isabella took Yola into town in her battered little green car.
‘I’m afraid it is rather old,’ she said.
It looked so fragile and unthreatening after the Landcruiser that Yola laughed in delight. They left it under the guard of a Gabbin-like urchin with half a tip, the other half to be tendered when they got back.
Isabella seemed to have an instinct for what clothes Yola would need, and where to find them. Yola followed her in a happy daze. From time to time, Senior Mother’s envelope would appear and money would be extracted. They laughed till it hurt in the fitting-room of Simbada’s main department store as Yola tried on some of the more outrageous outfits.
Then Isabella took Yola down an alleyway and in through abead curtain into a tiny passage of a shop, where an old Indian tradesman greeted Isabella like his daughter. Amid the spicy smells of Indian cooking they looked at skirts that would keep an Eskimo warm. Isabella bargained and the old Indian almost wept, but when the time came for them to leave, the old man almost wept again and gave them small spicy cakes. They went to the market to look for a suitcase. The market seemed to stretch to the horizon and even Isabella had to ask where the suitcase stalls were. The man who sold them the case was also from Angola.
‘Bom dia,’ he greeted Isabella, smiling, and Yola listened entranced while they spoke together in Portuguese.
Late in the day, they sat under a tree outside a café at the edge of the market and sipped ice coffee. Isabella explained that Yola would have a travel companion as far as Brussels. His name was Knutt, he had malaria and was being sent home to Norway to rest. Yola relaxed, she was exhausted but happy. There was a lull in their conversation. For a moment, the whole day was condensed in Yola’s mind. Behind it all was Hans – Hans who had started all this for her and opened up a life she thought closed forever, Hans who had encouraged her, and Hans who she had so enjoyed being close to on the road from Nopani. Without thinking she said, ‘I like Hans.’
Isabella looked at
It was when Isabella said ‘coffee’ that Yola realised her voice had the added charm of an accent. Hans had said that she came from Angola. Of course, she would speak Portuguese.
The desk seemed to be covered with papers, all to do with Yola’s impending exile. She had had no idea that it would take this much work. There was a passport, a visa for Ireland and there were medical reports from the hospital about her amputation. She began to feel uneasy – how would she manage in Ireland on her own? Her stump began to hurt, throbbing and burning from the battering it had got in the car. She had a sudden guiltyfeeling when she found herself thinking, I don’t need a new leg, I’m getting on fine on crutches. I didn’t want anyone messing with me!
‘Why … why are you doing all this for me?’ she asked in a small voice. Isabella leant back and looked at her, head on one side, serious for a moment.
‘Yola, my friend, don’t ask. We do it because we want to, like your Sister Martha wants to, like your father wants to. You see, Hans has told me all about you. If you ask too much “why”, either you will get cocky – I think you can be cocky, yes?’ Yola smiled. ‘Or you will start to feel guilty. You will get a new leg, you will learn a little at school; that’s all we want. You can decide yourself then what you do with your life.’
‘But who … why?’ wondered Yola.
Isabella laughed. ‘Too many questions, Yola.’ She swept the papers together. ‘That’s enough philosophy. Come on, let’s go shopping.’
Yola was happy again.
Isabella took Yola into town in her battered little green car.
‘I’m afraid it is rather old,’ she said.
It looked so fragile and unthreatening after the Landcruiser that Yola laughed in delight. They left it under the guard of a Gabbin-like urchin with half a tip, the other half to be tendered when they got back.
Isabella seemed to have an instinct for what clothes Yola would need, and where to find them. Yola followed her in a happy daze. From time to time, Senior Mother’s envelope would appear and money would be extracted. They laughed till it hurt in the fitting-room of Simbada’s main department store as Yola tried on some of the more outrageous outfits.
Then Isabella took Yola down an alleyway and in through abead curtain into a tiny passage of a shop, where an old Indian tradesman greeted Isabella like his daughter. Amid the spicy smells of Indian cooking they looked at skirts that would keep an Eskimo warm. Isabella bargained and the old Indian almost wept, but when the time came for them to leave, the old man almost wept again and gave them small spicy cakes. They went to the market to look for a suitcase. The market seemed to stretch to the horizon and even Isabella had to ask where the suitcase stalls were. The man who sold them the case was also from Angola.
‘Bom dia,’ he greeted Isabella, smiling, and Yola listened entranced while they spoke together in Portuguese.
Late in the day, they sat under a tree outside a café at the edge of the market and sipped ice coffee. Isabella explained that Yola would have a travel companion as far as Brussels. His name was Knutt, he had malaria and was being sent home to Norway to rest. Yola relaxed, she was exhausted but happy. There was a lull in their conversation. For a moment, the whole day was condensed in Yola’s mind. Behind it all was Hans – Hans who had started all this for her and opened up a life she thought closed forever, Hans who had encouraged her, and Hans who she had so enjoyed being close to on the road from Nopani. Without thinking she said, ‘I like Hans.’
Isabella looked at
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