“But of course we remember her,” Dahaba says.
“She was our father’s lover for a time,” Salif says.
Bella pretends not to have heard his assertion.
“Gunilla brought many of them last night in an album of photographs that she gave to me, and the other album I brought with me to give to you.”
Salif says, “That is brilliant.”
Dahaba says, “I’d love to see Gunilla again.”
“What about you, Salif?”
“We both liked her. Gunilla was fun.”
“I’ll ask her to come to dinner,” Bella says.
“That will be great.”
Then the children retreat to their rooms, text messaging or consulting websites of one sort or another or listening to music of their choice until dinner is ready and Bella shouts to them to come down and eat.
—
Valerie’s mobile phone squeals, breaking into the late-afternoon silence in the hotel room. It rings on and on, and Padmini does not pick it up. Valerie has been in the bathroom forever, doing who knows what. Eventually, the phone stops ringing, and Padmini thinks, what a relief.
Today, Padmini has been finding Valerie more difficult to deal with by the hour. The time has come, she thinks, for them to question whether there is any point in staying on in Nairobi. Padmini hasn’t yet shared her worries about their mounting expenses with Valerie because her partner has the pie-eyed look of someone who has been in her cups for days. Padmini is coming around to thinking that it is time they cut their losses, just as they did in Kampala, and return to Pondicherry, where, according to the sign they put on the door, they are due to reopen their hotel and restaurant in less than a week.
Valerie’s phone rings again, and again Padmini lets it ring until it stops. But when the ringing begins again, with still no sign of Valerie, Padmini picks it up and answers.
“Is that Val?” The woman on the other end of the line has a heavy Teutonic accent, and she sounds supremely self-assured. “This is Ulrika Peters. Remember?”
Padmini explains that she is answering Val’s phone. A short pause follows as Ulrika absorbs this information.
Ulrika says, “You met us, you and your English rose, Val, last night, remember? She said to call and maybe we could meet up and have a little more fun.”
“Where would you like to meet?” says Padmini. She is playing for time as she tries to figure out if this is the beer-guzzling Oktoberfest-type giant with the iron handshake who so impressed her and Valerie last night with her heroic drinking abilities and her carrying on with the women on either side of her. Nipple pinching and toe sucking in public! The things some people go for, thinks Padmini. But maybe Valerie would like that sort of thing.
“At Bar in Heaven again,” says Ulrika, “the friendliest bar in all of Nairobi. The best bar on the entire continent, except perhaps for a couple of bars in De Waterkant in Cape Town.”
Do not mention Cape Town again, please, prays Padmini to herself. But to Ulrika she says, “And when?”
“Tonight, why not?”
“Just a second, please,” says Padmini. “I need to consult with Valerie.” She knocks on the bathroom door.
“Go ahead,” says Ulrika. “I will wait.”
“What’s happening?” says Valerie, heavy-tongued, emerging from the bathroom with toothpaste on her chin and her hair carelessly brushed.
“An invite is happening,” says Padmini.
Valerie says, “Tell me more!”
Padmini tells her. “What say you?”
“I say let’s go! Let’s drink and be merry.”
Padmini hesitates, her hand over the phone, taking in Valerie’s condition. Then she tells Valerie that she will accept, on condition that Valerie rests up and refrains from drinking until they get to the bar. Into the phone, she says, “What time do we meet there?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“See you at ten.”
Padmini calls room service and orders a club sandwich for them to share and a glass of milk for Valerie instead of her usual sundowner. Then they sleep until just past nine.
They rise and shower in turn, and then Valerie calls the concierge to order a taxi for ten-fifteen. “Let’s get there half an hour late,” she says to Padmini by way of explanation. “We don’t wish to appear too eager, right?”
“Okay by me,” says Padmini. But she can see that Valerie is wide-eyed with anticipation.
“We’re going to enjoy ourselves, you’ll see.”
Padmini is not so sure about that. But she is glad for an excuse to get out of their stifling, expensive room.
“This calls for a celebration, I’d say.” Valerie brings out a bottle of chilled champagne, and Padmini, conceding defeat, gets two glasses. Valerie opens the bottle and Padmini puts out some French cheese, her favorite, on a low table, along with a baguette wrapped in the front page of The Independent and a stash of white and dark chocolates.
As they eat and drink, Padmini reads a news story to Valerie from the front page of The Independent, which is a week old. The article cites a letter from an eight-year-old English girl to a British MP who was quoted as saying that gay couples are not fit to raise children. In her letter, the girl describes herself as the happy daughter of a lesbian couple and tells the MP that she is “perfectly fine… a real child with two mothers, who are real people with real feelings.” The girl closes by writing, “You can be brought up well by anyone who loves and cares for you and who makes sure that you are happy.”
The paper has withheld the identity of the girl and her parents. Padmini and Val now debate the merits of this. Padmini questions whether it’s right to withhold the name of the girl while publishing the MP’s. Valerie retorts that no newspaper in Britain would dare publish the name of a minor without the approval of a parent or guardian. “She could be bullied at school or worse. And maybe it’s out of deference to the mothers’ feelings.”
Padmini asks, “Do you think they care what others might say about them?”
“Their situation is unlike ours.”
“How so?”
“We are in Africa.”
“And your children are not only half African but also Somali and Muslim,” says Padmini. “Somalis are bigots, every single one of them. They would delight in burning us at the stake. They see us as deviants, worse than devil worshippers, and they believe we deserve commensurate punishments.”
“And you think the West is so much better?”
“There is no depth to the commitment, despite the laws on the books. But at least we can go to sleep at night confident that we won’t be arrested just because we are gay.”
Valerie says, “You know, Pad, Aar came to accept our relationship in the fullness of time, and so did my mother, especially after knowing what my father did to me. But not your parents.”
Padmini says, “And Bella?”
“Neither she nor Aar is your typical Somali or typical African,” Valerie says. “I think it’s because their mother was ahead of her time.”
Carried away by the prevailing positive mood, Valerie wonders aloud, “I wonder whether we can persuade Salif and Dahaba to throw in their lot with ours.”
“You mean, come with us to India?”
“Why not?”
“Who knows?” says Padmini. “The idea might excite them. The subcontinent is a much bigger world than either of them has known. Don’t they say, ‘See the elephant; see the world’?”
“And if living in India doesn’t much take their fancy, we should be open to the idea of moving to Britain. You wouldn’t mind if we did that?” Valerie asks.
“Not if it is the only option open to us,” says Padmini. Her straying hand touches Valerie’s cheek, and before long, they are making love in a way they haven’t for a long time. Then they go down to the waiting taxi and head off into the night to join Ulrika.