I decide to be proactive about the leak. I take pen, paper and the Yellow Pages and sit down on the floor by the phone to find and write down the telephone numbers of four plumbers in the area. Understanding what I am reading takes longer than it should because something seems hilarious to me, but I don’t know what it is. The laughter is there and there’s no bottom to it. I try strategies. I try to dissect what could be making me laugh; I try to remember if I’ve just seen anything or heard anything or there’s anything in the room that I’m not fully registering. I put the phone book down and I search the sitting room for hilarity. The sitting room is nothing but books and lamps and videotapes. At the window I see that the day is recovering from rain and I see that Aaron has left a plantain skin on the windowsill.
I try to stop smiling because smiling is another way for this laughter to seethe out from between my teeth. I try to outrun the grin and I go to the front door and back again, but when I stop, the world whirls and the sloshing in my ears tells me my water levels have gone awry. There is already too much water inside — my son swims as he sleeps; when he is awake he surges towards a sound. I want my son to try at leaving me a little, so, for him, I found my voice this morning and sang. I think my son likes my voice. It disordered me to track his movement with my thumb. My voice came differently this morning — there was a raspy range to it before that has gone away. Now I’m sounding impossibly light and singing nonsense lullabies that very quickly seem as if they had never been, like bubbles blown and broken at second breath. But my son heard, and he swelled his walls in one smooth rush. He strained so eagerly that I understand that he doesn’t know that his walls are me. I wanted Aaron to know. I called out, ‘Oh my God! Aaron!’ and then I remembered that he had already left for the day.
Still believing that I am about to start laughing, I look at phone numbers, but each number stands independently of the others, smug mathematical symbols. Today my handwriting comes out so small that when I try and call one of the numbers I misread my ‘5’s for ‘6’s and my ‘6’s for ‘5’s and call the wrong number. The second time, I call the right number. But there is some problem with the way that I’m describing the leak, and the man I’m talking to gets exasperated and hangs up.
After that I sit and hold myself very tightly in case I start to laugh. The leak is making me laugh; the sound, the way the water droplets smack each other, like clown shoes. Someone will fall over soon, and even if it’s me, it will still be funny. I snort and stuff my fingers into my mouth so that the joke doesn’t come loose. I should go to sleep. At least that way I will not be laughing. I don’t want Aaron to have to come back and find me laughing and make me stop. It’s as Amy Eleni says, there’s nothing between me and myself and I may have to end up letting Aaron intervene.
No, I should go to bed. I leave the numbers on the notepad by the phone and I write to Aaron, very carefully, that he should please call TODAY.
In bed, by accident, I say, ‘Ha ha.’
And then it’s all over and it’s rhythmic, it’s
ha ha ha
ha ha HA HA HA HA
HA ha
HA ha
and again.
I cannot hear the leak while this ‘ha’ is being forced out of me.
I laugh until I’m bent almost in half and the bones in my knees bounce against my stomach. My mouth is dripping because I haven’t had enough time to swallow. I’m upside down, I can’t understand what I’m seeing and I think I need to climb over my knees somehow if I want to be in an upright position. But there is a living end to the laughter after all — this is good news. Maybe the laughter is my son’s. He is a serious event, but not all that serious. He is not the first baby that was ever born. I take Chabella’s collar in my hand and it corrugates my fingertips, hard wood in a trickster’s colours. Elegua’s humour is inscrutable.
Carmen, you are born again, but you are born without your tongue. Find it. Be who you were before before.
But Elegua doesn’t go backwards, he makes things change when they need to. Chabella trusts what the German language has enabled her to call her spiritsoulmind; Chabella takes any risk that involves it. But if she should fail. . what poverty! The goal is that Carmen is not born again. The goal is that the lost tongue stays lost, but new tongues grow. No one need be maimed.
I am asleep when Aaron gets back, but he moves around and it wakes me. The dark is too thin. Aaron has the bedroom door wide open and all the lamps in the sitting room are on. His face keeps escaping the light, but I think he’s looking at me.
He says stiffly, ‘Maja. Do you not want this baby? Is the problem that you don’t want it?’
I sit up with a hand over my eyes. Aaron’s question has pushed him to me straight from washing up in the kitchen; his hands are still dripping soapy water and he is holding one of our soup bowls.
He says, ‘Just tell me.’
‘Why do you think I don’t want the baby?’
He says, ‘Just tell me, just say something about it.’
A tremor comes through his hands and he can’t hold the bowl any more, he bats it towards the ground as if he thinks it is a ball that will come back up to him. There is not much sound, but I flinch as the china shatters. Some of the pieces roll, then rest. Automatically he says, ‘Shit, sorry,’ and he bends to pick pieces up with his bare hands. Automatically, I say, ‘Use tissue, you’ll cut yourself.’
He does not listen. He balances a row of brittle blue claws on his palm before taking them away, coming back to rescue more. His hair is in his eyes. He does not get cut.
I say, ‘The leak. Please call the numbers, get a plumber here tomorrow. Call the numbers.’
Crouched on the carpet, Aaron tilts his head and says, ‘What numbers?’
I lie down again.
‘I left them on the pad.’
‘Those are numbers, eh? They look like a series of decimal points.’
I get up to rewrite the phone numbers so that he can see them, so that he can make the phone calls for me. But my note has already been ripped away from the pad.
I took a third-class degree. It was better than I’d expected, especially considering that I had handed in my dissertations on a block of wood. But I didn’t know how to tell my parents about my results. I had misled them from an early age: I had given them to understand that I was clever. And they were both first-class students.
So I completely lost my nerve.
‘It’s. . a 2:3,’ I said, when it was time to tell them.
Chabella, who had clasped her hands in anticipation of good news, lowered them again and frowned.
I didn’t back down, there was no point now. ‘A 2:3,’ I insisted.
Papi threw up his hands. ‘What in God’s name is a 2:3?’
‘You know,’ I quavered, holding my certificate behind my back. ‘You can get an upper second class, a middle second class, and a lower second class. A 2:1, a 2:2, a 2:3. .?’ Papi and Mami surrounded me, hugging me, kissing me, cackling.
‘So it’s a third-class degree, then,’ Chabella said.
Papi said, ‘Thank God — at least it’s finished. All the drama, all the crying, all the painting things black, the praying of the rosary instead of revising. A degree. You’ve got a degree, Maja Carmen Carrera! You passed! You are to some extent educated! And you didn’t even notice while it was happening!’
Amy Eleni was very flushed when she showed me her certificate. She had taken a first-class degree. I thought, Of course.
‘Please don’t give me any shit about this,’ she said, before I’d even opened my mouth.
When we got back to my house on graduation day, Amy Eleni, mortar board in hand, kicked off her high-heeled shoes and put them in her handbag so that the black toes peeped out of the top.