about in the sultry air.
As on other nights, the British neighbor's house remained
quiet, except for the occasional peal of the telephone, which if
it rang would stop after two rings and then the answering
machine would click on (or so Malika assumed, since that was
what had happened once when Madam had had to call the gentleman because the postman had delivered to her by mistake a
letter addressed to him). Malika couldn't tell as she opened her
book (a French novel in English translation, about a love affair
between a French teenage girl and a Chinese man in the time
that Vietnam and Cambodia were known as Indochina) whether
the gentleman was home or not, as his house was hidden from
view by the brick wall. (It was a one-story bungalow, built in
sprawling pavilion style like Madam's, whereas the other houses on the road were two-story and semi-detached, built on a
smaller acreage each.)
The page on which Malika had stopped reading on the previous night (when she had read in bed as Madam had been
home) was marked by a vermilion leather bookmark, fringed at
one end and bearing a gilt sketch of a domed building (a souvenir from Vatican City, sent to Malika while Francesca was on
one of her business trips in Rome). Malika was removing the
bookmark when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sugar
cane quiver, over there to her right, four feet or so from the
edge of the car porch. She was about to turn her head when she
caught herself. No need to scare the poor thing away, Malika
told herself, as she placed the bookmark back on the page. She
didn't close the book. She let her hand rest on the page, caressing
the fringe on the bookmark with the tips of her fingers.
The sugar cane grew still. Malika waited for a message, for
the girl to speak to her. (If the girl wanted prayer, she thought,
she would do as Madam had done after her husband's passing
and each time one of the children was getting married. She
would write a petition on a slip of paper, fold it neatly, and leave
it in the wooden box with a slot in the Church of St. Francis of
Assisi, which wasn't far down the road, within walking distance.
The box hung on a wall in the enclave in which dozens of
votive candles burned daily on a tiered iron rack in front of the
statue of the Blessed Virgin. Miracles were said to have happened for petitioners who had left their requests there, although
of course not for every one of them. Malika couldn't think of a
better solution, if what the girl's soul needed was prayer. Asking
Madam if she could attend the Sunset Mass with her (as Malika
had been invited to, several times in the past) was out of the
question. As far as Malika knew, the lascivious Father Johnson
was still there, since Madam would have mentioned it if Father
Johnson had retired or been transferred to another parish,
although not because Madam was aware the Father's hands had
once slithered (seemingly by accident) over Malika's buttocks.
Malika was sure Madam didn't know, not even when Francesca
started attending Mass at the Novena Church instead, with
Caroline and later Michelle tagging along.)
When no message seemed to be coming forth, Malika
looked up and saw there was no longer anyone hiding in the
sugar cane. But someone had been there. Malika would not be
able to explain to Sali and me how she could be so sure it had
been the same girl as on Wednesday but she was, even though
one could hardly make anything out in the murky shadows at
the garden's edge.
A light came on in an upstairs window above the hibiscus
hedge, and someone moved behind the curtains. Next door to
her left, Malika heard footsteps coming along the slate path in
the British neighbor's garden. She listened as his gate opened, then closed, with a quick drop of the iron latch. The footsteps
continued down the road. She tried to discern if they were a
man's or a woman's, but all she could tell was that they weren't
the British
As on other nights, the British neighbor's house remained
quiet, except for the occasional peal of the telephone, which if
it rang would stop after two rings and then the answering
machine would click on (or so Malika assumed, since that was
what had happened once when Madam had had to call the gentleman because the postman had delivered to her by mistake a
letter addressed to him). Malika couldn't tell as she opened her
book (a French novel in English translation, about a love affair
between a French teenage girl and a Chinese man in the time
that Vietnam and Cambodia were known as Indochina) whether
the gentleman was home or not, as his house was hidden from
view by the brick wall. (It was a one-story bungalow, built in
sprawling pavilion style like Madam's, whereas the other houses on the road were two-story and semi-detached, built on a
smaller acreage each.)
The page on which Malika had stopped reading on the previous night (when she had read in bed as Madam had been
home) was marked by a vermilion leather bookmark, fringed at
one end and bearing a gilt sketch of a domed building (a souvenir from Vatican City, sent to Malika while Francesca was on
one of her business trips in Rome). Malika was removing the
bookmark when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sugar
cane quiver, over there to her right, four feet or so from the
edge of the car porch. She was about to turn her head when she
caught herself. No need to scare the poor thing away, Malika
told herself, as she placed the bookmark back on the page. She
didn't close the book. She let her hand rest on the page, caressing
the fringe on the bookmark with the tips of her fingers.
The sugar cane grew still. Malika waited for a message, for
the girl to speak to her. (If the girl wanted prayer, she thought,
she would do as Madam had done after her husband's passing
and each time one of the children was getting married. She
would write a petition on a slip of paper, fold it neatly, and leave
it in the wooden box with a slot in the Church of St. Francis of
Assisi, which wasn't far down the road, within walking distance.
The box hung on a wall in the enclave in which dozens of
votive candles burned daily on a tiered iron rack in front of the
statue of the Blessed Virgin. Miracles were said to have happened for petitioners who had left their requests there, although
of course not for every one of them. Malika couldn't think of a
better solution, if what the girl's soul needed was prayer. Asking
Madam if she could attend the Sunset Mass with her (as Malika
had been invited to, several times in the past) was out of the
question. As far as Malika knew, the lascivious Father Johnson
was still there, since Madam would have mentioned it if Father
Johnson had retired or been transferred to another parish,
although not because Madam was aware the Father's hands had
once slithered (seemingly by accident) over Malika's buttocks.
Malika was sure Madam didn't know, not even when Francesca
started attending Mass at the Novena Church instead, with
Caroline and later Michelle tagging along.)
When no message seemed to be coming forth, Malika
looked up and saw there was no longer anyone hiding in the
sugar cane. But someone had been there. Malika would not be
able to explain to Sali and me how she could be so sure it had
been the same girl as on Wednesday but she was, even though
one could hardly make anything out in the murky shadows at
the garden's edge.
A light came on in an upstairs window above the hibiscus
hedge, and someone moved behind the curtains. Next door to
her left, Malika heard footsteps coming along the slate path in
the British neighbor's garden. She listened as his gate opened, then closed, with a quick drop of the iron latch. The footsteps
continued down the road. She tried to discern if they were a
man's or a woman's, but all she could tell was that they weren't
the British
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