is.”
He writes thank-you letters to her agent, signs her name.
She asks him to answer the phone for her, too. An answering service is so impersonal, she says, no one should have to talk to a recorded voice on the phone, and she doesn’t want to be disturbed. “Just say you are me and say something polite,” she says. “You’re such a diplomat and a good actor. You sound just like me, anyway,” she says, grinning at him with amusement, listening to him speak with her hoarse, trembling man’s voice, saying, “Allo,” as she does, followed by polite things. He does not find it very difficult. He has already imitated her style as a teenager, writing in his diary. “How lovely to hear from you. I’ve been thinking about you, darling, and wondering how you were,” he says, leaning back in her Queen Anne armchair with its pink silk covering, putting his arms on the wooden armrests. He stares out at the leaves on the chestnut trees, which hang down like ripe fruit ready to be plucked. They remind him of the mango trees in the garden of his childhood.
“You do that perfectly. You could fool my mother! If she were alive,” she says.
Generally, he takes care of all the mundane details of her life, leaving her free to write, like so many literary couples before them. He considers himself naturally easygoing, pliable up to a point. He aims to please. He is used to trying to ingratiate himself, to question, to listen, and to give good advice. He was an only child who was often in the company of intelligent adults, courtiers in the various palaces of the Emperor or on trips abroad. He learned at an early age what to say to please his sophisticated father, who had loved him in a distracted, distant way, and how to calm his mother’s constant anxiety. Only Solo, though older, followed him around the palace gardens and into the hills. Only Solo deferred to him completely, obeying his every wish.
Dawit adapts to M.’s schedule, her way of life. He listens to her, gives her good advice, and makes himself available to her. But there is a part of him she never reaches, a secret part that watches her with ironic detachment. Mentally he takes notes on the movements of her fine hands, her every expression, her particular words. He speaks her language perfectly, but she does not know a word of his. Despite her upbringing in Somalia, she has never taken the trouble to learn any of the languages of the country, he notes. He comes to know all about her intimate life, her work, her desires, but she knows very little about him. Like all colonizers, he thinks, she is ultimately the dupe.
IX
“I WANT YOU TO COME WITH ME THIS EVENING, SO THAT I CAN introduce you,” she says. She is sitting before her kidney-shaped dressing table with its sea green organdy skirt. She wears her silk dressing gown and brushes her long hair with a silver-backed brush. He comes over to her, takes it from her hand, and goes on brushing, as he did for his mother in her bedroom, where she kept the photo of herself in her schoolgirl uniform and her round felt hat on the table by her bed.
“You must wear something elegant,” she tells him, looking at him behind her in the mirror. “Wear that black Armani pantsuit of mine with the hand stitching.”
“Is it someone important?” he asks.
“Very important to me: my editor and his wife. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s been good to me, published many of my books, though lately he has been turning them down. I have to be nice to both of them.”
“Are you sure you want me to come? Won’t I just be
de trop
?” he asks her.
“It would make me less nervous. You’ll see. And it will amuse and distract them. They will like you. It will be fun,” she says, smiling at him in the mirror.
“But won’t they want to talk about your work?”
“Oh, not at all! Not over dinner. They will want to talk about other things—the wife will fall in love with you. She’s much younger than her husband.
He writes thank-you letters to her agent, signs her name.
She asks him to answer the phone for her, too. An answering service is so impersonal, she says, no one should have to talk to a recorded voice on the phone, and she doesn’t want to be disturbed. “Just say you are me and say something polite,” she says. “You’re such a diplomat and a good actor. You sound just like me, anyway,” she says, grinning at him with amusement, listening to him speak with her hoarse, trembling man’s voice, saying, “Allo,” as she does, followed by polite things. He does not find it very difficult. He has already imitated her style as a teenager, writing in his diary. “How lovely to hear from you. I’ve been thinking about you, darling, and wondering how you were,” he says, leaning back in her Queen Anne armchair with its pink silk covering, putting his arms on the wooden armrests. He stares out at the leaves on the chestnut trees, which hang down like ripe fruit ready to be plucked. They remind him of the mango trees in the garden of his childhood.
“You do that perfectly. You could fool my mother! If she were alive,” she says.
Generally, he takes care of all the mundane details of her life, leaving her free to write, like so many literary couples before them. He considers himself naturally easygoing, pliable up to a point. He aims to please. He is used to trying to ingratiate himself, to question, to listen, and to give good advice. He was an only child who was often in the company of intelligent adults, courtiers in the various palaces of the Emperor or on trips abroad. He learned at an early age what to say to please his sophisticated father, who had loved him in a distracted, distant way, and how to calm his mother’s constant anxiety. Only Solo, though older, followed him around the palace gardens and into the hills. Only Solo deferred to him completely, obeying his every wish.
Dawit adapts to M.’s schedule, her way of life. He listens to her, gives her good advice, and makes himself available to her. But there is a part of him she never reaches, a secret part that watches her with ironic detachment. Mentally he takes notes on the movements of her fine hands, her every expression, her particular words. He speaks her language perfectly, but she does not know a word of his. Despite her upbringing in Somalia, she has never taken the trouble to learn any of the languages of the country, he notes. He comes to know all about her intimate life, her work, her desires, but she knows very little about him. Like all colonizers, he thinks, she is ultimately the dupe.
IX
“I WANT YOU TO COME WITH ME THIS EVENING, SO THAT I CAN introduce you,” she says. She is sitting before her kidney-shaped dressing table with its sea green organdy skirt. She wears her silk dressing gown and brushes her long hair with a silver-backed brush. He comes over to her, takes it from her hand, and goes on brushing, as he did for his mother in her bedroom, where she kept the photo of herself in her schoolgirl uniform and her round felt hat on the table by her bed.
“You must wear something elegant,” she tells him, looking at him behind her in the mirror. “Wear that black Armani pantsuit of mine with the hand stitching.”
“Is it someone important?” he asks.
“Very important to me: my editor and his wife. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s been good to me, published many of my books, though lately he has been turning them down. I have to be nice to both of them.”
“Are you sure you want me to come? Won’t I just be
de trop
?” he asks her.
“It would make me less nervous. You’ll see. And it will amuse and distract them. They will like you. It will be fun,” she says, smiling at him in the mirror.
“But won’t they want to talk about your work?”
“Oh, not at all! Not over dinner. They will want to talk about other things—the wife will fall in love with you. She’s much younger than her husband.
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