I sat on the Italian leather sofa and carefully surveyed the room. The rugs, the pictures, the huge family portrait from Harrods, all seemed unchanged. Regimented sound system, flat as wafers in the latest trend, still held its low key pride of place over by the drinks cabinet. The giant spread of silk flowers, casual between statuettes and vases, the silver candelabra, every carefully arranged detail of the rooms luxury was evident and in place. The only incongruity was my sister sitting there.
Her swollen lips parted and the side of her mouth that wasn’t puffy lifted up at the corners, the other side of her mouth you could hardly see teeth at all.
“How’s the boyfriend?” she said, and then the corners of her mouth went down, and tears sooty with mascara and kohl pencil trickled down her puffy face. A teardrop trickled into her mouth; she winced. “God this hurts!”
The room smelt citrus; I noticed a jug of fruit juice on the side table next to her chair. Her hands were clawed around an empty tumbler, a crimson nail was chipped.
My sister looked a mess. The long black hair she usually arranged in dusky clouds about her face hung in shocks and straggles. Through her open dressing gown there appeared black bruises, large as saucers, fading at the edges to green and red, in gaudy contrast to her golden skin.
“Take off the sun glasses!” The harshness in my voice startled both of us. I felt a sudden stab of guilt, as if I had somehow helped batter her. She lifted up the sunglasses to display her ravaged face to me. One eye was puffed and nearly closed, truly technicolor, and the plumped out swollen lips gave her a fuzzy look, as if she were slightly out of focus.
“You ought to see him!” she said bitterly. “All he got out of this was torn pyjamas! And maybe a few scratches…”
I sighed. Knowing her sitting under that family photograph was no coincidence; she wished to deliberately emphasize the difference between now, bashed, battered, unkempt, unhappy, and the vision of the expensive chic that smiled regally down, flanked by adoring husband and children, in the celebrated photograph from Harrods. A highly developed sense of the dramatic my sister; I was merely audience.
“Why didn’t you fight back?” I wished I could feel sorry for her. She was unnerving me, sitting there in bruised shreds, all untidy, center stage. “Fight back?” she said, the good eye opening wide and angry. “I fought like a tiger! I tore those pyjamas off him and tried to claw his balls! That’s when he punched me, look at that!” she shouted, flinging off the robe exposing more black bruises, “those are kicks! He beat me to the floor, and then he kicked me!”
I suppose psychiatrists must get the type of fatigue I felt then, resignation and defeat, tired of listening. I was first in line for another episode of the old story, starring her as usual, in sex plus violence theme that would go on and on.
Two hours it took her, longer than the fight itself; but then there was a lot of half-baked behavioral psychology with the monologue. The emotional history of his childhood, his relationship with his mother, the likelihood of inherited instability, (one cousin had been a drug addict and had died insane), liberally sprinkled with words like “Freudian crisis”, “subjective hostility” and “outer-core manifestation”. Very fond of psychology, my sister, a pity she never thought to help herself with all that convoluted reasoning. Anyway, what was wrong with the theory that he had beaten her up because she was a bloody pain in the neck?
“Want a drink?” She waved her glass idly at the jug.
“What is it?”
“Grapefruit: with a tiny bit of Vodka…..”
“No thanks, it’s a bit early for me”
“Still weight watching? Doesn’t seem to do you much good, does it?”
The following Wednesday, my lover came to spend half the night as usual. We had an agreement. We never got in touch during the week except for Wednesday, he lived his life and I lived mine. We each respected the others commitments, but never discussed our private lives. Our alliance was purely sexual with no strings attached. It had worked satisfactorily for three years; I felt that if we both kept the rules of not prying into each others secrets, it should continue for many more.
I nearly broke the rule that night; my visit to my sister had so distressed me. But I didn’t……
Guilt, I suppose, made me go round to see her a couple of weeks later; I hadn’t heard from her since the fight, so as far as I knew there were no fresh developments, certainly no panic attacks or distress calls. Though she might have found a different audience. But I was older sister. Hell, I was in a ‘caring’ capacity whether I liked it or not. If character was a function of heredity and environment, and as we so different, was I the adopted child or was she?
The house boy opened the door. He said madam was in the garden. As he ushered me through the house, I saw his back or neck or perhaps the way he walked was stiff with disapproval. I wondered what was wrong.
As I stepped out onto the patio I heard laughter.
“Are there visitors?”
“Yes, Madam” he closed his face; it was like a mask, gave a slight bow and returned to the kitchen. If he was on duty at that time in the afternoon, my sister must be entertaining; it follows that she therefore must have recovered.
The garden was long and huge enough for me for me to see her immediately. She was down near the bottom, the white chairs and table conveniently placed under the branches of a huge almond tree.
She was dressed all in white, splendid in a frothy creation that gathered and frilled around her, exposing a great deal of golden skin on arms and shoulders. There was not a trace of those black bruises; the only black thing on her was the clouds of sooty hair suspended round that perfect face, adorned with a whimsical white flower impaled Hawaiian style above her left ear. Small pearls and beads of coral studded her ears, encircled her throat, and glimmered from her fingers.
“Look who’s here!” She waved a languid arm then whispered some aside to her companions which made them rumble with laughter “Sit down, sit down, I’ll introduce you”. She was gay and smiling, her eyes flashing pools of indigo. Such a pretty little mouth, pinked lipped to match the coral in her ears and neck, alabaster teeth to match the pearls. Who would have guessed that such a pretty little mouth was capable of cruelty?
I felt so clumpish as I sat down. I tried to avoid looking at the men, their eyes so pitying, their looks so condescending. Where else could I look? When I looked down all I saw was feet, dusty, suddenly bigger in my sensible sandals, and even my legs seemed fat and covered with black hairs, the ridiculous thought ‘when had I shaved them last,’ crossed my mind. Suddenly self conscious, I felt hideous. Forget my clothes. They deserved to have been thrown away. Incredibly bad.
One of the men was an insurance tycoon, another was a bank manager, the third an unspecific ‘businessman’, which probably ment a crook of some sort, arms dealer or smuggler or middleman. My sister loved collecting fat cats, one of the things she had in common with her husband. He always said knowing these crass nouveau riches was good for business, but she…. I think she just had a predilection for plump silk shirted men with dyed hair.
“My sister lectures at the University” she pronounced importantly, and immediately their eyes changed slightly; they politely asked in which department, as I replied I noticed she’d done her finger nails the exact matching shade of her beads.
“Ah mathematics…” they murmured, as if that explained everything. I tried for a minute or two to explain that computer science was not exactly the same as mathematics, but tailed off as my sister pressed me to a glass of lager, drinks trolley so conveniently at her elbow.
“I think I have to move to Europe”, said the unspecified businessman, “I can’t live here for much longer. Things are just too tight here with this new government. I’m always worried when my goods are on the high seas, that they will be impounded at the wharf. You know these boys open any container they like these days, and you can’t even talk to some of them!” He was talking about Custom and Excise officials, who had suddenly been given more authority by the government.
“You can’t give them anything.” there seemed to be a new breed of Nigerian official that didn’t take bribes.
The insurance tycoon was sympathetic. He went on “Maybe you are not offering them enough…” They all laughed.
My sister put a hand on the unspecified businessman’s knee and squeezed it, “Your wife has been in England how many years now, five? Or is it six?”.
He made a rueful grimace “Don’t remind me! That woman, every time she breathes over there, she costs me money!”
My sister squeezed his leg again (such familiarity! No wonder the steward was disapproving), and laughed,
“Ah-ah! Do you mean she should stop breathing?”
“At least while I’m there, I can supervise her spending. I’m sick and tired of getting on that plane once a month to go and see her”.
They all chipped in then, with weird flight experiences, the merits of first class travel on various airways, then air-hostesses; endless stories which served to emphasize the cavalier self-centered every day’s a holiday life style they all seemed to share. Anything further than my eight day week of teaching, marking and private tuition to keep my head above water couldn’t be imagined.
My sister lapped it up as a cat does cream. She sat frilled and pretty, clapping dainty pearlised hands in delight, cajoling, teasing, flattering each in turn, her attractiveness burgeoning as she basked in their appreciating gaze. At one point I remember, she waxed strong on her favorite topic.
“I’m well aware of my own self-conceit; after all it is inherent in the nature of humanity to be a little to be a little flawed. Self obsession is the fundamental source of any of my other flaws”, the men all laughed depreciatingly, as if she were flawless, “I’m my own best friend; I adore my self shamelessly!”
“That is the secret of your success” The soft assurance from the insurance magnate did it for me. I made my excuses and left.
As I neared the French windows to the sitting room, I looked back. Again she murmured something to the men, again they all rumbled with laughter, and without exception, looked towards me. My sister was obviously back on form.
That Wednesday I told my lover that I felt ugly and fat and old.
“You’ll always be most beautiful to me! Don’t let me hear you say such things. Your skin is soft and smooth, you smell of soap and powder, of clean wholesome woman. I’ve never been so close to a real woman before; don’t spoil it by searching for compliments. If I didn’t love everything about you, I wouldn’t be here…..”
How can you refuse anything to a man who unfailingly says the right thing? Even when you know there’s no yesterday and no tomorrow, only Wednesday. But please Lord let Wednesdays last till I die.
There was to be a family function soon, which I dreaded. Family functions are great rambling affairs with two hundred close relatives and a hundred intimate friends. It was my parent’s fortieth wedding anniversary, so great crowds would come to wish them well. The date of the engagement kept jumping out at me from the calendar in my office; I had no calendar at home. My mother instructed us to invite along some friends, and bring some food and drink. That was easy enough, I had arranged with the University caterers to deliver my contribution to the house. By Monday, the day before the party, my head was splitting. The only saving grace was that on Wednesday, whatever wounds I suffered would be soothed and salved by my Wednesday lover.
Too soon Tuesday came, and we were all there in my parent’s garden. They had erected tarpaulin marquees for guests, the juju band and the trestle tables labeled with food. I could hardly see the bunting and the coloured lights, I was waiting for the fate I knew would come. Eventually it did.
One of my aunts, a huge lady bedecked like a steamboat in yards of thick material, with fat toes that seemed to be struggling to escape from the tight white sandals, one of my aunts grabbed my arm just above the elbow and squeezed tightly.
“We’re having a family meeting in the dining room in fifteen minutes, and I want you to be there!” her voice was deep and gruff; almost mannish. I had no wish to contradict her.
Half an hour later. After miserably sitting in my father’s study (all the other rooms in the house were locked because of huge crowds outside; thieves were known to strike at functions) hoping against hope that they would go away, I walked slowly through the dark corridor to the dining room, one of the few rooms in the house that had not been organized as a reception room for the affair.
“Oh, you’re late, but come in”. It was the gruff Aunt with escaping toes who’d spoken. There were six of them seated round the table. All elderly female relations with the exception of my sister, for once mute, as usual looking angelic. She wore some dark blue gauzy fabric, scattered with sequins. The effect was ethereal. No one seemed to notice I was still standing up.
“She’s here now so we can start” boomed the mannish fat one, holding up her hand as if she were about to start a race. She turned to me, and all I could see were her eyes; she fixed my gaze like a cobra. She had a huge mole high on her cheek, and one while eyelash. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her as she talked.
“We were holding this meeting because we want to know something from you. Your younger sister is here because she may know something I don’t, I have spoken to you several times but you just do as if you don’t hear me, when I speak to you, you don’t give me any good reply. Why we are here and why we are calling you is because we want to know”, she took a breath “When you are going to get married?”
There was silence in the room. All six faces turned to look at me, all the aunts stern, malignant mouths and chins, eyes flecked with disapproval. My sister just looked blank. All this was so much water off a ducks back; she’d heard it all before but then so had I.
I looked unfortunately at my feet, encased in their stout brown shoes. I thought I had chosen well, taupe costume with brown accessories, but then I noticed a thread hanging from my hemline, and felt dowdy. Why hadn’t I checked it when I’d picked it up at the dressmakers the day before? I could feel angry tears welling up behind my eyes, but blinked them back defiantly.
Another of my aunts, this time a very thin lady, with malicious pursed lips, bulging frog-like eyes and frizzles of grey hair escaping from her headtie, another of my aunts went on “I know you are very busy in that your university, but you have to find your self a man. Are there no men there?” The others tittered at the idea. No men, in the whole university? She continued with candid cruelty, “You will never attract anybody if you can’t be bothered about your appearance!”
They all made murmurs of assent, except for my sister, who sat silent, avoiding my eyes. She sat taut with apprehension, arms folded against her spangled indigo breast. She knew what was coming next. So did I.
The frog like aunt continued “Why can’t you take a leaf from your younger sister? She’s happy, settled, she has her children, a good home; you can see how well off she is! What are you afraid of? You think you are too clever, madam university lecturer, to find a man to match you! Maybe you are looking for a man with more brains than yourself? Where are you going to find him? And where did you learn that it is by brain power that you can choose a man?” The others all shifted in their seats, and made a chorus of concurring comments “It’s not brain power, a man doesn’t even need to know how to clean his nose himself, if only he has that thing inside his trousers, as long as he can give you children. Ah-ha! Brain power keh!”, snapping their fingers and slapping their hands together to emphasise the point
The old witch gathered steam from their comments “I told your mother when she said you were going to do PhD (she said it ‘Peeyeashdee’) I told her, no, let the poor girl marry first, let her have at least some children before she continues to study, but no! She didn’t listen to me. Look at you now. Almost forty, still single! But it’s not too late, it’s never too late, you can….you must….you should….”
They went on and on. Almost an hour I stood there; no one thought to ask me to sit down. Finally my sister had had enough.
“Aunty; she has a boyfriend. Ask her yourself; she told me she has someone, although I’ve never met him. So don’t give up hope”. She rose, in movement like stars twinkling in the midnight sky. “I have to get back to my guests; my husband doesn’t know where I kept the champagne”. She said gracious good byes to each of the Aunts, greeting them all by name, apologizing sweetly for not being able to stay. When she left, there was silence: then the aunt with the toes spoke up.
“Your sister has put some hope in my heart. So all this time you kept quiet, because you don’t want us to know you have found somebody? Well, that can only be because he’s married. Well I wish you luck. Don’t close all the doors for yourself. You can still have children and be his second wife; nobody will think any less of you. But you have to be quick, the older you are the less fit your children will be, you might even give birth to a mongrel or a maroon….Go, my child, with our blessings. Go and enjoy your parents’ party. God looks after us all…”
I kept the tears inside until I got past the door of the dining room, then suddenly I could hardly see the hallway, or the sunny garden party. I dashed upstairs to my old bedroom (I still had the key to it), and sat on the dusty bedspread, and wept and wept and wept. Could that great lump of a girl who stood in front of a gaggle of old ladies have been me?
That idiotic creature, who had said nothing to defend herself, nothing about how much I liked my life style, my work, my students, my career? About how I was nominated to be assistant departmental head in computer sciences; how I despised my sister with her clothes and parties and useless life? What had happened to me? Why had my tongue not come to my defense in their impromptu court? She had defended me, but in doing so she had betrayed me to them; why should they know anything at all about my life? Why? Those remote relatives from a different time zone.
The lone thought, which made me dry my eyes and go back to the party, was the anticipation of Wednesday.
As the party progressed it livened up considerably, my sister and her husband had brought several cartons of champagne with them. When the women started dancing, she stood out among them, twirling and glittering in her midnight blue, sequins twinkling in the coloured lights. Even the aunts, sated with food and drink, seemed amiable as they tottered and swayed to the music. I sneaked away back to my pristine university flat. Nobody would miss me, I preferred to be alone; I hated being on the fringe of the revelry.
The next day my Wednesday lover came as usual. I’d forgotten to set the alarm, so by mistake we fell asleep in each others arms. The telephone shrilled me awake. He opened one sleepy eye as I picked up the receiver. “Hello?” It was my sister. Her tone was slurred; as she whispered and gasped into the phone I realised she was very, very drunk.
She said, “He’s not here, that bastard, he hit me in the face yesterday after the party….How can I go out? Why does he hit me? Am I not allowed to make jokes…”
Great sobs came gushing into my ear over the phone. My Wednesday lover tensed and held me even tighter, as if to protect me from the horrors on the other end of the line. Her speech was so thick, it was difficult to make out the exact words. She whimpered on “There’s no rationale to my being… I’ve just got my existence all worked out... my life plan... then suddenly some little thing happens and I have nothing to fall back on… nothing left to pretend on… nothing working... I have nothing... fuck all…”

I cringed for her, for my self, for all humanity. The disembodied voice went on “How can anybody do this to me? Why? I don’t know who I am any more…. I don’t even know why I exist…who am I …who am I?”
By now she was slurring her words so badly I thought it was a miracle she had been able to dial my number in the first place. I knew her in this mood, her brain had stopped working, she was whispering on, her voice ghostly, from the demons she had found at the end of a hard days drinking.
How could I exorcise all those devils that lived in the bottles she had emptied? I couldn’t shield her from the ghosts of past and present. Her giddy spirit had turned a downwards spiral, and was too heavy, too sodden, for me to help to lift it up.
“It doesn’t make any sense… who am I? … Why do I have to….Why? …whole life. … means nothing…”. She started crying. I could do nothing for her until she sobered up. So I dropped the phone and took it off the hook.

I turned in my Wednesday lovers arms and soothed the lines that seamed and creased his brow. Such lines of pain. His mouth soft and sad.
“It’s her again, isn’t it?”
I nodded and felt a great surge of love. He was my one carnal pleasure, my one valiant steed.
“Give me a present for Christmas”, I said looking from soft lips to eyes, deep, dark, unfathomable. It was time to break one of the sacred rules in our little game. I held him very tightly and said, “Stop beating up my sister”.