“John,” she said, assessing his plain grey work overall worn to the waist, his chest left bare. She didn’t blame him, today was a particularly hot, sunny day. She glanced at his coworkers spread across the expansive yard, trimming hedges, sculpting shrubs, doing their job tending the gardens. She still couldn't understand how they could have such vast greenery in an almost desert.
She turned back to John. He might've been lean-muscled, but his midriff was well toned, and his arms too. She looked down at the contents of his right hand – a brown envelope. He lifted it to her.
“I wanted to give you in person,” he said in French, instinctively like it was his first language. Her eyes shot up to his, and he had a satisfied look on his face. She took the parcel from him. “I stayed up all night.”
“This is a lot.” She scrutinized the thick package, without knowing what she was looking for. It was sealed.
“Four hundred and sixty-nine pages of musings.”
“Wow.” She glanced up at him again. “Let’s walk for a minute?” she said, popping her brows in question. He nodded, and they walked forward in no particular direction. “Tell me about them. Tell me one of your stories.” They wandered for a while, heading toward the orchards, through a large blossom-lined tunnel, as he told her about a girl, an orphan girl whose story mirrored her own life’s journey.
At twenty-seven, Bichara’s life was one long cheerless tale, punctuated by a few happy moments…like her marriage…in the beginning. She was beginning to think she didn’t deserve happiness, but John’s fictional story had a happy ending, perhaps she had some hope yet.
“Gafara dai, Madam Bello.” She turned around, startled by the sudden interruption to John’s words, baffled at not having heard the footsteps of the man before them, a male servant.
“Eh, Mahmud,” she said. The young man stretched his hand forward with an envelope in it, bending over at the waist in a show of respect she found discomforting for this new century and millennium!
“Letter for you and oga…, from Minanata.” Minanata. The sultan's palace. The letter must be from Rahman’s grandmother. What could Nana possibly want? Why couldn’t it wait till she was back in the house, how urgent could it possibly be? She took the slim envelope from his hand to save the poor help from having to stay bent over for much longer – it was ridiculous, really. He wasted no time in returning in the direction of the house after he had done his job delivering the message.
“You have family in Minanata?” Her companion asked as they started walking again, Bichara aiming for the nearby trees. She wanted to sit on the soft grass under one of the large hardwood trees.
The estate was one huge money-making factory all by itself. Whoever owned the property before Rahman’s father, whoever created it, must’ve thought about everything so there was no chance they or their descendants would ever be poor. They were a low-density forest, so vast, you could get lost in it. According to Rahman, it wasn’t even possible to cross from one end to the other by foot, and it produced commercial timber. The adjacent vineyard produced a great quantity of wine, but mostly for private consumption. Bichara and John were just departing a sizable orchard. It produced several fruits and vegetables supplied to the farmer’s market in town.
The stables housed thirteen pure-bred horses, six of which were race horses that competed in high stakes’ competitions around the world. One of them was her Angel. Rahman had shipped her all the way from Chad the day after Bichara had told him how the only thing she missed about grandfather's farm was the beautiful strange white pony her grandfather had rescued and gifted her when she was nine. She remembered being blown away, seeing a full-grown silver horse in front of her apartment building, in the middle of downtown N'djamena.
“Rahman’s grandmother lives there,” she said when they reached the first of the giant trees. Why was she being so familiar with him? Rahman wouldn’t approve of it. She frowned as she concentrated on lowering herself to sit beside some stone benches. John jerked forward to support her back. She questioned herself for not sitting on the benches instead, and noticed he didn’t move to sit with her as she opened the crisp ivory envelope, unearthing an invitation. Her forehead crease deepened as she read the inscription.
“What is it?” She turned to him with one sharp motion. He was standing with the sun right behind him, glowing. She looked away again, blinking, wondering at her thoughts.
“Family news,” she muttered. “A long-lost cousin has returned home. There’s going to be a grand family reunion to celebrate it.” She knew she sounded dry. She hated Rahman’s family. It was obvious in the way she talked about them. It never occurred to her that it might’ve been important to know his family before agreeing to marry him. Would knowing them have changed her mind about their marriage? She was second guessing everything these days. Nana was an easy exception though, it was impossible not to love the kind old bean.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” She covered her face with her palms, already nervous about what would be another opportunity for her to feel out of place, lonely…, ordinary.
“And, they send the invite now?” The abruptness of the whole affair didn’t bother her as much. Quite the opposite. She was happy to get it over with as soon as possible. It must’ve been sudden, the prodigal son reappearing out of the blues, Nana grabbing the opportunity to exercise her good social graces, clean out the massive receiving room of her country home, and have Nigerian elites over.
“You could come.” The idea popped up out of nowhere and was out of her mouth before she could make sense of it.
“Me?” He chuckled. He had a talent of asking and stating his words at the same time, as though the answer to his question was obvious and he wanted you to think straight. Maybe it came with being a skilled writer. “I’m a gardener, Bichara. Your servant.”
“You’re whatever you say you are.” She peeked up at him, feeling like there was something different about the man before her. “Not what other people say.” She ended her statement in a whisper and glanced back at the article in her hands. She pushed herself to get up, and John moved to brace her.
“Easy,” he said, helping her up. Bichara was comforted by his concern for her. She glanced at him again as she stood, and those gentle brown eyes captivated her in a way that gave her momentary peace. Something about this strange gardener made her realize she’d been lonely for a while.
It seems Bichara is drawn to John. But why? What is it about John? What are your thoughts on the build-up so far? Remember, we'd love to talk about it in the comments section below.
Chapter 5 is coming on another Saturday!