The coffee-stained envelope

Beryl regarded the man before her and almost regretted why she had agreed to meet him.

He was seated across from her, in a restaurant in one of South B’s dingiest corners, a cup of tea, with the thinnest milk she had ever tasted, on the table.

She had a scarf pulled over her head and had a wig on. She had even worn some lipstick, even though she never wore lipstick.

She did not need that amount of concealment but she felt safer that way and, like Tracy never tired of reminding her – Tracy who was her friend, mentor, confidant and rock – she had to make sure she felt safe.

RADIO DEDICATION

His name was Alex – he had refused to introduce himself and Tracy had had to ask for his name from her contact after their first meeting.

He had sharp, curious eyes which bore right into her, a clean shaven head and the demeanour of a boarding master who was only too aware of the mischief his boys were up to. But his most characteristic feature was his lower lip.

It was large, too large in fact that it was almost off-putting. Often, it would slip and hang lazily, almost in opposition to his alert eyes, and he would suck it back with a smack he seemed to relish.

Perhaps it was that he was so sharp to make up for that lip. It inhibited his speech.

“I will call you back in a few days. This shouldn’t take long,” he said, sucking in his lip almost simultaneously.

He didn’t look at her but when he spoke, it made her acutely aware that she was being addressed.

“Alright, but please be careful...”

He smiled at her condescendingly; a smile meant to inform her he was a professional and assure her that he knew his job, which was why, after all, she had hired him. Her insides groaned. Of course he would be careful... He had come highly recommended from the contact – a friend of Tracy’s.

He got up and left. Beryl didn’t follow him immediately.

She had hired him to spy on her husband, Nick. She had had this nagging feeling since before their wedding, a feeling she had dismissed and attributed to his outgoing personality.

She was remarkably reserved herself, which showed whenever they argued  she withdrew into herself.

But her rational self had been knocked over when she had heard him dedicate a song to someone on radio.

Of course, she wasn’t sure but she was convinced it had been his voice although the caller had said his name was Mark.

She had tried to dismiss her fears but they kept her awake every night, bringing with them the fantastic terrors that the small of the night often brings.

Presently, she got up and left.

Alex called her three days later. He told her he had news and could they meet? An hour later, he handed her a white envelope with a large coffee stain. She had asked Tracy to accompany her.

“I had a small accident,” he offered.

“Are you done so soon?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” he said, sucking back in his runaway lip.

She could not sense, from his composed exterior, that the contents of that envelope were about to jumble up her world in ways she hadn’t imagined.

BITTER PILL

She nudged the envelope as if to connect with its contents. She dreaded opening it but that dread gladdened her. It was going to give her closure.

She got out a folded cheque and handed it to him. He turned to go but hesitated. “I hope it was worth it.”

“Do you say that to all your clients?” she asked, trying to be jovial. She tried to laugh but she sounded hollow.

“You have yourself a nice evening, ma’am,” he said and left.

Beryl almost snorted. What good could the evening possibly bring? A sense of foreboding was beginning to well up inside her and, like a bitter pill, threatened to gush out.

“Are you alright?”

Tracy’s voice jolted her. She realised she had squeezed the envelope into an uneven, crumpled ball.

“Yes... yes, I am. Let’s go.”

She didn’t open it immediately. She didn’t feel like going home immediately either, so she asked Tracy if they could go to her house first.

***

“Well, are you going to open it?”

They had just had dinner. Beryl looked at her host. She didn’t want to open the envelope; in fact, she had half a mind to tear it up and flush it down the toilet. She reached in her bag and handed Tracy the brown paper.

“Go on,” she said and closed her eyes.

She sensed rather than saw her friend freeze after she tore off the edge of the envelope. As she reached for the photos, Tracy was shaking her head, silently imploring her not to look.

“Show me already,” she growled, as she shot up and snatched the photos.

When Beryl rested her eyes on the first snap, she felt herself go woozy, and the room began spinning, slowly at first, then faster and faster until she slumped to her feet and passed out. Tracy screamed then.

***

Beryl was reserved even in expressing anger, in those moments after her hurricane had been subdued. She woke up to the face of Tracy peering down at her.

Twenty minutes later – after a lot of splashing of water in the face at the sink and a cup of mixed tea from her friend – she was fully alert.

After she had fully recovered her senses, when she had fully registered the fact that of what reality the photos presented, she broke down and cried. And Tracy cried with her.

“Call Nick,” she said suddenly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“Now is not...” she said.

“Call him, Tracy,” she said. “Tell him I am unwell or something. Put on an act.”

Tracy knew better than to try and argue with her. She gave her friend an imploring look, decided it was not going to work and reached for her phone.

Forty minutes later, there was a rapping at the door. They both started.

“Hey, babe. What happened? How are you feeling?” Nick asked when he entered. He was breathless.

“A little like this, little like that...”

“Well, let’s go... Help me, Tracy,” he said, and made to help her up.

“Sit down, Nick.”

He stopped in mid motion. It occurred to him then that if Beryl had been sick, she would have gone to the hospital, not Tracy’s house, and that he should have been called to the hospital.

He turned to look at her but her eyes were on the table where the photos lay. He followed her gaze and instantly froze. He remained rooted to that same spot until he fled out of the house less than a minute later.

“That is you and my mother, Nick,” she said it as a statement. “Your lover is my mother.” She laughed.

Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again. He turned instead and sprinted out of the still-open door, almost knocking Tracy over, and leapt over the railing.

Perhaps he had forgotten, in the shock of the moment, that Tracy’s apartment on the fifth floor... or perhaps he had decided that was his way out. He was dead the instant he hit the ground.

Beryl, already plotting the next instalment in her revenge scheme, did not hear Tracy scream for the second time that night.

The following day, she mailed a white coffee-stained envelope to her father.

Mwalimu Andrew resumes next week