beside Liyana. “Do you have kombucha?”
“I’ve run out.” Nya’s momentarily mortified. “But I can nip out to—”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Mazmo waves his hand. “How about matcha green?”
“Absolutely. Ana, what would you—?”
“Nothing for me.” Liyana glowers at her aunt, who’s busying herself with teacups, then casts a sideways glance at Mazmo. Admittedly, he isn’t a bald septuagenarian with a paunch and halitosis. He is, as her aunt promised, both young and attractive. Exceedingly attractive, excessively attractive. And that voice. She’d forgotten the velvet of his voice, a river smoothing rocks.
“So . . .” Mazmo’s saying. “I hear you enjoy dancing.”
“Do I?” Liyana casts another scorching glance at her aunt, who’s fiddling with the water filter.
“If you want to go, I’m good friends with the chap who owns the M25.”
Liyana frowns. “The motorway?”
He laughs and Liyana looks at him, caught off guard by the sound of the river again. Liyana feels her aunt’s glow emanating from the espresso machine. A moment later, she hands Mazmo his tea as if it were an offering of frankincense and myrrh. She lingers at the table. “Oat milk? Almond?”
“No, thanks.” Mazmo pats his washboard stomach. “I’m paleo.”
“Of course,” Nya says, as if this were the only sensible dietary choice. “Well then, I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted . . .”
Mazmo half stands. “You won’t stay?”
“No,” Nya says, the word weighted with reluctance and longing. “No, I should go.”
“No, stay.” Liyana grabs her aunt’s hand and squeezes tight. “You really should stay, Dagã. You know how I met Mazmo, now I want to hear how—”
With a swift tug, Nya extricates herself from Liyana’s grip. “I’ll let him tell you that funny little story. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
As her aunt wafts out of the kitchen on an air of regret, Liyana turns with equal reluctance to Mazmo. How embarrassing to meet him again under such circumstances. And how, she wonders, does one charm a man without the promise of sexual favours? She thinks of what her aunt said about his sexuality—is he gay and wanting an heir to satisfy his mother? That she cannot do. Or does he simply want a wife, to draw a veil over his pansexual practices? That she might be able to do—Kumiko permitting. Still, how to raise the delicate matter of finances? Liyana thinks of her heroine. BlackBird would simply threaten bodily harm if premarital funds weren’t immediately forthcoming, but Liyana will need to be slightly more subtle than that.
“So . . .” Mazmo says.
“So . . .” Liyana echoes.
He smiles again. And again she’s caught by it, reminded of that something long ago. The moon breaking through clouds. The river catching its light.
11:03 a.m.—Nyasha
Nyasha will never forget her first time. The first time she tasted champagne. The first time she saw diamonds. The first time she heard opera. And each of these things had happened on the same night. Fittingly, it had been the first husband who introduced her to them all. For this reason alone, she’s always held him in fond regard. That he was an inconsiderate lover and serial philanderer meant she’d never liked him much, though she’d loved him once.
Under the watchful eye and instruction of her cousin Akosua, Nyasha had been courting Kwesi Xoese Mayat for three weeks when she was told that tonight she must finally agree to marry him. Timing, according to Akosua, was everything. One must make a suitor wait a suitable period: long enough to garner respect, but not long enough to engender frustration. So Nyasha was prepared. She didn’t particularly want to marry Kwesi, but Akosua had assured her that love had little to do with relationships; it was all about family.
“If you like him and he will take care of you,” her cousin said, “that is enough.”
That he liked her was clear. That night he drove her from Ayitepa to Accra for a night at the National Theatre to see La traviata. Afterwards they dined at La Chaumière, a formidably chic and forbiddingly pricey restaurant. Nyasha had been so spellbound by the opera that she passed the dinner in a daze. A shame, since she’d barely tasted the exquisitely expensive food. She was so spellbound that when Kwesi slid a long black leather box across the table, Nyasha didn’t notice until he emitted a self-conscious cough.
“Sorry,” she said. “What?” Then she looked down. “Ao? Is it for me?”
“Of course.” Kwesi smiled, as if he were a judge bestowing a medal. “Open it.”
She did, and La traviata