I heard the commotion as I headed down the stairs. I wondered briefly what Mrs De Witt was up to now, but when I turned the corner I saw that the raised voice was coming from a young Asian woman, who appeared to be thrusting a small child at Ashok. ‘You said this was my day. You promised. I have to go on the march!’
‘I can’t do it, baby. Vincent is off. They got nobody to mind the lobby.’
‘Then your kids can sit here while you do it. I’m going on this march, Ashok. They need me.’
‘I can’t mind the kids here!’
‘The library is going to close, baby. You understand that? You know that is the one place with air-con I can go in the summer! And it is the one place I can feel sane. You tell me where else in the Heights I’m supposed to take these kids when I’m alone eighteen hours a day.’
Ashok looked up as I stood there. ‘Oh, hi, Miss Louisa.’
She turned. I’m not sure what I had expected of Ashok’s wife, but it was not this fierce-looking woman in jeans and a bandanna, her curly hair tumbling down her back.
‘Morning.’
‘Good morning.’ She turned away. ‘I’m not discussing this any further, baby. You told me Saturday was mine. I am going on the march to protect a valuable public resource. That is it.’
‘There’s another march next week.’
‘We have to keep up the pressure! This is the time when the city councillors decide funding! If we’re not out there now, the local news doesn’t report it, and then they think nobody cares. You know how PR works, baby? You know how the world works?’
‘I will lose my job if my boss comes down here and sees three kids. Yes, I love you, Nadia. I do love you. Don’t cry, sweetheart.’ He turned to the toddler in his arms and kissed her wet cheek. ‘Daddy just has to do his job today.’
‘I’m going now, baby. I’ll be back early afternoon.’
‘Don’t you go. Don’t you dare – hey!’
She walked away, her palm up, as if to ward off further protest and swung out of the building, stooping to pick up a placard she’d left by the door. As if perfectly choreographed, all three small children began to cry. Ashok swore softly. ‘What the Sam Hill am I supposed to do now?’
‘I’ll do it.’ I’d said it before I knew what I was doing.
‘What?’
‘Nobody’s in. I’ll take them upstairs.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Ilaria goes to see her sister on Saturdays. Mr Gopnik’s at his club. I’ll park them in front of the television. How hard can it be?’
He looked at me. ‘You don’t have children, do you, Miss Louisa?’ And then he recovered himself. ‘But, man, that would be a lifesaver. If Mr Ovitz stops by and sees me with these three I’ll be fired before you can say, uh …’ He thought for a moment.
‘You’re fired?’
‘Exactly. Okay. Lemme come up with you and I’ll explain who is who and who likes what. Hey, kids, you’re gonna have an adventure upstairs with Miss Louisa! How cool is that?’ Three children stared at me with wet, snotty faces. I smiled brightly at them. And, in tandem, all three began to cry again.
If you ever find yourself in a melancholy state of mind, removed from your family and a little unsure about the person you love, I can highly recommend being left in temporary charge of three small strangers, at least two of whom are still unable to go to the lavatory unaided. The phrase ‘living in the moment’ only really made sense to me once I’d found myself chasing a crawling baby, whose obscenely filled nappy hung half off, across a priceless Aubusson rug, while simultaneously trying to stop a four-year-old chasing a traumatized cat. The middle child, Abhik, could be pacified with biscuits, and I parked him in front of cartoons in the TV room, shovelling crumbs with fat hands into his dribbling mouth, while I tried to shepherd the other two into at least the same twenty-square-foot radius. They were funny and sweet and mercurial and exhausting, squawking and running and colliding repeatedly with furniture. Vases wobbled, books were hauled from shelves and hastily shoved back. Noise – and various unsavoury scents – filled the air. At one point I sat on the floor clutching two around their waists while Rachana, the eldest, poked me in the eye with sticky fingers and laughed. I laughed too. It was kind of funny, in a thank God this will be over soon kind of way.
After two hours, Ashok came up and told me his wife was caught up in her protest and could I do another hour? I said yes. He wore the wide-eyed look of the truly desperate and, after all, I had nothing else to do. I did, however, take the precaution of moving them into my room, where I put on some cartoons, tried to keep them from opening the door and accepted, with some distant part of me, that the air in this part of the building might never smell the same again. I was just trying to stop Abhik putting cockroach spray into his mouth when there was a knock on my door.
‘Hold on, Ashok,’ I yelled, trying to wrestle the canister off the child before his father saw.
But it was Ilaria’s face that appeared round my door. She stared at me, then at the children, then back at me. Abhik briefly stopped crying, gazing at her with huge brown eyes.
‘Um. Hi, Ilaria!’
She said nothing.
‘I’m – I’m just helping Ashok out for a couple of hours. I know it’s not ideal but, um, please don’t say anything. They’ll only be here a tiny bit longer.’
She eyed the scene, then sniffed the air.
‘I’ll fumigate the room afterwards. Please don’t tell Mr Gopnik. I promise it won’t happen again. I know I should have asked first but there was nobody here and Ashok was desperate.’ As I spoke, Rachana ran wailing towards the older woman and hurled herself like a rugby ball at her stomach. I winced, as Ilaria staggered backwards. ‘They’ll be gone any minute. I can call Ashok right now. Really. Nobody has to know …’
But Ilaria simply adjusted her blouse, then scooped the little girl up in one arm. ‘You are thirsty, compañera?’ Without a backward glance she shuffled off, Rachana huddled against her huge chest, her little thumb plugged into her mouth.
As I sat there, Ilaria’s voice echoed down the corridor. ‘Bring them to the kitchen.’
Ilaria fried a batch of banana fritters, handing the children small pieces of banana to keep them occupied while she cooked, and I refilled cups of water and tried to stop the smaller children toppling off the kitchen chairs. She didn’t talk to me, but kept up a low croon, her face filled with unexpected sweetness, her voice low and musical as she chatted to them. The children, like dogs responding to an efficient trainer, were immediately quiet and biddable, holding out dimpled hands for another piece of banana, remembering their pleases and thank-yous, according to Ilaria’s instructions. They ate and ate, growing smiley and placid, the baby rubbing balled fists into her eyes as if she were ready for bed.
‘Hungry,’ Ilaria said, nodding towards the empty plates.
I tried to recall whether Ashok had told me about food in the baby’s rucksack but I had been too distracted to look. I was just grateful to have a grown-up in the room. ‘You’re brilliant with kids,’ I said, chewing a piece of fritter.
She shrugged. But she looked quietly gratified. ‘You should change the little one. We can make a bed for her in your bottom drawer.’