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now, you see. I had to have a shower, you know, with this bus and the
kids, the animals. I was feeling all smelly. —The animals? —Yes! No, I
don’t mean my students, she laughed. We’ve visited Taronga Park again
with my year 9 class. One of the few things that catch their attention:
ecology, the Third World and the protection of rare species, you know;
they don’t care that much for the people... —Talking of people, you won’t
believe what has happened to Don. If I tell you... —Jane, please excuse
me, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must get dressed; can you come back
in half an hour? You’ll tell me then. Is it alright? —O.K., I am sorry, I
didn’t mean to interrupt you, if you were in the middle of something. It’s
just that I am so excited. I couldn’t wait to tell you. And please dress
up! We want to take you out to have dinner with us. I’ll see you later.”
The brown door, which was white inside, finally eclipsed Jane’s
figure as Matilda shut it, drew the bolt and secured the chain. So, Don
had certainly got the job, in the end, thanks to her advice. Poor people.
Jane, in her dirty dressing gown, was one of these wretched women who
are already falling apart at forty, neither thin nor fat, but with tendons
showing everywhere, at the shoulders, arms, forearms, legs and heels,
protruding square knees, small dangling breasts. To think they were
almost the same age, she looked a good ten years older. But maybe she
was the happier of the two, she had a fuller life in her own world. I need
not waste pity on her. Or contempt, for that matter. But having dinner
with them is more than I can bear. I have to find an excuse. She called
Robert at his work. He had just left, they told her, was she the owner of
the nursery who had problems with peak hour supply? No, she wasn’t.
He would visit the nursery tomorrow, first thing in the morning. She
repeated she did not own any nursery. He would be back at the office
at about ten thirty or eleven tomorrow, if she cared to call. “Thank
you Madam. You’re very kind”. She would look up his home number in
the phone book. If it was listed, it should not be difficult to find, there
could not be so many Abdallahs in Sydney. There were several, though,
all the same family, she reckoned. Abdallah A, Abdallah C, Abdallah K,
Abdallah M, two of them, Abdallah Y. Must be the one, Y for Youssef.
Then she felt embarrassed. What if he wasn’t the one who answered the
phone. Did they call him Youssef at home, or Robert, or Bob, or Bobby,
or yet something else? A woman answered, with a strong Arabic accent.
Not young, but she could not gauge her age with any precision from the
voice on the phone. She could be his mother, his wife, a sister. “Can I
speak to Mr. Abdallah, please? —The father or the son?” questioned the
woman. —The one who works at the Water Board. —He’s my husband.
What did you want from him? He will be out late, he told me. I’ll give
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