Someone, I don't know who, is living with me in my house. The clues of this person's existence are subtle—a sip of milk here, a slice of bread there—but nonetheless detectable. Such is my concern that I have taken to measuring and weighing some of the items in my fridge before I leave for the office in the mornings. In the evenings, when I return, I weigh and measure the same foods. The evidence is there in plain view: the mature cheddar cheese I keep in a Tupperware tub is considerably lighter; the half-loaf of wholewheat bread is now a quarter-loaf; the level of orange juice has dropped; there is one less apple in the bowl and, even more telling, the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom is noticeably slimmer. All the signs point to the presence of a ghostly parasite in my house.
I have lived a simple life. I never married and have, therefore, at the age of fifty-eight, never had to compromise my domestic realm for a husband, children or grandchildren. It is a neat, pet-free household and any irregularities are easily noticed. My house, which is in a quiet southern suburb of Cape Town, is modest, with two bedrooms (one, actually, as the second is a study-cum-sewing room), a lounge, a kitchen and a bathroom. There is also a small attic, although I haven't been up there in years. The last person who went up through the trapdoor in the passage ceiling was an electrician I had called out to lower the thermostat on the geyser (my little contribution to power-saving).
Yes, I know what you're thinking: if anyone is hiding in my house then the attic would be the logical place to start searching.
Well, I have my reasons for believing that this is not likely. First off, I don't own a ladder (as I said to the electrician, the only ladders in this house are the ones in my stockings). It would be difficult, no, impossible, for a person on their own to lift themselves up to and down from the trapdoor, which must be at least twelve feet above the floor. Secondly, the walls and ceiling around the trapdoor are painted white, and any footmarks or dirty handprints would be clearly visible. Finally, there is a latch and a large padlock, which is always locked, keeping the trapdoor firmly closed. So, no, the attic is not under any suspicion for aiding and abetting a hidden person. And I do believe it is the singular—person, not persons—as the amounts of food that go missing are so negligible that I can't see how more than one man or woman could possibly survive on such meagre rations. Unless it's a child.
On weekends I am, of course, at home a lot more, although I still go out for a few hours at a time—either to the shops or a movie. And then there's bridge club on Saturday evenings and tennis on Sundays. That leaves plenty of time for my Anne Frank to come out and do some scavenging.
Whether or not this person, my stowaway, actually leaves the house I cannot say. How would they get back in if they did? Although I suppose there is a Yale lock on the kitchen door, which they could easily leave unlatched, and the key for the security gate hangs from a hook on the wall between the door and the sink. I haven't set the alarm in years as I always forget the code, and the security company soon tired of all the false alarms. So it's not exactly Alcatraz.
The situation has remained this way for some weeks now. I have searched in all the rooms and all the cupboards without finding any concrete evidence of my invisible houseguest. At times I've wondered if I am not experiencing the early signs of dementia. Occasionally I have friends over for tea and once or twice I have considered telling them of my suspicions. But something keeps me from confessing. I fear, perhaps, that if I do speak out then this will all become terrifyingly real. The police will be called. I will be offered places to stay. People will question my ability to live on my own. None of which I want to happen, as you can imagine. Because, you see, the thing is that I find it strangely comforting to know that I am not alone in my house. And I have no reason to fear for my safety, as whoever is in my house has had ample opportunity to do whatever they want to me. No, this person, like any reasonable parasite, realises that to harm me, the host, is to harm themselves.
In the evenings I sit in the lounge and sip my sherry, which fortunately has not been touched by my houseguest. What a relief they're not drinkers! I turn on the radio and gently let the activities of the day replay in my mind. If there is something that I wish to share with my visitor, I do so simply by talking aloud. There is never any form of reply, but I'm sure that I am being heard. I carry on these conversations as I prepare my dinner, and later while I am eating.
Afterwards, as I watch TV, I like to comment on the evening news, just as any well-adjusted person would, given what's going on in the world today, never mind what's happening right in our own backyard (the things people do to one another!). In this way, talking aloud, I feel as if I am at least benefiting from the presence of my unseen guest. Once I even caught myself chatting to them as I walked down the aisles of Pick 'n Pay, asking if they felt like meatballs or fish. If only you could have seen the stares!
Now I find myself leaving out sandwiches or leftovers in the mornings. I cover the plates with a dishcloth and when I come home the food is gone and the plates and utensils have been washed and dried and returned to their respective cupboards and drawers. Even the plates and cups that I used are washed. It's like magic. And I've also come to notice their likes and dislikes. For instance, one evening I saw in the dustbin two slices of bread with horseradish sauce on them. Of course the rare roast beef filling was gone; however, I now make sure never to put horseradish sauce on their sandwiches. But, aside from minor discrepancies like this, I must admit that our experiment in cohabitation seems to work rather well.
I cannot say what has woken me. Normally I sleep right through until my alarm goes off at six thirty. But the clock says it's only twenty past two. Last night I was abnormally tired. It's been a long week—the law firm where I work as a conveyancing secretary is often more frenetic towards the end of the month—and so I went to bed a little earlier than usual. And now here I lie, wide awake and alert. While my eyes are still getting accustomed to the dark, my ears pick up a faint sound. Soft breathing. It's so faint I have to lift my head off the pillow to make sure it's not the wind moving through the trees outside. No, it's definitely coming from somewhere inside my bedroom. I sit up in bed and cock my head. No doubt about it, I can hear very slow, very peaceful breathing. I turn my head and listen again. I could swear it's coming from under the bed. I feel like laughing. How could it be coming from under my bed? That's something only a child would believe. But I can even hear a slight rattling of mucus in a nasal passage.
I switch on the bedside lamp. The breathing stops almost immediately. Then I lean over and peer into the gap beneath my bed. I see a pile of blankets. Staring right back at me is a small brown face. There is a shrill scream, although I can't say if it originates from the face under the bed or from me. I leap out of bed and scuttle to the corner of my bedroom where I have a green Old Mutual golf umbrella standing against the wall. I hold it in front of me with both hands and swing it from side to side.
"Come out from under there!" I shout in the fiercest voice I can muster.
"Come out or I'll call the police!"
Slowly, like a chrysalis emerging from a cocoon, a scrawny little body crawls out of the blankets under the bed. It's a woman. She pulls herself along the carpet until her whole body is in view. She's clothed in an assortment of old and torn dresses and tracksuits. And then she raises both her hands, palms facing me. We blink at one another for several seconds. She looks confused and disorientated. I can see that her hands are shaking. I'm sure she can see that mine are too.
"Who are you?" I demand of her.
"I am Honorata." Even though her voice is not much more than a sheepish whisper I can tell that her accent is foreign.
"Where are you from?"
"The DRC," she murmurs, as if this is something to be ashamed of.
"DRC? The Congo?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing here in my house?"
A shrug.
"How long have you been sleeping under my bed?"
She stares at me blankly.
The cheek of it! And sleeping inches away from me too! Literally right under my nose! And yet I feel foolish questioning her like this. She knows that I know she has been in my house because I've been leaving food out for her. I've even been talking to her. Have I not therefore condoned her presence in my home up until now? She is right to be confused. I am the one who has reneged on the deal, not her.
We continue to stare at one another until she lowers her gaze and I lower the umbrella. She is crying softly now.
"Okay," I say to her.
"It's okay. Come on, it's the middle of the night. I'm going to make a proper bed for you on the sofa in the lounge. You can sleep there tonight. In the morning we will discuss what to do. All right?"
She nods and gathers the blankets from under my bed. I get a sheet and a spare pillow and pillowcase from the linen cupboard and try to make as reasonable a bed as I can on the couch. As I lay her blankets down I notice that they smell of the same washing powder and softener that I use. I suppose this should not surprise me. With a gentle "thank you" Honorata climbs beneath the blankets and turns on her side. She pulls the blankets right up over her nose, so that only her eyes and forehead are exposed. For a moment I wonder if she's expecting a bedtime story. She is, after all, only the size of a child, yet her face looks at least thirty.
Once I'm back in my own bed I cannot sleep. My mind is awhirl with all the possibilities and permutations that now confront me after having come face to face with Honorata. It's a pretty name. Unusual. But perhaps in the DRC it's very common. Eventually I must've fallen asleep because when my alarm clock goes off I'm still in the depths of an incomprehensible dream. I put on my slippers and dressing gown and go through to the lounge. Sitting upright on the couch is Honorata. Next to her, neatly folded, are the sheets and blankets, on top of which is the pillow. She looks as uncomfortable as I feel.
"What do you do in the day while I'm out?" I ask her, after making us tea and porridge. I'm sitting next to her on the couch or, rather, her bed.
"I try to find some work."
"And how do you get in and out? The kitchen door?"
She affirms this with a nod.
"Then you hide away before I get back?"
"Yes."
"Well, obviously you don't need to hide any more. There's food in the fridge and… oh, never mind, you know your way around here well enough. I'm going to work. Tonight we will talk and we will find a solution for our living arrangements."
At the office I am constantly distracted, so much so that one of the senior partners asks if I'm feeling ill after I have to retype a letter three times for him. No, I'm quite fine, I tell him, although it's fair enough to say that I am feeling ill at ease. Things were more straightforward before I met Honorata face to face. It was easier to accept her presence when she was invisible. But tonight when I get home she will be there, staring at me forlornly and wondering what I'm planning to do with her. It's all too much responsibility; it really is. And yet I can't just ask her to leave. Where will she go? What will she eat? But then what will Patricia think if she finds out that I have a foreigner living with me, while after twenty years Patricia is still no more than a servant in my house? The situation is simply not tenable.
When I get home Honorata is still on the couch. She cannot raise her eyes to meet mine. And I cannot get out the words I had carefully planned as I sat in the traffic on the M3. Let me first cook her some dinner, I think to myself. At least she can leave on a full stomach. I end up talking to her about my mundane day while I prepare a lamb stew. But it's exactly like before, because she never replies. She stays put in the lounge, on the couch, staring at the carpet.
I set a place for her at the small table in the corner of the lounge. It's so intimate that our knees knock together as we eat. If she doesn't have anything to say at least she has an appetite: she almost licks her plate clean. And I must admit that it's pleasant to have one's cooking appreciated.
After dinner a great wave of tiredness washes over me and I can barely keep my eyes open. Honorata and I haven't even discussed what we are going to do about our situation. But perhaps it can wait until the morning when my mind is clearer. And, anyway, what can be done so late at night? I put out a towel and a new toothbrush for her and then excuse myself for the evening. Later I hear her running the bath. It's a comforting sound: warm water splashing as someone stirs it around the tub. And then there's silence as the taps are turned off, and I imagine Honorata lowering herself into the steaming water with a pleasing sigh.
Morning comes and still I have no desire to evict Honorata. I make us porridge and again we sit next to one another on the couch to eat it. I'm struck once more by how comforting it is to have someone to share a meal with. It makes me wonder who's feeding off whom. She's not much of a talker, but I can more than make up for her silence. I find myself chattering away about nothing in particular until I realise I'm going to be late for work.
In the evening, on my way back from the office, I stop off at Cavendish Square and buy groceries and, on a whim, a cardigan for Honorata. I think of buying her underwear too, but, no, that might be getting a tad familiar. God knows the woman could do with some more clothes though. I'd give her some of my old ones, but I'm at least two sizes too big for her.
When I arrive home she isn't there. Her bedclothes are carefully piled on the couch, the kitchen is spotless and her towel is hanging on a rail in the bathroom. I pack the groceries away in the kitchen and then remove the price tag from the cardigan before folding it up and leaving it on her pillow. But something doesn't feel right. Everything is far too neat and orderly, the house far too silent. Of course I realise that this is how it always was before Honorata appeared. This is how we have lived up until now. And yet the lack of her presence is disconcerting. Nonsense, I tell myself. Since when have I been so sentimental? I pour myself a sherry and start preparing a dinner of chicken breyani.
Forty-five minutes later it's ready. Still no Honorata. I busy myself by laying the table and opening a bottle of red wine. I'm pretty certain she doesn't care for drink, but so what? I feel like wine tonight. I put the breyani in the warming drawer of the oven and watch the news. Then the weather. Then some over-the-top American nonsense that the world could really do without. I pour another glass of wine. So that was Honorata, I mutter to myself. I take the cardigan I bought for her and hang it up in my cupboard. I'm sure Patricia will appreciate it. Then I dish up a single portion of dried-out breyani and sit down next to Honorata's empty place at the table. I raise my glass of wine in a silent toast.
Good luck to her wherever she is now. No hard feelings. It's not like I was expecting a thank-you note or a bunch of flowers as a sign of appreciation or anything. I shovel the breyani into my mouth and wash it down with more wine. And then, still chewing the last mouthful, I go through to the kitchen and start washing up.
I'm just wiping down the counter when I hear the security gate being unlocked. The kitchen door opens and there stands Honorata. I nod at her and continue wiping down the kitchen surfaces. I expect she's wanting her dinner now. But I just carry on cleaning up and then take my glass of wine into the lounge. Well, what does she expect? This isn't a bloody hotel.
I sit staring at the TV without taking any of it in. My glass is empty again. Honorata comes into the lounge and stands at my side. I'm too annoyed to start a conversation with her. She fumbles in her pocket and pulls out a handful of nickel and copper coins. She offers them to me with both hands.
"What is this?" I ask.
Honorata lifts the coins closer to me, as if asking me to smell them.
"But I don't want your money. Where did you get it anyway? Begging? Is that where you've been? Standing at a stop street begging? Look at that money: it's filthy. Put it away and wash your hands. It's quite unnecessary."
As I say this I raise a hand in order to emphasise my point, but it catches Honorata's hands and the coins go flying all over the carpet. Honorata backs away towards the door.
"Oh look what you've made me do now," I say, putting down my wine glass and getting on my hands and knees to pick up the coins.
Honorata watches expressionlessly as I crawl around on all fours until I've retrieved every last coin. I give them back to her and then head for the bathroom to wash my hands before going to bed. It takes me a long time to fall asleep. A profound feeling of unease has crept into bed with me and refuses to let my mind wander off into the safety of the subconscious. Disruption, that is what this all is. Utter disruption. Everything was fine before. But now I am made to feel awkward in my own home. This will not do. It will not do at all.
In the morning I leave the house without having breakfast. At work I am a glowing example of efficiency. I keep my conversations with colleagues brisk and to the point. My mind must not be swayed from the tasks at hand. My curtness raises a few eyebrows, but I refuse to be distracted. I work straight through my lunch hour and at precisely five o'clock I leave the office. Half an hour later I'm home. Honorata is sitting in the lounge watching TV. Before I even put down my bag I deliver my verdict. Honorata listens without taking her eyes off the soap opera on TV.
"We cannot live like this. The only way is if we never see one another. I am going out to a movie now. When I get back I don't want to know that you are here, or that you even exist. If you can do that then we won't have a problem."
But when I go outside to my car I don't have the slightest inclination to drive to the movies. Instead I sit in the driver's seat with the car keys on my lap. The noises from the exterior world are pleasantly muted inside my car. Even my neighbour's dog's barking is muffled and distant. By pushing the remote button on my car keys I can lock and unlock the car doors automatically. I listen to the reassuring metallic "clunk" of the locks slotting closed and then open and then closed again. Satisfied that I'm safely locked in, I tilt back the seat and make myself comfortable.
