Yusuf
Cecily. I can remember the exact day that I met her, which is amazing considering that my memory is generally mediocre. Oh I can cope with facts and formulas pertinent to my work, and I have the normal human capacity for phone numbers and film plots.
But when it comes to Cecily, my mental hard drive lets her take up all the space allotted and beyond.
It was four years, two months and six days ago, to be precise. My sister Harsha was still in school and struggling to finish before my family left Mombasa, and I was working hard to convince my mother that I could run the pharmacy on my own once they did. It was a busy time, and between the ongoing discussions with my parents and all the new duties I was learning for the business, I wasn't the most social of young men.
Then Harsha brought her friend home for a study session. I remember opening the door and seeing the most beautiful young lady standing there, smiling. Oooooh that smile. It has haunted me ever since; that bright flash of white teeth set in lush exotic lips, and those chocolate dark eyes. I was and am, smitten by Cecily's smile.
I said something stupid I'm sure, but whatever it was Cecily was gracious and Harsha came over to introduce her friend and THAT was when I learned her melodious name. Cecily Esiankiki Barongo, a glorious string of eleven syllables that I delight in. I suppose that if I marry her she will hyphenate her last name and then be Cecily Esiankiki Barango-Mehra, which sounds very nice to me as well.
She and Harsha went into the living room and settled in at the coffee table there, spreading books out and giggling, and I know I wandered past over twenty times; often enough for Harsha to tell me to go away. I tried. I did try, but the beautiful beacon of Cecily's smile was like a searchlight to the little dazzled moth of my brain. It still is at times; I have never seen another quite like hers. It's shy and sweet and welcomes the recipient in like a pond of cool water in the scorching desert.
Harsha, for all her exasperating ways has a good heart, though, and understood my situation well before I did. After she and I escorted Cecily home—very wise, given the neighborhoods in Mombassa, she turned to me and rapped me on the shoulder, hard. "So, you like Cecily, do you? Good. Now mother can stop wondering if you're gay or not."
"I'm not gay," was all I could reply for the moment, stung but not surprised. I was already past the age at which my parents and grandparents had been married, and I knew my mother and father had been harboring suspicions for a while now, although they had never asked me directly about my romantic and personal preferences. Given how old-fashioned my parents are, this was not exactly a surprise.
"Not with the way you were staring at her, no, I suppose you're not," my sister snorted. "Although I don't think it will work, Yusuf. She's . . ." and Harsha leaned close to whisper in my ear, ". . . oblivious to you."
Such a painful truth. Worse than if Harsha had pointed out that Cecily was Christian and black, both of which would be difficult for my parents to accept.
Something of my despair must have shown on my face because Harsha immediately looked regretful and added. "But I'll talk you up, I promise."
I shot my sister a dry look; her version of my charms was sure to be slightly brutal. "Wonderful. I suppose you'll let her know I change my underwear regularly and I hardly ever pick my nose."
She laughed. "Maybe a bit better than that. She'd be good for you." And with that little backhanded blessing, Harsha kept her word. I was chosen—ordered to tutor the girls in mathematics, and to walk Cecily home afterwards. Harsha made sure that Cecily was invited along for family outings to the shore, and dinner regularly.
My mother liked Cecily well enough; one more girl in a houseful was no major problem, and Cecily enjoyed herself with us. Her own house was full with two older brothers and a somewhat stern father, her mother having died many years ago.
I had met Cecily's father a few times; Father Jordan Malamaki Barongo is an austere, lean man who looked as if he had been preserved by the desert sand. I know he was well-thought of by his congregation and the neighborhood, but to me he was always a slightly ferocious representative of the African Episcopal church. What he thought of me I didn't know—most of the time I barely rated a nod and a 'thank you, young man' when I escorted Cecily home in the evenings.
Because of my tutoring—or perhaps in spite of it—both Harsha and Cecily graduated with honors from the nursing program just as my father finalized his plans for returning to India. I had persuaded my parents to let me run the pharmacy, and although I would miss them, the chance to live on my own was a very welcome opportunity indeed.
Ariadne
I thought about Yusuf and his situation off and on for the next couple of weeks. I don't think I'm a romantic person at heart; I've seen the ups and downs of relationships all through my life, and I'm not in any rush to jump into one myself right now.
But something about Yusuf's sad little status quo bothered me. He was such a good man, and out of all of us on the team, he struck me as the one who could handle a real life. Let's be honest—Eames wasn't the sort to settle down, and Arthur was the consummate professional, cute as he is. And as for myself, I've got my life plan laid out, and love/marriage is waaay down the line, after my doctorate at the very least.
But Yusuf—gentle, sweet Yusuf—deserved better.
I don't generally stick my nose into things without an invitation, but when Yusuf tumbled down the warehouse stairs a month later, I saw an opportunity right then and there. Arthur and I took him to the Emergency room and helped get him attended to, posing as concerned friends, which we were.
At least, I was. Anyway, it was a matter of supplying his emergency contact information, and thanks to my eidetic memory I filed away the details pertaining to Miss Barongo pretty quickly as he muttered them to the intake nurse.
Turned out Yusuf had a broken ankle and a mild concussion; nothing too serious, but enough to stunt his mobility for a while. When the hospital released him, Arthur took our chemist back to his hotel, and I made a quick call. The two-hour time difference wasn't too bad, and Miss Barongo had a charming accent—a sort of British, sort of African lilt to her voice.
I introduced myself and the minute I mentioned Yusuf and the accident she got alarmed, but I managed to calm her down and explain that while he was going to be all right, it would be good to come to Paris if she could. She agreed that was an excellent plan, and that after checking in with her nursing supervisor, she would take the first Corsair flight out of Mombasa for Charles De Gaulle airport.
It dawned on me that Miss Barongo would need someone to pick her up, and a place to stay, so I started working on that end of the situation, amused despite myself. As I said, I'm not a matchmaker, but Yusuf was going to need someone to take care of him, and since his friend was a nurse, it was all falling into place very well.
By seven the next morning, I was at the airport, waiting for the arrivals and curious to see if Cecily Barongo was among the passengers. I watched several people pass by; businessmen, a few dashiki-clad travelers, a family of four with two lively toddlers. Paris pulls in so many different cultures, and for me, that's part of the joy of living here.
Finally, a slender black woman came down the walkway, looking around uncertainly. She wore a khaki skirt and plain white blouse, and her hair was a pretty crown of frizzy curls, like a dandelion puff. I waved and called to her. "Ms. Barongo?"
She looked at me gratefully, and nodded. "You must be Ari-adne; please call me Cecily. Yusuf has spoken of you off-ten."
It was a great accent, very lyrical, and I could see how Yusuf would melt like butter around it. I shook Cecily's hand. "Good to meet you, Cecily. Flight okay?"
"Long," she admitted, and I could see some strain around her eyes. "How is Yusuf?"
"Probably sleeping at this point," I told her. "Look, let me take you to the dormitory so you can shower and take a good long nap, and I'll drive you over in the afternoon. Fair enough?"
Cecily looked as if she wanted to argue a little, but practicality won out and I watched her purse that wide pretty mouth before she reluctantly nodded. "That makes a great deal of sense. Thank you so much."
It didn't take too long to get her situated; one of the things I like about being a teaching assistant at the University is being able to pull a few strings here and there thanks to professor Miles. The dormitory room was one of the renovated ones, and cheap, especially now on the tail end of the holidays. I dropped her off and let her get some rest, feeling pretty good myself about it.
Because I didn't have much to do for the rest of the day, I went back to the warehouse and ran into Arthur there, programming the robot shop vacs. Two of them were circling his shoes, and the other was upside down on one of the tables, looking like a flipped beetle. Arthur was pulling out bits of fluff from the underside with a pair of tweezers and singing.
Singing, yep. I think it was some old Three Dog Night song, but I couldn't be sure because he stopped the minute he spotted me.
"What are you working on, Mad Doctor Fiend-O?" I asked.
He pointed the tweezers at me. "I'm not mad, I'm sanity-challenged, and in this case, I'm de-fuzzing a household appliance that was never meant to deal with packing excelsior. How's Yusuf?"
"Good and about to get better," I replied, feeling a little smug. Arthur picked up something in my tone because he arched an eyebrow at me.
Nobody arches an eyebrow like Arthur. It's classic.
"I . . . called his girlfriend, in Kenya, and she flew out."
"Yusuf's got . . . a girlfriend?" This came out in sort of a disbelieving tone, and I gave him my best glare, because after all, Yusuf is handsome, in his own way. Certainly loveable.
"Yessss," I assured him huffily. "I picked her up at the airport myself. He'll heal faster with her to keep an eye on him."
"Is that a fact?" Now Arthur was deliberately teasing me. He's very dry about it, but I can tell when he's trying to get my goat.
So I nodded, and hopped up on the table next to the fluff-ectomy. "Hey, he's far from home and feeling a little vulnerable; I figured it would be a nice surprise to have her around."
Arthur shot me a wary look. "You mean he doesn't know she's here?"
"Not yet," I admitted, feeling a little flush. "But it's a good kind of surprise, right?"
Now the look Arthur was giving me was just really . . . weird.
Men.
