Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness Read Online Free PDF Page B

black hair. That’s why we call her Bobo,” Mum explained, “because she looked just like a little baboon.”
    Violet and Vanessa dissolved into more conspiratorial giggling.
    “See?” Mum said, “Violet thinks your costume’s amusing.”
    “Could we just get on with this?” I said.
    So July and Violet each seized an ankle and thrust me into the vehicle while I stood rigid inside my insecticide drum. I could smell the greasy-meat scent of the dogs’ supper on July’s clothes and the green laundry soap on Violet’s hands and arms, but now the usually comforting domestic scents had an isolating, excluding effect. The dogs circled around us and whacked the drum with their tails. Their excited panting made me feel even hotter.
    “Right,” Mum said. “Off we go.” She climbed into the Land Rover and Vanessa-darling got in on the passenger side. “Hold on to the baby,” Mum said, handing Olivia to Vanessa. Then she whistled and a couple of lapfuls of dogs leaped in with them. The Land Rover jerked off down the hill and bumped past the orchard. I could feel it go over the culvert at the bottom of the driveway where the cobra lived. I yawed against the window as Mum took a left onto the main road at the bottom of the farm. I pictured Vanessa, billowing pinkly in the front seat, the wind flapping her two long, blond braids in which Mum had entwined pink and white roses made out of loo paper. And I pictured Mum driving, dogs on her lap, her gun out the window, checking her hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror.
    “I can’t stand up back here!” I cried, “slow down!” But my protests were lost under the roar and rattle of Lucy’s engine. The fact that I wasn’t, at that moment, being beaten by dead fish was small comfort.
     
     
    THIRTY YEARS, two countries and four farms later, Vanessa, Mum and I were sitting under the Tree of Forgetfulness at Mum and Dad’s fish and banana farm on the Middle Zambezi River. Something about the quality of heat, and the itchy burn from the windborne, stinging hairs of buffalo bean, reminded me of the day of that long ago Fancy Dress Party.
    “Do you remember when you made me be I Never Promised You a Rose Garden at the Davises’ Annual Christmas Fancy Dress party?” I asked Mum.
    “Oh God,” Mum said. “Here we go. Another traumatizing repressed memory come back to haunt us.” She looked around. Then she flung her arms in the air. “Shrink! Someone fetch the child a shrink!” Mum does exactly this gesture when her drink runs dry at a party: she flings her arms in the air and shrieks, “Drought! Nicola Fuller of Central Africa is experiencing severe drought!”
    “Olivia was the Summer of Love and Vanessa was a Rose, all dressed up in a pink tutu,” I said.
    “Was I?” Vanessa said.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “No, I wasn’t,” Vanessa said. “I was From Russia with Love.”
    I frowned. “Really?”
    “Yes,” Vanessa said firmly, “in a hat made out of fermenting, flea-infested carpet. And I had to wear a baking red shirt, billowing black pants and Mum’s riding boots.”
    “I think you’re mixing up fancy dress parties. I distinctly remember you were a rose,” I said.
    “I wish,” Vanessa said.
    “From Russia with love I fly to you,” Mum sang. She paused and went on conversationally, “I remember that film. I made Dad drive all the way to Nairobi so we could watch it. They had vodka shots lined up at the bar.” She sniffed. “Hm, well, the film must have made quite an impression on me if I wasted a perfectly good carpet on Vanessa’s fancy dress costume.” She took a breath and continued to sing, “Much wiser since my good-bye to you . . .”
    “See?” Vanessa said.
    “I’ve traveled the world,” Mum sang, “to learn I must return to Russia with looooooooo-oooove!”
    “Well, I remember I had to sit in the back of the Land Rover and you, Mum, Olivia and the dogs sat in the front,” I said.
    “Straitjacket!” Mum shouted.
    “And only