Harriet drops me off the next morning at the Dorchester. It is a quarter to ten, and I am fifteen minutes early. Feeling very out of place, I walk around the hotel lobby and then make my way to the coffee shop. There is a table by the window and I sit down. The pale English winter sun shines through and warms me up. I watch the other customers drink coffee and read the papers. At ten o’clock precisely, Lalo arrives with his Angolan friend, António. He is a tall man - over 6 feet. He has clipped hair, is neatly groomed, and wears a suit. He looks like a prosperous businessman. He walks with a silver-tipped cane and a slight limp. He has sunglasses on. When Lalo points me out, he walks over. I stand up and we shake hands. He has a strong grasp, pumps my hand, and does not let go of it. He smiles a wide, white smile.
“Lalo has told me much about you over the years,” he says. “I am so pleased to finally meet you, Sadie.”
He takes off his sunglasses, and I notice his green eyes: the color of moss.
The waitress comes over to our table. She wears a black dress with a white apron and cap. I see that her name is Phoebe. She brings us a menu and sets the table. We decide on coffee and pastries. António and Lalo have an official function to go to at one o’clock in the afternoon, so we have a little time.
“Lalo tells me you spent some time in Huambo Province as a child?” I nod, and tell him about my father and his partner, Maxie. He listens. “I come from there too,” he says.
The sun has warmed up our corner of the coffee shop. António removes his suit jacket and tie. He undoes the top button of his shirt, and I see that he is wearing a medallion on a chain
around his neck.
“You notice my pendant,” he says. “It is the only thing I have that belonged to my father. I never knew his name.” He undoes the chain and hands it to me.
“Is something the matter, Sadie? You look very pale.”
I shake my head. I cannot believe what I hold in my hand. I look at the back of the Saint Christopher. The inscription reads M.C.C. If there were any doubt at all, it is gone. The initials stand for Malcolm Christopher Carnegie: my father.
“You say this belonged to your father?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies. “I never knew him. My grandmother refused to talk about him. Her daughter, my mother, died giving birth to me. The only time she ever mentioned my father was when she gave me this.”
“Do you know anything about your father?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies, “except that he was a white man. We moved far away from Huambo Province and then the wars came. I never had a chance to find out.”
I do not know what to say. The idea is too large to grasp. António sees my confusion. “What, Sadie?” he asks.
I turn to him, and then to Lalo. My voice trembles.
“They called my father Kit Carnegie, but his full name was Malcolm Christopher
Carnegie - M.C.C. He had an Angolan mistress whose name was Ana Amélia. Her mother, Ana, was our housekeeper. Ana Amélia died giving birth to a child. After the death of her daughter, Ana left our house in the middle of the night. I always thought the child had died too.”
This time, it is António who is at a loss for words. He looks at me and a tear winds down his cheek. Now he too understands. “So …” he starts.
“No,” I interrupt, “there’s more. My father had a Saint Christopher medallion that he always wore and it disappeared when Ana Amélia died - this medallion.”
We sit together - brother and sister - side by side. There are no more words. There is no need for that. I want to take something away from this place and this day. So, after they both leave, I pick up António’s discarded paper napkin and write on it:
“On February 22nd, 1980, at the Dorchester Hotel, London, I met my brother for the first time… António Cristóvão Sambúlu. We are two parts of the same puzzle; our father was an Englishman and Africa our mother.”
When I return from London, I pull my trunk out from under the bed and unlock it. At the very bottom is an old tin chocolate box. I take it out and open it. Inside are three shriveled acorns, a tattered duck feather, a piece of bark, a picture of my mother, and a brown and white stone from my father’s grave. Out of my purse, I take the folded napkin and open it up. I spread it out on top of the bed and read the words. There is a small brown stain of coffee in the middle, and I run my fingertips over it. Then I place it in the box with my other treasures and close the lid.
VITA
The author was born in London, England and grew up in Angola and Iran. She attended Malvern Girls’ College and in 1976 obtained her Bachelor’s degree in Physical Therapy from the
Middlesex Hospital School of Physiotherapy in London, England. Since 1977 she has lived in Australia and the United States. In 2003 she began the University of New Orleans Low Residency Program in Creative Writing and intends to graduate in December 2011.