Free The Cinnamon Tree by Aubrey Flegg

her, her head cocked to one side and one eyebrow raised, then she said, ‘So do I. But then, he’s my husband.’

8
Into Exile
    Y ola was really embarrassed that she had cried in front of Isabella the night before. She had been so tired. The more she had tried to explain her tears, the more embarrassing and ridiculous it had become. It must be so obvious that she had got too fond of Hans. She had slept the night on a settee in their sitting-room and she thought she could hear them talking about her. In the morning, Hans seemed a little restrained, while Isabella was as nice as ever.
    Both of them came to see her off at the airport. Knutt, who was accompanying Yola as far as Brussels, had already gone through the boarding gate. It was time to say goodbye. Yola had planned a kiss for Isabella and a handshake for Hans. As she turned to them she could see that they were embarrassed for her. All her gratitude flooded back, but she could not … no, must not get emotional again. A thought came to her; she turned to Hans with an impish smile and said, ‘Hans, I’m so glad you have such a beautiful wife!’
    She had never seen Hans startled before. ‘Ya, ya. But why?’
    ‘Because otherwise I would have to marry you myself, and you are far too old!’
    She picked up her hand luggage and fled. No kisses. Sheturned just before passing into the departure area. Hans and Isabella had their arms around each other and were laughing and waving.

    The airhostess had wanted to put Yola in the aisle seat, where it would be easier for her to get in and out. But Yola had looked so disappointed that she had relented and let her shuffle her way in to the window seat, where she sat, waiting for her heart to stop racing. How did the other passengers manage to look so calm? It wasn’t just the sights that were new to her, it was everything; she found her nose twitching like a rabbit’s at new scents and smells. A white woman had sat beside her in the departure lounge, wafting a soft but invisible cloud of perfume about her. Yola was intrigued, but strangely disturbed. Masked by the fragrance of the perfume she recognised something animal, the scent of the civet cat perhaps, but infinitely refined. Was there a feline animal underneath the woman’s flowery fragrance? She shuddered slightly; the fear of the cat is an ancient one. (Once, when she and Shimima were walking home in the dark, they had seen green eyes in the beam of their torch and had heard the panting grunt of a leopard. But strong, sensible Shimima wouldn’t let Yola run and they got home safely.)
    Knutt, his skin yellow from the quinine he was taking for his malaria, was sitting beside her. He searched in the pocket on the back of the seat in front and pulled out a glossy flight magazine.
    ‘There’ll be one in your pouch, too,’ he said.
    Yola nodded. Any other time she would have pounced on a magazine, but just now there was too much to see. She heard a thump, peered out of the window and saw the steps that they had just climbed up being drawn away. This was the moment. There was no turning back now.
    The aircraft stood at the end of the runway shuddering, theroar of the engines mounted. Yola dug her nails deep into her palms as their thunder grew and grew. The pilot released the brakes and the unexpected surge of acceleration pressed her back into her seat. She struggled against it, fighting against the surge and – if she had known it – fighting against her exile. The nose of the aircraft lifted and the plane began to climb. Yola turned to look out of the window, pressing her forehead against it and straining to look down. The plane banked and she was looking into a compound, very like her own at home; she could see that people had stopped what they were doing to look up at the plane above them. She closed her eyes, wanting to preserve this little piece of Africa and take it with her. When she came back those people would come to life again: the woman would pick up the