The Quiet Between Touches

People who did not know me well often described my life with one word. Perfect. At thirty-five, I had learned not to correct them. There was no point explaining that perfection was mostly good lighting, careful angles, and knowing which doors to keep closed. At seven-thirty on Monday morning, I stood on the unfinished second floor of a commercial building in Bonaberi wearing a white hard hat, black trousers, and the expression that usually made contractors reconsider whatever excuse they had prepared before approaching me. Below us, traffic crawled along the road in the stubborn way Douala traffic always did, horns answering one another like angry relatives at a family meeting. The morning air already carried the promise of heat. “Madam Architect,” Mr. Tabe said beside me, “the staircase adjustment is very small.” I looked at the concrete opening. Then at him. Then back at the opening. “Small compared to what?” He cleared his throat. Behind me, Nkem Asong made a suspicious sound that might have been a cough. Mr. Tabe shifted his hard hat. “I mean, structurally—” “The approved drawing says one point four metres.” “Yes.” “What did you build?” “One point two.” “So the staircase has lost twenty centimetres.” “It can still work.” “A shoe with two missing sizes can also enter your foot if you suffer enough.” Nkem coughed again. This time I knew she was laughing. Mr. Tabe did not. I pointed toward the opening. “Correct it.” “Madam, breaking it now will cost—” “Correcting mistakes usually costs money.” He looked as though he wanted to remind me that construction involved compromise. I looked as though I had time. He surrendered first. “Okay, Madam Architect.” When he walked away, Nkem waited exactly three seconds. Then she burst out laughing. “A shoe can enter your foot if you suffer enough?” I removed my hard hat and inspected the dust on it. “It was an architectural explanation.” “It was violence.” “It was clarity.” Nkem grinned. She was twenty-six, brilliant, impatient, and still young enough to believe every problem could be solved with enough coffee and AutoCAD. I had hired her straight out of university two years earlier after she spent half her interview disagreeing with one of my designs. I liked people who could defend an idea. I simply preferred when their ideas were correct. “You know he is afraid of you,” she said. “He should be afraid of building bad staircases.” “He has five children.” “They also deserve correctly measured staircases.” She laughed again. I turned toward the far end of the floor where workers were fixing reinforcement around the window openings. The project was progressing well despite Mr. Tabe's occasional attempts to negotiate with mathematics. In another six months, if the rains behaved and the client stopped changing his mind about imported tiles, the building would be complete. I walked toward the eastern corridor. The windows were large. Good. The exit signs would be visible from every major point once installed. Better. No blind corner near the stairwell. Best. I had redrawn that corridor three times. The client had complained. I had refused to change it. People should always be able to see where they were going. And how to get out. A laborer carrying a bundle of electrical conduit came around the corner too quickly. He nearly collided with me. “Sorry, Madam!” He stopped within arm's reach. My body moved before thought arrived. One step backward. Fast. Too fast. The laborer froze. For half a second, so did I. Then I smiled. Professional. Easy. Normal. “No problem.” He hurried away. Nkem had seen it. I knew because she suddenly became very interested in the drawings she was holding. That was one of the things I liked about her. She noticed. But she did not always ask. My phone vibrated inside my pocket. I pulled it out. Twenty-three unread messages. All from the same w******p group. THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS. There were only three directors. None of us sat on the same board. Liya had created the group four years earlier after Nadine tried to organize our holiday using an Excel spreadsheet. According to Liya, any woman who used formulas to plan enjoyment needed intervention. I opened the chat. LIYA: Emergency meeting. NADINE: No. LIYA: You don't even know the emergency. NADINE: It is 7:41 in the morning. If nobody is bleeding, it can wait. LIYA: Love does not respect office hours. NADINE: Neither does unemployment. I smiled. Then Liya sent a photograph. A man. Tall. Dark-skinned. Trimmed beard. White shirt. Expensive watch. He was smiling at the camera as though he had personally negotiated peace between several hostile nations. LIYA: His name is Daniel. NADINE: Condolences. LIYA: I hate you. NADINE: You said emergency. I assumed something had gone wrong. LIYA: Something has gone RIGHT. NADINE: How long have you known him? There was a pause. LIYA: Nine days. NADINE: I rest my case. I typed: ME: Good morning to everyone except people conducting relationship investigations before breakfast. Liya responded immediately. LIYA: ANAYA ❤️ NADINE: Don't encourage her. LIYA: Daniel owns a logistics company. He is funny. Intelligent. Responsible. He loves God. He travels. He has his own house. NADINE: Does he also have a certificate of good conduct? LIYA: You are jealous because romance has never located your address. NADINE: Correct. I moved without forwarding information. I laughed aloud. Nkem looked over. “The Board of Directors?” “Unfortunately.” “They should register with OHADA.” “They would be dissolved within a week.” My phone rang. Liya. I declined it. She called again. I declined again. A voice note arrived. “Anaya Roy, if you don't answer this phone, I will tell Nkem about Raghav.” My thumb stopped. The smile left before I could stop it. Nkem was already walking toward the staircase. She had not heard. Good. I typed quickly. ME: Lunch. One o'clock. Same place. LIYA: Both of you? NADINE: I have court. LIYA: People can commit crimes tomorrow. NADINE: I'll inform the judiciary. Eventually Nadine agreed to join us if her morning hearing ended on time. I put the phone away. But one name remained. Raghav. Eleven months had passed since I had ended things with him. Not that I counted. I simply knew. There is a difference. At least that was what I told myself. By one-fifteen, Liya was already seated at our usual table when I arrived at the restaurant in Bonapriso. You could always locate Liya in a room without searching very hard. She had the kind of presence that made ordinary spaces rearrange themselves around her. That afternoon she wore a burnt-orange dress, gold hoops and a perfume that reached you half a second before she did. At thirty-four, Liya Mbarga had built a career that required her to walk into rooms full of executives and make them believe whatever she was selling had been their idea all along. As commercial director for a telecommunications company, she could negotiate contracts worth hundreds of millions of francs without blinking. Put one attractive man in front of her, however, and occasionally the entire telecommunications network suffered an outage. “You're late,” she said. “It is one-fifteen.” “We said one.” “We have never met at one.” “That is because you people don't respect me.” I sat opposite her. “We respect you. We simply don't obey you.” Nadine arrived five minutes later in a navy suit, carrying a leather handbag and the expression of a woman who had already argued professionally before lunch and was prepared to continue recreationally. She was tall, dark-skinned and elegant in a way that never looked like effort. “Did I miss the wedding?” she asked. Liya glared at her. “You will regret this when Daniel and I are celebrating twenty years.” “I'll send flowers.” “You will be my maid of honor.” “I would rather represent your divorce.” “Nadine!” I laughed. The waiter brought menus. Liya ignored hers. “So,” she said, leaning toward us, “Daniel.” Nadine opened her menu. “No.” “You haven't even met him.” “I have met men.” “That is not the same thing.” “It has been sufficient research.” Liya turned to me. “Anaya.” I lifted both hands. “I'm neutral.” “You're never neutral.” “I am an architect. We survive by pretending everyone's ideas deserve consideration.” Nadine smiled. “Until she redraws them.” “Exactly.” Liya rolled her eyes. Then she began telling us about Daniel. They had met at Douala International Airport when a delayed flight left both of them trapped near the same charging point. He had offered her his seat. She had refused. They argued jokingly about it. He bought coffee. She gave him her number. “He actually listens,” she said. “That is now a qualification?” Nadine asked. “Have you dated recently?” “No.” “Then leave active players to discuss the league.” Nadine took a sip of water. “I prefer ownership.” Liya threw a napkin at her. It happened quickly. The napkin crossed the table. Nadine's fingers tightened around her glass. Her shoulders went still. Only for a second. Then she caught the napkin and threw it back. “Violence,” she said dryly. “Your relationship has already corrupted you.” Liya laughed. I did too. But I had seen Nadine's face. Something had disappeared from it for that one second. I stored the observation away. Not because I intended to investigate. Because I noticed things. People often confused the two. Lunch stretched into almost two hours. We discussed work, Liya's Daniel, Nadine's impossible client and a cousin of mine who had recently become engaged after knowing a man for three months. Eventually, inevitably, the conversation returned to me. Liya rested her chin on her hand. “When are we discussing your love life?” “We aren't.” “We have been patient.” “No, you haven't.” Nadine looked at me over her glass. “Raghav was decent.” My fork stopped against the plate. Liya's expression softened. “He really was.” I looked down. “That ended.” “We know,” Liya said. Nadine was quieter. “What did he do?” “Nothing.” The answer came too quickly. Nadine noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes remained on me for another second. Then she leaned back. “Fine.” Liya opened her mouth. Nadine kicked her under the table. “Ow!” “You stepped on me.” “With your shoe?” “Special talent.” The subject changed. I loved Nadine for that. I did not say it. There were many things I loved that I did not know how to say. When we finally stood to leave, Liya opened her arms. “Group hug.” “No,” Nadine said immediately. “Your heart is a government office.” “Correct. Applications are closed.” Liya ignored her and turned toward me. She stepped forward. I stepped back. Half a step. Barely noticeable. Except Liya noticed. Her arms lowered. Something small passed across her face. Then she smiled too brightly. “Fine. Rich women don't hug anymore.” She linked her arm through Nadine's instead. Nadine protested. I laughed. The moment passed. Or pretended to. That evening, I returned to my apartment shortly after seven. The first thing I did was lock the door. The second was check it. The third was walk through the apartment. Living room. Kitchen. Guest room. Balcony. Bathroom. Bedroom. Empty. Of course it was empty. I lived alone. Nobody had a key. Not my mother. Not Liya. Not Nadine. Nobody. I changed clothes, reheated leftover ndolé and opened my laptop at the dining table. An email waited near the top of my inbox. CEMAC ARCHITECTURE AWARDS — FINAL SHORTLIST CONFIRMATION. I clicked. Dear Ms. Roy, We are pleased to confirm that your project has been shortlisted for this year's CEMAC Architecture Awards ceremony at the Mount Cameroon Hotel... I read the message twice. Then a third time. I had known the nomination was possible. Still, seeing it made something warm rise through my chest. I called my mother. She answered on the second ring. “Anaya?” “Mama.” “Are you eating?” I looked at the untouched plate beside my laptop. “Yes.” A lie. “Proper food?” “Yes.” Another lie. “Not those biscuits you call dinner?” “Mama.” “I am only asking.” “I've been shortlisted for the CEMAC award.” Silence. Then a scream. I pulled the phone away from my ear. “My daughter!” I laughed. “You haven't even won.” “You have been shortlisted. That is already something.” I could hear movement on her end. Then: “I am calling Aunty Solange.” “No.” “I am calling Mama Ruth.” “Mama—” “And your father's people.” “Mama.” “What?” “Please don't turn this into a national announcement.” She laughed. “You think I educated you so I can keep quiet when you succeed?” I smiled despite myself. Then her voice changed into the tone I knew too well. “Now we only need one more thing.” “No.” “You don't even know what I was going to say.” “Marriage.” She clicked her tongue. “You are thirty-five.” “I am aware.” “You have your company. Your house. Your car. Awards. Everything.” “Yes.” “But a person cannot sleep beside an award.” “Depends on the size of the trophy.” “Anaya.” I laughed. She did not. “One day,” she said, softer now, “you will understand that success is not the same as having someone.” Something tightened inside me. “I have people.” “You know what I mean.” “Yes.” I did. That was the problem. “Mama, I'm happy.” There was a pause. “Are you?” The question landed differently than she intended. I looked around my apartment. Beautiful furniture. Large windows. Clean lines. Everything exactly where I had chosen to place it. Safe. Controlled. Mine. “Yes,” I said. She accepted the answer because mothers sometimes accept the lies they need from their children. After we hung up, I ate alone. At ten-thirty, I checked the front door again. At eleven, I went to bed. I locked my bedroom door. Then I took the reading chair from beside the window and dragged it across the floor. The legs made a low scraping sound against the tiles. I positioned it beneath the door handle. Only then did I climb into bed. People who did not know me well thought I had built a perfect life. Maybe I had. But I did not yet understand that some of the safest-looking houses are built around rooms nobody is allowed to enter. Mine had one. And the door had been locked for twenty-six years.