Maya was keeping a pen in the air, pointing to an empty sheet. The phrases she was reading saw huge: the discretion was absolute regarding her relations to personal and professional associations. It was not a matter of money, but of her entire life. A cold horror more terrible than anything she had ever before experienced passed through her. Now she was experiencing a complete takeover, and she was going to surrender everything about her.
Mr. Kazeem sat by and observed. There was calm on his face, calm that was too calm. She was not shoved. He did not have to. His silence was stronger than his shriek. It was the stress of his authority, the unsaid menace that hung in the air. Maya experienced a feeling that she was drowning under some unseen forces. She remembered the smiling faces of her parents and a new hope. She remembered Ben and his broken eyes, and how he would now be safe only as long as she did what he wanted her to do.
She did that with her hand jiggling like mad. She shut her eyes an instant, a mute appeal to a world which gave no way of escape. Mr. Kazeem was still watching her as he continued to focus his eyes on them when they were opened. He knew. He was aware that she was watching it. And he knew she was to sign.
Gradually, with a shudder, Maya put down the pen. Her hand trembled, sending the ink leaking. Those letters were surrounded as she spelled out her name. As she signed the pen, the signature was terrible, and those times show her frustration. Mr. Kazeem accepted the document, touching her fingers. What he touched was cold. He gave no sign of smiling, but his eyes told her all there was to say, with a little look of triumph.
Good, replied he, in a smooth voice. Carefully, he inserted the document in a folder. And now we are able to really start life together.
The remaining part of the evening in a whirl. Her parents, who were still in the living room, were oblivious. They could not stop wondering at the mansion and speculated about the future with shining hopeful eyes. Maya was a mute statue sitting there, and the burden of her signature seemed to push on her chest. She believed that she had died at least a part in that study.
Those last few days before the wedding were hectic with last-minute preparations. Maya passed through them like a spectre. The bride's fittings were interminable, and the wedding planner, Mrs. Eze, was always on the move. Maya appeared to be dressed, outfitted, and displayed as an ideal bride ready to embellish Mr. Kazeem's royal crusade. The happiness of her mother was an unending gleaming light, and Maya could not afford to tell others about her despair.
Maya, you have another two days, her mother would say, trembling with excitement. Do you believe it? My daddy, Mrs. Kazeem! Wonder of wonders!
Maya would have smiled, but her throat was constricted. One more time, she phoned Ben in a secret corner of the library, at a public phone. His cellphone was out. She rang his cell phone. No answer. The silence was too deadly and made her fears worse. He was away. Or he was safe because she had repulsed him. It was a cold comfort to think.
It came to be the wedding day. It was a show. The largest church in the city, crowded with flowers, white lilies, and white orchids, as Mr. Kazeem had ordered. The pews were crowded with hundreds of guests, all of them rich and all powerful. Stretched limousines covered the street. Out were the flashing cameras of the photographers. Maya believed that she was observing everything at a distance as a movie, where she was a victim against her will to appear as the main actor.
Her father, in his new suit, walked with the greatest pride, her down the aisle. His arm was strong in hers, yet Maya did not feel any comfort. She looked up to see her mother sitting in the first row, crying, but this time with tears of happiness. The dream of her mother was being fulfilled.
Mr. Kazeem was tall and proud at the altar. He was in a dark, neatly cut suit. There was nothing in his features to read, under his politeness. He clasped her hand. He was touchy, near-possessive. The words were uttered, words of love and promise that rang like a dead sound in the huge church. Maya said her lines again, her voice no more than a mumble, and her heart was stone in her breasts. The ring that flashed blindingly on her finger was a great diamond. It was like some cold, heavy chain.
Even the reception was more magnificent. One ballroom became a dream of crystal and gold. There were songs and smiling faces everywhere. Mr. Kazeem was dancing with Maya, a slow dance, a pretentious kind of dance. And he took her into him, with his hand against her back and guiding her steps. You are perfect, Maya, whispered his low voice in her ear. Just as I fancied."
In a hollow, practiced smile, she smiled. She was faultless. An ideal ownership.
They were taken home by car to Kazeem's mansion, her new residence after the reception. The time was late, the house silent, the servants had enjoined their departure that night. The large rooms were made in that silence even more vast and cold. Mr. Kazeem guided her into the master bedroom. It was huge, had a king-size bed, the carpets were comfy, and it had a view of the city lights.
Welcome home, Mom Kazeem, came the cold tone of his voice. He made no physical approaches; he gazed out of the window onto the city. "Rest. We are so much on the go as of tomorrow."
Maya nodded. Her body was exhausted, and her mind was foggy. She did not get relief, did not get any sense of belonging. There was a foreign woman in a palace. She entered the bath of her new apartment, a room more spacious than the apartment that once she called her own, and gazed at her face. The beautiful wedding lady, the stately Mrs. Kazeem. Behind the impeccable makeup, her eyes were dead, haunted. She was a Golden Cage, and she was a prison of herself.
The initial bouts in the mansion were engulfed in the schedule established by the employees of Mr. Kazeem. An individual chef cooked for her. She had a house manager who watched over her schedule. The driver was never late; his name was Emeka. Her strolls were henceforth confined to the ranged man-made landscape of the property. She never was completely alone. Whenever she made a phone call, sent an email, or met an individual, she could feel the unseen eyes of Mr. Kazeem following her, which was so chilling. The line of absolute discretion over her personal and professional associations was not the paper line; it was the unseen hand directing all her steps.
Once she even went to the library, only to look and see whether Ben was there, to feel a sense of connection with her former life. She was driven by Emeka. The library became strange, alien when she came there. Ben was absent. His desk had been cleared of all. In his place, a new man sat. When she enquired, one of her colleagues informed her that Ben had taken up a new venture. She had an idea of what this meant. Mr. Kazeem had secured that. Her last contact with her past was cut.
Mr. Kazeem decided every day on what Maya would do. Luncheons with charity, performances at art galleries, and dinner together with his business partners. Her society wanted her to be pretty, smart, and poised. She began to act, and she knew how to fool everyone by wearing a perfect smile on her face, and her responses were formal and general. She had been a supplement to his authority, a lovely decoration to his kingdom.
Her folks were frequent visitors, and their expressions were happy. They talked about their new comfy life, how her father has made his business successful, and the authority that they hold in their society now. She would tell her mother: You have done so much for us, Maya, and I embraced her. We are ever so thankful. Maya would embrace her and would feel the empty knowing in her chest. Her cage was their happiness.
During the day, Mr. Kazeem worked at home only occasionally. He was never idle with Kazeem Holdings. When at home, he was amiable but cold. He held her with a cold respect, such as a bit of precious art. He would inquire about her day and the social activities, but never about how she felt. Otherwise, they did not engage in any sexual act: he did not even touch her with a hand that was not holding hands on the street. They were not there to be married off as a union between two humans, but as a contract, to do a business partnership.
Maya once walked into the study of Mr. Kazeem at night when she could not sleep. The room was weighted with his presence, the dark wood and the leather dictatorial. The prenuptial agreement was on top of the pile of papers on his desk, and she could see it. She took it up in her fingers and followed her trembling signature. She leafed through the pages as she read through legal terms that she had not yet mastered.
Then she read something little on a previous page. Just a little, light mark, the prick of a pin, beside a clause of which she had never noticed. It was not the question of money or connections. It ran on future heirs. Almost beside it was a small, worn-looking, almost faded A. It was not that of Kazeem.
She frowned. Her heart started beating. An "A"? Who was A? She stared in more closely. The provision concerned the status of any children sired by the marriage. It was extensive and complex, regarding lineage and inheritance. The A did not work. It was such a small, almost minute thing a person could easily overlook, yet something that was there.
She turned the pages back again, trying to see whether there were any other mistakes. Nothing was standing out. However, what bothered her was the letters surrounding the A. It was as if it were a loose thread in the most neat tapestry, as it was a small imperfection in the world of Kazeem, carefully created in it.
She returned the document, and her thoughts were racing. Who was A? A former wife? An occluded child? Mr. Kazeem had mentioned the word, legacy, and the continuation of the family name. But this A somehow did not feel quite... right. It was as though it were a secret. A secret which might bring all undone.
Towards the end of which she jumped at a sudden noise. The sound of the study door. Mr. Kazeem stood in the doorway, his dark, sharp eyes fixed on her. He held a glass in his hand and had a surprised but silent look.
Maya, he said, in a calm, but sharp voice that she had not heard before. "What's going on in my study?"
The air got thick. And her heart bounded in Maya against her ribs, and she was amaine. She had discovered a secret.
Mr. Kazeem sipped slowly on his glass; his eyes watching hers. There was some silence, so heavy, so choking. Sweat came out on the skin of Maya. She was desperately trying to find an excuse, the chance of escape. "I... I had not slept, and she said only faintly. "I just... I was impatient. I chose to drink a glass of water." It was a poor excuse, and she was aware of that.
His eyes were narrowed a little. I am restless in my study. His voice was still calm, but much more edge was there now. Moving another step into the room, and another, he was now not far off the desk, between her and the door. The glass he held was as though it twinkled in the dark hall-light. And what exactly doing with my papers, Maya?
Her breathing was caught. He had observed. He knew. "I wasn't... The papers on the desk were just lying in front of me. I was simply interested. She despised the sound of her grovelling voice.
There was a little smile on his lips, the smile that made her spine tingle. It was not a sweet smile. Curiosity is sometimes a treacherous thing, Mrs. Kazeem, particularly when it is a matter not affecting you." He put his glass on his desk with a gentle click of its lid and continued to gaze into her eyes. Had you noticed anything... exciting?
Her heart beat very fast, as though against her ribs. She could not forget what she had seen. It sounded like her saying, "I... I caught a first character. Upon a clause respecting grantees in futuro. Anch "A", to be or not to be; that is the question.
Mr. Kazeem did not move his face, but his eyes became heavier. There was a cooling in the room. He crossed the room, went around to his desk, and stood squarely before her. She could sense the fine silk of his pricey suit.
A, A--a--A,--he echoed in a low, menacing fashion. And what was your opinion of that, Maya?
She mowed her lip. She felt something in his eyes, making her give the lie that her mind was saying. She said, tremblingly, "I don't know." It simply... it was not your initial. I wondered at it.
His hand was moving slowly, and she cringed, thinking that he would strike her. Rather, he touched a straying curling strand of hair with his almost deft fingers. They were as chill as marble. Wondering, said he, is a luxury no longer possible to you, Maya, he said, not without a touch of fervor in his voice. You are a wife to me. Your part is to be ideal, to be there, and to be... discreet. My business, my history, is not to your inspections."
Back a step he went. That which you have read concerning heirs to come is very ancient. The tradition of a family. It is an from a distance relative, a formality. And that is all." His language was too gliding. They did not seem real. The A was too intimate, too incongruous, so far as a distant relative was concerned.
Now come back to your room, Maya, he went on in his customary tone of polite urgency. You have all day tomorrow. And I do not like my wife to drop into my study room and chase through my files, and not about files that ought to be her business, knowing better than I do. And in his eyes, there was a warning black and stark. Do you realize what I mean?
Maya could not speak, so she nodded. It was a cold lump in her stomach with fear. She had gone too far. She had opened up something he did not want her to view.
Good, said he, a little, contented smile relaxing the corners of his mouth. Go, now, go.
Maya swung and walked toward the door, lead legs. She did not turn around. She felt his eyes upon her till she had muffled herself out of the study and the big door had clicked back and locked behind her. She nearly ran down the stairs, her pulse was still hammering:
In the enormous master bedroom, she sat on the side of the king-sized bed, shaking. He lied. She was well aware of it. The E A was not a formal thing. This was a secret. And his cold anger, his subtle threat, his reaction, had confirmed it. Mr. Kazeem had a background, a secret past relating to heirs in the future.
She gazed at the huge diamond ring on her finger. In the indistinct light, it flashed back and taunted her. It was far too heavy, and it was the material evidence of her captivity. She lived in a golden cage, but this cage was not simple. Between the first loose feather and the bird in the cage was she.
Childish as it was, she grew to be annoyed with the thought of that one lonesome letter, so tiny one could so easily miss it. It was but this small light in the broad darkness of her new life. A mystery. What could be the hole in the indomitable castle of Mr. Kazeem? She was a failure, but this secret was probably her wild card. She ceased to be a victim only. She was a captive secret, and the guessing of it gave her a pernicious, blighted feeling of a purpose.
She slept in bed and gazed at the ceiling. The A was running through her mind. Silence was no longer silence in the mansion; it was the burden of this new, dangerous knowledge. She was deeper than she had ever thought. She did not know what to do or who A was. And one thing she knew, she could not neglect it. Not now. There was a crack in the golden cage, and she had just discovered it.