Read Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun for Free Online Page A

India as well as in Africa, I trusted her.
    When I arrive at Morayo’s apartment and open her front door I’m surprised to find how hot and musty it is and how cluttered. ‘My God,’ I mutter, looking around at all the books and papers. When was I last here? Surely not that long ago? Books are everywhere, strewn haphazardly across the shelves, some with spines facing inward, others facing out. Nothing on the shelves is arranged alphabetically, even though several months earlier the two of us had spent a whole day alphabetizing her books. Now, like abandoned children’s toys, I discover many more books tucked away in clothes drawers and cupboards. Nothing seems to be in order, and if I didn’t know Morayo better, I might have wondered at the state of her mind. But nothing’s wrong with Morayo. Or is there? Papers and unopened bills are piled on the table. How would I find time to clear it all up? I’d have to hire someone, but there’s no time for that now either. All I can do today is make sure the lights are switched off, check that there’s nothing that needs to be thrown out in the fridge, and find a few books to take on my next visit. ‘But which books, for Christ’s sake?’ In her bedroom I find two newer-looking ones, including a memoir by Maya Angelou. At least I’ve heard of her. Morayo is always giving me books to read but most I find to be too dense, which is why I’m pleasantly surprised to discover a stack of glossyromance books next to her bed. ‘Not what I would have expected from you, Professor Morayo,’ I laugh to myself. But then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. Morayo was so uninhibited, so open and unconventional in comparison to most old people. There couldn’t be many women of her age who would choose to spend their savings on a beautiful sports car. I go to the kitchen, pour out the dregs of several accumulated mugs of tea and wipe down the surfaces. I’m almost ready to leave when I hear a rustle. I turn, and then scream when I see what’s perched on the stove. By the time someone comes, the mouse has long gone. Disappeared behind the oven to meet what I imagine must be a multitude of brothers and sisters.
    I call Francisco, the man who helps me with odd jobs. Two days later I leave him in Morayo’s apartment to sort through things and when I return, the home is beautifully transformed. Surfaces are cleared and books are standing upright on the shelves. The larger books that don’t fit on the shelves are stacked in piles – duplicates in one pile, exactly as I’d requested.
    ‘And the mouse?’
    ‘Gone,’ Francisco declares. ‘Gone. But let me tell you something, this woman, I think she’s keeping money everywhere. I find it in the books; I find it in the kitchen. It’s everywhere, you know, like maybe she’s too scared to go to the bank or something. I don’t know, but here, look …’
    He hands me a stack of dollar bills; everything from one-dollar bills to a hundred, and several of those too.
    ‘Maybe you need to tell her not to put money in all these places.’
    ‘I will,’ I nod, ‘Thank you. And the other books?’
    ‘The torn ones? Those ones, I threw them away.’
    ‘You what?’ I gasp. ‘But, I didn’t ask you to do that. I said the old newspapers and magazines. Not the books.’
    ‘You said to me to throw all the torn stuffs away.’
    ‘But no, that’s not …’ I pause. I want to say you must have misheard, but I see from Francisco’s aggrieved look that this will make things worse. The last thing I want is for him to feel offended by me saying his English isn’t good. He’s always complaining about people who are prejudiced against ‘Latin people’ and I don’t want him treating me like just another racist gringo. ‘Okay,’ I manage, ‘but now we’ve got to get the books back.’
    ‘You want me to look in the garbage? It’s a big garbage.’ He says, raising an eyebrow.
    By the time I get to the basement where the garbage