A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  His head moved to show he understood, mind racing. He swallowed wine, too much, almost choked. Dry coughed.

  ‘You alright? OK, good. So . . . we were wondering if that person . . . possibly . . . could be you, Riss. You can say no, or tell us if that’s really weird,’ she said quickly. ‘But if it doesn’t freak you out too much, and if you wouldn’t mind doing us this honour, we’d love you to be the father of our child. Children. Perhaps.’

  Keshni took a huge gulp from her glass. She was pale. She looked as though she might be sick. Markriss’s heart pounded, a live, writhing entity. He was hot.

  ‘Wow, I, uh . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to answer right now.’

  ‘No, I want to say something. It’s an honour to be asked. I appreciate it massively.’

  The oven timer went off, making them start. Chileshe jumped to her feet, racing for the kitchenette. She hadn’t met his eye once.

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ Keshni said. ‘We’re not trying to use you as some mindless donor, I hope that comes across. We’d want our child to be born into love like any other. And I think, what with the relationship we have between us, how much we respect and care about each other, that would be the case.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’ He looked down at his own hands. Bowls and cutlery sang from the opposite side of the flat. ‘Wow.’

  ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you. It’s a bit much. We couldn’t think of any other way.’

  Chileshe emerged with steaming crumble, spoons, a blue tub of single cream, a larger bowl of microwaved custard. She dished them out on the table, eyes low.

  ‘Help yourselves, take as much as you want.’

  ‘Thanks, Chileshe.’ He tried to find her, glancing up as he took a bowl and spooned crumble into shallow depths. She wouldn’t let him. ‘Look, I’m really pleased to be asked. And, uh, I don’t wanna keep you waiting, I know how stressful that would be, but uh . . . I really need time to think.’

  ‘Of course you do. That’s totally normal.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about having kids.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m a bit irresponsible to be honest.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell you a bit more about how it all works?’ Keshni’s eyes shone.

  ‘Sure, yeah.’

  It was all quite simple. Keshni and Chileshe had decided between them that the natural method meant what it implied. There would be no artificial insemination. For this they’d chosen to alternate, and if things went well with their potential donor, whoever that would be, they planned on birthing siblings no more than three years apart. Keshni had volunteered to conceive first—here she blushed, picking through glossed and amber crumble with a spoon—as she was older than Chileshe by two years, and felt she had less time. They guessed it wouldn’t happen straight away, Keshni said to her bowl. Their donor would have to understand that it could take anything from a few weeks to a year or more. If they weren’t biologically compatible, further options would be discussed at that point. That might involve Keshni trying to conceive with Chileshe’s eggs, or finding an entirely new donor.

  They would raise the child, or children, by themselves. Markriss was welcome to play as much or as little a role in the children’s lives as he wished, on the understanding that they would live with their mothers until they came of age. They would allot weekends so he could be an active part of their lives, or he could visit any time, even stay over if he liked. They wanted their children to have as stable an upbringing as they could give. Only there would be an additional parent in their lives.

  He focused on Chileshe throughout their clarification of terms. She seemed shrunken, hardly able to eat. The usual shadows beneath her eyes were black-rimmed, pronounced. Once everything was said, Keshni took her wife beneath her arm, stroking a shoulder, kissing her temple.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘Not good.’ Chileshe leant sideways, against her. ‘Headache’s worse.’

  ‘You took paracetamol, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Think I might call it a night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She pushed back her chair, stood. ‘I’m really grateful to you for considering this, Riss. I hoped you would. We’re pleased you’d even hear us out this far and think about us being a family together.’

  Keshni’s eyes welled. She wiped her eyes with a knuckle, held Chileshe’s hand.

  ‘My pleasure. I’m blessed to be asked, honestly.’

  They touched cheeks, contact minimal. She shuffled towards the bedroom, Markriss trying to ignore the soft tread of diminishing steps.

  At the dining table, he and Keshni remained, immersed in tea lights and dimmed bulbs. It was strange how newly bonded he already felt by the simple act of being asked something that was so intimate. The random chance of their disparate lives drawing closer, to become entwined. The intricacy of future moments and memories to come. As Keshni talked, or poured more wine, or they filled the dishwasher side by side, Markriss grew aware that no one had asked such responsibility of him before. Past relationships had been forged to cultivate distance—his doing, he’d always thought, though now, remembering those days, he saw it was his partners’ too. Not one of them had offered to share themselves and the possibility of a future with him, at any time. They had not insinuated, or outright asked. Every one, content to let him go. What a morbid realisation, the potential of solitary death in his undetermined future, a life of quiet before, days of entropy becoming years. To be asked, fearful as it made him, opened a place he’d avoided much of his life. Dim light became much brighter, the colours of the room sang a quiet vibration of welcome moods.

  When their conversation dwindled into benign silence, Markriss checked the time, and booked himself an Uber. It was past midnight. He was loth to travel by night tube. At the door, Keshni’s goodbye hug possessed fresh tenderness, filled with warmth he hadn’t known he might wish for himself. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from finding the blind spot of their bedroom door, imagining Chileshe within. He emerged into damp basement, chilled and alone, solid weight at his chest. He gasped air.

  4

  It was a couple of days before he received the expected text. In the meantime, he did his best to concern himself with details of ordinary moments, to go about normal daily life. He made food, ate in stubborn isolation. Read his current novel, attended a cinema screening alone. All he could tell himself, which he did on many occasions, was that the shift he felt inside was common, and there was nothing he should do to pretend he hadn’t been affected by what Keshni and Chileshe offered. He just had to keep it within, contained. On the streets, or at home looking from his window, he wondered if the people he saw harboured secrets much like his own, masking the turmoil of inner lives with a feigned display of insouciance, hands deep in pockets, expressions solid as they moved through life. He stared into faces, was sometimes caught, yet rarely cared. Men and women alike would drop their gaze, embarrassed. What was taking place beneath the surface? He often wondered. Was he as successful at feigning normality as they?

  Markriss didn’t share what the women had proposed with anyone. He buried it like a keepsake, to be faced when he was alone. Sometimes, while thinking about it, he realised he was massaging his right side, just beneath his rib, which had begun to ache without cause, a nagging sore point that sharpened whenever he pressed his fingers to it. The pain would ease, always return.

  The most difficult part was not telling Nesta, as part of him believed his friend would think he was mad to even consider the proposition. Markriss didn’t want to speculate how that conversation would go. A confession and the awkward labour of exposing the women in any form would be a betrayal of trust, even though they didn’t know each other and were unlikely to find out. He didn’t tell his mother, certainly not Somayina or any work colleagues. If he decided to go through with their plans for conceiving a child, he would choose who knew about it carefully. Nesta and Willow would be first. Until then, undecided, Markr
iss didn’t want to be swayed by the thoughts and feelings of those not involved. It would be his choice, his decision, unadulterated by other opinion.

  He became grateful for the leave he’d been granted, choosing not to go back to the office for daily meetings. He used the time to write in his two notebooks, one for the imaginary details of his fictional world, the Ark, the other his personal thoughts and ramblings on life, the real world about him, his emotions, the buffeting waves of energies he felt when he left his flat. So much was going on, inside and out, he sometimes imagined events might drown him if he didn’t hide in the sanctuary of his home, waiting for his energy to rise, to feel strong again. At times it seemed every occurrence was an undertow, pulling him down. When the names of the Cambridge graduates killed in the London Bridge attacks were made public, they were found to be volunteers who’d campaigned for hope and change. The right-wing media, despite protestations, galvanised against such ideals. After the frenzied furore of the resulting headlines, Markriss stopped wanting to be amongst people. Every interaction with the outside world felt like an assault. He resented having to hide, lacking the strength to stay above it. He was morose, in stasis, trying to envisage a future in the world. In those moments, he wrestled between the choices he wanted to make and what he knew was right. How could he bring a child into an existence he could barely handle? What right did he have to deny a living being the joy of connection with souls as beautiful as Keshni and Chileshe? What would a child of theirs look like? Better still, who would they be?

  The conflict of resistant thoughts made his nights open-eyed, sleepless, filled with waking dreams of an undecided future.

  That weekend brought a new month, sunshine and chilled winds. Markriss felt more upbeat despite the cold, maybe due to the surge of vitamin D. He emerged from his flat willingly, glad for the tentative sun on his cheeks, wrapped warm against the temperature dip. After all, it was England. A sensation of being reborn made him smile as he braced himself against the breeze, heading for Portobello’s Sunday market full of the urge to hunter-gather for that night’s meal. Green hearts adorned shop windows, and were spray painted on walls. He lowered his head, not wanting to see. Wandering stalls and supermarkets, filling his Brooks rucksack with vegetables and glossed meat packets, he started at the double buzz in his pocket, drawing the phone into sunlight.

  Chi: We should talk? Shouldn’t we? Tues 3 @ Tate M OK? We can check out that Kara Walker? Cx

  He frowned, sent back ‘Sure—12 ok? Rx’. Continued shopping, returned to the conflicting ambience of that Friday night, open joy undercut with raw nerves.

  In the nights before they were due to meet, sleep became a maddening abstraction. He stared at the ceiling, red-eyed, frustrated.

  They met outside the colossal doors of the Turbine Hall. Cheek-kissing, her embrace tight. He closed his eyes, heart beating against her. Wondering if she felt it. As they separated, Chileshe pushed for a smile, eyes glazed with effort, the emotion temporary. He rubbed her elbow, feeling worse for her than he did himself, pausing at the slide doors to let her pass. They wandered past the security table, descending the incline, Markriss walking a few steps behind.

  They stopped at the first exhibit, the head of an unnamed African boy sculpted in the centre of a huge clam shell, a reworking of Venus. All porous matte white, like plaster of Paris. There they stood for a long time, just looking. Markriss wasn’t certain how it made him feel. Without a word, they continued towards the exhibit proper, a colossal fountain in the centre of the Turbine Hall, inspired by the Victoria Memorial at Buckingham Palace, called Fons Americanus: The Daughter of Waters.

  Three tiers of statues, depicting a number of scenarios. On the first tier, facing the doors, a man in a rope-filled boat, the craft tilted to one side, dragged by the attack of a lone shark. On the second, a scuba diver surrounded by larger sharks on both sides, a wide crest of wave breaking behind her. Above that, on the final tier, a grizzled African sea captain in full uniform looked to the sky. Finally, atop the exhibit, a Santerían priestess, head thrown back, arms outstretched, fountain water pouring from the nipples of her huge breasts and an undetermined wound in her neck, arcing into the second tier, dribbling from its sides into the first.

  Separate yet together, they surveyed this side of the fountain until they’d seen enough, deciding by silent agreement to walk around the circumference and view the remaining statues. A dreadlocked Rasta squatted, head and hair fallen over something neither of them could make out. A stunted tree, the large hoop of a noose hanging from a thick branch. An African woman wearing a tall headdress, a man crouching below her wide-open skirt covering his eyes with a forearm. A flat-capped man cradling what seemed the corpse of a companion, its face a series of featureless holes. Far left, a pleading third-tier figure was on their knees, hands clasped, praying to someone, for something unknown. Below them, riding the calm waters of the first tier, a vaguely rendered sailing ship, small and nondescript, almost alone.

  Everywhere were sharks. Large and small, leaping from water, breaking the waves, jaws open. Around Chileshe and Markriss, tourists laughed and snapped photos with their phones, exchanging opinions in small groups. Children ran between them counting sharks. Fountain water pattered, gentle rain.

  They circled the exhibition a final time and made for the canteen, grabbing a duo of sandwiches, finding a black slab of table. Both had half-filled water bottles, which they drank from almost simultaneously. Markriss noted their mirrored stance—arms raised, bottles poised at lips—with pleasure he kept to himself. They unwrapped their snacks and swapped half with each other as promised.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘Pretty amazing to see, don’t you think?’

  He nodded. ‘I really like her use of the sharks. I’ve never thought of that before.’

  ‘Me neither. Isn’t that weird? For us not to imagine that? There must have been so many.’

  ‘I like that it works factually and metaphorically.’

  ‘Yeah, it does.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I love it. It’s the most eloquent fuck-you I’ve ever had the opportunity to see.’

  ‘And in here, right? That’s the real beauty.’

  He grinned, loving the ability to watch her at last, to look into her eyes unrestrained. Chileshe smiled back, fully. Took his hands with both of hers.

  ‘This is good,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Markriss shrugged. ‘Sure. You didn’t come here to tell me that, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Squeezing his fingers. ‘I’m really sorry about this. I know it isn’t easy for you. How I’ve been, things between us—’

  ‘It’s cool, honestly. I told you not to worry.’

  ‘I feel like I know you well enough to guess that’s a cover,’ she said, laughing as he looked away. ‘You’re finding it tough. Anyone would.’

  He released her fingers. ‘OK, yes. That’s true. But you know, I feel like I did this—’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Finger raised, wagging. ‘We. We did it. And it came from something good, I really believe that. Something Kesh recognised between us all . . .’

  ‘I did wonder. Are you sure she doesn’t know?’

  ‘No, she definitely does not. I suppose she kind of gets our connection, she knows that, and thinks there’s some feeling between us . . . But whether she thinks what happened, happened?’ Quick shake of the head. ‘No. I don’t think so, anyway. As open as she is, she’d struggle with that.’

  ‘And what did she say about me before I came over?’

  ‘We’ve been talking about kids, and all the different methods of having them for ages, as you might imagine. We’ve been having that discussion since we dated. And then after you had the gong bath over at ours, Kesh talked a lot about your energy, how connected we were, and I kind of got where she was going, but like, not really. Then the next day, at lunch, that time you came into work, she suggested we talk to you and I was like “Woah”. I didn’t
know what to say to that. Cos on the one hand it made perfect sense; on the other—’

  He rubbed a palm across his face, wincing. ‘You wouldn’t look at me. Not then, not at dinner.’

  ‘I know. I could’ve handled it better. I’ve been reflecting on that. I was a shit.’

  ‘You weren’t a shit, Chi.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Will you stop?’ He leant over the table, looking directly into her eyes. ‘You’re not. OK? Look. I—’ Clearing his throat, glancing at other tables. A waitress wiped a nearby slab down with a cloth and a squeezy bottle of pink liquid. She moved her arm back and forth, unable to remove whatever she’d found. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  He studied all of her. The thin braid hung against her cheek, a purple band nearest its end. Her baggy pink sweatshirt printed with the outline of a cat, loose at the neck, the matching beanie above. Half crescents of eyes. Dual expanse of lips, recalling how soft. Her scent.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘I love you. Not as a friend, or anything. Really. I feel you in everything I do, like what you’re thinking and going through. Everything. I always have. You don’t have to say anything back, I just want you to know that. No matter what.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and he was heartened to see her blush, looking down at the table, unable to hide another smile. ‘Yes.’

  She took his other hand. They looked into each other for a time.

  ‘Obviously this complicates things.’

  He laughed aloud, bit it back. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I know, I know, massive understatement. And obviously, I am in love with Kesh, right? She’s my soulmate. Deeply, truly. So there’s that.’

  Sobering. ‘Oh, sure, sure. Course.’

  ‘I’ve always believed in people’s ability to love without limitation. Like, we have family, don’t we? More than one kid, et cetera. I feel like me and you, we’ve fallen into that thing that sometimes happens through no fault of our own, or anyone’s. We can’t stop feelings, can we?’