by Monica Ali
‘I think we were finished,’ said Fairweather. ‘Were we finished?’ He stood up as he spoke so that his companion, a hungry-looking man with a jumper over his shirt and tie, had no choice but to agree.
‘I’d run clean out of bons mots for him,’ said Fairweather, as his companion withdrew. ‘Sit down, sit down.’
‘I’d forgotten we were meeting,’ said Gabe.
‘Oh, we weren’t,’ said Fairweather. ‘I was meeting that chap for breakfast and I thought, why not the Imperial? Get out of Westminster for a change.’
‘Colleague?’ Gabriel scanned the dining room. No sign of Gleeson.
‘Thing is,’ said Fairweather, ‘you meet a journalist for a chat and then there’s something in the paper, some leak or scandal or other, and then the finger of suspicion points at you.’
‘Can’t be good for the career,’ said Gabe. It was irritating even to have thought of Gleeson, as if Gabe couldn’t do whatever he wanted. As if he shouldn’t talk to anyone he chose, as if he should worry about being seen.
‘Finger of suspicion,’ said Fairweather ruminatively. ‘Is that the correct phrase?’
It was Gleeson who should be worried. He was the one with something to hide.
‘Anyway,’ continued Fairweather, laughing, ‘the trouble with a political career is that there’s so much politics involved.’
‘That’s why you’re getting out.’
‘We’ll see what happens at the next reshuffle. Resign in haste, repent at leisure, isn’t that what they say?’
Gabriel lifted the vase of gerberas. Finally, fresh flowers as agreed. He rubbed a petal and then lifted the stem. He should have known it. Fakes.
He said, ‘You’re not asking to be shuffled out?’
‘Possibly. I may. We shall see. Depends what I’m offered. There’s been some talk. Certain positions are very difficult to turn down.’
‘Keeping your options open.’
‘Quintessentially British,’ said Fairweather. ‘Isn’t that the British way?’
We used to know what it meant to be British. That was just Ted. ‘Being open-minded, you mean?’
‘Absolutely,’ cried Fairweather. ‘A core British value. Freedom, fairness, tolerance, plurality. Does one have to order a top-up of coffee or will it simply appear, do you think?’
Gabe lifted his chin to a waiter. He ordered a double espresso for himself. The anticipation of caffeine gave him an instant buzz. ‘You’re not on a husting,’ he said.
‘Think I’m giving you the party line?’ Fairweather smiled. ‘I mean it. Plurality. Our so-called British identity is like our economy, Gabriel, deregulated in the extreme. It’s a marketplace of ideas and values and cultures and none of them are privileged over the rest. Each one finds its own level depending on supply and demand.’ Fairweather had gone into rapid-fire mode. ‘We talk about the multicultural model but it’s really nothing more than laissez-faire. I think that’s quite unique. Our national identity, in that way, is very distinct.’
‘Isn’t that the point about national identities,’ said Gabriel, ‘they’re all different from each other?’
Fairweather raised an eyebrow. He paused a few moments, wondering, perhaps, if Gabriel were a worthy recipient of the intellectual bounty that he could, if he chose, distribute. ‘It’s a function of nation-building, naturally, to say “we’re different from them”. What’s interesting, Gabriel, is the way in which the idea of Britishness is or has become essentially about a neutral, value-free identity. It’s a non-identity, if you like. A vacuum.’
‘I don’t see it,’ said Gabe. ‘I don’t feel like that.’
‘I’m glad you don’t,’ said Fairweather. He pulled out his wallet though the coffee had not yet arrived. ‘Now, it’s been a pleasure as always. But I have got to dash.’
‘Is it … do you find it worrying?’
Fairweather flourished a signature through the air and the waiter moved for the bill. ‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. Let’s see, you could say, for instance, that the French are more decidedly … French in their identity. But why should that be a good thing? It depends what you prefer. We got the Beatles. They got Johnny Hallyday.’
‘And we’ve got chicken tikka masala,’ said Gabriel, ‘and they’ve got decent food.’
* * *
‘Dad, I’m not calling too late, am I?’
‘I were up in the loft is all. Took me a bit of time to get down.’
‘Should you be doing that? What if you fell?’
‘I’ll not fall. Don’t tell yer sister, I’ve enough of a job with her as it is.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Sorting things. It’ll be less for you and Jen to do.’
‘Dad …’
‘Oh, I’m not doing it for you. There’s a lifetime of memories up there.’
‘A real museum.’
‘Oh aye.’
‘I’ll go up with you when I come. I’ll be home before Christmas, stay a few days.’
‘Don’t go spending yer money on me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Present enough to have you home.’
‘OK.’
‘Now, what do I get you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, yer not having nothing. I’m not dead yet.’
‘No … that’s … I need socks. I could do with a new wallet. There’s lots of things I need actually.’
‘What about this wedding? You set the date?’
‘Dad, you see, there’s maybe a delay. We’ve decided, I mean, we’ve agreed to think about everything.’
‘You’ve fell out.’
‘Sort of. It’s complicated. I’ll tell you when I come home.’
‘Thinking only gets you so far, Gabriel. Life carries on its own sweet way.’
‘I keep thinking about Rileys. When you used to take me in. You remember? I skipped school once or twice.’
‘Oh aye. I remember that.’
‘I loved the Benninger room. When there was a complex job on, all the colours flying across.’
‘Aye.’
‘You said this thing about weaving. You said it’s a bit like life. You’ve got the warp going one way, and it brings the pattern and the colour. And you’ve got to have the weft, the constant, which runs through everything. Dad … I … sometimes I think …’
‘Is it that girl? That Lena? No, I’ve not forgot. Listen, son, you should know, threads break all the time. A decent weaver won’t wait on a tackler. They’ll fix it and get on.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HE CRASHED SMACK-BANG OUT OF SLEEP AND LANDED IN BED arse side up. Gabriel lay with his head hanging off the mattress and his heart bursting out of his chest. He’d fought so hard to wake up, applied too much force, like ramming a locked door that suddenly opened and falling flat on his face. Still, he was glad to be out of it. The dream got worse and worse. Nightmares won’t kill you. This one might, thought Gabe. He’d die of sleep deprivation. He’d die of a heart attack.
It was the morning of the inquest and Gabriel put on a suit before he left for the Westminster Coroner’s Court. He sat in the wood-panelled room as the few witnesses gave their statements. Both he and Mr Maddox were called. After a brief adjournment, the coroner delivered his verdict: accidental death. The cause of death was to be recorded as a fractured cervical spine. No family members were present, though the inquest had been twice delayed to allow them to attend. Financial circumstances, explained the coroner, had not permitted them to travel. A representative of the Coroners’ Courts Support Services would now read a statement on their behalf.
It was the usual stuff – loving husband, devoted father – a pro forma of life and death. Gabriel looked around the scattered few in the courtroom, the ambulance worker, the policeman. How difficult it was to pay attention. Maybe he would feel something, register some kind of emotion, if he weren’t so utterly worn out.
Outside, on Horseferry Road, Mr Maddox punched Gabe’s shoulder.
‘Result,’ he said, as if the football scores were in. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift. Gareth can get in the back.’
With his permanent five o’clock shadow, the collar turned up on his big black coat, Maddox looked like the head of an organized crime family, a career in which he’d thrive.
‘So that was it for Yuri. All over and done.’ Gabe, abruptly furious, laid into a cigarette.
‘Look like you slept in a ditch, Chef. Been burning the proverbial at both ends?’
‘Don’t give a toss, do you?’ said Gabriel. ‘So what if somebody died.’
‘Listen to Mother Teresa. She’s going to say a prayer.’
Mr James tittered obediently. He said, ‘If we hurry you can make your two thirty. Shall we go?’
The way Mr Maddox was staring was like being punched in the face. Gabe took an involuntary step back.
‘What?’ said Maddox. ‘What do you want me to do? Pass the collection plate?’
Gabriel shrugged. ‘Why not? At the next board meeting. Industrial compensation, let’s say.’
‘No,’ roared Mr Maddox. ‘There’s no question of it. No question at all. Didn’t you hear what was said in court? There’s no negligence charge here. If there was we’d fight it, they wouldn’t get a bloody penny out of us.’
‘As an act of charity, then,’ said Gabe.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Maddox. ‘Why don’t you consecrate the catacombs? Turn them into a bloody shrine. Right, Gareth, you still stood here? Well, go and bring the car round. Chef’s decided to walk. He needs to clear his head.’
Lunch service the next day was funereal. Bomb scares at two Underground stations, miserable weather, the dwindling ‘consumer confidence’ he’d heard about on the radio news – Gabe was unsure how to apportion the blame. There’d been several cancellations for dinner and he bet there would be some no-shows and few walk-ins. It was a jittery day.
Gabriel, a bull in a bear market, sat with Nikolai between shifts in a pub off Shaftesbury Avenue. He wanted to talk about the dream. The dream was on a pillaging spree. It stole his nights. It didn’t know when to stop.
Gabe sipped on a bottom-of-the-barrel musty pint. ‘I keep having this dream – about Yuri.’
Nikolai was drinking lager from the bottle. He closed his eyes for a moment. What was that? Some kind of acknowledgement? A salute to the deceased? A mark of respect?
‘Look at this table,’ said Gabriel. ‘It’s filthy. One, two, three staff standing around behind the bar.’ The pub was a tourist and out-of-towner hell hole, the kind that never expected to see you again and didn’t give a shit. The food – ‘trad pub grub’ – was microwaved pies standing in a swill of cut-price baked beans, an inedible concoction, as a brace of American tourists were about to attest.
‘It’s a shame,’ said Nikolai, with unnecessary gravitas.
Gabriel broke out in irritation. Nikolai, with his long white fingers and ginger hair, with his pretentious silence, with his ugly nose, with his judgemental claptrap, with his sloping shoulders, with his biding-my-time gaze. Nikolai! Why would Gabriel want to talk to him?
As quickly as it had flared up, the irritation died. Gabriel tried again. ‘Thing is, with this dream, it’s always the same. Starts off the same, anyway.’ He filled Nikolai in, rounding up the details like bandits, driving them out of his territory.
‘I see,’ said Nikolai.
‘Well?’ said Gabe. ‘Well,’ he repeated. ‘What do you think it means?’
Nikolai dispensed a cigarette to Gabriel, a prescription for all his ills. He shrugged. ‘A dream is just a dream.’
‘I know,’ said Gabe. ‘But I keep having it. That must mean something.’ When he walked into this godawful pub he’d told himself it was quiet and close, that was why he’d chosen it. Truth was he didn’t know where else to go. Now that Dusty’s was closed and the Penguin might as well be. He used to know a dozen places. He used to know this town.
‘A Freudian analyst,’ said Nikolai, ‘would tell you. You might not believe him though.’
‘I don’t need a shrink,’ said Gabe. London was slipping away from him. The longer he lived here, the less familiar it became.
‘No,’ said Nikolai. ‘Of course not.’
‘Don’t they just sit there?’ said Gabriel. ‘Sit there in silence while you talk. A bit like you, actually, Nikolai. Not a shrink, by any chance? Kitchen shrink, ha, ha.’
Nikolai condescended to laugh.
‘Come on,’ said Gabe, ‘tell me something – why do they call you Doc? Are you a doctor, or what?’
‘Once upon a time.’
‘And?’ said Gabe. ‘So what’s the story?’
‘Things happened,’ said Nikolai. ‘My life changed.’
‘If you’d rather not talk about it …’ said Gabe.
‘There’s nothing to hide,’ said Nikolai. ‘I was a doctor in the Soviet Union. Then I was accused of being a spy and—’ He made a gesture of abdication with his cigarette. ‘I had to leave.’
‘Hang on,’ said Gabe, ‘when was this?’
‘Gorbachev,’ said Nikolai. ‘Glasnost! Perestroika!’ He spoke as if from the podium, with a rabble-rousing smile. ‘The end of the Cold War! The end of history!’
‘And you hadn’t done anything? You’d done nothing wrong?’
‘Of course I did something wrong.’
‘Oh,’ said Gabe, ‘I see.’
‘I was an obstetrician. I was investigating birth defects. There were many, of a particular kind, in our town. I did some studies of the river, the water supply, and found some interesting things about the chemicals dumped by the factory. This knowledge I made public. For this I was branded a spy. The factory supplied military parts, so I had exposed military secrets. So they said at my trial. I saw it reported, preferring – for reasons you will understand – to remain in hiding at that time. I was sentenced in absentia to fourteen years in jail.’
‘This was under Gorbachev?’
‘History did not end,’ said Nikolai. ‘It simply repeated itself.’
‘And why …’ said Gabriel. He wondered how to phrase the question.
‘Why a kitchen knife? I have not held a scalpel for many years.’
‘Why didn’t you carry on practising? Take some more exams?’
‘When I came here, I thought …’ Nikolai shook his head. ‘I got involved in … I spent too long …’ He smiled and wagged a finger at Gabriel, as if he had nearly been caught out. ‘Let us say force of circumstance, for want of a better phrase. It doesn’t matter. I have accepted it. Let’s call it destiny.’
Gabriel moved his elbow. It had glued itself to a sticky patch. Destiny, how grand, how grandiose! How typical of Nikolai. You had to think yourself special to feel destined for anything.
‘You don’t believe that. I mean, do you believe in that?’
‘Believe in what?’ said Nikolai.
‘Destiny, fate, predestination – whatever you call it. A master plan from On High. That’s rubbish, isn’t it? What happens to choice, to free will?’
‘There’s no master plan,’ said Nikolai. He took his time, laced his slender fingers, calculating no doubt that this pause would add weight to his delivery when it came. ‘With that I agree,’ Nikolai continued. ‘But, as a man of reason and science I must disagree with your idea of free will. With that I cannot concur.’
‘I take it you’re joking,’ said Gabe. Nikolai’s hands were not chef’s hands. They were not covered in old cuts and burns. He worked in the kitchen with surgical precision. Why should wounds be badges of pride?
‘Or maybe I spent too long reading Schopenhauer,’ said Nikolai.
‘What? Who?’
‘Seriously,’ said Nikolai, ‘let me ask you, let me find out what you believe. Do you believe, for example, that we are free to choose the most important things about our lives? To be born in the West in the twentieth century is the most enormous stroke of luck. After that, the parents we are given are the most sig
nificant factors to take into account. Would you not agree that the biggest events in our lives are things that happen to us, rather than things that we decide to do? And what of the present – our day-to-day conduct? Do we control even the basic functions? Can you wake when you want to? Sleep when you want to? Can you forget your dreams? Can you decide when to think, what to think about, when not to think at all?’
Nikolai took a hip flask from his pocket, swigged and passed it to Gabe.
‘A little early for me,’ said Gabe, ‘but OK, thanks.’ The vodka reminded him about Damian. He should do something about that boy. If he had the time. Anyway, Damian was a car crash waiting to happen. Probably not much he could do about that. He returned the flask. ‘I get what you’re saying,’ he told Nikolai. ‘But it’s not the point. You miss the point.’
‘Which is?’ said Nikolai.
‘It’s obvious. I might not be able to fall asleep when I want, but when I’m awake I can decide what I do, when I do it, how I do it. That’s free will. We make choices all the time. How we behave is up to us. For example, I can decide to behave decently – be good, in other words – or I can go the other way, be selfish and so on.’
‘How we behave,’ said Nikolai, drawing out the words, clearly pretending to think when actually he had prepared the lecture long ago. ‘How we behave, you could say, is determined by our childhood, by the accidents of birth and parentage and what happened to us along the way. A particular childhood strips us of certain choices, propels us in certain directions.’
Michael Harrison, his childhood friend, slipped unbidden into Gabriel’s mind. Not difficult to see, Gabe thought reluctantly, which way Michael was going to go. Then again, no, Michael was bright enough, Michael had probably made good.
‘A psychoanalyst,’ Nikolai went on – God, he could go on once he was on a roll – ‘might disagree with your proposition. Freud’s taught us that we need to examine a person’s past in order to understand his behaviour today. If a person is not “good”, is sadistic even, what has caused that person to be like that? Another person is unable to form stable relationships. Why? We can discover the reasons if we are so inclined.’
