Between Cups of Coffee

by Tajalli Keshavarz

  19

  It was early evening when I arrived at the flat. I poured myself a large whisky and put on an old album of songs. I suddenly thought I could not continue with things the way they were. I wanted to be somewhere far away, somewhere where I didn’t know anyone, somewhere where I could start with a clean sheet. But I couldn’t put my hand on anything particular that I wanted to escape from. I thought about the boy who couldn’t find his exam timetable. The disillusioned gang of boys and girls with their frightened faces standing outside the exam rooms. Carol and her teddy bear. I was tired of them all but how could I condemn any of them? It wasn’t condemnation; it was as if I wanted to migrate to a different life-style. OK, the girl was in search of a partner for life! As for the students, was I kidding myself trying to put down rules and regulations to ‘assess’ their abilities, their knowledge, their potential? I am the clown and they are the audience and I can only continue if I assume such an authority for myself. I am the system! I repeated the old songs and poured a larger whisky. I pictured Kate’s flat. She had left her diary under her old photos. I didn’t have old or new photos! Only those that students took in ceremonies and sent them to me and I always left them somewhere in the office, never remembered where, somewhere where they would disappear with old papers without me knowing it. I could never understand those who displayed their pictures in their office, the picture of themselves standing on the steps of a conference building together with too many delegates to fit in. Pictures taken with a fish on a fishing holiday, probably the holiday of their life since they don’t normally do such things as university lecturers! And what about the diaries they keep? The books they read? I felt that I had double standards. I criticise people for what they are, for what they do…and yet I tell myself that people should behave the way they want to be. I talk as a liberal but I am harder than a religious figure surviving on people’s guilt! And who is the guilty party here? What guilt? It was as if I was I carrying a court in my head. A court complete with the innocent, the accused, the guilty, the jury, the defence, the audience…. Should I let go? Let go?

  As the whisky was working on me, I thought that perhaps I should work on myself to let go. Everything was a struggle a minute ago! Now, everything was progressing, moving at its own pace! There was no need for me to push! Perhaps it was my interference that slowed the processes? I asked myself again, am I the guilty party? Could I escape myself? Ever?

  I dozed off. When I opened my eyes, Carol was standing next to me. Her eyes were tired. She smiled:

  ‘I thought you were going to put me in a good mood. But it seems that it was wishful thinking?’

  ‘No, no, I just dozed off.’

  ‘It looks like it! We need to buy some drinks. Some fun ones for me and some serious ones for you!’

  ‘We shall forget about everything. We are going to have a good dinner. And you should promise not to be too seductive! I am vulnerable!’ I said.

  ‘Ooo! What a transformation from a sleepy-head! At last I am getting somewhere!’ she laughed.

  It took me some minutes to stand up and take a shower. As I was going to the bathroom, I saw Carol sitting on the edge of the bed. She had her head in her hands. I couldn’t see her eyes.

  20

  People call it ‘The Snail’. On its door, a thick timber, there was a small plaque: ‘The Slimy Snail’. I rang the bell. The door opened. ‘Good evening Prof. Hardag.’ We went in. There was a small landing. A tall ceramic flower pot was standing in the corner with a single long-stemmed yellow South African flower and a long, wide leaf supporting it. Our table was in a corner. Carol sat on a chair facing other tables. I sat on a chair next to her facing the window with a long beige curtain, drawn. We started with champagne, went quickly to white wine and asked for the menu. Carol had lost some weight for sure. I could see wrinkles emerging around her eyes and these were permanent ones. I thought that she had changed even from last month. It was a couple of months since she had returned from the airport aborting her journey and now she wanted to leave again.

  ‘I am going David. I am going to follow him.’

  She said it as if it was a threat. Did I care?

  ‘Are you sure about this? Do you know what you are doing? This is not a case of coming back a week later, you know.’

  ‘What makes you think I will come back? Fernando wants me. He wants me there.’

  ‘And do you want him? Do you want him there?’

  ‘Do you mean I shouldn’t go?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘But you mean it don’t you?’

  ‘I am concerned for you. I want you to have a good life.’

  It was difficult for me to say that. Was I really concerned?

  ‘Come on, you want to convince me not to go!’

  The waiter came with the starters.

  ‘What do you plan to do there?’

  ‘I told you, I’d do anything in his dance company.’

  ‘So he is employing you?’

  ‘What do you mean employing you? We are much closer than that. My God! Haven’t you got it into your head?... OK, OK… me and you…we are together but him, he is a serious man. He is a man of commitments and he wants me there.’

  ‘So you are getting married or something?’

  The waiter came over and started serving the red wine.

  ‘Well…he hasn’t said it in so many words but if you want to know, yes. He said he wants to introduce me to his mother. His mother is quite old. His father died last year before he came over.’

  Now the main dish was coming.

  ‘I am happy for you.’

  I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy or sad. I thought about the flat and her not being there. I thought that I would have a big clean-up and that it would be good to go on a long holiday; a long holiday with a short holiday after that, immediately, to ease me back into work.

  ‘So you’d keep in touch, would you?’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean? You must come over. You should be there for our wedding.’

  ‘I am sure the place will be very exciting.’

  ‘Exciting? I am already thinking things.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you have already planned how many children you will have too?’

  ‘I haven’t but why not? Perhaps I should.’

  We decided to go for a long walk after dinner before we took a taxi home. We walked through the dark cold silent streets. When we arrived at the flat, it was really cold. The boiler man had not come during the day and I had to chase him up the next day. At the time, it was a case of going to bed.

  21

  The flat is calm. I am waiting for the boiler man to come. I have finished my breakfast; actually I just had a strong black coffee. Earlier on Carol had her breakfast slowly, toast and peanut butter, and left. I assume for the day. She was jolly and moved around in the flat. Now that Fernando had gone, she had all day to idle away and she seemed animated when she left. I thought it was best to work from home. A new project was starting but I was already working on another proposal.

  I waited for the boiler man until 2 p.m. He was supposed to come first thing in the morning. I was hungry and had done a good chunk of work on the proposal and needed a change of scenery. After some hesitation, I decided to go out. I thought to have a quick meal at the bistro.

  The place was crowded but was getting quiet as people were gradually leaving. Anita wasn’t there, the owner was serving and he was rushed off his feet. He got the order with a friendly but firm smile. I was having a beer, watching the place getting empty fast and then Anita came in in a hurry. She went straight through the swing door while she was taking her thick red scarf off and starting to unbutton her coat. Now there was only one table occupied when she emerged with my plate in her hand.

  ‘Hi!’ I said, ‘you seem to be in a hurry!’

  ‘Yes. Hanna fainted again, had to take her to the hospital.’

  ‘What fainting?’

  ‘Well. She just faints sometimes. It is ha
ppening more often than before. She had that when she was a child and now it has become more frequent.’

  She had kept the plate in her hand while she was talking. She put the plate on the table.

  ‘But what does the doctor say?’

  ‘Her GP doesn’t think it is serious. He says it is normal for a girl of her age.’

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘He says he has many examples of young girls like her.’

  ‘So what’s there to do?’

  ‘Eat well and exercise! She has never been into sports, but I make sure that she eats well. It is just that she fell and wouldn’t come round.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  She laughed, ‘well, got a taxi and took her to the casualty ward. By that time she was fine so we came back. Otherwise, I am not sure what would have happened had she remained like that.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit? Would you like something to eat?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, no. Thanks. I have been late and there is chaos in the kitchen. Poor John has panicked.’

  ‘Where is Hanna now?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, but it should be OK She is lying down and she has some homework to do.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘OK. She doesn’t talk much. You noticed the other day, didn’t you? She is like that. It is not only with people she doesn’t know... Sorry.’

  Then she left for the kitchen.

  I paid the bill and went back to the flat. There was a note from the boiler man. It was a small card:

  Time of call: 2:15 p.m.

  No answer.

  It was 3:10 p.m. I went in and sat by the kitchen table then phoned the boiler services company.

  There was an irritating young voice on the other side.

  ‘The service engineer was sent to you sir.’

  ‘Yes I know he came. But he was late. He came after 2, he was supposed to be here first thing in the morning.’

  ‘We don’t guarantee the time of visit sir. If there is another big job, the visit can be delayed. But he came and nobody was in sir.’

  ‘But what is the use of giving us a time?’

  ‘We make sure that the visit happens on the day. We cannot guarantee the time though. We do our best sir.’

  ‘So when can he come again?’

  ‘It will be another engineer sir.’

  ‘I don’t care as far as someone comes.’

  ‘We don’t have a free engineer until Thursday sir.’

  ‘Well I have to be in the office that day. What about Wednesday?’

  ‘Sorry sir all our engineers are busy. The only possible time is Thursday.’

  ‘OK then. It will have to do.’

  ‘So you want to book the slot then sir?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Could I have your name sir?’

  ‘You have all that in front of you.’

  ‘Sorry sir. I have to ask you again.’

  ‘This is David Hardag.’

  ‘Could you spell it for me please sir?’

  I spelt the name and the address and other details and then I had to describe the problem, the model of the boiler and the year I had bought it. I put the phone down. I went back to the proposal. I worked uninterrupted for nearly two hours. As it got dark, I stopped and cleared the table.

  The work on the proposal was nearly complete. I had worked on it on and off for three months now. It needed a week to deal with the details for the final draft but I couldn’t do any more work on that day. I made myself a coffee and hot milk. I had some biscuits. Obviously I needed it after the boiler saga.

  ‘What saga?’

  I started at myself.

  ‘What saga? Why do you always make an issue out of everything? So what if the boiler man didn’t come on time? You say you don’t believe in rigid disciplines but in everything, any small matter, you seek it. Are you a spoilt brat grown up in size?’

  ‘But can you believe the way that woman answered my call? Obviously they don’t care whether they have a job or not.’

  ‘As far as that is concerned, you can go and hang yourself! After all, she was doing her job. If you expect Oxford English, then you are seeking it from a very unlikely source.’

  I am spending my days like a person waiting for some amazing news that will change his life, meanwhile, without saying it, I am convinced that the way I am leading my daily life is good. But where is the thrill? What is there to excite me? OK, there is the research and the odd student. But what about home? What do I do when I come home? A bit of reading, a few drinks, and then what? Dinner with Carol or someone else? Even the sex is becoming part of the daily routine…this is frightening. Yes, I have decided that the life I am leading is fine. I am certainly not going to limit my days, my minutes to one person only. It is OK at the beginning but it gets boring fast and then what? Things that once you enjoyed doing together become a chore; then comes the catastrophe of kids, something mostly inevitable… and decisions to be made. Goodbye to your days, your own days, to your nights of course, to your moments free from unwanted obligations. Perhaps it is OK if you like it as a job! But look at the hordes of people: it is a culture in its own right: the ritual of buying nappies, the changing of nappies, entertaining the brat, the baby language you adopt, the culture of a benevolent family. Then you begin to think about the church, the hungry masses in Africa. Have you ever looked at the way a first time pregnant mother looks, walks, with the aura around her? ‘Look at me, Ah, I am the personification of goodness, forgiveness, sacrifice! Look at me; I have my cross in my belly.’ And the father? Look how his dress code changes, how his hair and his shaving pattern change, forget about the frequency of his going to the pub. All obvious? Fine, I am not up for it. So what do I want? Do you know? I can never be satisfied. So what’s wrong with that?

  Nothing really, this is your life, if you want to spend it as a critic, then good for you. Pour yourself a whisky; it is time, dark enough to drink. But when you are young and dissatisfied with things, it is somehow acceptable. They put it down to your hormones, but what about a middle aged man edging towards old age? What if he is not satisfied with his life and with alternatives he sees around him?... No! I am not for dramatic gestures and I do not need sympathy. Anyway, even if I wanted it there is no one to feel sympathy for me. There will be no memorial day for me in the office. Perhaps Anita would wonder what happened to the man who went there for a cup of coffee, a quick meal or a glass of whisky every now and then. In her final analysis, if the thought occupied her that much, she would think that I was a rude man who didn’t care to say goodbye to her as I moved on.

  I poured the whisky. What sort of a life was I seeking? I needed a change but didn’t have a clue. Should I become more involved in the office and its politics? It will be going back a step, so demeaning submitting to the illusion of power. I couldn’t do that now even if I tried. So what am I to do? Was there anything attractive enough?

  No, I wasn’t depressed or anything. I was just thinking of a change but that was all, I couldn’t go any further. It would remain as a mental exercise. I went to the drawer and took out Kate’s diary and the pictures I had brought back from her flat. I wasn’t sure why but I was drawn to that diary and the pictures. Was I trying to escape my thoughts? Perhaps, on the contrary, by looking at the pictures and reading the diary I wanted to encourage those thoughts. A picture of South American desert! I wondered where she had got it from. I felt uneasy. I put the picture away. I looked at another one. Her brother, I assumed, standing in front of long pipes criss-crossing over each other. I could smell the crude oil, the summer heat. Then there was a worn-out picture of a middle-aged woman.

  Sitting there with the diary and the pictures I wondered whether that was all that had remained of her life; a diary and some pictures.

  I went to the coffee table with the long table-cloth. My own old box of pictures was sitting under the table. I pushed the cloth to one side, took
the box out as if I was haunted. I put on a CD, sat with the opened box; with the pictures all around me on the floor. The pictures were small. The few that were large were stained or blurred. Now I was far away in complete silence. Kate’s pictures were spread further away in a corner next to her diary and my pictures were surrounding me. I took a small picture with corrugated edges. I was seven years old, standing under a tree with deep shade from a harsh sun. I could feel the heat of the sun coming out of the picture. I remembered the day…I remembered that my mother was sitting on a bench facing the sea. Her face was sad. My eyes were fixed on her. My father took the picture; did not tell me to smile, to look presentable, to lean my hand against the tree. It was a record of the trip to the seaside; a childhood holiday.

  I collected all pictures and put them in their boxes. I looked at Kate’s diary next to the box. I took it and started reading from it arbitrarily:

  ‘I get tired excessively these days. Maybe it is because I think too much! My mind is obsessed with what I read and with my chats with David. In fact, I should be less tired. I get excited with us discussing the books… the arguments… and that makes me tired! I can never live like the magazine characters… chocolate and warm baths. I feel dirty if I sit in the bath. But how is it that most people follow these recipes? They feel relaxed. For me, this is a state of stupor. Today, Mary came and showed me a picture of her wedding dress. She was so excited. I was amazed, can you imagine? A picture! How could one be so happy to lose her freedom? OK, it goes back to security. But even then, what guarantee is there? More than half of marriages end in divorce. But why shouldn’t they feel happy? It is good for them to feel secure, even if it is for a short time. What is wrong with being happy for wearing a new dress? A white dress with the scarf wrapped around the head and all that… walking down the church aisle to get to the moment of promise. How many times has one seen it? Don’t they get bored with it? Don’t they feel stupid when they themselves do it? Obviously not! They look forward to it. I should remember to talk about it with David. I am sure he would love it. I am getting tired and feel weak. Perhaps neither David nor I are social creatures. Perhaps we are boring, not all those who read the popular magazines and follow examples. I know it is impossible for me to live like them. But I shouldn’t feel rejected for this. And I don’t. There are loads of people out there like me. Like us. What about this one who went around the world on foot? Or the other ones who had their group wedding in a cave in that obscure mountainous place? They took their close friends with them too! But they do it to prove they are different. I bet once they settle down and get the first invoice for their kitchen table and fridge, they will start behaving differently. I think they behave differently because they want to create a certain position for themselves. The man probably wears a bow tie with a striped pink shirt and the wife buys her dress from a charity shop. They go to the park in the summer, take a bottle of wine, have a picnic. The wife looks at her man with such admiration when he talks about the faults in the architecture of such and such church. Then, as they sip their wine with the cheese that she has bought on strict instructions from the man, she takes his hand and starts stroking it. The man continues with the wine and goes on with his insight into architecture. A picture of love and admiration in a park with cheese and wine! So what happens if I visit them four years, perhaps ten years later?