Gabriel's Gift

by Hanif Kureishi

His leg was inflamed; his hands were torn and sore; his arms ached. It would be awkward getting the picture through the doors of a single-decker bus, had he been able to get on one, and no cab would have stopped for him, even if he had the money. When people had bought something they simply stepped out of the shop and into the road, with an arm raised.

  He turned here and there, not knowing what to do. He would never get it home. What a weight this gift had turned out to be!

  He was so fatigued he became convinced his name was being called. He was thinking he’d had enough of the ‘hallucinations’ when he saw Zak gesticulating in his face.

  ‘Gabriel, where have you been?’

  He was glad to put the picture down.

  Zak was with his father and a young man with messed-up hair and drawstring combat trousers. They were laden with shopping bags. Zak’s father, now wearing several studs in his ears, put his bags down and took the young man’s hand. Gabriel remembered

  Zak saying that his father’s boy lover was the same age as his daughter, Zak’s older sister. If Gabriel thought his own life had become strange, he had only to contemplate Zak’s in order to gain a sense of proportion.

  ‘I haven’t been anywhere,’ said Gabriel at last.

  ‘It’s been ages since you called me.’

  ‘I haven’t had time.’

  It was the truth, in a way. But it made Zak annoyed.

  ‘Too busy for us, eh?’ he said. ‘I’m planning on making the film with Billy.’

  ‘What for? It was my idea. It’s nothing to do with Billy. For a start, Billy’s a bonehead.’

  ‘Right. My dad’s got a little camera. I thought you’d given up.’

  ‘Why?’

  Zak blushed. ‘You’re too grand for us, hanging out with Lester Jones.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with this,’ said Gabriel.’ ‘You know he’s known Dad for years.’

  ‘You don’t really know Lester Jones, do you?’ said the young man.

  ‘I’ve met him,’ Gabriel replied.

  ‘I expect he’s met a lot of people,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gabriel. ‘But not you.’ He turned to Zak, who was laughing. ‘I’ll come round with the story-boards.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Zak.

  ‘Zak –’ said Gabriel, grabbing him by the shoulders. ‘Please, believe me. I want to do it more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sick of waiting for you, man.’

  Gabriel realized he hadn’t been able to think of anything but his recent worries. What he wanted was a clearer mind, a mind that had, somehow, been on holiday.

  ‘Look at all this swag,’ said Zak’s father. ‘We’ve had shopping fever all day. We’ll be disappointed if we don’t get through at least a grand.’

  Gabriel had never quite worked out whether Zak’s father lived with his family or not. Gabriel had the impression that sometimes he lived with one woman, occasionally with his boyfriend, and even, from time to time, with his wife. If the lives of adults were always puzzling, it was a mystery to Gabriel how such an aged and unattractive person could get anyone, except a doctor, to touch him. However, Dad had said he admired him, and Gabriel felt more open-minded, too.

  ‘We’re going home to watch the Tottenham-Sporting Depravity game,’ said Zak. ‘We’ve got the shirts and everything in here. Why don’t you come with us?’ He put his mouth to Gabriel’s ear. ‘I’d really like you to, mate. These lovey-dovers are going to get me down, kissing all through the Depravity game and rubbing their bottoms together at the end when the players take their shirts off. I just know they’d prefer to watch a Barbra Streisland concert.’

  Gabriel laughed. ‘Maybe later. I’ve got stuff to do.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. But I will come round.’

  ‘OΚ,’ said Zak. ‘See you, mate.’

  The break was useful; Gabriel continued his journey more hopefully.

  It happened, after a while, that he was passing his mother’s bar. He didn’t want her to see him, not with the picture. But as he felt like looking at her – a glimpse of her face would ease his mind – he stood outside in an unobtrusive position.

  Usually she was easy to spot, but he couldn’t see her pouring long streams of alcohol into what looked like little silver thimbles. He wondered whether she was there at all. He couldn’t believe she had lied to him and gone to see someone else, perhaps George. Maybe she was in the back.

  A group of people moved and he saw her then, sitting at a table at the rear of the bar. She was with a man: his father.

  Gabriel stared at these two ordinary people, leaning on the table, talking. His father, a wiry man who usually seemed intense, looked relaxed. At one point Gabriel’s mother reached over, said something, and stroked Dad’s hand. It was like an old photograph, a petrified glimpse of the past. For a moment he saw how they had liked one another long ago.

  He shaded his eyes and tried to see if he could read their lips. He wanted to know if they were saying his name. Were they discussing his visions or his life as a lawyer? But he was too far away to know. Anyhow, his mind felt relieved. If they were together, worrying about each other, he could worry, once more, about his film and what he wanted to do once this was sorted out.

  He picked up the picture and continued his difficult journey, inch by inch, shuffling, grunting and hurting.

  Hannah said it was time to prepare his tea. She didn’t ask him about the picture he had staggered through the door with, until she came into the kitchen.

  He was on tiptoe on an unsteady chair on which he had placed several art books. He was attempting to push the framed picture, along with the two copies, into the back of a high cupboard.

  ‘Ah-ha.’ She was standing beside the chair. She even wobbled it to emphasize her power. ‘You are caught like a squishy fishy on my hook!’

  ‘Hannah – don’t do that!’

  ‘Up to something.’

  ‘Hannah –’

  ‘Wait till your mum hears about this. You will be roast beef!’

  ‘Don’t tell her anything!’ he said, wondering if, at this moment, his parents were still talking, or whether his father had returned to his room.

  ‘I will,’ she said, grandly. ‘That’s what I am given food for – to tell things about you. For more telling – more pudding!’

  To balance himself he put his arms out. This was a foolish but necessary position.

  ‘If you inform her about this, Hannah, you will be fired.’

  ‘Pah! Naughty boy! I’ll tell her twice now! Your bottom will be on fire! Thwack, thwack! Ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘Yes, but if I tell Mum that you are a rotten and cruel au pair who watches television all the time, you will be straight back in Bronchitis pulling turnips out of the frozen ground with your broken old teeth. Mum’s very protective of me. Right?’

  There was a silence. When Gabriel looked at Hannah from his position atop the books, he saw she was afraid. He had made his statement without thinking, and, somehow, it had worked; he had turned the key to Hannah.

  ‘No, no,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t tell that.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘How you behave. Meanwhile, I think I’ll have something to eat. Help me down, please.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she moaned, holding her arms out for him to jump into. ‘Anything you want to eat, my boy darling?’

  ‘A peanut butter sandwich,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t forget the jam, the honey and a milkshake on the side.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Right away coming down. Is that a vanilla or strawberry shake?’

  ‘One of each.’

  ‘One of everything, coming up just now, no delay, number one. Is there anything else?’

  He thought about it. ‘How about pecan pie and custard. You can have a little, too, Hannah.’

  ‘Can I?’

  He nodded nobly.
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br />   ‘Thank you.’ she said. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘I haven’t yet decided what to do with you, Hannah. Some of your behaviour can get a little weird at times. Child abuse is a very serious matter in this country. The jails are bursting with weeping au pairs but there’s room for just one more!’

  She moaned gently and scuttled off to fetch his food.

  Hannah had just brought him a hot chocolate; he was lying in bed working on the story for his film and saying the dialogue aloud, when his mother came in that night. She had her compassionate face on, what he called her ‘starving children in Africa’ look.

  ‘Oh Gabriel, you’re talking to yourself again! I have to tell you that I have been worried about you.’ She was stroking his forehead and caressing his cheeks. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Eh … working on my film.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘When you actually make it, can I help you with the costumes?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I think I’d love that,’ she said. He noticed that Hannah’s considerable shadow was listening at the door. How’s Hannah?’ his mother whispered.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I feel guilty leaving you with her all the time. Does she respect you?’

  Gabriel hesitated. Through the crack of the door he could see one of her eyes, hovering.

  ‘I like her now,’ he said. ‘She looks after me very well.’

  The eye blinked several times and become watery.

  ‘Good,’ said his mother. ‘By the way, you haven’t had any contact with spiritualists, have you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Archie.’ She said his name with care. ‘My dead son. The voices speaking inside you. All that. You told me about it. It … made me uneasy.’

  ‘Everyone has voices,’ he said, ‘but people conceal them from other people. People conceal a lot from other people. I guess it was just my ‘magination.’

  ‘You don’t hear from these voices all that often, do you?’

  ‘No. Not all that often. We like to keep in touch when necessary.’

  ‘You must be lonely.’

  ‘Sometimes. What about you?’

  ‘Am I lonely? I don’t know. D’you think I am?’

  ‘A little.’

  He wondered if she’d say anything about having seen Dad. It was odd how secretive parents could be, while at the same time demanding to know everything about their children.

  He said, ‘Anything interesting happen today?’

  ‘Same as usual,’ she said.

  For a moment he wondered whether seeing his parents together had been a hallucination. Yet he felt sure it hadn’t been. ‘Anyone odd come in?’

  She hesitated. ‘Like who?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does George like you?’

  ‘He likes the idea of an older woman. He thinks there’s a lot I can teach him. Maybe there is. He listens to me.’ She said proudly, ‘He tells me I’m wise.’

  ‘He flatters you. But he’d really want someone more his own age, wouldn’t he? Do you think much about Dad?’

  ‘A little. But it’s best if we forget all that and think of the future.’

  ‘Dad said something to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That underneath everything … he loved you.’

  ‘No –’

  ‘He did!’

  She said, ‘He hasn’t said that to me for a long time. Was he drunk?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  He noticed she had a strange expression on her face, of pleasure, dismay and embarrassment.

  He asked, ‘D’you think you might see him … in the near future?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘I don’t know about that man, I really don’t.’

  He didn’t ask her anything else.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A couple of weeks later, after school, he was surprised not to find Hannah waiting on the corner. These days she was never late. He was expecting news of an important phone call – a call that, in anticipation, made him feel both afraid and excited. He needed to know whether she’d taken it.

  He had begun to walk home when he saw his father hurrying across the road, carrying his guitar and record bag, and talking into a mobile phone. Twice Gabriel had been supposed to see him recently but Dad had cancelled. ‘Something’ had come up; he was ‘working’.

  ‘I rang Hannah and told her I’ll walk you back.’ said Dad, turning the phone off. ‘Then I’m off to South London to teach.’

  ‘You’re crossing the river?’

  ‘It’s got to be done. I’m getting all over the place and I’m enthusiastic about certain bridges and houses, funny streets, Spitalfields, Brick Lane, the City – like a tourist. When I’m out there I feel fragile, like an old man now, as if I could be easily knocked over. Yet it’s as if I’m seeing it again for the first time in years. Things are turning from grey into colour. I’ll let you know how the weather is down south. Afterwards, I’m going to a music shop with someone who wants to buy a guitar.’

  Along with masseurs, drug dealers, accountants, personal trainers, language teachers, whores, manicurists, therapists, interior decorators and numerous other dependants and pseudo-servants, Dad had found a place at the table of the rich. He gave them music as others provided trousers, well-trimmed fingernails or a set of accounts. If wealth was to ‘drip down’, as people had been told it inevitably did, it would find its level through Rex.

  Dad loved the way his new work was developing, apart from the best-paid job of all, which he liked to claim he’d taken only out of curiosity. He had started to help a bunch of rich ‘City boys’ who had a band called Boom that played at parties and friends’ weddings. Dad’s responsibility was to teach them to massacre great songs and instruct them in the Chuck Berry walks, Pete Townshend whirls and Keith Richards gestures they had previously confined to their bedrooms. The worst part was attending the gigs, the first of which had taken place in the country, in a tent, with the guests in evening dress and muddy patent-leather shoes. Nevertheless, Gabriel knew that however much Dad complained, he must have enjoyed the champagne, food, respect and other inevitable perks. Next time, Gabriel would go along. Dad thought he would enjoy it.

  Dad was still puzzled by the fact that, although nobody wanted him to play for them, quite a few people, it was turning out, wanted to learn from him. Fortunately, what he enjoyed most of all – and he knew this straight away – was working with young people. For reasons he didn’t himself understand, he could give them the attention they couldn’t get from their parents. Today he was on the way to see a pupil recommended by Carlo, an anorexic ex-girlfriend of Carlo’s who was learning to play bass, though she could hardly lift it, and her father who was starting the guitar.

  ‘I’ve just been to the library,’ he said. ‘I’m getting out books on teaching and music. Reading’s pretty interesting, you know. I wish I’d done more of it, instead of watching telly or sitting in the pub.’

  ‘What’s made you start reading now?’

  ‘To keep a few feet ahead of my students. Some of them are pretty bright. My diary is filling up. I’m taking bookings into the New Year.’

  Gabriel was surprised his father had a diary at all; until recently what would he have put in it? He didn’t even go to the dentist. Before, when he bought a diary, he waited until March, when they were half price.

  ‘You like teaching, don’t you?’ said Gabriel. ‘How’s that little idiot who reckons he –’

  ‘You mean Carlo? I’m starting to work him out. It’s like going for a walk with a little kid. They’re slow and stop all the time. They won’t go at your speed. You have to go at theirs, finding their rhythm. Carlo’s closed up … but there are chinks of light – because there are things he likes to play and to listen to. He’s a fascinating case. Making him feel better – when I can see the p
leasure in his eyes, makes me –’

  ‘The pleasure in his eyes?’

  ‘Yes. It makes me feel better, too. Whatever else goes on, learning is something healthy.’

  Gabriel said, ‘You spend more time with him than you do with me.’

  Dad put his arm around Gabriel. ‘Christ, man, is that how it feels? Have you been lonely?’

  During the past fortnight Gabriel’s mother had been going out most evenings when she wasn’t working. She was seeing George, he guessed. One night she didn’t return at all, but came home early in the morning and pretended she’d just got up.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he had said.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He suspected, from the anxious look on her face, and the modesty of what she wore, that she was also going out to see Dad on occasion.

  When she was at home she talked on the phone for hours to her women friends. She shouted at Hannah about the state of the house, before going out again. She told Gabriel nothing about what she was doing, no doubt for ‘his own good’.

  Yet when it comes to their parents, all children are detectives, working in the dark, looking for clues and examining any evidence that might yield knowledge of these enigmas. He had heard Mum listening to her ‘Learning Italian’ tapes. She was, too, looking at a book of Piero della Francesca paintings. He remembered George saying that Piero’s ‘Madonna del Parto’ – the young woman in the blue dress – wasn’t far from his castle.

  However, ‘his teenage mother’, as he called her, didn’t seem well. She looked as though she wept a lot; she was losing weight and had begun to accumulate even more self-help books; her bed was full of chocolate wrappers and she drank Tia Maria in the morning. She wasn’t yet old but he was beginning to see what sort of old woman she would be, and it wasn’t the picture she had presented to him in Kew Gardens. It was sadder and more desperate than that.

  He was angry that she wasn’t at home more. He wanted to ignore her but he needed her there to ignore; you couldn’t ignore someone who didn’t realize they were being ignored, or who was ignoring you. She had made up her mind that he was to be a lawyer and that was that. She thought that she had to take no other interest in what he was doing.