Samir pressed his face against shop windows. Beautiful clothes and even more beautiful shoes. He had to find a cheap hotel to spend the night in. He hurried back in the direction of the Tabbouleh.
’I’m not going there for any bad reason,’ he assured himself. ’It’s just that it’s easy to call from there if the manager’s not looking, and one of the boys must know a cheap hotel, and I’ll buy a pistachio shirt and a purple tie. In any case, I prefer blond hair and blue eyes.’
But he was thinking of the shy youth behind the counter at the Tabbouleh who’d just smiled at him instead of joining the others gathered round Samir and the monkey. He’d been absorbed in cutting a tomato into a flower shape, and laying it in the middle of a bowl of hummus, then slicing pickles into flower stems and radishes into the flowers’ leaves. He’d decorated the dish calmly and skilfully, a sleepy look on his face, his lower lip slack and inviting.
He was wasting his time with me, insisted Samir to himself. I like blond hair and blue eyes. Just joking, Lord. I won’t forget my promise to you.
A car horn blared as he was crossing the street, and he stepped backwards. The car stopped and the monkey’s new owner lowered the window and called out to him. He must want to buy ten more monkeys, thought Samir. He bent down to talk to him and felt something climbing up his back as the English driver returned to the car. The monkey hugged Samir affectionately, squeezing him to make him walk on. ’Thanks, brother,’ said the man. ’Your monkey’s a little devil. It stole my prayer beads and the driver and I spent an hour getting it to open its fingers.’
Samir gave the monkey his sunglasses to distract it while he tried to persuade the man to change his mind.
’Give it a day’s trial.’
’It attacked me too. Sorry, but no thanks.’
The car drove off and Samir yelled after it, ’What about your money? Who’s the monkey now?’
The monkey bared its teeth in a grimace of happiness, clapped its hands, and curled its lips. It kissed Samir who suddenly felt contented. He kissed the monkey back. ’Just my luck,’ he said.
Then he realised why he felt relieved the monkey had come back: he wouldn’t have to keep his promise after all.
He carried on back to the Tabbouleh and ordered some food. The waiters raced here and there, busy with their customers. They brought him extra, and stood joking with him and the monkey and one of them suggested he should take up acting. Samir persuaded the biggest and most humorous of them, in a confidential whisper, to bring him the mobile phone, and he called Amira’s number.
’Hello. It’s Samir. No ... It went to the toilet in the end, but the man ran off and left it with me ... Vanished without trace, like a fart in a coppersmith’s workshop, pardon my language. Tomorrow I’m leaving it at a church door, or the zoo. Can I come over?’
His arrival contributed to the confusion in Amira’s flat. It was all an undifferentiated space; there was no privacy. Warda was playing on the tape machine and two women, Nahid and Bahia, were reading each other’s coffee cups. There was a strong smell of Turkish coffee and Amira sat with her mobile on one side and the ordinary phone on the other, fluttering like a butterfly between them.
She asked him if he wanted tea, coffee, orange juice, but he told her he had to feed the monkey. He had bought a bag of food, which he insisted on taking to the kitchen. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the sink was full of dirty dishes and stained coffee pots of various sizes, soaking, and the remains of leftovers from the night before. He’d been afraid of making a mess in her kitchen, but everything was ready for him to add the finishing touches before he indulged in giving it a thorough clean.
Samir tied the monkey to him like an African woman would a baby. He washed the dishes, then rolled up his trousers and bent down to clean the floor, and the monkey thought he was playing. When it saw him dancing to the music, and singing along with Warda, ’Aah aah aah’, it became quite still, and began watching attentively like a man enjoying a show.
Amira insisted that Samir and the monkey should stay with her.
’No, Madame Amira. I’ll come back and find you’ve hung yourself if I leave it here when I go out.’
’You should chain it up,’ said Nahid. ’My uncle in Cairo had a monkey like that and he used to tie it up.’
’No, sister,’ protested Amira. ’It’s got a soul like us.’
’Don’t people put leads on dogs? It’s the same.’
Nahid’s comment solved Samir’s problem. He tied the monkey to the sofa and left. He scoured the streets, searching for a blond English boy among the dozens of Arabs. All the English he saw were either drunks or police. He’d imagined that, as soon as the plane set down in London, he’d see rows of English boys undulating like golden ears of wheat, in red jeans or leather trousers, walking hand in hand.
He had to find some nice clothes, but first he’d look for a church where he could leave the monkey the next morning. He would leave it on the doorstep so the vicar would find a monkey chained in a basket, instead of a baby. Samir burst out laughing, then his eyes fastened on a shop window and he decided he liked everything there. He was about to go inside when he noticed a beautiful youth walking to and fro and looking around as if he were waiting for him. Was it possible, when this street was so lacking in Englishmen, that it should suddenly produce the flower of their young manhood? Should he go in quickly and buy the pistachio shirt of his dreams and come out wearing it? No, for the bird might have flown.
Samir approached the young man, who was pushing his fair hair back off his face. Samir imagined it flopping down on to his own face, imagined those soft hands and lips like strawberries. ’You look so good, my little duck. I don’t know where to start.’ He wanted to sing the song to him in English. He smiled, and the youth smiled back. Samir felt confused and repeated the sentence used as an opener by people of all nationalities. ’Do you speak English?’
’I understand a little.’
’What?’
’A little. I’m from Bosnia. And you?’
’From Lebanon.’
’Lebanon and Bosnia, same same.’ He bowed his head sadly, and put a consoling hand on Samir’s shoulder. ’Bosnia, Lebanon, big tragedies, big tragedies.’
Never mind. Forget about them. The most important thing is to stay healthy. How was he going to chat him up now he’d made him feel sad?
’Would you like to have a coffee?’
’Sorry. I’m waiting for a friend.’
’Tonight?’
’What?’
’We could meet tonight. We’ll talk about the tragedies in Lebanon and Bosnia.’
’You’re a refugee. Did you buy this jacket from here?’
’Have it. Have it,’ said Samir, taking it off.
’I don’t want to buy. I was only asking.’
’Not to buy. Just take it.’
Samir did not know how to say ’Try it on’ in English, but he didn’t want anything to come between him and the beautiful youth. He gestured to him to take off his denim jacket, and he held out his leather jacket to him. When the boy refused it, Samir draped it over his shoulders.
A tall, nice-looking English girl swooped down on the boy and they kissed each other on the cheeks, then on the lips. Their embrace showed no signs of ending and the boy closed his eyes, while Samir stood waiting until finally he could retrieve his jacket.
The two boys from the telephone-booth card had come to life in his pocket, giving off a heat that penetrated through his clothes to his flesh. He hurried along, looking for a café where he could call the number printed on the card. Finally an Asian agreed to let Samir use the phone after he’d put a five-pound note down in front of him and explained, ’It’s urgent, and I don’t know how to use public phone boxes.’
’Hello.’ He tried to speak quietly. ’Hello, I want a man, but a woman. Do you understand? A man who doesn’t like women, a man who is a woman. Do you understand? I’m not a woman. I’m a man, but I’m like a woman.
’
The receiver was slammed down in his ear.
He heard the man at the cash desk and a waiter sniggering together. The waiter spoke to him in Lebanese, even though he looked foreign. ’Do you need any help?’
’Uncle, if you have trouble speaking English, you’re like a blind man pouring oil into a bottle.’
’Tell me what you want, and I’ll translate it for you.’
’Thanks. It’s all right.’
’Come on. Let me help. I’ll tell them what you want, you dirty poof. Get out of here, before I beat your brains in and let your friends hear you crying blood.’
Samir hurried towards the door and the waiter hurried after him, rattling the crockery on his tray. Once he was outside, Samir stuck his head back round the door and called out, ’Did the jinns kidnap you and send you back crazy?’
He stopped a taxi and produced the card showing the two men embracing. ’My son’s school is near here.’
The driver opened the door without comment. After a while he began talking on his mobile and Samir was convinced he was reporting him to the police, but he ended the conversation with a ’Bye, darling’, and drew up at a building which was nothing like a bar or a club or even a cinema. When Samir showed no signs of moving, the driver called over his shoulder, ’Go on then. This is it.’
Samir entered an office resembling a hospital reception area; not the club, with music, dim lights and beautiful young men that he’d pictured. The receptionist remained seated behind her desk. She said, ’Hello,’ and handed him a form to fill in. Samir was surprised to see a photo of a little girl with blonde hair on her desk. He showed her the card and she nodded.
Everything here is done according to laws and protocol, even you-know-what, he thought.
Samir told her he didn’t speak English and handed her back the biro and the form.
’I’ll help you. What’s your name?’
’Samir.’
’How old are you?’
’It doesn’t matter how old I am. Do you understand? Please, age isn’t important.’
’I don’t understand. How old are you?’
’I’m forty. But age doesn’t matter. I’ll take anyone. Do I pay you?’
’No. That’s not necessary.’
’You’re generous and we deserve it,’ he said in Arabic. He couldn’t translate it, so he said simply, ’But where? And when?’
’I don’t understand. I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean. We have to fill in the form.’
’Even the things that people think are going to be difficult are simple in our country ... There are no contracts or forms to fill in. You can do it in graveyards, garages, at roadblocks.’
’I don’t understand you. Anyway, have you caught a sexually transmitted disease as the result of an infection?’
’What?’
’Has the doctor ever prescribed antibiotics for you?’
’Oh yes. Often. These,’ he pointed to his neck, ’are always getting swollen...’
’But have you had syphilis? After you slept with someone?’
’Why? I don’t understand.’
’Sorry, but I have to collect this information before the doctor will see you.’
’The doctor? Why the doctor?’
She looked embarrassed and turned away. Samir stood up abruptly. ’Thank you. I’ll go now.’
She came after him, an expression of regret on her face. ’Please. Just a moment. Don’t go. Please.’ She called an internal number. ’James. Can you help me a second? Thanks.’
’Where are you from?’ she asked Samir.
’Lebanon.’
’Sorry, but what language do they speak? Lebanese?’
’Arabic, French, English.’
’Fine. James lived in Egypt and he speaks Arabic.’
Samir relaxed suddenly and congratulated himself. I should have got angry before. If I hadn’t got angry, she wouldn’t have got a move on.
He tried to picture James. Should he ask if James had blond hair?
’James can’t be with you for about an hour,’ continued the woman, ’but shall we try together, then if you feel you really want James ...?’
She wants to try with me, to convince me to give up my habit and start liking women. I understand now, he thought. You put photos of children up so that men will decide they’re longing to have a family.
She was like his father’s sister who used to hit him and say, ’Walk straight. Like a soldier. Don’t swing your hips.’ She was the one who’d arranged for him to be married off.
’I’m married. I’ll wait for James,’ he said quickly, knowing English women were oozing with lust for Arab men.
’Married? Does your wife know about it? Protection. In your situation this is extremely important. Perhaps we can make use of the time until James comes.’
She took several packets of condoms out of a drawer and opened them in front of him, comparing their various merits, then presented him with a packet. ’Try these. Take them. They’re free.’
He thought of the sperm that were going to bang their heads against the wall of the sheath and laughed. ’OK. OK. James? Where is he?’
’As I told you, James won’t be here for another hour.’
What was he going to do for a whole hour? Perhaps he should call Amira to check on the monkey. He hoped it hadn’t pulled over the sofa it was chained to.
He went through his pockets looking for Amira’s number, then asked the woman if she could make the call for him, and handed her a pound. She indicated the phone booth in the corridor, but he insisted that he didn’t know how to use it. She smiled and led him back to the office. He showed her the card, where the beauties continued to embrace.
’Is that James?’
’No.’
’Is James as handsome as that? I’m happy to pay.’
At last she understood what he wanted. ’I’m sorry. This is an Aids centre. But since you’re here, why don’t you have a test?’
Samir laughed and the woman joined in, but then Samir remembered seeing a very sick-looking youth in the corridor and assuming he was a drug addict.
He left, thinking divine providence had sent him there to warn him to take precautions. He patted the box of condoms in his pocket, and the publications that the woman had pressed on him.
Chapter Three
I
Lamis fetched the material for her language practice - a sheet of exercises and a cassette - but instead of starting with the pronunciation of the first sentence she stood looking at the flat opposite where she’d seen the woman and the child the other day. Heavy curtains were drawn across their window and all she could see was the sink in the kitchen.
’The task of the farm guard-dog was to bark, alarm the yard and calm the last barn dancers.’
Lamis listened to the teacher’s voice on the cassette resonate in the emptiness of the flat behind her. ’This sentence should be practised in front of a mirror.’ Or a window. She’d imagined that practising would be easy and laughed when the teacher gave her only one sentence to prepare. Now she repeated it, knowing that she wasn’t doing it right. She played it back; the echoes of the teacher’s voice faded away as her own voice filled the air.
It’s the ’r’, thought Lamis. I have to stop it jumping on my tongue like a child jumping over a rope. I should make it stay back in the darkness of my mouth, lay it down as if I was preparing it for sleep. But it catches me unawares and runs off like a thief afraid of the barking dog.
’Aha. I know,’ the teacher had said. ’Showing the tongue is one of the taboos in your culture. That’s why you have difficulty pronouncing "the" properly. An Israeli actor drew my attention to this when I was beginning to despair of his pronunciation.’
Lamis objected. ’But Iraq is an Arab country.’
’Oh, sorry, I got it wrong. Hebrew and Arabic, of course. Israel and Iraq are enemies. I wasn’t thinking. It’s the same when I confuse the Iranians and the Iraqis.’
<
br /> ’My aunt always used to say "Hello, sweetheart",’ Lamis elaborated, ’sticking out her tongue, and we’d say it back to her to make her repeat it, because we thought it was funny. And we chewed gum into little balls, and made it dance on our tongues as if we were dolphins balancing balls on our noses. And if we’re enjoying our food, our tongues dart around like lizards in the sun.’
Lamis began her drill again, pausing not just at every word but at every phoneme, but still the treasure in Ali Baba’s cave evaded the letter ’r’. She decided to go out and buy something to eat.
The doorman stopped her and handed her a large envelope. She was about to take it, but changed her mind. ’It’s all right, thanks. I’ll get it when I come back.’
She’d only gone two steps before she turned round, her heart pounding, and took the envelope from him. Had her former husband changed his handwriting? Was he dragging her back to be his wife again, or throwing her out of the flat? Perhaps her son’s writing was suddenly more grown-up? Had the men in the investigation offices in Dubai sent her a letter-bomb, or was it the British government trying to take away her British nationality because of the incident in Dubai, to preserve relations between the two countries?
It was a miniature of Majnun Layla at school, accompanied by a postcard on which she read, ’Shall I see you tonight? Nicholas.’
Nicholas, the Englishman she’d pictured in her mind before she found him, in the years when she’d walked over golden fern and wild mushrooms, seen the horse drawn in limestone on the hillside and a waiter pouring tea and milk simultaneously as the train bowled along.
The envelope with its printed label, ’Handle with care’, and the miniature of Majnun Layla dominated the empty flat. She was thirty years old and this was the first time she had received a present and words addressed especially to her from a man. She glanced down at the watch her husband had given her, but it had not been a present, more like an addition to the household expenditure, on top of the food, telephone and electricity bills. She wondered if she might be forced to sell it in order to live, like her mother getting rid of one solid-gold bracelet after another when they were refugees in Syria and Lebanon.
Only in London Page 10
