They knew early on there wouldn’t be children, that having children was an impossibility. Discussed adopting just the once – so many parentless children in the world – but they couldn’t do it. If they couldn’t see their own child, reflecting something of themselves – same eyes, same nose, same mouth – back at them, they’d have no children at all. Besides, in time they became too selfish, too jealous of their time, and of the life they’d built, to consider sharing it with anyone else, let alone someone as demanding as a child.
They had settled into a routine; Jonathan working at the hospital, Reenie taking care of the house. Many of the other doctors’ wives hired cleaners, elderly women who came around two or three times a week, but Reenie wouldn’t hear of it. The very thought of it. Getting someone else to clean up after you. What did these women do with their time if they weren’t running their own households? So there was no need for Reenie to work, not that there were many jobs for married women, and when not cooking or cleaning she filled her time by reading books and forgetting about the time before.
Occasionally she’d see a face she knew from those years spent in hostels and boarding houses; a fellow resident, a former lover, and it wasn’t exactly contempt she felt when she saw them, but neither was it pity. Rather, whenever a familiar face appeared in the crowd she became anxious that they might look her in the eye and say her name, but they never did. She had left them anaemic and half-starved, her clothes little more than rags. Now she wore cashmere and pearls.
She thought about her father less and less; the part of her life spent with him now overshadowed greatly by her time without him. There was no chance of her going back, or even writing. Too much to repair, too much to atone for. Every day, week, month and year that passed made it more impossible for her to even try.
Time brought with it calm, a contentment, which she could never have predicted before meeting Jonathan. Then, everything had been fury and desire. She’d told herself it was only by living this way, never knowing where her next meal came from, or if she’d have a roof over her head the following night, that she could feel truly alive. She had seen others destroy themselves by clinging to this belief, even when things improved, when they were settled, when they should have been happy, as if danger and uncertainty were addictive.
Reenie missed none of it. Jonathan made her feel safe in a way that no one but the Ostroffs ever had, and through him the world became beautiful again, and it remained that way for as long as they were together.
He died at their home in Penylan, in the winter of 2001, three days after his seventy-first birthday. Despite the patients he’d coerced into giving up tobacco he was an inveterate smoker his whole life, starting with cigarettes at fourteen and adding a cigarette a day for every year until he turned forty. Then, in middle age, he graduated to cigars and a pipe.
Emphysema left him fragile and breathless. His appetite went, and with it the bulk of his frame, shrinking him down into a frail old man. Even the colour in his eyes faded to a watery shade of blue. After months of an existence divided between home and hospital, he spent his last few days at home, drifting in and out of consciousness, his moments of lucidity punctuated with incoherent rambling. At times she’d find him talking to an empty room, convinced he was chatting with a long-departed friend or relative, but his last words were as beautiful to her as they would have been meaningless to anyone else.
He’d been asleep for much of the afternoon, an electric fan whirring on the bedside table next to him despite the bitter cold outside, and she was sat beside him reading, when he opened his eyes and said, ‘Billie Holliday’.
She closed her book and looked down at him. ‘What’s that, love?’
‘Billie Holliday,’ he whispered. ‘She had a beautiful voice.’
‘Yes, love,’ said Reenie. ‘Yes she did.’
She held his hand between both of hers, and Jonathan closed his eyes again and breathed out; a long, final breath that seemed to last forever, as if he was letting go of so much more than air. For another half an hour or more she sat beside him, his hand in hers, only letting go when his touch became cold and unfamiliar.
The days before had seen blizzards fall over the city. The buses stopped running, the shops sold out of bread and milk, and Reenie wondered, obliquely, if the gravediggers would make a dent in the frozen topsoil of her husband’s plot. She wondered, too, if any of Jonathan’s friends, cousins, second cousins, and doddering, now octo-and-nonagenarian aunts would make it to Western Cemetery, on the far side of the city, but when the day came the clouds broke and the sun shone. The cemetery was beautiful, the snow glistening not white but gold in the morning light, and the tall dark trees that surrounded it looked suitably black. At Jonathan’s graveside she recited Kaddish, dropped a shovelful of soil onto the coffin lid, and silently said her goodbye to him.
When, some months later, the second Solomon died she chose not to replace him. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to watch another living thing, however small, die. The garden, once tamed and cared for by Jonathan, now grew upwards and outwards in an explosion of life, as if rebelling against his absence. She had no wish to see something grow old and weak – to watch it atrophy, diminish – and so she placed the birdcage in the cupboard beneath the stairs, and scattered the leftover birdseed for the ducks, geese and swans in Roath Park.
It was five years before she got herself another bird, and she did so at the same stall on the upper tier of the indoor market where they’d bought the first two Solomons. The owner of the stall was different now, not even a descendent of the old man from whom Jonathan bought the first, but other than that the place hadn’t changed. There was something timeless about the market, something forever old-fashioned. The city around it was ever-changing, but in the market the ground floor still smelled of fish, fruit and vegetables, while upstairs the birds sang in their cages, and in the café across the way labourers in heavy boots and heavy coats ate dripping bacon sandwiches over their newspapers.
She never asked herself why she had needed to buy another bird, she simply had, but the moment she was home and Solomon the Third was safely inside his cage she felt an odd sense of relief, as if something faulty had been repaired. The sound of his wings rattling the bars, or his insistent trilling, put things right, as did the routine of keeping him fed and watered.
Solomon was a young bird, his predecessors had lived for fifteen and eighteen years respectively, but Reenie wondered if he would make it to London. Already there was a cold snap to the air, and the nights and mornings were getting steadily darker. On balance, she thought his chances better than her own, though she didn’t like to dwell on it. She had begun to wonder, though, and for the first time, what would happen if she didn’t make it. There was no chance of her simply giving in, handing herself over to authorities who might shovel her into some sheltered accommodation, either out here in the country or back in Cardiff. But her supplies were low, and the distance left to walk still great. She had lost none of her stubbornness, but she no longer had the strength.
What would Jonathan have said, if he could have seen her? Most likely he’d say nothing; it would have been a look, an expression. He’d roll his eyes and shake his head, and he’d laugh, or rather he would laugh and sigh at the same time. Never condescending. If anything, he marvelled at her obstinacy. But then, if he could see her now? No, maybe he wouldn’t shake his head and laugh and sigh. Perhaps now he would offer her that same crooked, sympathetic smile he first gave her when she was lying in her hospital bed.
She missed him properly for the first time in years; Jonathan – the only one who could ever tell her she was wrong, the only one she’d listen to. She missed his company. The helpless, almost feminine squeal that escaped him when he laughed. The glance and smile across a room that needed no accompanying words, because that single glance said everything she needed to know. I’m here. She missed that most of all.
Reenie looked around – at her sagging tent, the mud-flecked trolley, the s
ingle carrier bag of scraps and berries – and she gasped helplessly, wanting to be anywhere but in this cold and dirty field.
When first she heard the sound of a car coming to a halt in the lane, she wondered if it might be the farmer, or whoever owned this field; somebody to send her on her way or call the police. Or perhaps it was somebody from that other farm, from the party – Womble, or Casper, or any one of their friends – though why they would follow her, she had no idea.
She had already begun packing her things back into the trolley when she heard a familiar voice shout, ‘There she is!’ And she saw Ibrahim at the gate, his face bruised and swollen. Standing beside him was a woman, older than him but not old; olive skin and long dark hair.
‘There you are!’ said Ibrahim, breathlessly. ‘We’ve been looking for you for hours.’ And he braced himself against the gate, as if to let go would mean collapsing to the ground.
20
Between them they decided not to move on until the next morning. Ibrahim’s bruises had ripened in the night and now provided a near constant pain. His trainers were beginning to fall apart from the inside out, and he had blisters on the balls of each foot. And Reenie hadn’t the strength to move on. Two days of dwindling rations had left her lethargic, with no enthusiasm at all for an afternoon and evening’s trek.
Earlier that day, as he and Natalie drove the lanes searching for Reenie, Ibrahim had had an idea. No one on these lanes was driving to London, and even if they were it was doubtful they’d have room for Reenie’s possessions, but on the motorway there would be trucks – flatbed trucks and delivery trucks – many of them heading for the capital.
He could do it. The search for Reenie took hours; hours spent in a moving car. Natalie had given him a blister pack of Valium before she left them. He could do this.
When he told Reenie his plan she laughed at him.
‘You want us to hitchhike?’ she said. ‘On the motorway?’
Ibrahim nodded.
‘You’re mad.’
‘I’m not mad. What’s mad is walking to London. On country lanes. Out here, it’s all Land Rovers and tractors. Nobody’s going to London. We go to the motorway, we stand a much better chance of getting picked up.’
‘Yes. By the police.’
She still hadn’t agreed to it. All they had agreed upon was that the next morning they would start moving again. As daylight drained away over the fields to the west they built a campfire, or rather Ibrahim built it, with Reenie talking him through each step, and before long they were warming themselves next to the flames and making toast, using damp sticks as skewers.
Shortly after they’d found Reenie, Natalie had left them with a wad of cash and a scribbled shopping list, and she returned with five bags full of supplies. Ibrahim had never seen somebody attack a sandwich with as much gusto as Reenie did that afternoon.
He was sad to see Natalie go. Sad they could do nothing more to thank her than insist she keep the measly change. Ibrahim imagined the world as a series of near-touching carousels in an infinite fairground, its people riding painted horses, coming into proximity with one another briefly before being swept away again to the incessant waltz of a pipe organ. The only thing that ever changed was the speed of the carousel, but sooner or later everyone he knew had been taken away.
Sitting beside their fire, Reenie told him about the party she had stumbled upon, and the people she met there, but Ibrahim shared very little in return. He told her he slept in a barn and that the farmer’s wife made him breakfast the next morning, but nothing else.
Ibrahim threw the last wood onto the fire, and it hissed and crackled and coughed up a shower of orange sparks. He looked at his watch, then out across the dark field, and driven by something instinctive kicked off his shoes, took a bottle of water from the trolley, and poured some of it on his hands and feet.
‘Oy,’ said Reenie. ‘That’s for drinking. What you playing at?’
‘I’m praying,’ he said.
‘You haven’t prayed before. Not while I’ve been around, anyway.’
‘I know, but this is different. It’s Friday.’
Ibrahim sighed. This would have to do. He was in a damp and muddy field, but it would have to do. He raised his hands, and under his breath said, ‘Allahu Akbar…’, God is great, and he wondered if he would ever truly mean those words again. He performed each rak’a, each cycle of the prayer with solemn determination, mindless of whether Reenie was still watching him, staring at him. He dropped down onto his knees, facing away from their fire and out toward the darkness of the lane, and he imagined his words drifting on a westerly wind, growing quieter with distance but carried over fields and hills, across the channel and the continent, over the rooftops of cities, between skyscrapers, above forests and mountains, across night-blackened waters and into Asia until their last whispery traces, inaudible to any human ear, came finally to rest in Makkah. When he’d finished he came back to their campfire and slipped his damp socks and damp trainers back on.
‘That’s an awful lot of standing up and sitting down again,’ said Reenie. ‘Didn’t even think you were all that religious.’
Ibrahim shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I’m not. But… it’s Friday. And to be honest, I thought maybe we could do with the help.’
‘Well, there’s optimism,’ said Reenie. ‘Mind you. I’m glad I’m not a Muslim. I wouldn’t be able to do all that standing and kneeling. Not with my knees. Hey… here’s one for you…’
‘What’s that?’
‘A joke. There’s this Rabbi, right. What’ll we call him? Rabbi Goldman. So Rabbi Goldman’s booked himself an holiday. He’s had a busy couple of months of it; bar mitzvahs, weddings, he’s knackered. So he books himself an holiday down in Brighton, far away from his synagogue. And on his first night there, he thinks to himself, “D’you know what? I deserve a treat. Just this once I’m gonna try pork.’’ So he goes to this restaurant down on the seafront, and he says to the waiter, he says, “Bring me the biggest, finest, juiciest suckling pig you’ve got.”
‘So, anyway, he’s sat there, he’s got his napkin tucked in his collar like a bib, he’s got his knife and fork in his hands, like this, see? And he’s waiting for them to bring him this suckling pig, when who should walk in but two people from his congregation. Mr and Mrs, I don’t know… Schwartz. So Mr and Mrs Schwartz come over to him. “Oh, hello Rabbi Goldman. What brings you to Brighton?” And the Rabbi’s getting a bit hot under the collar because he knows his food’s coming any minute. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Just thought I’d come down, catch the sea air.” And Mrs Schwartz says, “Oh, that’s nice. Our daughter Esther has moved here with her husband, the lawyer. Have you met our son-in-law?”
‘Just then, wouldn’t you know it, the waiter comes out with this great big silver platter, it’s on a trolley it’s that big, and when he’s right next to Rabbi Goldman’s table he takes off the lid, “Ta-daa!”, and there it is, this suckling pig. Large as life, with an apple stuffed in its mouth.
‘‘‘Rabbi Goldman!” says Mrs Schwartz. “What is the meaning of this?”
‘‘‘Oy gevalt,” says Rabbi Goldman. “This place is terrible. You order a baked apple, and look what they bring you!’’’
Ibrahim looked at Reenie, wondering if that was the punch line, if the joke was over. It took a moment for him to get the joke at all, as if a sense of humour took practice, a practice he’d been lacking for too long. He felt his mouth twitch almost involuntarily into a smile, and heard himself laugh, and the more he thought about the joke – the unlikely set-up, its punchline, Reenie’s delivery of the whole thing – the funnier it became, until his chest hurt and his eyes were glassy with tears.
‘Thought you’d like that one,’ said Reenie. ‘I know another one, but it’s a bit rude. Mind you. Talking about pork, I could murder a bacon sarnie right now. Couldn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘A bacon sarnie. Bacon burnt to a frazzle. Lots of brown sauce.’<
br />
‘I thought you were Jewish.’
‘Yes. And? Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten bacon.’
‘Never.’
‘What? No bacon? No pork? No sausages?’
‘Okay,’ he said, blushing. ‘You’ve got me there.’
‘Knew it. I bloody knew it.’
Staring into the fire he told her about a time when his father, who sold used cars, had taken him to the car auctions in Beckton. His mother and sister were away, he said, visiting their family in Birmingham, so his father took him to the auction, at an old warehouse out past the gasworks. There the cars lined up, the air thick with exhaust fumes, and his father met and spoke with friends, white guys, other traders, and it was the first time Ibrahim had ever heard his father swear.
To either side of the warehouse were stands, rows of seating, and the auctioneer talked so quickly, his voice rattling through the PA like rapid gunfire, that Ibrahim couldn’t understand a single word he said.
‘FourninefivefourninefivedoihearfivehunnerdoihearfivehunnerdanyonefourninefivethenitsfourninefivetothegennlemanintheredjacketgoanoncegoantwiceSOLD.’
Ibrahim’s father took notes, and kept a watchful eye on the procession of cars coming in through the wide open warehouse doors, but Ibrahim was transfixed by the burger van in the far corner; the painted sign above it reading Bob’s Buns in tacky red and yellow. Even from that distance he could smell the burgers and fried onions.
‘Da-ad, Dad. I’m hungry.’
‘Not now, Prakash. Dad’s busy.’
‘Da-ad…’
‘Son, please.’
‘Dad.’
The plan had been that they would pick something up on their way home, maybe even a McDonalds, but Nazir Siddique could see he would have no peace until his son had eaten something, and so he walked him over to Bob’s Buns.
Ibrahim & Reenie Page 18
