PS 2: My last letter speaks of our University Medical School. I must say now it was used by soldiers from my country, then by American soldiers. Some rooms were used for sleeping and some for eating. There were two good operating rooms but now one is a cinema and it has pictures of ladies on the wall.
The other is made like a prison room. I have seen excrement and blood on the floor. I do not wish to offend you, saying ‘pictures of ladies’ and ‘excrement’.
There are no books there now and the laboratories were full of broken glass.
Buckingham Palace
December 11th
Dear Mr Hussein,
Her Majesty has asked me to convey her thanks to you for your recent letter.
As you will appreciate, she is unable to respond personally to the many hundreds of letters that arrive every week, but she is always most interested to receive them.
Yours faithfully,
Sarah Williams
(Deputy Secretary, Correspondence.)
PS: Dear Mr Hussein,
Thank you once again for your most interesting letter. May I wish you every good fortune in your search for a place at medical school.
Best wishes,
Sarah Williams
901 Essex Heights
Kilburn
December 20
Dear Your Majesty,
I am very happy to receive good fortune from Sarah Williams Deputy Secretary, Correspondence.
I am reading medical books at Kilburn Library, found by Ann Fitzpatrick, the Librarian. So I can show my seriousness at the meetings about medical school arranged by the Immigration office. But I have a problem here. I talk to them about my examination certificates and they only ask questions about my journey to come here. (Please see PS 2)
I am sad today. 901 Essex Heights has two beds. I have one. The other is empty.
But Your Majesty, I am also very honoured indeed. In my letter I said for you to take a holiday. Now, I read in the newspaper, you will be going to another palace in your beautiful English countryside, Sandringham, for your Christmas.
Please accept my wishes for a restful holiday.
I am yours,
Karim Hussein (Mr) (aged 18)
PS 1: I send my good wishes to Sarah Williams in addition.
PS 2: My father is dead in the fighting. He was a gentle man and my little brother Mansur died with him. He was six years only.
My mother gave money to Hassan, my older brother, for us to travel to your country. I will be a medical doctor and Hassan can make things work with electricity.
A man helped us, but he needed most of the money for the official arrangements. I do not know where this man is, he must tell the Immigration office about my official arrangements.
My brother Hassan is now lost and the wallet and examination certificates also.
Buckingham Palace,
January 2nd
Dear Mr Hussein,
I have been very touched indeed to read your letters addressed to Her Majesty, and by your kind concern for her despite your own troubles.
I am extremely sorry to hear of the deaths of your father and brother at home. Where is home? Has your brother Hassan been separated from you somehow?
I do hope you find him, and your certificates, very soon.
I send you my very best wishes for a Happy New Year,
Sarah Williams
901 Essex Heights
Kilburn
January 12
Dear Your Majesty and Sarah Williams,
I thank Sarah Williams for her very generous message.
My last meeting about medical school took place yesterday. Two men asked questions again, not about my qualifications but about my journey to come here. (Please see PS 1).
Your country is most splendid and good. In Kilburn Library I am now reading medical books every day to help me be a good student. I read the newspapers as well. I also read, to learn about your food, a book by J. Oliver Esq.
Outside the library there is always a man and a dog. The man is shaking, his face is grey. If I was a medical doctor I could help him, but now I just buy his magazines.
Please also see Post Scriptum 2.
I am yours,
Karim Hussein (Mr) (Aged 18)
PS 1: Losing the wallet.
There was a big building with no windows. Other men drank alcohol and laughed. Then they were playing, pushing me and Hassan and pulling our clothing. They saw the wallet round Hassan’s waist and they took it. They then laughed again when Hassan asked for it back.
They took the wallet, and the money and my school certificates.
PS 2: Losing Hassan, my brother.
There was a train and it was not black but white and shiny. We had to go underneath it to find a small ledge and hold on tight for the train would be going very fast. It took days to succeed due to men trying to stop us.
It hurt my legs and it hurt my back. My hands were hot and my fingers were numb and cut from holding something sharp. I think I broke one finger.
I could not see Hassan but I heard his voice. ‘We are nearly there. Hold on, my little brother . . .’
The noise in my ears was like a very great wind, like dying. The wind was a great hand to sweep me away to Allah.
I was getting tired, I could breathe only in my own armpit because of how I was lying. I was not clean, but I still prayed. I would let the wind take me to Allah if it was his wish.
Sometime the train slowed, and I heard my brother. ‘Karim. You will be a medical doctor. Remember . . .’
I could not see my brother. My eyes saw nothing because of the wind. But I could feel the metal rails close like a knife. The knife made the wind.
At home there is a butcher who has a circular sawing machine. It has teeth, and I see this sawing machine under the train.
And when I arrived in London, and they took me out, I could not move. Hassan my brother was gone.
Buckingham Palace,
20th January
Dear Mr Hussein,
I am so very, very sorry, and saddened, to hear about the terrible time you had on your journey. It is impossible for me to begin to imagine what it must have been like for you. I believe your brother Hassan was a very brave man.
I would like to try to help you, so I enclose some information leaflets from people and organisations here in London who might be able to help you, both about your immigration status, and also (hopefully) about finding a place at medical school.
With warmest wishes,
Sarah Williams
Heathrow Airport.
January 20th
Dear Sarah Williams,
I am a little frightened so it will help to write once more.
At 3:00 this morning two men opened the door of 901 Essex Heights Kilburn, and took me away to a car. They packed a small bag for me.
I must return home because were no official arrangements. I am waiting now for an aeroplane.
I did not like to tell untruths to your Immigration people. I did what Hassan told me to do. But also, I did not like to tell untruths to you, who are so kind. I have told you one untruth only, and I ask you to forgive me. I am not aged 18.
I thank you and Your Majesty and I wish for you both a very long life.
I am yours,
Karim Hussein (Aged 15)
PS: It is Hassan who was aged 18.
Basra.
February 15th
Dear Sarah Williams,
Please forgive me if I am trouble again for you.
In my bag packed by the men there was a book from Kilburn Library, called English Usage. It is in this parcel. Please could you give it back to Ann Fitzpatrick, Chief Librarian.
It was three months from Basra to Kilburn. It is two days from Kilb
urn to Basra.
I heard from my friend at Essex Heights Kilburn. He says a gift of money is come from someone not known. And the money is expressly for new water pipes. Essex Heights Kilburn now has clear water.
Here, the water is still brown.
Allahu akhbar.
I wish you again long life.
I am yours,
Karim Hussein
The Salt Box
THE DAY THE MEN came, Mama burned the soup and had to make it all over again. Grandpa’s leg was bad; he hadn’t got up from the mattress in the kitchen for a long time. He didn’t speak much in those days, but he was writing a lot. Mama said he shouldn’t write because it was dangerous, but he shrugged and winked at me. His leg smelled awful, but that day the smell of burning soup covered it up.
Mama said, ‘Valya, chop four beets. Tear the cabbages with your hands. Peel five potatoes. Carrots. Onions. Are there any left?’
She put more water on to boil. She opened the wooden salt box and threw a few pinches into the pan. The salt came right to the top of the box because it was Grandpa’s secret place. He wrote diaries, articles, poems, letters, which he never posted, and when I asked who they were for he said they were for me, for my friends, for all free people. He wrote on thin paper in tiny writing, and Mama took the papers and buried them under the salt.
She buried some poems that morning, deep. Grandpa read them to me first. They were about men marching for freedom, and the heart being stronger than the arm that carries the sword, and youth being like young wheat standing tall in the fields. His words made me cry.
I got the biggest cabbages and tore them into pieces until they filled the pan, then I watched them turning red with beet juice.
Later, when the soup had been bubbling a good while, and when I was really hungry, Peter came in so fast the door banged against the wall.
‘Men!’
Mama’s face was red from the stove. She said, ‘Quick, come and sit,’ and she stirred and stirred the soup, tasted it, put in more salt. More salt. It smelled good. She tidied Grandpa and threw his pencil into the stove.
‘Quick, Valya. Say grace,’ she said. Grandpa put his head in his hands.
Three men came in. They brought a funny smell in with them. They ignored Mama, who went on stirring, and they spoke roughly to Grandpa.
‘Alexei Alexandrovich, the writer?’
‘I am Alexandrovich. Whether I am a writer is for others to say.’
Mama spoke then. ‘My father has not written for years,’ she said.
They laughed. ‘That is not what we are told.’
‘You are welcome to search,’ Mama said, ‘while I feed my family.’ She started ladling the soup, red and steaming, into bowls. She fetched half a loaf and tore it up on the table.
The men searched, starting with Grandpa’s mattress, and wrinkled their noses at his leg. Mama said, ‘Eat your food, children.’
The soup was good. But it felt different on my tongue. Maybe it hadn’t boiled quite long enough. Mama took a bowl to Grandpa and sat on the mattress. She started feeding him, big spoonfuls, pieces of beet and cabbage and onion. The soldiers laughed.
‘The great writer Alexei Alexandrovich, fed like a baby.’
But Mama said again, ‘My father has not written for years.’
The soldiers made such a noise turning the pans over.
I took a spoon of soup and put it in my mouth —and it wasn’t cabbage. It felt different in my mouth. When I took the next spoonful I waited to see the men weren’t watching me and I looked at it closely. I was right, it wasn’t cabbage. It was a small piece of paper, stained red with beet juice, and I could see tiny words on it, like spiders’ footsteps. I couldn’t read them. I looked at Grandpa. He smiled, but it was such a sad, sad smile. We went on eating. The men kept on searching. They even looked in the salt box. But the salt only came half way up the sides.
When they had gone, no one said anything. Mama was crying quietly. Peter hadn’t noticed anything. And Grandpa, the great Alexei Alexandrovich, lay back and closed his eyes.
Wei Ch’i
SHAOZU’S APARTMENT SEEMED further away this evening. As usual, the battered grey bus dropped him with the other old soldiers at the intersection and he walked the rest. But his feet seemed heavier than yesterday. Even the air in his empty lunch bag weighed down his shoulder. The day at the centre had been long.
Huang was crouched in the doorway, throwing knucklebones in the dust. He looked up at Shaozu. ‘Sometime, we must come to the end of all possible permutations,’ he said.
The air in the apartment was still. Perhaps Mei was out. Perhaps she had gone to the late market, or left a note to say there was a last-minute game of Wei-Ch’i. But on the table in the kitchenette, Shaozu found no note. Instead, in a room in which everything had been put in its correct place, cloths neatly folded, platters arranged in careful pyramids, he found something else: Mei’s hand.
It instilled no panic. Not even a sense of worry. The hand lay quite peacefully, palm up, the fingers curled like a half-open lotus. There was no blood, not a single drop. It might have been a waxwork. But it was definitely Mei’s hand. There was her plain gold band, the small scar on the index finger. And there on every single nail was the clear varnish from their anniversary dinner, chipped, where only this morning she’d been scraping at her thumbnail with the index nail of the other hand.
Shaozu walked round the table, peering at the hand.
He thought of calling to his wife. He thought of standing in the kitchenette and calling, ‘Mei? I have found your hand!’ but there was something quite wrong with that, as though he would be disturbing a shrine.
In the hallway, he found her right foot. He had walked straight past it, lined up neatly beside her sandals. He crouched and put out a tentative hand. The foot was quite cool.
Picking it up, he returned to the kitchenette and placed the foot on the table next to the hand. After all, the wrong partner was better than no partner at all. Loneliness is a dreadful thing.
Slowly, Shaozu moved through the apartment, searching. He found Mei everywhere. Her legs below the knee: one in the shower room, one on the balcony. Her arms: one in the drawer of the console table, one on a kitchen shelf. A shoulder, high in the hallway on top of the cupboard where they kept their outdoor clothes.
He found her stomach, rounded as a child’s, on the pillow in the spare bedroom. The room where, very occasionally, their son slept when his work brought him to the city.
Shaozu picked up each part with care, bringing them all into the kitchenette, laying them together on the table. He did not try to reassemble her. He laid them in the general order in which he found the parts, as that seemed proper.
For a while Shaozu was unable to go to the room where he and Mei had slept for forty years. He found his eyes pricking. He found himself recalling Mei’s voice the other night, over dinner: ‘My husband. I have something to tell you.’ And her quiet life-litany. A marriage agreed to for money. A lack.
In the bedroom, he hoped he might find two things. Mei’s little face with its bright eyes and high cheekbones. And her heart.
But some things, no matter how close they may have been, are never found at all.
Background Noise
THAT LAST SUMMER, my grandfather started shouting his war stories at the coal train from his allotment in Gwilym Terrace. A few strands of barbed wire behind the shed separated his patch of black valley soil from the railway. He’d lean over the wire when the coal train passed, his hand beating the fence post to the rhythm of the wheels on the track, taking great mouthfuls of oily slipstream, and he’d shout to me over the noise, ‘Air, Maidie Tovey. There’s air for you, lovely girl!’ But that was just the beginning.
He kept his submarine escape gear in the shed on that allotment. Mildewed rubber, foul-smelling. A buoyancy bag, tubes, mouthpiece an
d a half-perished apron sheet that clung to itself like the rotting viscera and skin of some long-dead sea creature. He’d lift the gear out of the carpet bag where it hid, and it would uncurl slowly as he gave it to me, just to hold. It was heavier than it looked, as though it held in its folds something invisible but weighty and dank.
‘Davis gear, sailor,’ he’d say. ‘Five minutes.’
I used to spend most of my free time with my grandfather, helping him in the little garden behind number three Gwilym Terrace, or on his allotment across the way, playing in that shed or watching the coal trains. I’d stay the night whenever I could. I can still feel the rasp of his stubble against my cheek, see his laughter lines, the ruler-straight parting that was sunburned in summer and pale as chicken meat by Christmas. I can feel the thrill of holding his left hand, his missing little finger. He had tinnitus, too, the constant sound of rushing water in his head. ‘Collateral damage, Maidie, love,’ he said. ‘Bloody noisy submarine engines, pressurised engine rooms.’ It took a loud noise — like the coal train — to cover the sounds in his head up for a while.
In contrast, I only have hazy memories of the grandmother I was named for. A small fierce woman in a black pinafore, whiskers on her lip, drinking water out of a white cup by the range. Wagging a bent finger if my grandfather started talking about his time on the submarines, ‘You keep your old war out of my house, George Tovey.’
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