In the Falling Snow

by Caryl Phillips

  He reached in his pocket for his wallet and took out a £10 note which he handed to the driver.

  ‘I’ll get out here.’

  ‘Sir, I must charge you the full ten pounds, even though you have not completed your journey.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s cool.’

  He could see the driver staring into the rear-view mirror and looking closely at him as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket.

  ‘Cheers, my friend,’ said the driver. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

  He momentarily met the driver’s eyes, and then he stepped out of the minicab and slammed the door shut.

  Rolf reappears in the window, and this time he finds himself inching forward, out of the shadow of the oak tree, and he looks up. The blond boy scans the distance and raises a hand to his face as though attempting to see more clearly. He continues to look up at Rolf, and then he hears a man’s barking voice.

  ‘I said, what are you doing here?’

  The night-watchman has left his hut and is slowly waddling towards him with his newspaper dangling from one hand.

  ‘You, over there. Are you deaf?’

  Between Rolf in the window, and this man walking towards him, he has no choice now so he turns and begins to run in the direction of the main road. He hears the night-watchman shout something further, but he cannot make out the man’s words. As long as a dog does not come chasing after him he will be fine. He has done nothing wrong. He has broken no rules.

  He is fully awake before he opens his eyes. He likes it this way, lying perfectly still in the dark and choosing not to move, and then he remembers. He feels nauseous, and he wants the bed to swallow him whole so that he can disappear and then, after a decent lapse of time, he can reappear and pretend that none of this has happened. He is wrong, he knows this. Wrong to have passed her the note, wrong to have waited for her at the language school, wrong to have invited her back to his place. He opens his eyes and looks around his cramped bedroom. Last night he ran all the way back to the flat and then closed the door behind himself and double-locked it. He slumped down on to the sofa and kicked off first one shoe and then the other before letting his head tumble forward into his upturned palms; shit, shit, shit. Really, what the hell was he thinking of spying on her like that? The curtains are still closed, but he can see that it is light outside. A few birds are singing, and in the distance he can hear traffic humming by on the main road. If it comes to it, he can always deny that he was anywhere near the office building last night. Who is going to be able to prove anything? He sits upright and quickly rubs his eyes. The boy, Rolf, he is probably better suited to her. They no doubt have plenty in common, being strangers in a strange country who are both studying the language and learning to clean up after the natives. The pair of them can laugh about the English and their strange bathrooms, with one tap for hot water, and a completely separate tap for cold water. Clearly this makes no sense, for one can never get warm water unless a decision is made to insert the nasty rubber plug into the bowl. It is all so unhygienic, but this is England. This is what he imagines the young couple thinks of his country, and so let them talk about this together. Perhaps Danuta will grow to love this Rolf and choose not to return to Poland? Perhaps she will go to Latvia? Or perhaps Danuta will stay in dirty England? But not with him, for he knows that his unbecoming obsession is over. This morning marks the beginning of a new resolution, for he must now begin to act his age and stop associating with young girls who one moment appear to be malleable and the next flare with anger.

  For two days he secludes himself in the Wilton Road flat and he works eight hours a day on the book. He writes in two-hour shifts, setting the alarm on his mobile so that he knows when his shift is over and he can get up from the computer screen. He chooses coffee over tea, and when his concentration begins to waver he does not distract himself with quick snacks of cheese and crackers, or a microwaved bowl of soup. He walks to the window, and then stretches out his hamstrings by bending forward and lowering his head on to the windowsill. He holds this pose for two minutes, or until he feels dizzy, then he walks purposefully back to his desk. By the end of the second day he has begun to put some substance into the heart of the book, but he is now worried that changing the title of the opening section from ‘Motown and the Suburbs’ to ‘Dancing in the Streets’ might be too cute; after all, how many readers will remember Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and recognise the oblique reference to her hit song of the same name? For the moment, he chooses to stay with the original title, for he is determined to steer clear of those annoying self-referential headings that usually burden the academic articles that he has xeroxed and saved over the years. They tend to involve either a colon or parentheses, as though the writer is trying to signal his or her cleverness before the piece has even begun. ‘Re-Recording Pain: Black and Blue and Makes Me Wanna Holler.’ Or, ‘Distant Lover(s): Masculinity, Evasion and the African-American Voice’. Midway through the third day he realises that he is about to run out of food and he will therefore have to venture outside, but this is good timing for tonight he has an appointment that he cannot break. Just two more hours, then he will shower and dress carefully. He already feels some relief, as though he has paid penance for his sins by reapplying himself to his work with such single-mindedness. At least with the work there is no awkwardness to negotiate and no guilt to absorb, for he ties himself securely to a routine which allows him little opportunity to wander in either mind or body.

  Annabelle opens the door and quickly looks him up and down without saying anything. He wants to shake his head for there is no subtlety to her greeting. She still does not trust him, despite the fact that he knows full well how to dress appropriately.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘How about “hello” or “good evening” or something?’

  Annabelle throws him a fake smile. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Well, I can’t just march in. It’s your place now, or so you keep telling me. Maybe Mr Documentary Film Editor is in there in his boxer shorts.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  She steps to one side, and as he passes by he smells her slightly overpowering scent. He can never remember the name of her perfume, but he knows that it is expensive. No doubt Bruce remembers.

  ‘I’m just saying that “good evening” would have been nice. Has the cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Jesus, Keith, you sound like an extra from some sitcom. What kind of phrase is that?’

  He stands at the foot of the stairs as she begins to slip her raincoat on over her blue dress. He hasn’t seen this dress before and it looks good on her, but he knows that it is best to say nothing about the dress for clearly she is in one of her combative moods and even the most generous of compliments is likely to be turned against him.

  ‘Well, do you want to say hello to Laurie?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Annabelle tosses her head in the direction of the staircase.

  ‘Laurie, your father is here.’ There is no reply. ‘He’s probably got his headphones on again when he’s supposed to be doing his homework.’

  ‘Leave it, I’ll speak to him later.’

  Annabelle furrows her brow. ‘Leave it? I don’t think so. I told him you would be coming around.’

  She begins to trudge upstairs, but as she does so Laurie appears on the landing with his headphones pulled down around his neck and the thick black cable dangling like a loose thread.

  ‘I was just coming to get you.’

  Laurie shrugs, but he makes no effort to come downstairs. ‘All right, Dad?’

  ‘How’s your schoolwork?’

  ‘You tell me. Isn’t that what you’re here for?’

  Annabelle sighs loudly. ‘Are you not going to come down here and talk to us properly? I’ll get neck ache if you continue to stand up there.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Oh Christ, we’ve got to go anyhow. Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘I’m seventeen, Mum.’ />
  ‘Which is why I’m asking.’

  ‘Have fun at parents’ night. I can’t wait to hear what those tossers think.’ He pauses. ‘Not.’

  He looks up at his son.

  ‘“Not”? What kind of English is that?’

  ‘Don’t start, Dad. You know what I mean. Check you later.’ They both stare as Laurie slides the earpieces of his headphones up and over his ears, and then turns and shuffles out of sight.

  Annabelle shakes her head. She finishes buttoning her coat as she descends the stairs.

  ‘And you don’t think there’s a problem?’

  ‘He’s just styling, that’s all. It’s what the youths do.’

  ‘“Styling”? What the hell is that? He’s not a bloody case study, he’s your son.’

  He shifts his weight on to his left side and pushes his hands into his trouser pockets. He doesn’t want to point, for that always sets her off.

  ‘Listen.’ He pushes his hands an inch or two deeper into his pockets. ‘I know he’s my son, and I know something about what he’s going through.’

  ‘Well maybe you could explain it to me because it’s not that easy to live with.’ She throws a quick glance upstairs. ‘Sometimes he looks at me as though I’m stupid. I don’t just mean as though I don’t understand, I mean as though I’m really stupid, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’

  He stares at Annabelle and recognises the symptoms; the faint tremor to her voice, and the ever so slightly buckled lower lip as her anxiety rises. Annabelle becomes quieter as she gets angrier.

  ‘Look, we’d better go and hear what his teachers have to say. We can talk about it afterwards, okay?’ Annabelle stares at him. ‘I’m not trying to avoid the subject, but you said yourself that we should go, right? I don’t want to be late on top of dressing like this.’

  ‘Who said there is anything wrong with the way you’re dressed?’

  ‘Annabelle, you looked at me like I was something the dog had dragged in.’

  ‘What’s with all the animal references? Don’t tell me you’ve started watching Zoo Nation?’

  ‘What’s Zoo Nation?’

  ‘A programme on the television. But it doesn’t matter, you’re right. We should go. And I never said anything about your clothes.’ She looks him up and down again. ‘You look okay.’

  ‘Okay? Just “okay”?’

  ‘Jesus, should I take a picture?’

  He opens the door and gestures to her. ‘After you, Madam.’

  Annabelle brushes by him shaking her head.

  ‘Stop pissing about, Keith. I’m really not in the mood, okay.’

  The wine bar is almost empty so they are able to get a booth in the window. The candle flickers crazily, as though caught in a gale, and he watches the flame dance until he can take no more. He reaches in and quickly closes his forefinger and thumb on the wick, which leaves a black mark on his hand.

  ‘You’re not even listening to me, are you? No wonder Laurie is the way he is.’

  ‘I’m listening, and what do you mean the way he is?’

  ‘Well, he’s not officially ADD, but Mr Hughes seems to think that there is some kind of concentration issue.’

  ‘Mr Hughes?’

  ‘The headmaster. We’ve just been talking to him.’

  ‘I know. I’ve not forgotten. I just didn’t realise that the pompous prat had a name.’

  He removes the bottle of wine from the ice bucket and prepares to refill their glasses. Annabelle quickly picks up her glass.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  The bottle creates an unholy noise as he thrusts it back into the mass of ice, and for a moment he can’t hear the music, but this is good. He wonders why they always play The Gipsy Kings in wine bars, or maybe it’s just this bar that is obsessed with the fake bonhomie created by mimicking the enthusiastic rhythms of Spanish folk culture. The usual crowd of BBC yuppies are not in evidence, probably because of the inclement weather, so he is grateful for this break. As he gets older he finds it increasingly difficult to deal with either excessive numbers of people, or loud music which dominates attempts at conversation. Strange, he thinks, this heightened sensitivity to environment. He sips at his wine, and then replaces his glass on the wooden table top.

  ‘I’m going to take Laurie out tomorrow. And I’ll talk to him about everything, okay?’ Annabelle looks at him, but says nothing. ‘Well, is that okay or not, because I can’t tell if you don’t say anything.’

  ‘Of course it’s okay.’ She pauses. ‘You know I want you to talk with him.’

  ‘Listen, I don’t care what they say about him being difficult, I’m just praying that he gets through his exams and goes to university. That’s what he says he wants to do, and as far as I’m concerned that’s all that matters. If he’s really got some learning problems don’t you think we’d have noticed them by now?’

  ‘“We’d have noticed”? You mean you as well as me?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I mean, both of us. “We.”’

  ‘If you say so. I don’t want to bicker.’

  He realises that Annabelle has provided him with a classic opening for an argument, but he is determined to avoid any conflict. The issue is Laurie and he is going to stay focused.

  ‘I don’t like how those teachers talk about him at that school, like he’s some freak. He’s one of the few black kids in his class and I know how that feels. I’m not saying that this prat Mr Hughes, or the other teachers, actually want him to fail, but they don’t look to me like they particularly want to help him get through the system. Telling us, “Your son has a problem with this, and your son has a problem with that.” I’ve heard similar crap all my life. The fact is, I’m pretty sure they’re not on his side.’

  ‘And what about me? Do you think I’m on his side?’

  ‘Look, there’s no need to get all defensive. You know I’m not talking about you.’

  ‘Actually, let me tell you something, Mr Conspiracy Theorist, the truth is I don’t know that you’re not talking about me. I’m really not sure any more, okay.’

  She looks around, suddenly conscious that she might have spoken too loudly.

  ‘Annabelle, what are you talking about?’

  She returns her attention to the table and leans closer to him. ‘And so when I tell you that there’s a problem with Laurie, and you don’t bother to call me back, do you think it’s just more of the same crap that you’ve heard all your life?’

  The owner appears at the table and he strikes a match against a large economy box and relights the candle. The balding man then places a glass sleeve over the candle so that the flame plumes upwards and flickers neither to the left nor to the right.

  ‘I’m not sure where that draught is coming from, but do let me know if it gets too nippy for you.’

  The owner smiles as he thrusts the large box of matches into the pocket of his slightly feminine apron and returns to his station behind the bar. He watches as the owner lowers the open leaf of the bar back into place, and then the man picks up his notepad and continues to take inventory of the wines stacked neatly in the rack behind him.

  He turns and looks again at Annabelle.

  ‘Listen, Annabelle, of course I know that you’re on Laurie’s side. I take whatever you have to say seriously. Anyhow, we’re here to talk about Laurie, right?’

  ‘And how do you think he’s going to feel when he finds out about your latest mess?’

  ‘My latest what?’

  ‘Spare me the denials, Keith. People talk.’ She pauses. ‘And don’t look at me like that. Do you want me to spell it out? I’ve never been one to ask what you’re doing for sex. Who you’re sleeping with. If you’re in a relationship. It doesn’t matter how nicely or delicately one puts it, you know it all adds up to the same thing, but as far as I’m concerned it’s simply none of my business. Until, that is, people start to talk.’

  ‘Who starts to talk?’

  ‘Does it matter, who? I mean people
who enjoy seeing somebody fall flat on their face and making themselves look stupid.’

  He shakes his head and takes another sip of his wine.

  ‘Yes, stupid. You don’t pee in your own bed, didn’t anybody ever tell you that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what nobody ever told me. They never told me how vindictive and manipulative women can be, that’s what nobody ever told me.’

  ‘Well yippee, you’ve found out at last. Can I have some of that wine?’

  He tops up her glass, and then adds an extra splash to his own, which empties the bottle. He turns it upside down and crunches it into the bucket.

  ‘You’ve got to protect yourself a little bit, Keith. And if you don’t want to do it for yourself, then at least have the common sense to do it for your son. Do you really want him to hear about you sleeping with girls his age?’

  ‘She’s twenty-six and a divorcee. She’s hardly a bloody teenager.’

  ‘I think you get my point.’

  He stares at Annabelle, whose glass is hovering halfway between the table and her mouth. For a moment she seems unsure what to do, and then she slowly replaces the glass on the wooden table.

  ‘Look Keith, I know that in a sense it’s none of my business, but it matters to me.’

  ‘What matters to you?’

  ‘I don’t want you making a fool of yourself.’ She pauses. ‘People look up to you. For heaven’s sake, don’t let some desperate girl drag your name through the mud.’

  ‘I did nothing wrong. She’s the one who ought to take a good look at herself, but I know how it comes across. I’m older. She works for me. Apparently I’m the one with all the power. That’s what people see, isn’t it? That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you what it looks like, but have you ever tried taking the word “no” for a little walk around your tongue?’ She pauses. ‘Well?’

  He turns and looks out of the window as an elderly couple stroll by. They are bent into the wind, the man with an arm curled tightly around his wife’s shoulders as though trying to anchor her to the ground so she won’t blow away. That’s how it should be, he thinks. Old people with old people are not so old.