In the Falling Snow

by Caryl Phillips

  ‘You know the other thing that we can do is to put your son’s name on the shirt with his own number. So long as there are not too many letters in his name, that is. He does play, doesn’t he?’

  The boy is beginning to sound like a minor government official. He looks at the assistant, and hands him the middle one of the three shirts.

  ‘I think this one will do the job.’

  ‘Okay then, no name.’ The somewhat disappointed boy takes the shirt and begins to fold it up.

  ‘If your son doesn’t like it then you can always bring it back with a receipt, so long as he hasn’t worn it.’

  ‘You mean to play in?’

  ‘No, I mean worn it at all. We can’t accept returns on soiled goods.’

  ‘You mean if he tries it on it’s soiled?’

  ‘Not my rules, if you know what I mean. I only work here.’

  He watches as the assistant slips the shirt into a plastic bag, and then drops the plastic bag into a large paper sack with handles. The boy takes his credit card and quickly swipes it and then hands the card back.

  ‘Sign here, please.’

  He picks up a fake pen that is tethered to the counter top and scrawls his name on to a plastic screen.

  ‘I’m sure if he just pulls it on over a T-shirt to see if it’s the right size then he won’t be soiling anything.’ The assistant drops the receipt into the bag and hands it to him. ‘All a bit stupid if you ask me, but then again nobody ever does ask me.’

  He quickly makes his way out of the warm shopping centre, and back on to the frigid High Street. It is the middle of the day, and people are rushing around in their lunch hour trying to pick up a few groceries, or paying bills, or hurrying to the post office before returning to their offices. And then it strikes him again: he does not have an office to go back to. In effect, he has no role, and beyond the occasional fits and spurts of attention that he pays to his book, there really is no cogent purpose to his day or his life. Clive has temporarily cut him loose from his moorings and he is drifting. He sees a bus coming and wonders if he should ride the four stops back to Wilton Road. But then again, what’s the hurry? As he walks past the queue at the bus stop, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window of Mr Crusty and is relieved to note that he still recognises the man who is reflected in the glass. But he will have to be careful. Shopping for football shirts in the middle of the day. It makes no sense whatsoever.

  Danuta is standing by the door with her rucksack at her feet. She must have rung the doorbell, discovered that he was not in, and decided to simply wait. He calls her name, and as she turns to face him he notices the smile of relief that momentarily brightens her face. He walks towards her and gently places his hand on her arm, for he is sure that she is about to burst into tears.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She shakes her head, but manages to hold back her tears. She takes one last draw on her cigarette and then drops it to the ground and stubs it out with the toe of her scuffed shoe. There are a half-dozen other butts that litter the pathway and suggest just how long she has been waiting.

  ‘You’d better come in, don’t you think?’

  He transfers the bag with the Barcelona shirt from one hand to the other, then he forages in his pocket for the keys to the front door and ushers her into the ground floor hallway and out of the cold.

  He hands her the cup of coffee, which she cradles in two hands, and then he sits opposite her and puts his own cup down on to the glass-topped coffee table. He doesn’t want to force her to explain, but he would like to know what has happened. Maybe she has lost her cleaning job, or perhaps there is a family illness back in Poland, or maybe she has been mugged? Whatever it is, he understands that he will have to wait for her to initiate the conversation, but she still appears to be shaken. She blows gently on her coffee, and then she takes a tentative sip.

  ‘Would you like something to eat? I can make you some soup, or I can order food for delivery. Well, Chinese or Indian.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Or I can leave you alone for a few minutes, maybe that would help?’

  ‘It is Rolf. I think that he is perhaps too attracted to me.’

  He looks quizzically at her as she puts down her coffee and finally looks directly at him.

  ‘What I mean is that he likes me, that is all. He is not happy for me to be by myself. He has changed and it is not easy, but I am sorry to come to you with this problem.’

  ‘Has he hurt you in any way?’

  She lowers her eyes and does not answer. Her clothes are rumpled, as though she has slept in them, and she starts now to bounce her knee nervously.

  ‘It is important that you tell me if he has hurt you.’

  ‘Why is it important? What are you going to do? Report him to the police? Is that what you plan to do?’

  ‘He isn’t allowed to hurt you, Danuta.’

  ‘He has not hurt me. I have hurt him.’

  She looks up now and stops bouncing her knee. She swallows deeply, and for the first time she appears to be helpless.

  ‘Perhaps it is possible to stay here for a few days? I cannot go back to Rolf, but if it is not possible then I will understand. I know of a hostel for women. I stayed in this place when I first came to London.’ She quickly stands. ‘Perhaps it is better if I go there. I am sorry for bothering you with my problems.’

  He too stands, but he is careful not to move towards her.

  ‘Look, if you are in danger then you have to go to the police.’ She stares at him but says nothing. ‘Well, are you in danger?’

  ‘Mr Keith, I think it is better if I go now to the hostel.’

  ‘Do you have money for the hostel?’

  ‘You are a lonely man, but kind.’ She looks tired, but she manages to smile as though she feels sorry for him. ‘I think you cannot help.’

  ‘Danuta, I’m not putting you out, but is staying here really going to solve anything?’

  ‘I understand, and I do not wish to stay here. You are right, this is my problem.’

  ‘How have you hurt him? You said you hurt Rolf.’

  ‘Please, Mr Keith. I have made a mistake coming here.’ She picks up her rucksack from the side of the sofa and then runs a hand back through her loose mop of hair. ‘It is better if I go now.’

  ‘But you look so tired. Are you working tonight?’

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but at least sit down for a moment. I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave like this.’

  He listens as the water suddenly stops flowing. She has locked off the faucet in the shower and will now be stepping on to the bathmat and towelling herself dry. He was relieved when the exhausted girl asked him if she could maybe sleep for a couple of hours, and it was his suggestion that she take a shower first for this would give him time to dash into the bedroom and change the bed linen and generally straighten things out. He picked up a handful of old copies of Spin magazine from the floor, and pushed them into the drawer where he keeps his T-shirts. Then he drew the curtains closed and turned on the bedside lamp before tackling the issue of changing the bed clothes. He rushed the job, but he managed to square off the pillows, and tuck in the top sheet, before he bent down and collected up the dirty sheets and quickly pushed them into the wicker laundry basket. She knocks on the open door and then edges her way into the bedroom. Her blonde hair is still wet and lank, and although she wears the same jeans and sweatshirt she carries the rest of her clothes, including her underwear, in her hands. He flattens himself against the wall so she will be able to pass by, but having taken a few steps into the bedroom she is now rooted to the spot.

  ‘Come on in. I’ll get out of your way and let you get some sleep.’

  He gestures towards the bed, and she inches past him as though determined that they should not make contact in this narrow space.

  ‘I’ll come and wake you at the end of the afternoon. I’m sorry for aski
ng again, but are you going to work?’

  She shakes her head. ‘This is not possible.’

  He watches as she places her clothes on the floor beneath the window and then, still in her jeans and sweatshirt, she slides into his bed.

  ‘Sleep well. There’s a switch on the lamp so you can turn the light off whenever you’re ready.’

  In the afternoon, he tries to do some work. He has been listening first to the Isley Brothers, and then to the O’Jays, for he has a notion that he can frame part of his book by looking at family history, particularly at singers who have children, or siblings, who are also singers. He decides now to turn his attention to Nat King Cole and Natalie Cole; Cissy Houston and Whitney Houston and, of course, Whitney’s aunt, Dionne Warwick. He takes out a sheet of paper and begins to make a flow chart that is soon full of dates and arrows. Three hours pass by pleasantly enough before he readily admits that his doodling is nothing more than a diversion. He confesses to himself that he needs to return to his more orthodox structure if he is ever going to make any progress with this book, and so he gathers up his pens and various bits of paper and packs them away neatly into the bottom drawer of his desk. He lowers his desk chair with a quick turn of the handle, and then promptly raises it again having decided that the higher he sits the more attentive he is to his work. It is getting dark now and he realises that he should wake up the girl. However, before he does so he will make her some soup as he imagines that she must be hungry. He puts on Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain and turns up the volume so that it begins to fill the room. He then goes into the small kitchen and pops the plastic lid off a carton of vegetable soup and tips the contents into a deep blue bowl. He sets the microwave timer for three minutes, which guarantees that the soup will be extremely hot, and then he prepares a tray on to which he places a white paper napkin, a spoon, and a few plain crackers. By focusing hard on his book he has managed to avoid dealing with the awkwardness of Danuta’s presence in his flat, but as he listens to the mechanical hum of the microwave, which dominates the lilting strains of Sketches of Spain, it is clear to him that he now has no choice but to confront the situation and discover just what is going on with the girl.

  He nudges open the door to the bedroom with his shoulder, and she slowly turns and opens her eyes.

  ‘Time to get up, I think.’

  He sits on the edge of the bed and holds out the tray. At first she does not take it. She stares at him as though trying to remember who he is and why she is in this bed. Then she pulls herself upright and arranges a pillow behind her back.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, as she takes the tray from him and balances it between her stomach and her slightly raised knees. ‘You are a kind man.’

  He watches as she lifts the spoon to her mouth, and he is surprised how detached he feels, for he neither wishes to touch her, nor to share his bed with her. Strangely enough, he simply wants to protect her, for she suddenly appears to be painfully young and liable to be exploited. He can see now that her navy blue sweatshirt is actually filthy and he is tempted to suggest that she wears one of his, but he decides to be patient.

  ‘Would you like some coffee or tea? Or a glass of wine? It’s pretty much that time of day.’

  She shakes her head and continues to lift the spoon to her lips.

  ‘So you’re definitely not going to work?’

  ‘I cannot go to work. It is not good for me to see Rolf. I told you, he is angry with me because he says that I have not been fair to him.’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with me?’ She looks at him but does not reply. ‘Perhaps he thinks that something is going on between the two of us?’

  ‘I told him about you, but he is not angry with you, he is angry with me because I do not want to be with him.’

  ‘I see. So you were with him, and now you’ve decided that you don’t want him for a boyfriend and he is upset.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She puts the spoon down on the tray to the side of the still half-full bowl of soup. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot eat any more. Thank you.’

  He takes the tray from her and watches as she lowers her knees and leans back into the pillow.

  ‘Rolf has never been a boyfriend to me. It is what he wants. It is in his head, that is all.’

  ‘It sounds like he doesn’t cope too well with rejection, and maybe he just needs to get over it.’

  ‘I am sorry, but I do not understand.’

  He wonders if he should throw the soup away, or perhaps reheat it later when she has gone. After all, she has hardly touched it.

  ‘Let me just put this in the kitchen and I’ll be back. Are you sure you don’t want any tea or coffee?’

  She shakes her head and pulls up the duvet to her chin.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  As the kettle boils he realises that he has to say something to the girl. What if Laurie wants to come by? Or Clive Wilson was to drop by to apologise? This is crazy. He should never have allowed her to sleep here, not even for a few hours. And then there is this Rolf, who sounds as though he is capable of doing anything. Danuta is an adult, and she should check into the hostel and start to sort out her life. He can always visit her, or meet her for coffee or lunch. They can go out in the evenings to the cinema, or simply get together for a drink. He knows that she doesn’t think much of the local pub, but there are other places that they can go to. They don’t have to go to the Queen Caroline. He decides to make himself a cup of instant black coffee, which he knows will taste bitter, but he doesn’t want to leave her by herself for too long.

  He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, this time a little closer to her as she is no longer balancing a tray and trying to eat. Why does she not go back to Warsaw and her family? She has a job there in a kindergarten, and her English is already good enough. How much better is it going to get if she stays in England for another month or two? After all, she can always come back again later, when things have calmed down a little. She’s not an idiot, and she must know that there are plenty of other solutions to her present predicament with this Rolf. He is beginning to feel used, and as he stares at her troubled expression he reminds himself that he owes her nothing, and that he can’t risk unmooring his life for her. She shouldn’t expect this from him.

  ‘Don’t you have any other friends? People that you can talk to about what’s going on. I mean people here in London?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  He takes a sip of his coffee, then balances the cup on his right knee and holds it with both hands.

  ‘I think you should talk to somebody about the situation and maybe get some advice. Have you thought about going back to Poland for a while?’

  ‘I do not have the money to go back to Poland. How do I go back?’

  ‘Well, I’m just saying, maybe you should talk with friends and explore all of the options that are open to you. That’s just one of them.’

  ‘But how do I go back to Poland? And why should I go back?’

  ‘No, Danuta. I’m not saying that you should go back, I’m just saying that it is something that you might want to explore. If you need money for an air ticket I can lend you the money.’

  ‘You want to buy me a ticket to fly to Poland?’

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is that if you think you should go, and if you don’t have the money, then maybe people can help you. That’s all.’

  The girl pushes the duvet away a little. She still has on her sweatshirt and jeans, and her other clothes remain in a neat pile on the floor beneath the window. She should go now, he knows this, but it is already dark outside and the idea of her tramping off to some hostel is too depressing. He can open a bottle of wine and sit with her in the living room, and maybe they can even watch a DVD. It will be better for her to leave in the morning, and by then she might have had the decency to tell him just what the hell is going on instead of teasing him with these half-snippets of carefully calibrated anxiety about this boy Rolf.

  ‘Listen, Danuta, yo
u can stay here tonight, but in the morning I think you should probably go. I’ve got things that I have to attend to. To be honest, it’s not a good time for me at the moment.’

  ‘You want me to leave in the morning?’

  He can hear a mixture of hurt and anger in her voice, so he decides to think carefully about how he is going to phrase his response.

  ‘Look, here’s the thing.’ He pauses. ‘The longer you stay, the more complicated it will be for you.’

  ‘So you are thinking of me?’

  ‘Yes, I’m thinking of you, but I am thinking of me too.’

  ‘I would like to get dressed now.’ He looks down at her, but she will not look up and meet his eyes. ‘Please, I need to get dressed.’

  He stares into the bathroom mirror and then cups his palms together and splashes cold water into his face. It shouldn’t take her too long to get dressed, and he has decided that once she has done so, and is ready to leave, the best course of action will be to give her the minicab fare and offer to pay for her first night at the hostel. He imagines a somewhat gloomy dormitory room, full of unwashed European and Australian backpackers, a place where the urge to sleep is not as powerful as the desire to stay awake and keep an eye on one’s possessions. He knows that he is doing the right thing, and given her rapid descent into angry silence, she would clearly have only become more irritating with each passing hour. Maybe he should suggest accompanying her to the hostel and checking her in, and then perhaps taking her out to see a film? If there’s time afterwards, they might even have a drink together and then he can walk her back to her place. As annoying as she is being, he has no desire for things between them to end on a bad note. As he buries his face in a clean towel he hears the door to his flat slam shut, and then the thumping of feet bounding downstairs. He waits a moment and is then jolted by the crash of the front door, which is followed by a vacuum of ominous silence. He tosses the towel over the side of the bathtub. She has gone. The problem is solved, and he knows that she will not come back and ask him for any help. She has gone.