Dottie

by Abdulrazak Gurnah

  Laura laughingly agreed to baby-sit, teasing Dottie about protecting herself against hungry men. Laura’s daughter, Veronica, was brought in to offer her opinion about the proper way to dress for the theatre. Among Dottie’s clothes, only the purple dress she had worn to the restaurant earlier in the week failed to draw a look of withering disdain from Veronica. It was out of the question for her to wear that again, of course, Veronica insisted. In the end there was nothing else to be done but to try out some of Veronica’s clothes. Small alterations were required but before long Dottie was decked out in a light-blue gown, glistening with tiny, satiny flowers. She regretted asking for help, but she could not refuse the dress after all the trouble she had caused. The bodice was tight, though not uncomfortable. It made her feel brazen and dissembling.

  She was late arriving at the theatre, and her mind was still on the amount she had had to pay out to the cabbie. Michael hurried her to her seat and they sat in stony silence, along with hundreds of other revellers, while the actors and actresses pranced their make-believe life. She could not take it for real, all that anguishing and yelling while people watched. The theatre was stuffy with the smell of carpets and old clothes. Dottie watched the business on the stage but could not keep her mind on it. She had got heated in her rush and anxiety, and had warmed up the dormant life in Veronica’s dress. It was giving off its owner’s perfume and a tart whiff of old sweat.

  A storm was winding itself up when they came out of the theatre. High winds were snatching at everything they could in the streets, hurling crates and litter along the pavements and howling around corners and across open spaces. It was raining heavily, the great downpour of water dimming the street-lamps and making them seem farther away. The vault of the sky seemed to have fallen in, and was suspended now only a matter of a few feet above their heads, churning in inchoate throes. Out of it leaped a flash of lightning so crisp and powerful that it took their breath away. In the sudden brilliance the turmoil of the skies was an image of primeval chaos, the irresistible confusion which was the beginning of life. They waited for the thunderclap with bated breath, hiding under the canopy of a gabled door. The lightning came again, a sheet of light thrown across the sky.

  ‘If it wasn’t so freezing cold, it would be like the coming of the first rains,’ Michael shouted, laughing even as he winced at the thunder. ‘On the savannah. There’s too much mud in this land. Out there you waited for the smell of singed earth during a storm.’

  They found a cab in the deluge and took a ride home. They were completely soaked, and Veronica’s dress was probably ruined, but the exhilaration of the storm and the sudden intimacy of the cab kept them warm. The cabbie dropped Michael off first, at Dottie’s insistence. ‘I’ll call you,’ Michael said, picking up her hand and kissing it. She felt her hand burning all the way to Brixton.

  4

  Sophie had told her that she had been offered the chance of a self-catering place in a hostel near by. It would help her get better, she said. She could move in there in the New Year, make a new start in her life. She broke the news defiantly, expecting to be hectored and dissuaded. ‘There I’ll be free,’ she said, sitting with her back hard up against the top bar of the hospital bed.

  ‘And Hudson?’ Dottie asked.

  ‘It’ll only be for a while, until I get better,’ Sophie said, breathing fast and panting lightly, her voice plaintive and wounded. ‘Do you think I’m trying to give him up? You don’t understand a mother’s feelings, Sis, or you’d never say that. You’ve never had a baby yourself and you can’t know how a mother would rather die than see harm come to her child.’

  Dottie looked at her sister’s pouting face and resisted the temptation to burst out laughing. How could Sharon’s daughter say a thing like that? Could she not remember how Sharon had been so steeped in despair that no thought of harm could reach her any more? A mother would rather die, she thought bitterly. We fight these little battles to save our miserable lives, and hide their meanness from ourselves with grand words. ‘What does the doctor say about Hudson?’ she asked.

  Sophie nodded vaguely and then dropped her eyes. Dottie nodded too and guessed that the doctor had not been told. She asked interested questions about the hostel, not wanting to start a confrontation. Sophie was a grown woman and could do what she liked. If her idea of freedom was to live in a hostel with sick people, she would have to find out its truth for herself. Dottie could not deny a thrill of pleasure that she would not have to suffer Sophie’s irritating presence for a while. And Hudson would not be taken away from her. But also in her mind was the worry that the Council and Social Security would deny her the various reliefs she was collecting. She would not be able to manage if she lost all that.

  Before she left, she went to see the sister in her cubicle at the far end of the ward. It was the same woman who had spoken to her before about visiting. Dottie had then thought of her with gratitude, and had once seen her in a dream, her fair features burnished with the metallic brightness of a sculpted angel. She had hovered near by, her head lit by a beatific smile while the index finger of her right hand, the finger of blessing, pointed insistently to the water’s edge. In the end the angel beckoned her, her arm sweeping an arc through the moist air and leaving traces of sparks in its wake. It was only a dream, and Dottie smiled at her fancifulness every time she saw the harried and jaded woman whom she had pictured with a bright and unlined face. Her eyes were red with exhaustion, and her coarsened skin looked dry and hot. The sister sighed heavily behind her limp smile. She told Dottie that the doctor wanted to talk to her about her sister’s move, to explain what was involved, and wanted to arrange an appointment to coincide with her next visit to the ward.

  ‘It’ll save you a bit of travelling anyway, won’t it?’ the sister said with a tired smile.

  ‘What are these places like?’ Dottie asked. ‘Where Sophie’s going.’

  The sister hestitated for a moment, and a flicker of irritation passed over her face. ‘I don’t really know, love. The doctor can tell you more about that, but I think Sophie’s very keen. Sometimes that’s a better reason than any other.’

  5

  Michael rang her again the following week. It was the week of Christmas and he rang to invite Hudson and her to a Christmas Eve ice-cream on Clapham Common. It was a bright and chilly afternoon when Michael and Hudson made their acquaintance by the pond on the Common. Hudson was inclined to be cold at first. On the whole he was not too comfortable in the company of men any more, not since Patterson had gone berserk on them. He was now inclined to find men opiniated and argumentative. Michael was quick to pay homage to the young lord, though, abasing himself more or less with his knees on the cold, wet earth. When it was clear that the purpose of the outing was to eat ice-cream cones on a bitterly cold day on Clapham Common, Hudson’s lingering doubts were swept violently aside. Here was a man out of the ordinary, a man who knew how to make the most out of life. Hudson extended to him his gracious acquaintance, and presently offered to exchange ice-cream cones with him.

  ‘I must meet him before I leave,’ Estella said when she found out. ‘Why are you being so selfish? Even Hudson has met him and he hardly cares. They’ve exchanged hand-shakes and swapped ice-cream cones, and yet you hide him from me. We can go out on a farewell dinner and celebrate.’

  ‘Don’t anticipate,’ Dottie said anxiously, wary of a fate that had mocked her too often before. ‘It might all come to nothing and then I’ll feel a fool.’

  ‘Oh yeah, strolling across the Common eating ice-cream on a freezing day – who else but lovers or stupid babies will do that? Holding hands in a storm and you think it’ll come to nothing,’ Estella scoffed. ‘All that thunder and lightning was probably to signal that your destinies are now inextricably linked. He was even talking about hot singed earth . . . there’s probably some sexual symbolism in that too. Are you sure no birds burst into song as you strolled down the Avenue by the Common? Anyway, I wasn’t meaning celebrate about him arr
iving in your life but about me leaving. Hello and goodbye, that sort of thing. I don’t want my farewell to be a glum gathering in the flat. Did I tell you? My parents are rubbing their hands with glee up there in Brummie. They’ve even found me a flat to rent not far from where they live. And I’m to take my washing round for Mum to do, and if I need any shelves put up Dad will come round, no bother. It’s enough to make you want to run away.’

  6

  Dr Newton knew he had made a mistake after his interview with Dottie. She had been cooperative and intelligent, so unmistakably in command of herself that the doctor had found himself a little bit intimidated by her. Well, perhaps not intimidated, but certainly taken aback. In any case, he rather liked her. And of course he had not known about the child. In a way, he had wanted to assess her himself before completing his notes on Sophie. He was not so blind that he could not see how the situation was substantially complicated by this new information. He would have liked to ask more questions, but when he had tentatively essayed something about their problems in childhood, he had seen her look harden. For a moment he thought she would say something unpleasant. Her lip trembled with obvious anger. He could appreciate her distress and gently shifted the question.

  ‘Of course, it is really Sophie’s decision, but I wanted to discuss it with you as well. There is nothing irrevocable in this,’ he said, and paused in case Dottie wanted to ask a question. ‘She can change her mind whenever she wants. I believe this way she has a chance to make something of her own, especially since she appears to be establishing a relationship . . . which will be something new for her, I think. What is the child’s name, if I may ask? And his date of birth as well, please.’

  He felt a twinge of sadness as he saw her out, and he was not quite sure why. Perhaps he had made a bit of a fool of himself, or that was how he might seem to the young woman. He was not sure that he had been that far out in his assessment of Sophie, despite the existence of the child Hudson. Why did they always go for such grandiose names? The doctor sighed to himself. Even if you were predisposed towards them, as the doctor considered himself to be, you could not fail to note the ridiculousness of the names. Like this boxer, Cassius Marcellus Clay! What a ridiculous hybrid!

  Anyway, it was impossible to withdraw the offer they had made. It would damage Sophie and would, in all likelihood, be a mistake. The elder sister may not have dominated Sophie in the manner the latter had recounted, or for the reasons that the doctor had assumed, but it was quite clear that she did dominate her in an unhealthy way. Above all, that was how Sophie saw it. What mattered to him, after all, was the well-being of his patient, and not the desire to cut a dash in front of the clever sister. In his patient’s interest, it was best that she should have a bit of room to grow without being harassed. Perhaps also, for what could be the first time in her life, she might be on the threshold of a meaningful relationship with a man. Dr Newton had hopes of the orderly Quixall, and was delighted with his interest in Sophie. If what Sophie had said about Dottie’s interference in her relationships was true, and surely that was true, or at least contained the seeds of truth . . . In any case, such behaviour would be consistent with the condition of an intelligent woman who was frustrated by her environment as the elder sister must have been.

  Dr Newton suspected, in the final resort, that Sophie did not have the resources to avoid being institutionalised. Sooner or later she would succumb. He wrote this in his report, but riddled it with enough qualifications and conditions to ensure that it would not have an adverse influence on the treatment she was likely to receive in the future.

  7

  Dottie and Hudson spent Christmas Day with Estella in the flat. The two women were drunk by the afternoon, to Hudson’s huge enjoyment. He was not at all surprised when they decided to go for a long walk on Wimbledon Common in the afternoon. Honestly, you’d have thought they had never heard of self-restraint, he sighed to himself. It was freezing, of course, so he could try out his new gloves and his fur cap. It was an astrakhan cap that he had picked for himself because he liked the way it gave him a bit of dash, made him look heroic despite his rather irritating lack of height. He had also been given a variety of other gifts but none to rival the head-gear.

  The next day, after they had gone back to Brixton, Michael called with a tricycle for Hudson. It was his Christmas gift. He had found it in the summer-house in his garden and had cleaned it up for the boy.

  ‘Summer-house! That sounds . . . romantic, like a fairy-story,’ Dottie said. ‘It’s lucky we’re in.’

  ‘You must come and visit,’ he said. ‘I told you about the old woman downstairs who looks after the garden. Well, she keeps the summer-house in fine shape as well, and insists that we all use it. Even in this weather.’

  Dottie nodded, not knowing exactly what to say. ‘It’s lucky we’re in,’ she repeated.

  ‘Oh, I would’ve left it with the neighbours,’ he said. He stopped long enough to watch Hudson careering backwards and forwards from the kitchen to the front door, with various furry passengers as company. Dottie had refused to let him wear his astrakhan cap in the house, on the ridiculous grounds of a vaguely remembered old wives’ tale or superstition about hats indoors.

  ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ Michael said, looking a little embarrassed. Suddenly he smiled, amused at his own uncertainty. Dottie smiled too and stepped forward to embrace him. ‘I’ll come by when I get back in the New Year,’ he said, holding her.

  The Wooded Path

  1

  He was not completely truthful with her, that was what Michael said when he returned. She had asked him to stay and have lunch when he came round, and he had accepted with obvious delight. He was sombre after that, but she took her time asking him what the matter was. She was cooking a lasagne for the first time, and total concentration was necessary if a disaster was to be avoided, she thought. She could pick up on his life afterwards. When she asked him if there was anything wrong, he said he was merely exhausted. Nothing much for you to bother with, go back to your pasta and white sauce, signorina, he said. We shall see about that, she replied. He made sure she knew that he had come to Brixton more or less straight from the station, and this mollified her, made her less free with the white sauce, anyway, which was a good thing as she presently discovered. She had not made enough, which is not unusual with first-time-lasagne-makers. He thought to say something about this but held his peace in time.

  Hudson was in and out of the house, riding his tricycle in the garden for a few minutes and then rushing in with a treasure-trove from the great outdoors: an incautious spider that had stepped into a wickedly cunning trap that he had set, or a bundle of wet leaves that gave off a peculiarly powerful smell of rot, or whatever else he thought might give the stick-in-the-mud crowd in the kitchen some sense of zest for life. It was a bright, crisp day early in the new year, and to see some people carry on you would not think that life was worth living.

  ‘I was not completely truthful with you,’ Michael said afterwards as they sat in the living room. The lasagne had turned out well, and he had redeemed himself by washing up, making the tea and persuading Hudson not to eat the dead spider in his trap.

  ‘Truthful? About what?’ Dottie asked. Her mind was already racing with alternatives. He’s married. He’s married. His family’s Catholic and he made a girl pregnant. Now his life is in rack-and-ruin and he is tormented with guilt. He’s not really a journalist but deals in drugs and seduces boys. She waited patiently for him to begin and saw him frown as he waited for the words to come.

  ‘You asked why I had lost touch with my grandfather in his last years. Do you remember? You asked me that on the first night. It was something like that, and I didn’t answer you,’ he said, looking at her unflinchingly, the look of confession. ‘I never knew him. I never even met him. Not once. That was why I came to look for him. It shamed me to say that, and made me ashamed for my mother.’

  As if what he had said was enough explanation, he tu
rned in his chair and glanced out of the window. After a long silence, during which Dottie had to bite her tongue several times as it was on the point of leaping out with something inane and comforting, he spoke again. The tenor of his words was unexpected, and it took her a moment or two to re-align her mind to them. He spoke slowly, sometimes stopping for long seconds, as if he had finished. ‘There are whole continents of things we don’t know,’ he said. ‘Bottomless chasms, vaults of infinite magnitude, multitudes of things . . . And even when we think we know, when we think we’ve got the hang of something, it bursts in our faces and covers our idiot mugs with slime. The ignorance we live with is phenomenal. That shatters me sometimes. We’re just such laughable creatures, carrying on as if what we do matters. Out there, in this country too, are events of real importance. History is being made and we are in the middle of it. The whole world is being turned upside down in front of our eyes.

  ‘Have you heard about the coup in Nigeria? And Upper Volta and the Central African Republic? January alone has given us three coups in Africa. Tomorrow it will be Ghana or Indonesia or Argentina. The old barons are being cut down in mid-step, in broad daylight. New bandits are rising from the oppressed, making their gruesome bids for the high places at the very moment that the old robbers are being forced down. It’s a time of miracles and grief, history on a mythic scale alongside outbursts of the most gruesome barbarism. Irresistible schemes to transform the wilderness vying with absurd hankerings for corrupt luxury. The works! Yet it’s the little things about ourselves that command our attention and our feelings. It’s our little aches and pains that we really care about. Our little bits of alienation. It’s humiliating . . . that it is only our own stories that move us.’