A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar

by Suzanne Joinson

I am ashamed to say that I have not yet written to Mother. I do not know how to tell her about Lizzie whose absence echoes, without halt, through my bones. There has been no news of Millicent or the priest. I try to think of other things.

  But I must work and here we have it, notes so far, on Urumtsi for the GUIDE:

  Historically the site of many battles between Mongols, Mohammedans and Chinese, the ancient city of Urumtsi sits at the cross-roads of four ancient trade routes: a long route from Hami to Kansu; a route connecting it to Ili and Russia; a connection to Mongolia; and a long stretch to Kashgar. Originally called ‘Bishbalik’, it is the Uighur capital of the Sinkiang kingdom. The Uighurs came from the North of the province, but were forced out and settled on the edges of the Celestial Mountains and even as far down as Hami. The Chinese finally gained power over the Dzungaria province in the mid-eighteenth century. During the Mohammedan Rebellion of 1865 many Chinese were murdered . . .

  Yes, oh dear. Too dry.

  September 27th

  I am the first British woman ever to have visited Urumtsi and as such, I seem to be considered a sort of celebrity. People have been visiting me constantly. I have met the Chinese Governor and his wife, the Qazaq leaders, the leading members of the Russian émigré community, a Persian family bearing long fat, aromatic dates. It brings to mind Burton’s comments: everyone talks, and talking here is always in extremes, either in a whisper, or in a scream. It is exhausting, but, indeed, what I find more and more is that I want to spend time with Mr Steyning. He is interested in Ai-Lien, I have noticed. He often takes her from the ‘auntie’ and sings to her and soothes her to sleep.

  I have concluded that I must talk to Mr Steyning about my feelings for him although to render into actual words a sensation so private and intimate so that it would be as though a part of me is turned inside-out strikes me as impossible; but, I see no alternative. I cannot remain in this state. We are to have a picnic tomorrow at Tian Chi, the Heavenly Lake. It is apparently a festive day. I am resolved to say something then.

  September 29th

  The picnic was next to the most miraculous lake and what an incongruous sight, a European scene, just six hours ride South East from Urumtsi. Snow-topped mountains, cypresses and ferns, it was as if I were transported to my beloved Swiss Alps. The lake is a stunning sapphire-ice blue and around its banks clusters of Kirghiz yurts were set up, their inhabitants clearly in festive mood. There was much smoke from the fires and makeshift stoves, and children rushed in and out of the water, squealing. All in all, it should have been the perfect opportunity to talk to Mr Steyning, but wasn’t. There was a low hum and many wasps around and I quickly succumbed to a headache, brought on no doubt by the sharp clear air. In addition, we ate pickled herrings and they supremely disagreed with me. Despite all of this, I convinced myself to continue along my self-appointed course of action.

  There was, eventually, a lull in the conversation. Mr Greeves had wandered off to talk to an acquaintance Kirghiz man, Ai-Lien was asleep and as we sat together admiring the shimmer of the lake, I found the courage to ask Mr Steyning if he had ever wanted a wife. As soon as I said it, I was aghast to see that I had embarrassed him greatly.

  ‘Oh, I do not think a Missionary life is what most wives would be looking for,’ he said.

  I am sure I was blushing hideously but having ventured so far I could not reel myself back: ‘It seems to me that it might be a wonderful life.’ I looked at the lake rather than at him.

  ‘Well, you are an exceptional woman,’ he said. His nose, a proud triangular sharpness, seemed sharper, as if intent on leading its owner to a welcomed exit as he looked at the lake rather than at me, and I was at a loss, almost fainting with the headache and the unknowing. My heart was ready to run and throw itself into the lake of its own accord whilst my head wished to shut up any doors within myself that I had foolishly opened and to rapidly retreat. Still, out they came, the dreadful words, in a high voice as if spoken by a child playing at echoes rather than by me:

  ‘I can’t but help think, Mr Steyning, that you need someone to look after you.’

  ‘You think so, Miss English?’

  ‘Yes,’ I rolled a piece of bread in my hands, ‘I do.’ I looked directly at him then. He is indeed a fine-looking man in the raw sunlight. His beard, black and wiry, frames the lower half of his pleasant face and his eyes are intelligent. His largeness emits a lack of pettiness. I am sure that I saw something flicker across his eyes, some understanding. At that moment, of course, Ai-Lien began to cry; I turned and attended to her and when I looked back up, he had stood up and was looking out at the horizon with his hand shielding the sun from his eyes. He did not look down at me again for some minutes. I do believe that my message was clear to him, although I cannot be sure. I am thoroughly inexperienced in the ways of sexual matters. Once we were back at his house again, and he was busy working and I was alone, I began to fret and relive the conversation over and over so that now I cannot know what it means, if anything.

  I have hunted through my memory of the afternoon for signs of his response, but, though polite, and warm, as always, there has been nothing as clear as a signal.

  October 4th

  I have, I realise, been a fool. Life continues as normal. The two gentlemen are gracious, they ask for nothing, no money. They simply say, ‘Write your book, Miss English.’ I try to get them to call me Evangeline, but although they nod, they forget and always refer to me as Miss English.

  Then, today, I came into the room where Mr Greeves was looking over a moth collection which he had laid out across a table. I walked in and looked at the fairylike insects, the lacewings pinned and trapped; their destiny to be gassed and catalogued.

  ‘This one is a hawk moth,’ he said, and smiling, he began to talk me through the collection. As he did, his gold clock dangled against his waistcoat, and with his trimmed moustache and neat golden belt clip it occurred to me that he is more elusive than Mr Steyning and more consciously polite. He moved over to the opposite side of the room where the attractive Bilhorn folding harmonium organ rested against the wall.

  ‘How is the book coming along, Miss English?’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s coming. I have these ideas, and memories and images, but it’s a problem. You know, sorting it into a . . . meaningful whole.’

  ‘Indeed, therein is the craft.’ He lifted the lid of the harmonium and began to press a few notes. It was clear that he was not particularly musically inclined.

  ‘Amazing,’ he said, ‘to think of the distance this harmonium has travelled.’

  ‘Oh?’ His fingers pressed a few more notes, a low sound, a flute of air.

  ‘Yes, hauled this way and that. Mongolia, Shanghai.’

  ‘You’ve seen much of the world, Mr Greeves.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ He had taken out a Hatamen and was lighting it, before – I noticed – I had actually agreed. He offered one to me.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Of course, I am used to dear Millicent – smokes like a soldier, as you know.’

  ‘You’re friends with Millicent?’

  ‘Absolutely, I used to know her in London a long time hence.’

  I thought that he might begin to question me about her current status. I suddenly felt rather cautious of Mr Greeves.

  ‘We used to frequent the same . . . circles.’ The smoke from his Hatamen spread across his pinned insects.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. He let out another long line of smoke and looked me in the eye.

  ‘I should imagine she got her mitts on that sister of yours.’ I took a deep breath, shocked at the familiar tone. He was undoubtedly sneering.

  ‘I am not sure I understand, Mr Greeves?’

  ‘She was always one for the younger women and I heard that your sister was a beauty.’

  I turned away to hide a moment from what he said. I understood several things: one, that he did not consider me a beauty – that much I knew anyway – but also, something else, t
hat Millicent and he came from a different world, one that, until that moment, hadn’t fully occurred to me.

  ‘You know that my sister died, just recently?’ I meant it as a reprimand, and to cover my outrage.

  ‘I know. And I am terribly, dreadfully sorry.’ With the stealth of a cat, he stepped back neatly into the role of genial doctor, translator and lepidopterist, but I had seen an entirely different person – a different life – and although I did not like it, I suddenly felt compelled to have a frank talk with him.

  ‘Mr Greeves,’ I turned to face him fully and he looked at me, his eyes wolf-blue, and again there was that surface of the water shimmer about him. I was about to ask him if he thought there were any possible chance, any chance in the world, that Mr Steyning might marry me. The words were fully formed, but as I was about to say them Mr Steyning himself stepped into the room and looked at us. He hadn’t expected me there, clearly, as he was in a slight state of undress, his braces were down and his collar undone.

  ‘Ah, Miss English,’ he said, smiling, and then he looked crossly at Mr Greeves.

  ‘Larry! Don’t smoke in this room, really.’ He made a show of coughing and flapping his hands and walked over to the windows to open one.

  ‘Apologies,’ Mr Greeves said. Mr Steyning walked past Mr Greeves and as he did I saw Mr Greeves reach out, take Mr Steyning’s hand in his, for a moment, and squeeze it. Mr Steyning pulled his hand away in a snatch, and turned towards me.

  ‘The fresh melons have been delivered, Miss English.’

  Having extinguished his cigarette, Mr Greeves gave a small, sarcastic bow, and turned back to his moths, running his finger over the glass casing. I made my excuses, retreated to my room and sat in a heap on a small chair by the window.

  34. Eastbourne, Present Day

  Quality Cod! Fish Restaurant

  Tayeb would have liked to hold Frieda’s hand as they approached the restaurant on the corner of the High Street in Eastbourne. It had just opened. His fingers flickered towards hers, but he moved in front of her instead, going inside and speaking confidently to the fish-fryer.

  ‘Is Nikolai about?’

  The fish-fryer was a dark, small man, who frowned at Tayeb and then turned his head to the kitchen and made a whistling noise. After a minute a sulky Eastern European-looking girl popped her head out.

  ‘Get Nikolai,’ he said and, without saying anything, she disappeared. The green gherkins pickling in a jar glimmered in the light, obscene in their fatness, like a giant’s fingers. After a couple of minutes’ wait, a tall, curly-haired man came out with a dark trace of a beard on his face. He walked straight up to Tayeb and embraced him, then turned to Frieda and shook her hand.

  ‘Upstairs, brother,’ he said, ‘come upstairs.’

  Tayeb believed as a child that dog whiskers were magical. He would crawl through the dust on the floor of their house specifically looking for dog whiskers. Their neighbours thought they were crazy for letting dogs live in their house. Most people in Sana’a would not dream of having a dog for a pet, let alone several great, gangling beasts. But Tayeb’s father had spent some time with an English man who worked at the Embassy who was interested in falconry. This man always had dogs with him, and Tayeb’s father liked the idea. He had several salukis and they would bark all day at the birds.

  When Tayeb first met Nikolai’s dog – a flippy, dribbly Boxer – it ran towards him, a whirlwind of dog-claw bounding into his arms, covering Tayeb with a slithery wipe of its filthy tongue and rancid breath. Tayeb laughed. It had been a long time since he had such proximity to a dog, and as he wrestled it to the kitchen floor, Nikolai had laughed too, watching them and smoking a cigarette. Then Tayeb had righted himself, stood up, and shouted at the dog to sit down. It did so, and Nikolai was impressed.

  ‘He won’t normally take a command from anyone but me,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s all about the tone with dogs.’

  It came back to him now, the memories in a rush. They had been working late. Tayeb remembered Nikolai putting a bottle of whisky on the table and all of the kitchen staff were invited to have a drink and to join in the game. The room was a fug of smoke and cards as the washer-uppers were gambling their wages before pay-day had even arrived. At about quarter past midnight, there was a knock on the door.

  Nikolai shouted to ignore it, laying down a king of spades and tipping back the last dregs of glass, but the knocking was insistent. Tayeb stood up and scraped his chair back across the kitchen lino.

  ‘I’ll go and see what it is,’ he said. He went through into the main area of the restaurant, with Burdock the boxer wriggling at his heels. Burdock barked but Tayeb shushed her. At the door was a woman, very young, about 19, wispy haired, watery blue eyes, looking quite drunk. She had a palm flat against the window of the door and her head was hanging down, as if she had lost the will to live. She was crying.

  Tayeb twisted the deadlock and as he did so the girl looked up at him. Mascara had spread below her eyes like spiders. He opened the door.

  ‘I need Nik,’ she said.

  ‘Nik?’

  ‘He’s here, I know he is, the bastard.’

  Tayeb looked at the girl. ‘You’re drunk, darling. You need to go home.’

  ‘I need to speak to Nikolai.’

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. He closed the door again and she slumped against it, her back sliding down the glass. Tayeb walked back into the kitchen where Nikolai was shouting at Seif who had just folded inappropriately. Seif banged his fist on the table in frustration.

  Tayeb walked up to Nikolai and leaned over to him, whispered in his ear, ‘A drunk girl wants you, don’t think she’ll go away.’

  Nikolai looked up, ‘Tell her to go away.’

  ‘Not that easy.’

  Nikolai looked round. Everyone was looking at him, listening.

  ‘Young, sort of desperate looking,’ Tayeb said.

  Nikolai groaned, threw his cigarette into the ashtray and stood up. He disappeared. Tayeb and Seif and the washer-uppers all listened to the sound of the door opening and a girl sobbing. Tayeb closed the door so that the other men in the kitchen wouldn’t hear, but they had all mostly turned to the TV screen, anyway, as the commentary for the boxing match was revving up.

  Tayeb opened the door to the restaurant and slipped out of the kitchen.

  ‘How could you do this to me?’ The girl’s face was a mess of tears and mascara. Tayeb stood near the counter and watched. He could see that Nikolai was looking stressed, unusual for him. He tried to pull the girl’s arms down but she was furious, flailing. She swiped at a sprig of fake plastic flowers arranged on a table, knocked them on to the floor.

  ‘You told me you’d leave her, you told me you loved me, but you just left me like a bit of rubbish,’ she got hold of a chair as if to throw it.

  Tayeb looked up and outside of the window saw a car pulling up. It was Nikolai’s wife. He shouted to Nikolai:

  ‘The Mondeo’s outside.’

  Nikolai stood upright. He turned and looked at Tayeb who saw absolute fear in his eyes. The girl had sunk to the ground and was sobbing, stroking the carpet with her right hand. Tayeb walked over, got hold of her by the elbow and gently stood her up.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, pulling her towards himself and she collapsed into him.

  ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  He took her to the disabled toilets at the back of the restaurant and locked the door behind them. As soon as she saw the toilet she leaned over to release the remnants of a night’s drinking (these English girls drink so much) and above the sounds of the girl retching, he could hear Nikolai arguing with his wife about going home.

  ‘It’s the match, Sarah,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll be home as soon as it’s over. It’s the biggest one of the decade!’

  Tayeb heard her voice, shrieking and upset.

  ‘The kids have not seen you for seven days, Nikolai.’

  He must have moved her then, outside towards her
car, because there was a muffled sound and then finally the reverberations of the engine pulling off. The girl slid to the floor and rested her head on the not-so-clean tiles behind her head.

  She looked at Tayeb. ‘He’s a Greek–Cypriot wanker.’ Tayeb offered her a cigarette and she took it.

  ‘True,’ he said, lighting one for her and then one for himself. ‘I used to smoke in a toilet like this at home,’ he said. She looked at him. Like most English people, she did not bother to ask him where home was. She stared at the cigarette in her hand as if it were dynamite, but still continued to smoke it.

  ‘I shouldn’t be having this,’ she said.

  Tayeb looked at her. Her hair, which was dank and sweaty from the exertion of being sick, stuck around her face and half covered her eyes. She had a face that was pretty by virtue of its youth rather than its inherent features. The skin was soft-looking, undisturbed as yet by weather or life; it was a milky face, and her clear eyes were shiny and healthy looking despite the alcohol in her system.

  ‘I’m pregnant, aren’t I?’ she said.

  ‘It’s Nikolai’s?’

  ‘Yep.’ She began to cry again, less hysterical this time, just like a child.

  Tayeb put the toilet seat down, flushed it and pulled her up and sat her on it so that her hair was away from the unsanitary tiles. She really looked very young.

  ‘I shouldn’t be drinking either,’ she said, ‘but I am, I want to stop it, before it grows. You know?’ She looked up at him. ‘I need some money . . . to get . . . rid of it. Will you ask him for me? He won’t talk to me.’

  Tayeb nodded, thinking that he should feel more, be gentler towards her, this girl in distress, but there was something about her that he disliked. Even so, he tried to be polite.

  ‘Why don’t you come out here, into the restaurant, and I’ll make you a coffee and go and see if I can get Nikolai to talk to you.’

  She stood up, staggered a little and almost slipped down again. He caught her by the elbow and opened the door. Sitting her down at a table in the corner of the restaurant he went to find Nikolai who was standing with a glass of whisky in his hand, staring moodily up at the TV on the wall. The kitchen boys were subdued.