Love in a Blue Time

by Hanif Kureishi

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘An acquaintance. A kind neighbour.’

  ‘That harridan who stares at me so? You’re swayed by the oddest people. Any fool’s flattery can seduce you.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘But it stinks!’

  ‘The houses are old, the century is old … what do you expect?’

  He sticks his finger in the muck, licks it and bends forward, holding his stomach.

  ‘Baxter, you are suffering from insanity.’ She says softly, ‘You would prefer her opinion to mine. But why? Is something going on there?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You don’t care about me now, do you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Liar. The truth counts for nothing with you.’

  He notices she has kept her coat on. She puts the baby in his cot. She has finally arranged to visit her best friend, a well-off snobbish woman with two children whose exhibitions of affluence and happiness can be exasperating. He notices now the trouble his wife has taken to look her best. A woman’s face alters when she has a baby, and a new beauty may emerge. But she still looks shabby in her ragged clothes, and strained, as if from the effort of constantly keeping something bad away.

  From the window he watches her go, and is happy that at least her determination hasn’t gone. There is, though, nothing left of their innocence.

  Baxter digs a hole in the garden and throws in the odoriferous paint pot and saucers. To avoid his neighbour, he will have to be sure to look both ways and hurry when leaving the house.

  He gets the boy up and lies on the floor with him. The kid crawls about, banging a wooden spoon on a metal tray, a noise which delights him, and keeps away all flies. He seems unaffected by the strange tensions around him. Every day he is different, full of enthusiasm and curiosity, and Baxter doesn’t want to miss a moment.

  He looks up to see the Operative waving through the window. Baxter has never seen him so genial.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve nabbed some of the latest development and rushed it straight to you.’ He puts several tins of a sticky treaclish substance on the table. ‘It’s a free sample.’

  Baxter pushes him towards the door. ‘Get out.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Pour the tins over your head!’

  ‘Don’t shove! You’re giving up, are you?’ The Operative is enraged but affects sadness. ‘It is a common reaction. You think you can shut your eyes to it. But your wife will never stop despising you, and your child will be made sick!’ Baxter lunges at him. The man skips down the steps. ‘Or have you got a solution of your own?’ he sneers. ‘Everyone thinks that at some time. But they’re deceived! You’ll be back. I await your call but might be too busy to take it.’

  When Baxter’s wife returns they sit attentively opposite one another and have a keen discussion. The visit to her friend has animated her.

  ‘She and the house and the children were immaculate and practically gold-plated, as usual. I kept thinking, I’m never going to be able to bring the subject up. Fortunately the phone rang. I went to the bathroom. I opened her closet.’ Baxter nods, understanding this. ‘She loves clothes, but there was virtually nothing in there. There were powders and poisons in the bottom.’

  ‘They’ve been married six years,’ says Baxter.

  ‘He’s lazy –’

  ‘She’s domineering –’

  ‘He’s promiscuous –’

  ‘She’s frigid –’

  ‘Just shut up and listen!’ She continues, ‘The rich aren’t immune but they can afford to replace everything. When I brought up the subject she knew what I was talking about. She admitted to a slight outbreak – from next door.’ They both laugh. ‘She even said she was thinking of making a radio programme about it. And if there’s a good response, a television investigation.’ Baxter nods. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one thing for it. There’s this man they’ve found. All the top people are using him.’

  ‘He must be expensive.’

  ‘All the best things are, and not everyone is too mean to pay for it. I’m not ready to go back to work, but Baxter, you must.’

  ‘You know I can’t find a job.’

  ‘You must stop thinking you’re better than other people, and take anything. It’s our only hope. They’re living a normal life, Baxter. And look at us.’

  Once he loved her tenacity. He thinks of how to close this subject.

  ‘What will I wear?’

  ‘You can go to my mother’s in the morning and change there, and do the same in the evening.’

  ‘I see.’

  She comes towards him and puts her face close to his; her eyes, though darkly ringed and lined now, shine with optimism.

  ‘Baxter, we are going to try everything, aren’t we?’

  Feeling she will stand there forever, and ashamed of how her close presence alarms him, he talks of what they might do once the contagion is over. He thinks, too, of how little people need, and how little they ask for! A touch, a hug, a word of reassurance, a moment of warm love, is all she wants. Yet a kiss is too much for him. Why is he so cruel, and what is wrong with him?

  For a few weeks he thinks that by keeping away from her, by self-containment and the avoidance of ‘controversial’ subjects, she will forget this idea. But every few days she brings up the subject again, as if they have both agreed to it.

  One night when he leans back, the new cushion disintegrates. It is a charred pile. He jumps up and, standing there, feels he will fall over. He reaches out and grabs the curtains. The entire thing – gauze, he realises – comes apart in his hand. The room has darkened; shadows hang in menacing shapes; the air is thick with flies; the furniture looks as though it has been in a fire. Flies spot his face; his hair turns sticky and yellow even as he stands there. He wants to cry out but can’t cry out; he wants to flee but can’t flee.

  He hears a noise outside. A quarrel is taking place. Crouching below the windowsill, he sees the bearded man on the doorstep of his own house, shouting to be let in. A window opens upstairs and a suitcase is flung out, along with bitter words and sobs. The bearded man eventually picks up the suitcase and walks away. He passes Baxter’s house pulling the wheeled case. Certain that Baxter is watching, he waves forlornly at the window.

  Baxter feels that if the plague is to be conquered it is unreasonable of him not to try everything. Even if he doesn’t succeed he will, at least, have pleased his wife. He blames and resents her, and what has she tried to do but make him happy and create a comfortable home? No doubt she is right about the other thing: in isolation he has developed unreasonably exalted ideas about himself.

  But he goes reluctantly to work. The other employees look at him knowingly the day he goes in to apply for the job. It is exhausting work, yet he soon masters the morose patter, and his body becomes accustomed to the physical labour. The spraying is unpleasant; he has no idea what effect the unavoidable inhalation of noxious gases will have. Seeing all the distressed and naive couples is upsetting at first, but he learns from the other men to detach himself, ignore all insults and concentrate on selling as many packs as possible in order to earn a high commission. The Operatives are a cynical and morose group who resemble lawyers. None of the many people who need them will insult these parasites directly – they can’t survive without them. But they can never be liked.

  Baxter and his wife have more money than before, but to afford the exceptional Exterminator they must save for much longer and do without ‘luxuries’. Baxter is hardly at home, which improves the atmosphere during the day. But there is something he has to do every night. When his wife and baby are asleep he turns off the light, sinks to his knees and turns onto his back on the living-room floor. There, as he hums to himself, working up a steady vibration from his stomach, moths graze on his clothes, in his hair, and on his closed eyes. It is a repellent but – he is convinced – necessary ritual of accustomisation. He tells himself that nothing can be repaired or advanced but on
ly accepted. And, after acceptance, there will occur a liberation into pure spirit, without desire, a state he awaits with self-defeating impatience. Often he falls asleep here, imagining that the different parts of himself are being distributed by insects around the neighbourhood, or ‘universe’ as he puts it; he regards this as the ultimate compliance. His wife believes that his mind has been overrun.

  One morning a youngish man in a black suit stands at the door. Baxter is surprised to see he carries no powders, illuminated electrifying poles, squirters, or even a briefcase. His hands are in his pockets. Gerard sits down, barely glancing at the chewed carpet or buckets of powder. He declines an offer to look in the wardrobe. He seems to know about it already.

  ‘Has there been much of this about?’ Baxter asks.

  ‘In this street? A few cases.’

  Hope rushes in again from its hiding place. Baxter is almost incoherent. ‘Did you cure it? Did you? How long did it take?’

  Gerard doesn’t reply. Baxter goes and tells his wife she should talk to Gerard, saying he has a reassuring composure. She comes into the room and looks Gerard over, but she cannot bring herself to discuss any of their ‘private matters’.

  Baxter, though, tells Gerard the most forbidden, depressing and, particularly, trivial things. Gerard likes this stuff the most, persuading Baxter to see it as an aperture through which to follow the labyrinth of his mind. After, Baxter is more emotional than he has ever been, and wheels about the flat, feeling he will collapse, and that mad creatures have been released in the cage of his mind.

  When Gerard asks if he should come back, Baxter says yes. Gerard turns up twice a week, to listen. Somehow he extends Baxter’s view of things and makes unusual connections, until Baxter surprises himself. How gloomy one feels, explains Baxter, as if one has entered a tunnel which leads to the centre of the earth, with not an arrow of light possible. Surely this is one’s natural condition, human fate, and one can only instruct oneself to be realistic? The wise will understand this, and the brave, called stoics by some, will endure it. Or is it very stupid? suggests Gerard. He turns things around until revolt seems possible, a terrifying revolt against one’s easy assumptions.

  Baxter begins to rely on Gerard. His wife, though, resents him. Despite all the ardent talk, the flat remains infested. She claims Gerard is making Baxter self-absorbed, and that he no longer cares about her and the baby.

  Baxter wonders about Gerard too. Does this man know everything? Is he above it all? And why is he expending his gifts on Baxter without asking for money? Why should the ‘clean man’ be immune from the contagion? What can be so special about him?

  One time the Operatives bring up the subject in the canteen. Baxter, who normally pays no attention to their conversations, looks up. ‘There are people now who think they can talk the contagion away,’ they scoff. ‘Like people who think they can pray for rain, they won’t accept it is a biological fact of nature. There is nothing to be done but await a breakthrough.’

  Baxter wants to ask Gerard why he is interested in these conversations, but it soon ceases to matter. Something is different. Gerard has aroused in him a motivating desperation. At night he no longer lies on the floor being devoured. He paces, yes; but at least this is movement, and nothing will stick to him. There is something still alive within him, in both of them, which the flies have been unable to kill off.

  Near dawn one night Baxter wakes up and can’t go back to sleep. In his cot the boy sucks at his bottle. Baxter places his finger in the boy’s fist; he holds his father tight. Baxter waits until he can withdraw without waking him. From the cot he takes a little wooden rattle. He dresses in silence, puts the rattle in his pocket, and walks towards the wardrobe. It is a while since he has poked at anything in there. It seems fruitless now.

  He steps out onto the street. As he goes past the bearded man’s house and that of his female neighbour he sees a black cloud in the sky ahead of him. There will be a storm, no doubt about it. Soon he is lost, but he keeps his eyes on the cloud, making his way through narrow streets and alleys; he traverses wide roads and, eventually, crosses the river, trying to think of what, yet, might be done. He sees other men who are, perhaps, like him, travelling through the night with mementoes in their pockets, searching for different fears; or popping out of doorways to stand still and stare upwards, thinking of too much to notice anyone, before walking determinedly in one direction, and then in another.

  The cloud, as he walks towards it, seems to explode. It separates and breaks up into thousands of tiny fragments. It is a cloud of flies which lifts and breaks, sweeping upwards into the indifferent sky.

  About the Author

  Hanif Kureishi grew up in Kent and studied philosophy at King’s College London. His novels include The Buddha of Suburbia, which won the Whitbread Prize for Best First Novel, The Black Album, Intimacy and The Last Word. His screenplays include My Beautiful Laundrette, which received an Oscar nomination for Best Screenplay, Sammy and Rosie Get Laid and Le Week-End. He has also published several collections of short stories. He has been awarded the Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres and been translated into thirty-six languages.

  By the Same Author

  PLAYS

  Plays One (The King and Me, Outskirts, Borderline, Birds of Passage)

  Sleep With Me

  When the Night Begins

  The Black Album

  SCREENPLAYS

  My Beautiful Laundrette & Other Writings

  Sammy and Rosie Get Laid

  London Kills Me

  My Son the Fanatic

  The Mother

  Venus

  Collected Screenplays 1

  Le Week-End

  FICTION

  The Buddha of Suburbia

  The Black Album

  Love in a Blue Time

  Intimacy

  Midnight All Day

  Gabriel’s Gift

  The Body

  Something to Tell You

  Collected Stories

  NON-FICTION

  The Faber Book of Pop (edited with Jon Savage)

  Dreaming and Scheming

  My Ear at His Heart

  The Word and the Bomb

  Collected Essays

  Copyright

  First published in 1997

  by Faber & Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House, 74–77 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3DA

  This ebook edition first published in 2015

  All rights reserved

  © Hanif Kureishi, 1997

  Cover design by the Senate

  The right of Hanif Kureishi to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–26805–4