Castro's Dream

by Lucy Wadham

  Maïté would have made a good mother.

  No doubt.

  His black eyes were shining. For the first time, Lola saw anger there. She knew not to apologise. She stood up.

  I’ll wait at Mum’s.

  I’ll come after my shift. Around six.

  Lola held out her hand. He pressed it to his lips, keeping his eyes on her.

  I’m solid, Lola. Don’t start being careful with me now.

  Lola smiled.

  Thank you, Paco.

  As she walked out, the two boys burst into laughter. On the steps of the café she swept her hand over her arse. She had torn her dress in the hydrangeas and her knickers were showing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kader did not need to turn to look. He could feel her absence like a draught at his back. He sat up in bed, feeling the dark, empty room pressing up against him. He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. The sun had already been doing its thing for some time and the blue sky was like an insult. He turned his back on the window and stood staring across the bed at the empty cupboard where she had hung her dress the night before. He suddenly disliked the feeling of the carpet against the soles of his feet so he went and sat down on the end of the bed facing the TV. He looked at the bandages she had left for him, reached out and picked up the bottle of pink disinfectant, then put it back. He sat there for a long time, picking his way aimlessly through his thoughts like the delinquent that he was. She had run away. She had a life; it was not her business that he didn’t. He had tried to hijack her life and it had not worked. Now he was worse off than he had been before. He had thought that losing El Niño was the low point. It was nothing compared to this.

  Kader turned on the TV and watched a Japanese cartoon about a teenage rock band that caught criminals. He then switched to MTV France. He sat there in his underpants, clutching his bandage, and watched three songs in a row. The last one was shot in a motorway tunnel filled with cars. Three black kids were climbing over the cars and singing US rap. Amadou could sing rap. His voice was soft and strong at the same time. He was as good as anyone Kader had ever heard. He had been in a band until Hocine, the only decent musician, had been sent down for car theft. Without Hocine Amadou had been unable to hold the other three together. Amadou was too gentle. They needed a thug like Hocine to make them get out of bed in the mornings.

  Kader stood up and went to the telephone on the wall by the bed. He looked at it for a moment and picked it up. He dialled Amadou’s number three times without success, then he saw the instructions on a card standing on the night table. Dial zero for outside calls. Amadou answered.

  Kader, my old friend. It’s you. I thought you’d died.

  Kader smiled.

  I did. I’m calling you from Heaven. It’s called the Hotel Mercure.

  No shit.

  I spent the night with this woman. She’s forty-two.

  Amadou sucked air in through his teeth.

  You want to explain?

  I passed out by the side of the road. Fabien had a knife and I got cut. Not badly but I lost some blood. This woman picked me up in her Volvo. And now we have this. He hesitated. This relationship. I can’t explain it, Amadou, but she is it. That’s all I know.

  There was no answer.

  You still there Amadou?

  Cool, Amadou said.

  Yeah, but she left without me. I woke up and she was gone. Her, her doctor’s bag and her Volvo.

  You boned a doctor?

  She’s a surgeon. She’s beautiful and I don’t use that word lightly. She’s Spanish. You’ve never breathed the same air as a woman like this, Amadou. I swear man.

  But she’s gone and you’re left there like a wanker.

  She’s gone to see her sister whose boyfriend just got out of prison for murder.

  Oh man, Amadou whined.

  I’m gone, Amadou. You know what it’s like.

  Kader heard Amadou suck on his teeth.

  Shit Kader. You found trouble.

  This is no trouble, Amadou. This is the answer.

  You have a plan?

  I have a plan. I’m out of here as soon as I put down this phone. I’m going to find her.

  You’re going to find her.

  Amadou liked to repeat what you said and then nod.

  I want this woman, Amadou. We didn’t fuck. And I swear I didn’t care. I want to look after her.

  I know how that feels.

  I’m going to Spain.

  You got no passport, man. You can’t go to Spain.

  Shit. Kader looked around the room. He did not have a solution to this particular problem but he knew he had to get out of this room. I’ll think of something. I’ll call you when I get to Spain. How’s Aisha?

  She’s OK. She ate with your mum and dad last night. We had a chat outside the launderette. She told me to stop smoking. She put her hand on my cheek. I haven’t touched a joint since.

  Kader smiled.

  You sucker.

  Yeah.

  I’ll call you.

  Yeah.

  See you.

  See you.

  Kader put on a clean, white T-shirt under his tracksuit, put Amadou’s Discman in his pocket and the earphones around his neck. He threw the stuff she had left for his arm into his Adidas bag, glanced once at the bed they had shared and closed the door behind him. In the corridor a woman was pushing a squeaking trolley full of cleaning equipment. Kader thought of his mum and smiled at her but the woman just gave him a mean look and walked on.

  Old witch, Kader said.

  The squeaking stopped but Kader kept walking and disappeared round the corner.

  It was hot outside. The tarmac stuck to the soles of his trainers. He walked to the sound of Joey Star growling his anger into his ears:

  Seine Saint Denis is down. Put on your bulletproof vests, he bellowed. But Kader looked at the smug blue sky and the motorway curling elegantly away in the distance and at the efficient traffic flowing one way and the other and all the chaos held so firmly at bay and he thought, Joey Star can growl all he likes, nothing is going to fall in this country: no Seine Saint Denis and no Bastille.

  Kader had no watch but he had listened to one and a half CDs by the time he reached the Total petrol station. He had five hundred francs in his wallet and a bank card that would be able to access one thousand, seven hundred more as soon as Amadou had paid in his half of the money from the fake Chanel T-shirts they had sold to Khaled. The old man was pissed off because he couldn’t shift them. They were still in cellophane in a sports bag under the bar of his stinking café. Kader knew when he had handed them over that the market for fake Chanel had come and gone. Girls wanted real brands now. Poor Khaled; his wife never got behind him on any of his deals. She never stops criticising me, he would say. Is that what a man needs from his wife? The woman did have insight, though. She would tell people: If Khaled had to buy a mule, he’d pick a donkey.

  Kader bought himself a hot dog and a can of Coke and went and sat down on the steps of the garage shop. He watched the trucks coming in. He watched the truckies climb down from their stinking cabins with all their swinging toys, rub their big bellies and shake out their little legs. Some of them eyed him as they approached the shop, others ignored him. When he had finished his hot dog he went to have a piss and clean up. He brushed his teeth and washed his hands and face, then he set the disinfectant and the clean dressings beside the sink and carefully unpeeled his bandage. The wound was sealed with a ridge of blood and orange pus that looked like dried caramel. Kader stared at it. On either side of the ridge, the skin was purple but he thought it looked better. He dabbed the pink disinfectant on the wound, covered it with a square of gauze and then tried to reapply the bandage, but found he could not do it with one hand. He tried to hold the end of the bandage between his teeth but it was a mess.

  Do us a favour, man. Hold this down for me, will you?

  He was talking to a middle-aged man in a cherry-coloured blazer who was just putting
his dick back into his trousers. The man looked up, startled.

  I’m sorry?

  The bandage. Can you hold it down for me?

  The man smiled with relief. He had grey hair that stuck up in a brush on the top of his head and a pink, piggish face.

  Do you speak French? Kader asked loudly.

  Yes, he said. I am Polish but I speak. I am here with my mother. We are making a tour with camping car.

  That’s great. Could you just hold this here so I can make this bandage?

  The man stepped forward and held out his hands as if for inspection.

  I wash first. Yes?

  Yes. Good idea.

  The Pole did a fine job with the bandage and when they stepped out of the gents, Kader had a lift.

  He bought some chocolate for the road and a copy of France Football that had a picture of Marcel Desailly standing beside one of those red telephone boxes they have in England. The inside of the Polish camper van was upholstered in brown carpet. It covered the walls and the floor and the roof. Kader sat on the bench seat between the Pole and his mother, Katya, who smiled and nodded at him as if his arrival had been preordained. Behind them in the living compartment was a small, dirty white poodle, who blinked patiently when it was knocked off its feet by the movement of the van.

  *

  Kader tried to read ‘My Life in London’ by Marcel Desailly, but the Pole was eager to talk.

  My name is Piotr, he said. But you can call me Pierre.

  Kader raised his head from the football magazine.

  Great. He looked at the road ahead of them. The traffic was slow. How much further to the Spanish border, Pierre?

  I must drop you before that. We will spend the night in the town of Bayonne. There is a festival there. My mother and I would like to see it. We would be happy if you will join us.

  Thanks Pierre, but I can’t hang around. I have to get to Spain.

  You have family there?

  No. No family. Kader watched the pine trees, flashing past in rows. A woman, he said.

  Pierre glanced at him, then turned back to the road.

  Good, he said. Excellent. Very good. Pierre was clearly over the moon. You’re a romantic. This is fantastic. No? He turned to his mother. Mama, he said and then started gabbling at her in Polish. Katya just kept on nodding and smiling at Kader, as though whatever it was that her son was telling her, she already knew. By the end of his account, Pierre seemed to be weeping for joy. A romantic, he said wiping his eyes. Oh dear, that is excellent.

  By now Kader was eager to get out of the Polish experience. It was only twenty kilometres to Bayonne.

  I tell you what, Pierre. Leave us at the next service station, will you? It’s easier to get a lift.

  You don’t want to come with us to Bayonne?

  A service station’s better for me. It’s easier.

  Whatever you wish.

  Kader offered him some chocolate but he declined. Katya accepted and Pierre slipped into a sulk. He did not say a word until they reached a Shell garage just short of Bayonne.

  Katya waved and smiled at Kader when it was time to say goodbye. As she was sitting right next to him, he found it hard to keep a straight face.

  Bye then, Katya, he said, patting her on the arm. Then he climbed out of the van after Pierre. Pierre had taken off his red blazer. He was wearing a yellow, short-sleeved shirt. His arms were white as dough. Kader shook his hand, eager to get away. But Pierre gripped his hand, too tightly for Kader’s taste, and then, to his horror, held on.

  See you, Pierre. Thanks for the lift.

  He patted Pierre on the arm but he still did not let go. He seemed to be trying to say something.

  Let go, man, Kader said, trying to keep his tone light.

  But Pierre gripped harder.

  Shit. What are you on?

  Kader yanked his hand free of the man’s grasp and jumped back. Pierre swiped weakly at the air. Kader turned and sauntered towards the cafeteria. He did not look back until he was inside: there was Pierre standing in the same spot looking slack, as if someone had pulled out the iron rod that had held him straight. Kader could see his mother, a big, dark shape, waiting in the van.

  Kader stepped through the sliding doors into the cafeteria. He knew he had not been at risk and yet he was shaken. He stood a moment by the doors and watched the van drive away.

  Fuck me, he said aloud. What a weirdo.

  *

  Kader waited for the length of three CDs in the service station. He turned down three offers of a lift, all given by lone men. He did not want to get stuck with another desperate fucker. At two in the afternoon, a convoy of four circus trucks pulled into the parking lot. A group of about thirty people climbed out of the trucks and sauntered towards the cafeteria to have lunch. Kader was sitting at the table closest to the sliding doors, doing the football crossword in his magazine. There was a plate in front of him. On it were the remains of the dish of the day: osso bucco and pasta shells. He watched the circus people queue for their food. They were noisy and, if he was not mistaken, Spanish. His attention was drawn to a couple standing quietly in the queue. He was very tall and his bare arms were covered down to the knuckles in elaborate, oriental patterns. She was small and slight. Her blonde hair was cut short and she was wearing a grey mackintosh. Kader thought she looked like a young boy except that she was wearing bright-red, high-heeled shoes. Although they didn’t talk to each other, it was obvious from the way their bodies tilted very slightly towards each other that they were a couple. Kader waited for them to take their food to a table. When they had sat down he went over.

  Do you speak French?

  Both of them considered him for an uncomfortably long time before giving an answer. This was not a good start. At last the man answered while the girl went back to her food. They had both chosen the dish of the day, except, Kader noted jealously, they had chips instead of pasta.

  We speak French, the man said.

  Good. That’s good. I was wondering if you could give me a lift to Spain.

  Sure.

  The man tucked into the food as though the matter were settled.

  There’s just a slight problem.

  The man did not look up. He was now eating voraciously, they both were. The girl was tearing off lumps of bread, mopping up the sauce with them and stuffing them as fast as she could into her mouth.

  I don’t have a passport.

  Do you have French I.D.? the man asked with his mouth full.

  Yes.

  Then you don’t need a passport.

  How come?

  Kader was beginning to resent the fact that the man would not look at him.

  Spain is in Europe, the man said.

  Kader nodded, nonplussed. He pointed at his table.

  I’ll be over there, when you’re ready.

  Where in Spain do you want to go?

  San something. He couldn’t remember the name of the place.

  San Sebastian.

  Kader pointed at him.

  That’s it.

  It’s our next stop.

  Kader waited a moment in case the man should decide to look up. He watched the gobbling couple a moment, then wandered back to his table. He dreaded to think how they fucked.

  *

  Kader ended up on his own with René, the man with the tattoos. The girl went in the truck behind. René was a knife-thrower and the girl was what he threw his knives at. He had a little dog who pulled the knives out of the board with his teeth. Its body was white and it had brown markings on its face like a mask. The dog growled at Kader as soon as he climbed into the truck. René kept the dog at his feet, just in front of the pedals.

  All I ask, René told him, is that you don’t catch his eye.

  Kader glanced down at the dog.

  Why?

  Just don’t or he’ll attack.

  Kader grinned.

  You’re kidding.

  I’m not.

  Cool.

  Kad
er settled into his seat. He knew René was not going to hit on him and he was happy: soon he would be in Spain. Kader looked at the designs on René’s arms, which seemed to depict trees with tits. He found them quite beautiful.

  How did you get into knife throwing?

  My uncle. He runs this circus. He taught me in secret. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid but always in secret because my mother was against it. When she died, I left my job and joined my uncle.

  What was your job?

  Security.

  Where?

  Bordeaux. Malls, mostly.

  Shit job, Kader said. I’ve done it.

  Not for nineteen years, you haven’t.

  No fucking way. I walked out after a week. I got a great job after that, opening oysters in a fancy restaurant in Paris. I worked with an old man from Brittany called Yann. He was a racist cunt but he loved me. He was sad to see me go.

  Why did you go?

  I got into a fight with a client.

  René shook his head.

  No. No, no. Kader held up his hand. Just listen. The man walks out of the restaurant with his wife. I swear his wife walks past me and gives me this look so full of sex it makes me blush to think of it. Frankly, it was indecent. Then this short-arse starts insulting me, using words of four syllables just to say: do us a favour, stop hitting on my woman. If he’d been polite I would have raised my hands above my head but he was a pain in the arse. Old Raoul down there reminds me of him a little bit, I have to say: short and touchy. Anyway I told him it wasn’t my fault if his bitch was trouble and he called the manager. He was a regular, so that was that.

  I avoid trouble, René said after a long silence. If I get into trouble, someone gets hurt.

  Kader could tell this was no boast.

  Have you ever stabbed the girl?

  Carla? No. I caught the girl before her, just here. He pinched the flesh of his armpit.

  Kader winced.

  She was fine. But I had to let her go. When you’ve hit someone once, it’s for a reason. It’s too easy to do it again. Carla is unique. She has a technique when we’re working that took me by surprise. When I first threw with her I could feel her wanting me to hit her, willing me. When you concentrate hard enough you can pick up on things like that.