by Lucy Wadham
She went over to him and knelt down beside him with the syringe pointing at the ceiling.
Show me your ankle.
Kader pulled up his tracksuit and closed his eyes.
In the morning, she said as she injected him, I’m going to drive you to Bayonne and put you on the train to Paris.
I’m not going back to Paris. I have nothing there.
You have even less here.
I can start again here, he said. That’s the whole point. Back home I’ll just go straight to jail.
What do you want to do here? There’s even more unemployment here than there is in Paris.
Not for an Arab from Nanterre.
What can you do?
I can drive a forklift truck, open mussels, operate a crane. I can train attack dogs. I can fight …
There’s a world of trouble to get into here unless you know how to work, Kader.
He shrugged.
You can teach me.
Astrid looked at his eyes. They were like Lola’s, full of mischief. It occurred to her that Kader and Lola were the same species: unafraid of life.
She stood up.
I don’t think it’s something I can teach you.
Lola told me to go home too, he said.
Her face lit up.
Did she?
Suddenly Kader was sick of looking at her. He was sick of his desire.
I’m tired, he said.
Go to sleep then.
Don’t run out on me.
I’m going to find Mikel, she said.
Is that his name?
She nodded.
Why? he asked sadly. The idyll was over. He had lost her already. He felt weak.
For Lola.
I can help you, he said. I’m tough.
No you’re not.
You don’t know that.
You may be tough in Nanterre but you’re not tough here. This is a place where everyone is involved in a war that’s been going on since before they were born.
Kader exhaled through his teeth dismissively.
Some war zone, he said.
You don’t always feel it but when you do, it’s frightening. I promise you.
He grinned.
That’s what I’m here for, to protect you.
On crutches with an infected foot, she said.
I can still help you, he said. I can use a gun.
Go to sleep, she said.
Fuck you.
Astrid went and turned off the light, then she undressed and got into bed.
Don’t leave without me.
But she did not answer. Soon he was asleep.
*
Chastel’s call woke her.
What time is it? she whispered.
Six.
Have you been operating?
No. I can’t sleep. I love you.
You don’t, Jacques.
Don’t say that! You have no idea who I am.
His voice was angry.
I’ll be back for the conference, she said.
There was a pause.
You’re wrong, Astrid. I do love you.
His voice had softened. He sounded a little drunk.
I’m sorry about what I said about my abortion. It wasn’t your fault.
We can start again, he said.
Yes, she answered. Once again she felt the toxicity of deceit. It occurred to her then that if only she could be truthful to one person, she might be saved.
I’m going to tell Laetitia, he said.
She already knows.
I’m going to leave her.
Please Jacques. I don’t want to be responsible for destroying another relationship.
What do you mean another relationship? Anyway it’s not a relationship. It’s an arrangement and I wouldn’t hold you responsible.
It is a relationship. Of course it’s a relationship. You’ve had children together.
Astrid made him promise not to do anything until the conference on 5 September, in six weeks’ time. Then she hung up. The thought of the meeting of the Transplantation Society filled her with dread. It would be like attending a religious ceremony after losing one’s faith. Bopp would be there with his big hands making one of his dull presentations about transgenic pigs. Since he had sold out to Novartis and its pig lobby, Bopp had grown smug when he should be hugging the walls in shame. As far as she was concerned, pigs as organ donors were a waste of time and money.
Since 1985 she had performed over five hundred transplants. Vincent, her lab assistant, kept count. She was not a cabinet maker: although she was accomplished at it, the craft itself did not interest her. The only thing that gave her satisfaction now was her relationship with certain patients. She thought in particular of a man called Romero Bazzanella who had played the violin every night in a Russian restaurant off the Champs-Elysées. He had end-stage cirrhosis and watched death approach with his brawler’s shoulders set firmly against it, ready for the impact. When she told him they had a donor, he had laughed at her and told her that she could believe what she liked but he knew when the bell had rung. Bazzanella was a wonderful patient because he had not treated her like God when he woke up with a new liver. He had simply sent her an invitation to Raspoutine’s and told her that he considered that they had both been lucky to get away with it.
Astrid did not have Chastel’s faith in transplantation. She could not blind herself to the fact that her patients would wake up to find themselves in a small, hampered life. She had come to identify the immunosuppressive drugs that went with a graft as slow killers. When Bazzanella was told by the anaesthetist that he could no longer play the violin like a wild gypsy, or drink, or smoke, or eat like a Cossack, he stopped taking his drugs and died of pneumonia in six weeks. Others moved into flats that offered paramedical care and shuffled around in dressing gowns waiting for the slow process of chronic rejection to set in. She knew that what made her go on operating was not her belief in the magic of transplantation but the little flutter of joy when the liver set to work in its new body; a joy not unlike that of watching Reál score a goal.
Just before dawn Astrid woke up crying. Kader was beside her. She could smell the rubber smell of his skin. He was holding her and kissing her tears.
*
Kader could feel that she no longer wished him any harm. Heat flooded his chest and his face. Then, as he leaned down to kiss her, it became clear that he was following her. Her arms were around him. And then her small, cold hands were on his cheeks and she was pulling him towards her and they were all intertwined and he could feel her pulling and yielding at the same time and the room vanished and they were locked together. Her eyes, her mouth, her breath came to him in strands; she was like a ribbon, slipping through his fingers, then came El Niño leaping and then the shadows on the wall behind her head, swirling like water and suddenly he felt something give inside him, like a doubled rope slipping through its snap hook, and he was alone and falling and she was getting further and further away.
He lay with his head on her chest, staring into the darkness. He could never have imagined that this would happen to him. To suddenly have been cut off from his desire like that, to watch it from the far side, like a severed electric cable flailing uncontrollably.
I’m sorry, he said.
Be quiet, she whispered, gripping his head more tightly. I’m happy.
He closed his eyes.
*
They slept and woke, slept and woke. Astrid was afraid to move. It was clear to her that this was what it was to feel held. The man was just through childhood and yet she felt safe from all harm. She was lying on her side and he was curled around her, containing her in his embrace. His arm was between her breasts and she could feel his breath on her hair.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Paco dropped her off at the entrance to the pedestrian zone and Lola ran down the cobbled street without looking back. This time the morning sun poured through the window of the shop and there was a strong smell of dust. The little man wa
s up a ladder taking a box from a high shelf. She could have reached the box without a ladder. He only saw her as he was climbing down. He did not greet her but took the box to the counter and opened the lid. All his movements were careful. It occurred to her that he might make bombs. Lola wove through the display rack and stood before him. The box was full of white lace. He began to sort through the contents. Beneath the glass counter were different types of sewing scissors on display. She looked at them as she spoke to him, this time in Basque.
I came yesterday. Perhaps you were too busy. I’m looking for Mikel Angel Otegui. She looked up. I understand if you can’t tell me anything but I would be grateful if you could give me the name of someone who can, someone with authority perhaps.
The man now looked at her. There was eczema around his mouth now. He seemed to be taking her in for the first time.
Who are you? he asked.
My name is Lola Arnaga.
He considered her with new interest.
Goyenetche, he said, holding out his hand. She shook it, feeling the chapped skin. You were in Carabanchél, he added, picking out some broderie anglaise.
You’re thinking of my sister. But she was in Alcalà.
I see.
He unwound the broderie anglaise from its card spool and wrapped it around his poor, red hand like a bandage.
I’ll give you a name, he said.
He opened a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out an address book. He looked up a number and copied it onto a piece of paper, which he handed to her.
This is the address and telephone number of a lawyer here in Bayonne.
What’s his name?
Gomez.
His other name?
Igari. Gomez Igari.
Lola looked at the paper and nodded. Gomez Igari was Mikel’s old lawyer, but she said nothing.
As she turned to leave the little man said,
You may know the man’s client. He is a refugee but I can’t give his name. You understand.
That’s alright.
Lola left with a sick feeling in her stomach.
*
Paco was leaning against his car smoking a cigarette.
May I borrow your phone, Paco?
Paco handed her his phone without a word.
A woman’s voice answered.
Maître Gomez please, Lola said.
Who is calling? The woman spoke French with a thick Spanish accent.
My name is Lola Arnaga. I am in Bayonne and would like to come and see him. Monsieur Goyenetche suggested I call.
The woman asked her to hold and Lola heard the sound of her heels.
He’ll see you, the woman told her. When can you come?
I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Paco drove her through the ugly residential district near the law courts. The frequent roundabouts were dome-shaped flower beds sprouting gaudy red and yellow zinnias.
Paco pulled into the car park in front of a block of flats and parked in the shade of a hedge with pink flowers.
Paco, thank you.
Paco leant back in his seat and closed his eyes. He did not open them as she climbed out.
*
Gomez’s office was in a modern block right opposite the law courts. Lola pressed the bell and waited. The Spanish woman’s voice came over the intercom: ‘ground floor, left’, and the glass door clicked open. Lola turned left in the entrance hall and walked down a dark corridor patting the walls for a switch. A door opened at the far end. The woman was waiting behind it. Lola smiled at her as she stepped into a flat that smelt strongly of wood polish. The woman held out her hand. She had silver, bobbed hair and bright, powder-blue eyes. She gave an engagingly timid smile full of anarchic teeth, then quickly closed her mouth. She held on to Lola’s hand and looked into her face.
I’m so happy to see you. Lola smiled, waiting for the woman to release her hand. My husband is on the phone, she said. He’ll be out in a minute. She let go at last. Will you drink something? Sherry?
No thank you.
Lola followed the woman into a cluttered and sombre sitting room. Books lined the walls and spilled onto the floor. Stacks of books and magazines were piled up all around the room.
I can speak Spanish if you prefer, Lola told her.
Oh yes. I have been here so long, and yet… She shook her head and smiled fleetingly again. Lola was charmed. She wondered how the organisation fitted into this woman’s life. She wore a long chain around her neck with an Agadez cross on it. When she saw Lola looking at it she held it out for her to see.
I lived in Africa for a long time. When we were first married. Mostly in the Sahel. I loved it so much.
I’ve never been to the Sahara, Lola said. I’ve never been anywhere really.
Oh you must. The woman beamed, holding Lola’s wrist. You’re a doctor. They love doctors.
Lola felt like she had been struck. She looked down at her feet.
You’re thinking of my sister. Astrid.
The woman touched her arm.
How silly of me. You are …
Lola. Lola Arnaga.
Of course. But the woman’s smile faded uneasily.
I’ve kept track of your sister, she said.
You know her? she asked.
The woman laid her hand on her chest.
My name is Loli.
Lola stared at her. It was one of the twins from Astrid’s cuadrilla. It was Lorea Molina’s twin sister.
I’m so sorry, she said. Of course it’s you.
You wouldn’t recognise me. I was eleven when I last saw you. You and Astrid went off to England and when you came back we had gone to Venezuela.
Your twin sister. What was her name?
Lorea.
What is she doing now?
She hated South America. She missed home very much. As soon as she turned eighteen she came back. She lives in the village.
Lola nodded.
We have a brother too. Anxton. He’s closer to your age. You may not remember him. He was tiny when we left. He’s a sweet boy, but a little lost. Then she smiled. I am lucky, though. I love my husband. He is a wonderful man. Make yourself comfortable. Sit down. I will hurry him up. And she left the room.
Lola was feeling weak. She sat down on the sofa in front of an ornately carved wooden table. Who was Lorea Molina that she had sought to ruin her life?
Gomez swept into the room. He was a little old man, with wisps of pale orange hair clinging to a shining, white pate. He took off his glasses and held out his hand. His face was covered with dark freckles.
He gestured to the sofa and Lola sat down again and watched him pull a large African drum up to the coffee table. This put him higher than her. He sat on the drum with his hands wedged between his thighs. This was the man to whom Mikel had given his letters in prison. This must be the man who had betrayed him.
You’re looking for Mikel, he said benignly.
She nodded.
I don’t know where he is.
Lola watched his smile fade.
I don’t know where he is, he went on. But I know someone who may. I can put you in touch and it will be up to him.
His conspiratorial tone irritated her.
Who?
Gomez’s face lost all warmth.
A Historic. His alias is Itxua.
I’ve heard of him.
I’m sure you have.
I thought he was in jail.
He came out in 1982 and took the reinsertion programme, but the life they offered him was not suited to him.
What do you mean, not suited?
So he crossed the border, Gomez went on. And started living quietly here in Baiona. Until someone sent him a letter bomb. Gomez looked hard at her. They blinded him.
Lola had the feeling he had told this story in precisely this way many, many times.
Do you know who sent the bomb? he asked her.
She knew.
The Spanish government sent it, he told her. A group left over
from the Angolan war, recruited through the Portuguese to do the Spanish state’s dirty work for them. Gomez flicked his head with his fingertips. It’s crazy, he said.
Lola did not answer. The idea of meeting Itxua made her feel sick again.
When can I see him?
I will telephone him.
Gomez stood up and left the room.
Alone Lola tried to focus on what she wanted. She wanted to find Mikel. She wanted something else but she could not name it.
Gomez returned and sat down before her with a new solemnity.
He will see you, he said. Today.
*
Fortunately Gomez insisted on taking his own car which was parked in the basement of the building. Paco turned his head and watched her drive past him. Lola wanted to give him some sign but did not. He would either be there on her return or he would not. She told herself that guilt about Paco was a distraction she could not afford.
Gomez drove with his chin above the steering wheel, peering at the road ahead, never using his mirrors. The moment they had left his flat, he had changed. His energy had seemed to vanish and he was suddenly a beleaguered old man, spooked by the modern world.
They took the express way that ran between Bayonne and Anglet. Gomez stayed in the slow lane. It was clear that he could not drive and talk at the same time. Lola looked out at the malls: Usine Center, Decathlon, Mr Bricolage, Mammouth. Gomez pulled into Zone 2 of the Mammouth car park. He drove very slowly over the speed bumps to park at the far end.
It’s all so ugly, she said.
A perfectly bourgeois comment, Gomez said, turning off the engine.
Lola looked at him but he was avoiding her gaze. She climbed out of the car and walked round to his door. She watched him pull his frail body out of the car, unable to fathom his sudden hostility. As they walked towards the mall, she offered him her arm. When he took it without a word, she realised he was afraid.
They walked into the chill of the air-conditioned mall. Two small boys were playing by the doors, gliding on their shoes across the highly polished granite floor. An electronic version of ‘I will survive’ was playing over the loudspeakers. There was a strong smell of dry-cleaning fluid. As they moved up the escalators, Gomez gripped her arm tighter. The first level smelt pleasantly of pizza. She saw they were heading for the Mammouth cafeteria. Gomez let go of her as they approached the turnstile. She let him go first.
