He is too much of an international lawyer not to recognise the jackal behind Mustapha Al-Dari’s toothy grin and this realisation rekindles his susceptibility to official threats. You can buy some measure of freedom, but is that enough once you are a family man?
Hitched to the stone walls with flimsy strips of wire, the ropes of the roof clatter as if a storm is gathering. In October one expects warm asthmatic puffs, not gales. He should have the roof seen to, care for the house; Zaida’s home where she will test the recipes of a grandmother she has never known. Never mind Mustapha. He shouldn’t let politics spoil his enjoyment of having his daughter here.
She’s only been here a few days, but her questions dredge up a whirlwind of emotions. How much can he share?
He was the boy shovelled on sinuous mountain tracks into an open truck filled with dogs and goats, hair full of dust and droppings, sick with the odour, bruised by each bump and turn, hugged by Seema, his clever and beautiful sister. She kept a little blue bottle of lavender oil to massage his temples and prevent his headaches, reassured him with stories of children loved and protected by Allah who would punish the spies and criminals crawling over Muslim lands. Oh why did she take her life that revengeful September in 1982? To shame the Christians in front of the Prophet, her mother believed. And now her father is finding his martyred daughter in Zaida. Even Virginia was happy to call her ‘the Fortunate One’. But if he drifts into trouble with the regime, she will need more than a talisman to protect her from evil.
He brightens up at the whiff of charcoal curling from the basement, carrying tangy odours that take him back to his first summer in France when, beside camp fire barbecues, he discovered the terror of falling in love: holding Virginia’s hands, desiring her lips, touching the web of her fine hair, drowning in her moods, transfixed, his passion unstoppable as a nosebleed.
Time, not just Syria, has come between them. He had to do what he did – be a son, a brother, make money, eat the soggy bread and butter puddings his mother refused to mask with rosewater and cardamom. Immigrants often inscribe their lives in food, to hold on to fading memories, but not his mother. Isolated, suffocated by grief amidst Leaford’s blandness, she faded away. It’s no surprise that he married straight after graduation into an insanely normal English family. The Franklins gave him comfort and escape from his befuddling heritage. But far too soon there came the years when he had to justify himself, mortified at the erosion of Virginia’s natural generosity, her suspicion at yet another call to Syria, her fears. She thought him responsible for her sexual coldness and drifted further away. Be that it may, now, sifting through his images of her, he can touch the lush breasts, the pale glow of her skin, or smell again the sour drugged-up breath the day their baby was born. Once they could reach each other.
Zaida is the age when she can meddle in her parents’ affairs and she will rub their noses in it! ‘Why don’t you want to see Mummy?’ she pestered him just before leaving for Hama. ‘Dad, I understand things you don’t see. Mum doesn’t hate you. On the contrary.’ He looked at her blankly, afraid of taking advantage. She ran out with her suitcase.
Is she missing her mother already? Why not invite Virginia to Damascus? It is not too late to see the sights, to enjoy Zaida mixing with girls of good families, educated girls learning French and English. Silly, Virginia won’t come. Too busy. Her old French friend, Marianne, is prowling about, Zaida said. He has always disliked the French, too clever by half when they ran Syria. And Marianne is a lunatic feminist to boot!
Walid Hadidi is trying to get his attention; he must have lumbered into the courtyard a while ago, waving his basketball cap as if to catch flies two feet in front of him. Not saying a thing. Surly. Doesn’t like speaking. Must be a spy. Khalid slaps the man on the back.
‘Time for you to go home unless you want to share my meal.’
Silently laughing, Walid rolls his eyes to refuse an offer only made when the master is dining on his own.
Khalid doesn’t twig. Besides, he has never seen Walid eat or drink a thing in his presence. Perhaps he’s the kind for whom eating outside the family is an indecency. And he may be one of the many ‘heretics’, the people who report back to the police – a Damascene mockery underlining ongoing struggles for power! In this so-called secular state, a cynical regime has drawn in more Shias from outside the country to offset them against us. His thickset jaw belies a quicksilver mind. Whenever Khalid gives him instructions, he lowers his head respectfully, grateful, wide-eyed. To give his Salam, he flatters the Al-Sayeds, to whom ‘Allah will send rain in abundance to increase their wealth and protect their children’. Such a humble man! A bastard paid to bless as well as to spy? Unscrupulousness and love of manipulation are not in short supply in Syria – how else would the Al-Sayeds have survived? – but does Walid Hadidi have the slimy blend of instinct and cunning to betray? He will have to enquire, keep an eye on him. And speak English when the man is hanging around.
The two birds flap and flutter. There are a few pellets left but no water. He rinses their tin cup and fills it with water. The wire cage needs to be covered with a cloth to let them rest for the night. ‘A three-floor house calls for a wife,’ his father nags. True. Loneliness beckons unless he marries again. But Zaida’s questions have rekindled memories of Virginia. He is confused, feverish, almost embarrassed. ‘Stop your family interfering,’ she’d say. ‘Ignore those calls. Living under Sharia law is not for me… I’m a free woman…’ etc, etc. They became what their love at first had refuted – the Oriental and his insular Brit. He never forgave her refusal to attend the re-burial of Sunni martyrs whose heads had been scissored to prevent their identification. For her, digging up gruesome remains was unintelligible, sick. For him, naming the victims, burying them in the family mausoleum, was a necessity, and the ceremony of remembrance, however harrowing, would ensure that the younger generations would never forget the violence they have so far been spared.
Another call. Uncle Omar.
‘Is Walid Hadidi around? It’s urgent. Tell him to come and see me today.’
‘Is he working for you? I didn’t know.’
‘Everyone working for my family is working for me, my boy! What you do or don’t do is my business. By the way, I had a word with Minister Mustapha Al-Dari.’
‘Thanks. He rang me up just now. I’ve agreed to take on the oil and gas contracts.’
‘Top marks. But don’t spoil it by causing a scandal. Stop going out to that grubby coffee house in Sharia Sobhi.’
‘I haven’t been for ages. Only musicians and old doffers! They do no harm.’
‘I’ve a different story.’
‘From Walid?’
‘Don’t play the fool. Those idiots in the Democratic People’s Party are banned. You’ll drag the family into the fire!’
Omar hangs up.
What does Omar fear under Assad II? Could the family be expelled again? He paces the room, fists clenched, resolute to act sensibly but miffed at being patronised. God! He stopped meeting that bunch of reckless democrats some time ago. Syrian politics are so volatile.
Omar, Mustapha Al-Dari, Walid – they have got to him. He climbs two steps at a time to reach the upper terrace leading to his rooms. The last slivers of red and pink fuse sky and city into one sorrowful embrace, then tatters of darkness rise from the horizon. He changes into his jeans to greet Karim and Yasser who would otherwise chaff him for keeping on his suit for a quiet evening after prayers drinking beer. Should he tell them about the two calls? But what for? They are cautious family men who would fear for him. Better say nothing for now. Tomorrow he will talk to the Kurdish friends on his maternal grandfather’s side. But whatever Omar’s accusations, he does not regret helping them out with false identities after their release from a Turkish high-security prison. Old divisions are bubbling up, they claim, in Northern Syria. But one should never forget the shame of mass graves. Every man’s
death, rich or poor, Muslim or not, deserves a blessing and a name.
– 2 –
The Clinic
Pernickety as a stage manager on a first night, Virginia Franklin surveys her treatment room while waiting for the first client. Today its serenity is broken, not by patients’ miseries, but by her own nagging at the hows and the whys which have taken Zaida to spend half-term at her father’s. At reception, Gwen, her mother, is checking the list of today’s clients, ready to welcome them in the hushed voice appropriate to the solid respectability of the Franklin Acupuncture Clinic founded twenty years ago by Walter in a disused bicycle workshop. Most of the time, the modernised building exudes a tangible atmosphere of calm efficiency with its natural light and soft colours, reassuring Virginia that she had been right to come back to her parents’. But this morning she can’t stop churning odious thoughts. Why had she let Zaida go? Everyone knew tug-of-love disputes between divorced parents separated by national frontiers. She should have stood up to Zaida’s pleas and Khalid’s constant calls. On the walls, the watercolours he gave her in better times seem less restful than usual: an ice-bound Loch Maree and a Cornish harbour, Newlyn, also in snow. She pokes at the harbour accusingly. Was he buying her off? Her index dislodges the nail and the frame drops onto the carpet.
‘Oh! Heck!’
‘What’s going on? I heard some shouting.’
‘I knocked off one of Khalid’s pictures. A bad sign, Mum. I can’t find the nail.’
‘Oh! Nonsense. It isn’t broken.’ A matter-of-fact authority permeates the room as Gwen moves the picture onto the shelf holding catalogues of interest to acupuncturists. ‘Here you are. We’re back to normal. We keep telling you, he’s no baby-snatcher!’
‘You didn’t always have a soft spot for him. “Don’t marry a Muslim!” Remember?’
‘Let’s not bicker! The past is past.’
‘In her last email,’ she wails, ‘she didn’t say anything much. Too busy. They are all… wicked. It drives me nuts. Who was it who raised her, for God’s sake?’
‘We’d better get a grip before our first patients, dear. I’ve to go now and register them.’
Virginia tightens her tummy muscles and breathes deeply, trying to let go of the tension, eyes closed for five minutes; to focus on Zaida enjoying herself in Syria. And that’s how it should be, of course. More cheerful now. She should have gone too. Zaida begged her to accept, but how could she, as the old wife, watch him gloat over his new life in Damascus, a slim mistress at his side?
A small table has everything she needs: a lighter, packs of the Chinese herb, a red and white china tray, patients’ files, boxes of stainless steel needles – not the stone or bone of the long distant past. The needles are fine as hair, pliant but unbreakable, topped with a spiral of finer steel.
Everything is in order. Reassured, Virginia listens to people talking in the corridor. Her father is walking into his room, ready to start; her mother is sorting files for today’s clients.
She examines the needles, smiling at their simplicity, her mission renewed each time she picks one up. With the needles she travels through time, safely. The perfect tools, signifying both tradition and modernity. She has never been against ‘tradition’ – which did not stop Khalid rebuking her for her attitude – how could she be, as an acupuncturist?
Unrolling a sheet of soft tissue paper over the couch, she smacks the pillow into shape, wondering why he has not yet remarried – and with so many adoring cousins to choose from!
It is against her nature to be jealous and she can see how any child can be seduced by the Al-Sayeds’ world; and in Syria more devastatingly than in Leaford, where little Zaida was already thirsting for her grandfather’s Arabic tales. She smiles, looking forward to discussing things with Marianne who, as a teacher, well understands the power of words on children. How right she was to invite her to visit during Zaida’s first holiday abroad.
Before kick-off, she has time to send a ‘luv yu’ message, hoping it will get through. She walks down the corridor, enjoying the recent makeover of the reception area: toffee-cream walls, apple-green upholstered armchairs, art-deco vases, unsullied magazines. Even the reek of new paint is refreshing. Treating may release for a while her own anxieties. A frail elderly man is slouched in a chair, lost in thought. Patrick Brookside seems ill at ease with himself – has he got worse? He brightens up when she approaches.
Over the last five years, Patrick has shown a variety of symptoms: lonely, asthmatic, a scaly skin. Today, he shrinks into himself when telling her about kids chucking beer cans on his front lawn. ‘Bastards!’
Lying on the couch in well-pressed corduroy brown trousers and a tartan cotton shirt, his frustration is palpable, his pulses jerky. Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he grips her hand tight, watching her from half-closed eyelids veined and wrinkled like dry prunes.
Usually, he doesn’t take to short, talkative women but she’s the crème de la crème. A good wench. He likes the way she focuses on each gesture, a hundred percent committed to the job, immaculate in her clinical overcoat, chestnut hair pinned neatly up each side of a smooth, reflective face.
Patrick’s cracked lips part slightly to let out a puff of contentment, no more solid than a snowflake, but real enough. Virginia thinks to herself – do not rush the treatment.
‘You’ve gone through a lot, haven’t you? Your wife’s illness, now those kids rampaging around. Let’s see what we can do today. The right-hand pulses are still a bit too cocky. I’ll try the left.’
‘Aye. Expect you like them two sides to be even. Makes sense to me. I’m a military bloke.’ He speaks with detached precision. She taps him on the arm.
‘Well done, Patrick.’
He murmurs as if talking to himself. ‘I should’ve re-married. To a lass like you.’
She takes her time marking with a biro the points which should release the left/right block. Fortunate Patrick, who has no kid to worry about.
‘You aren’t too bad yourself. Look at this flat tummy. What’s your secret?’
They grin, enjoying the banter. Her father likes to say chatting to the patients is part of the treatment. Gathering her energy, she inserts the needles, turns them clockwise and removes them immediately, each time glancing at Patrick’s face. Painless. She checks his pulses. The block has gone. So simple. He follows her every move expectantly, an old spaniel, head down, ears flat, dejected yet hoping for more of her touch. She must consolidate the pulses. With her fingertips, she cajoles dried herb into little cones before lighting them. The five cones on wrist points take time to burn, but the moxa usually works for heat-deficient patients like Patrick. Yes, he is responding beautifully. And now for the needles again.
The following four cases are familiar, trusting patients who do not require the same focused attention as Patrick. In between the last two, she gains enough time to glance at the phone. Marianne is confirming her time of arrival tonight.
It is half past one, too late to walk across the garden and have a proper meal at home. Today she can have the kitchenette to herself. The October buzz of trainees has not yet arrived to hang around catching up with news of their trade, bitching, collecting miracle treatments and wetting their troubles with bottled water. Munching through a stale egg and bacon sandwich, she has little time to ponder over Zaida’s grievous silence. Patients shouldn’t have to wait.
There is a new wiriness in her as she deals with another four people during the afternoon. The last case, a new one, overweight and squat, lasts nearly one and a half hours before Virginia brings the consultation to a close. He made her talk about her training and the cases she had treated. She pretended to be as good as her father.
Roger gone, she is checking for news from Zaida, when Gwen peeps in. ‘They’re starting the meeting. Have you forgotten?’
‘Drat! We also need to be at the airport by eight. I hope Marianne�
��s on time, or I’ll cave in. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
Still no email. When she slips into the conference room, they have already approved the minutes of the previous month. Chaired by Gwen, it is open to all the practitioners using the Franklins’ centre. One item which raises eyebrows comes from a national newspaper suggesting that control over acupuncture should be moved from the self-appointed body of traditional acupuncturists to an official quango.
‘I’m afraid the negotiations with the Department are going to break down again. Medical doctors are better at lobbying than us.’
Walter restrains himself from adding that the profession is, in any case, far too divided. And there are too many poorly trained guys offering acupuncture in beauty salons, hotel spas and massage parlours.
Sue Benning intervenes. ‘Let them fail again, the fools.’
Virginia bobs her head at the freckle-faced woman, a longstanding friend who still practises two days a week. Recently widowed, desolation camouflaged by tweed suits, her curiosity for every therapy under the sun has taken on desperate overtones.
Listening to over-familiar arguments, Virginia’s mind drifts back to today’s patients. Above all else, there is this prodigious sensation; a caress, unique, which connects her to them when the needle hits a strong point, pulling the energy tight, deep, vibrating slightly. Maybe like a harp string. She looks around. These people have taught her everything. How could she have abandoned her profession, as Khalid demanded, and left them for Syria? There is her father, of course, and next to him, the same age, Andy Gibson, his closest associate. Born in a Yorkshire mining village, Andy has kept the mildness of the self-taught. As a girl, she used to seek his reassurance – more comforting than her father’s. Once, she sent her brother to play on the slide, a flimsy thing, which their parents kept in the back garden. Some time later, she found the little brat lying on the grass, white as a sheet. She ran to the clinic, ‘I’ve killed him!’ Andy, bless him, rushed out. ‘Help us, child. Rub his shoulders and hands.’ Ian wailed: he was alive! She was a magician, hands full of tricks. Much later, a pubescent, prickly Ian hated her when she gloated about saving him. Pimpled, loathsome, her brother talked rubbish as usual.
Homecomings Page 2
