Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  On the screen, an American expert talks of the crash. A tsunami. Banks will need bailing out worldwide. With billions from taxpayers. Will that be enough? Stock markets continue to decline; countries cannot borrow.

  ‘Brandy, Marianne? All this news about bad debts and sub-prime mortgages is so depressing. Speculators owe billions! And shirk responsibility! Our City people were up to their eyes in it too.’

  He serves her in a bulbous glass, taking in his breath as he stands close, blocking his nostrils for a split second out of a professional habit to assess her body odour: sweet and bitter like chocolate. Suddenly, the day takes its toll. He feels jaded. Bankers do rob people. Children do not return. Marianne draws him out of his dejection.

  ‘I hear Andy after the meeting. On the phone, very loud: “Walter is hiding his head in the sand.” What does it mean?’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  Hiding his irritation at the indiscretion, Walter switches off the news. Making light of the situation, he explains how the clinic’s cash flow problems have been made worse by the renovation. It is a temporary problem as new courses will increase the clinic’s reputation and bring in more patients.

  ‘Don’t talk about this to Virginia or Gwen. They have enough on their plates at the moment.’

  Marianne steals him a glance. ‘I have money from my godmother. You get 20,000 euros now and pay later. I don’t know when you pay. You are family, you see.’

  There is no response. At the sight of his bushy eyebrows going up and down she stifles a smile.

  ‘How generous! What can I say?’

  ‘Please accept.’

  ‘It’s very tempting.’

  ‘I am happy you accept.’

  ‘Sorry, dear girl. I can’t accept.’ He slows down his words. ‘I am most grateful but I can’t be sure we can pay you back, do you understand me? More debts won’t solve our long-term problems. And no offence to you, lovely friend – you’re not family. It’s a family business and I want to keep it that way.’

  She waves her arms around, testifying her good faith. ‘I don’t want to run your place!’ Seeing his startled look the blood rushes to her face: ‘OK, you’re right. More debts is not good.’

  ‘Many, many thanks for your offer. I’ll never forget it.’

  He gives her a hug. Catching a whiff of her perfume, he hesitates, and with a slight effort becomes sure of himself again. ‘Goodnight, sweet friend.’

  He sags into his chair, staring at the now blank screen. What a relief she’s gone! For a split second, he was ready to be seduced. He refused for many reasons, but mainly because he couldn’t be sure of repaying any loan. The news has darkened. ‘Scoundrels!’ The slump has taken 20 percent out of his savings. He groans. His boy had seen what was coming. He abandoned us. What’s he up to now in Vancouver? He wishes he hadn’t had the second brandy. He’s unused to drinking on his own. Abandoned by the young – Ian, Khalid, Zaida. Like so many of his patients, he needs reassurance about the future. But who will give it, apart from Marianne?

  He stands up, tottering because of a new pain throbbing down his left leg. Christ! The boy should be here when the family is in such a pickle. That would be the natural order of things. Would it be irresponsible to ask him to come home now? He looks at his watch, calculating the eight-hour difference. There are moments during a treatment when, foxed by sinking pulses, he acts on gut instinct. For Ian, he’ll pick up the phone at the proper time. But what about Khalid? He is a sort of speculator now, isn’t he?

  Twenty minutes later he squeezes into bed, trying not to stir Gwen. The old bird would peck at him until he bleeds. He has emailed Khalid: lend the practice £25,000 to cover temporary cash flow difficulties. Gwen will not see the sense of this, although he put it diplomatically by stressing no offence would be taken if Khalid cannot help. And another clever move, an afterthought: he would try to make Virginia see sense and let Zaida stay a bit longer.

  At last, he falls asleep torn between self-delusion and self-congratulation. Khalid is still family.

  – 4 –

  Damascus

  Since her return from Hama, Zaida’s presence is undermining Khalid’s solitude – for the best. Breakfast is not at 7am anymore but much later. They take their time. Her chat competes with the budgies, diverting his energy away from work. Zaida insists on eating on the top terrace, now flooded by a soft light diffused by the roof screens that she loves to manipulate. He is happy to join in the fun by adjusting the angles of the canvas sheets hooking each sail, calling out ‘hi ho!’, much to Mariyam’s amusement. Sharing a meal brings more satisfaction. He rejoices Zaida is not a fussy eater anymore. What else will he discover? Such a tall girl. She sits back straight while they play at being attentive guests, unhurried by the demands of the day.

  ‘Will you hand me the bread basket, please?’

  ‘Dad, tell Mariyam this is the best breakfast I ever had.’

  They savour bowls of spicy hummus and eggplant caviar, creamy yoghurts, a tomato and parsley salad and their favourite halawa, the sweets made with sesame paste.

  ‘I love roasted aubergines. Much nicer than in Leaford. Why is that?’

  ‘Can’t you guess, my pet?’

  She screws up her nose. ‘We aren’t in Leaford?’

  ‘May be. Tell me, what would you like to do today?’

  ‘Go to Palmyra!’

  ‘No. It takes two or three nights to do it justice.’

  She slips back into the chair, rubbing her eyes with her fists to hide her disappointment, a child again. He stretches his hand out across the table to tap lightly the sweet dent on her chin. ‘Knock, knock, who’s there?’

  There is a petrified child running wild around the chairs. ‘The big bad wolf! Help!’ He catches her, hugging her close, sniffing her neck – milky and fragrant, his baby girl. She wriggles out of the embrace and, facing him at a safe distance, waves a challenging index finger.

  ‘Why do you have big ears? To listen to me! Tell my mum I am staying until Christmas.’ Khalid’s voice rises with an unquenchable frustration.

  ‘You listen to me! Virginia cannot trust me – never, never! You want a proof? Two years ago, they arranged for a ‘port alert’ in case I whizzed you out of Britain without her consent. As if I have no honour—’

  ‘Sorry, Dad, I was only teasing.’

  ‘Under British law, the mother knows best, never the father!’

  Zaida’s eyes filling with tears deflates his anger, leaving him feeling guilty for weighing the girl down with unsolvable conflicts.

  ‘I am sorry to drag you into this.’ He stretches out his arms to catch her, growling, ‘I am accused of bad, bad things… like eating you up!’

  Zaida pushes him away, pleading, ‘Why can’t you try? She won’t bite you!’

  ‘Let’s see what I can do. But don’t let it spoil our fun, my love.’

  She runs into his arms again for another cuddle on his lap.

  ‘What are we doing today?’ Neither of them moves.

  ‘Not the big mosque. Grandad said he’d take me. He is a better guide than you! That’s what he said.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ve plenty of time. We can walk to Azm Palace, through the souk. The smell of spices and soap will make you stop at every stall. We call it the smell of Damascus. There’s no other place like it.’ He can’t help his voice ringing with an infantile pride.

  ‘Have you been homesick?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘When you were with us?’

  He strokes her hair back from her forehead. ‘You’ll see for yourself. Don’t bother clearing up. Let’s go down.’ She counts in Arabic the steps to the ground floor. 23. Loud and clear.

  ‘I can count to 50.’

  ‘Pretty clever. Who taught you that?’

  ‘Grandad, yesterday.’

  �
��I’ve told Mariyam you’d be happy to feed the birds. We do it before we go?’

  Up and down the ornate cage, there is a flurry of anticipation. A couple shuffle to the perch the furthest away from the intrusion; two others move to the right corner, close to the feeding tube.

  ‘Look at them! The greedy ones! You’ll soon recognise them.’

  ‘I’m no good at birds.’

  ‘Have a go!’

  ‘Can I stay, Dad?’ She fills up the little plastic cup with seeds and nuts. ‘What about the water?’

  ‘It’s pretty full. We’ll do it tomorrow. Check the door hook is on or else we’ll be in trouble.’ Zaida blows kisses at the closed cage.

  ‘You like them being in a prison?’

  ‘No! I don’t! They were given to me by one of my Chinese partners who thought I needed company.’

  She closes the plastic container storing the bags of seeds. ‘Where do I put it away? I don’t know your house yet.’

  ‘Our house. When you are 18 you’ll stay for months at a time. Would you like that?’

  Smiling, she collects the few grains that have spilled on the floor and, cooing like a dove, holds a hazelnut between the wooden bars. No bird bothers to move. She turns back to him, discouraged.

  ‘Teach them to sing, whistle, talk…. I haven’t had time to try. Have a go!’

  ‘How long am I going to stay?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘He says I look like her.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Grandad, you silly! My dead aunt.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Do you think I look like her?’

  ‘I don’t remember much. Sorry!’

  ‘Your older sister!’

  The indignation catches him off-guard. ‘Seema died in Lebanon. We were refugees.’

  ‘I was little when Mummy told me. Grandad has a big hole in his heart.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Not much. The camp was a prison, dirty, with no proper food. Seema was very ill, they couldn’t help her. How terrible!’

  Well catered for, the yellow budgie launches a long series of chirrupy sounds, which are soon repeated by its partner. Zaida skips around the fountain and claps until Khalid, diffident, resumes the conversation.

  ‘We all missed Seema terribly. Me and my sisters. She was like another mum, she spoilt me; I was her baby brother. She taught me old Arabic proverbs to make me laugh. Curiously, they come back to me when real Damascus people talk to me.’

  ‘Try me!’

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ve to translate it. Listen. “The camel is lame because his lip hurts.” Meaning?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Something small can hurt the whole person, or something like this.’

  ‘Like a bad dream?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’d love to see your photos. With your sisters.’

  ‘Ask my father. Now get ready, you little chatterbox.’

  Two hours later, on the way to the Azm Palace, they sit down at a café in Sharia Al-Mir that the Al-Sayeds frequented when he was a boy. The same family runs the place. For some obscure reason this discovery makes him light-hearted.

  ‘The same Bidiri? No kidding?’ Above her glass, her eyes, burnt chestnut, enhance the colour of the mango juice. ‘The Umayyad Mosque is round the corner, isn’t it? I remember this tall wall at the end of the street.’

  ‘Right on!’ She is bright. She had coughed out the odd Shemi words like “pistachio nuts”, which made traders drop their price and fill her hands with sweets or crystallised fruit.

  ‘I won’t forget that souk. It’s so cool. I’ll get Aleppo soaps for Granny and I won’t forget… can you guess what?’ He shakes his head. She continues, ‘The sexy lingerie… Sunnis – I saw them buy it for their women. Under those awful black gowns! What a laugh!’

  ‘Shiite pilgrims to be precise, not Sunnis. And they come from Iran.’

  ‘Tell me, did you buy red knickers for Mum? From this souk?’

  Shocked, he stammers, ‘Such trash? Never!’ before concentrating on his drink. He won’t look at her, feeling priggish and cornered by her intuition. Black… they were black. On his first trip back to Damascus. From one of the cheap shops you find on the way to the mosque. Old Damascus is an eternal present. Virginia refused to parade on her high stilettos, claiming that’d be too demeaning. Her love had already gone toxic. Did he reply, ‘You said alright in that hotel in Albi, why not now?’ He sighs.

  ‘What’s wrong? Can’t I say anything about Mum? Mum doesn’t hate you,’ she says softly.

  ‘I wasn’t irritated, just amazed. Give me time to get used to your cheek.’

  From the pavement table, they watch a swarm of dark Iranian men shuffling past them, shepherded to Al-Husayn Shrine by dignified white bearded clerics.

  ‘Dad, how many buy saucy bras?’

  ‘Drop it! We’ll wait until they’ve gone. OK. Let’s go before another coach load fills the street.’

  She takes the map, wanting to find the way by herself. He walks a few steps behind her, certain she will get lost before long. Her changing moods, which were at first disconcerting, now warm him. She is so different from his sisters. Fun and self-confident at home and outside. She expresses herself clearly and with conviction. That’s good. That’s the ways the Franklins brought her up. He’d love to tell them his appreciation. She should learn classical Arabic in Leaford – or, much better, here. Damascus has famous madrassas where all sorts of subjects are taught.

  ‘Talking to yourself again, Dad!’ Zaida is triumphant. ‘We’ve arrived. I heard a group saying they were going to the palace. And I can read the map.’

  She has taken over. ‘Did you know there are famous places which teach Arabic to students from abroad through the year? Watch out for the gate.’

  There are mostly Arab-speaking tourists for whom November is a popular month after the summer heat. From the grand inner courtyards, the crowd slowly moves into the sumptuous reception rooms decorated with painted panels, colourful tiles and star-studded ceilings.

  She gasps. ‘It’s… a magic lantern. I can’t take it in. The women lived in there, all their lives you said? Like budgies!’

  ‘Hand-clapping budgies, clogs dancing on the floors. Can’t you hear them sing?’

  Playful, father and daughter leave the central pool to get some fresh air under the trees, where they find an isolated marble bench. In search of a toilet, Khalid excuses himself.

  ‘Amrikan? Swidsh?’

  She nods. No.

  ‘Good. Swidsh. Welkum.’ The shorter man sits down on her left, the thin one on her right. She averts her eyes, fixes the floor, timid and flattered, sweeping her hair from her face. The spontaneous gesture triggers baffling comments, all flying over her head.

  ‘Butifell.’

  She is sweating. Why isn’t she wearing her Hama headscarf? Where is her dad? She can’t shout for help. They are doing nothing wrong, just shuffling their bottoms closer and closer. Is her breast being touched? In a flash!

  ‘Daddy!’ The men melt away.

  ‘What’s wrong? I saw two boys running off. Did they bother you?’

  ‘Boys? No. No boys.’

  He seems to believe her but she does not calm down yet. What really happened? Did she imagine it? She’d better forget it. She holds onto her father’s hand throughout the visit, pretending to admire every exhibit.

  ‘I hope you didn’t give them your address!’

  ‘I’m not that stupid! My school told us about sexual harassment, you know. Nothing like that happened. Gosh! Dad, I don’t know my address. If I lose you, what do I do?’

  ‘What was I thinking of, sweetheart? I’m still learning to be a dad again!’ They hang close to each other, sailing through the exit gate into th
e street throng.

  Disregarding the budgies’ excitement, Aunt Halima and Zaida collapse into each others’ arms, hugging and laughing. Her aunt is impressive. A round pleasant face; an authoritative figure, bulkier than her brother, wrapped in a fashionable abaya, black and gold; long hair tied up at the back in a single knot underneath a shiny shawl.

  ‘Let me look at you properly. God bless! You are a beauty.’

  She launches into a song, high pitched, hips swinging, arms raised until she realises Zaida’s astonishment.

  ‘Sorry, baby. There were too many people at the wedding. Let me celebrate you, my beautiful niece. That’s our way.’

  ‘What’s the song about?’

  ‘It’s a popular love song from Damascus. “Your black eyes made me sing, your black eyes make me forget mother and father, and when I am…” wait… “in deep sleep” – that’s the line I like best – “a vision of you comes to drive me crazy.”’

  ‘You teach me it?

  ‘Another time. We’ve so much to talk about before Khalid comes home. Let’s go and sit down in one of the iwans.’ Acting the hostess, Halima places Zaida on the elegant settee in a raised alcove set in the furthest wall. An opening high up in the arched roof gives enough mellow light to outline Zaida’s face. ‘Good. Here I can see you! Traditional houses are so dark but Khalid won’t move to the new city!’

  Tugging her legs together, arms around her knees, Zaida tries to ignore her aunt’s ferocious scrutiny. ‘Your English is brilliant. How come?

  ‘It’s not a big deal. I was 13 when I arrived in Britain. My father took me back with him when I was a young woman. And I completed my degree at the University of Damascus.’

  ‘Were you happy about… coming back?’

  ‘I had no choice. My other two sisters married British men and I was the only daughter left. I loved teaching English until I married. My kids? You know them, of course. They leave me enough time now to work as a translator.’