Dear Grandpa and Grandma
I am sorry I am being a trouble to you. I promise I’ll cook lovely kebabs when I am back. Don’t worry like Mum, I’m nearly a teenager now. Grandad is calling me downstairs. We are going to a festival. It is not a Muslim festival but it is OK. He says they dress up like a dragon and Saint George will kill it from his horse. You see, I’m good.
Your loving Away Princess
Hot cheeks, Virginia stops glowering, stirred by her daughter’s warmth. Marianne hugs her tight, allowing herself to express her opinion.
‘What intelligent child! Listen! They do not betray you. They are open with you. They love to be together. She wants to explore! Good! Khalid is a nice man. An exception. He has made a success of his life two times. Be happy for her. She has a… exciting father.’
‘True enough! But I’ll be without her for another three weeks!’ Unexpectedly, a snap memory takes her over. Khalid, head bent under pouring rain, running from their front steps to his car having just dropped Zaida at the agreed time like a recorded delivery parcel. He turns round to wave to Zaida, watching from the porch. Wipes his face. Aching as much as she is now. She should show the same dignity. Marianne is right. Khalid will let Zaida come back. She ought to do the same; let go of that bad energy polluting her heart.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Sorry for the fuss.’
‘You are not… at war!’
Marianne stands up. Noting her impatience, Virginia seizes her wrists and pulls her towards her, scrutinising her face, searching for a common ground. ‘My special friend. Do you mind me being over the top? It’s good I can let myself go in front of you. There’s no-one else. Even with Ian, I can’t share what I share with you. You understand? You have a beautiful faith in humanity. I am taking in what you’ve been saying. OK. I’ll let Zaida enjoy herself a bit longer.’
They walk upstairs to their rooms holding hands.
– 6 –
Troubled
Why, oh why is he flying back? Just a few confusing emails from Father and Khalid and here he is! To be fair, Walter didn’t ask directly although he said he was beginning to feel the weight of running the clinic. And there’s Khalid turning up on Facebook, out of the blue, fretting about his rights of access. Zaida is in some kind of trouble, they say. How funny! It’s her turn to upset the apple cart. Famille, je vous hais!
Five hours left. The romance of flying worn down by soiled newspapers, spoilt immigration cards, fouled toilets, jaundiced kids. Air travel should be rationed. The sooner vouchers are introduced to cut out the plebs, the better. Ian sits stiff, indulging his wave of disgust at other mortals, fearing meeting his relatives in the flesh. How can he open the inviolable space he has created over ten years? Virginia, but not his parents, figured out why he left: to forget the piquancy of Brighton air mixed with spice and grief.
Vancouver was the place to do business, whatever its nature. He started a posh practice, close to downtown, in a street flush with funky bars. The place became his. With Clint at his side, he loves running early morning in the nude on Wreck Beach, leaping over tree trunks smoothed into giant’s fingers by the strong ocean currents.
They met coming back on a ferry from an early hike to Mount Seymour. Ignoring the turbulence of Howe Sound, Ian worked it out. Clint was among the children who, twenty years ago, were compulsorily removed from nearby reserves to be placed in infamous orphanages run by predatory missionaries. He got himself a Christian name when he went to Seattle to study Western art and cinema. Eastwood, of course, was his god then, until First Nation art became fashionable.
How thrilling it was to be told much later the secret tribal names. Contentment fills him, a peculiar sensation like a swelling in the tummy or a cramp in the leg – something physical that doesn’t belong to him and shouldn’t be there. With an unsteady hand, he takes a few sips of water, disregarding the shuffles and sighs of fellow passengers, his mind filled with beautiful illustrations. Clint completed the book at the Children’s Book Co-op. He found it under their pillows for his thirty-fifth birthday. Six double pages mixing traditional and modern styles. At the time, he was upset by the title page “The prodigal son”. True, he had rejected the Leaford inheritance because of twisted love between parents and son. Stunning pictures, though. On a pebbly beach, the son, a sad white youth, and a new dark friend are invited to join Nuu-chah-nulth teenagers in a game of football. He likes that drawing. The white line of the surf underscores the horizon.
Until he received the book, he had never really considered going back, although recently he had been having disquieting dreams of Leaford, triggered by his father ringing to talk about liquid assets – an obvious ploy to lure him back home. Yet, he did not recognise himself in the child at the end: two pages contrasting the sunrise with the bluish black of an eagle dragging a little boy across the sky to an oak tree bursting with fairy tale birds, its roots forming the British isles. The final prediction pulled no punches. In the sunset, shadows of people stand in a circle of broken totem poles. The feather of an eagle protrudes from a tomb slab. They talked about the story: prodigal sons survive by destroying the law of the fathers. Clint’s intuition relies on distant memories from cultures where sons call on fathers’ fathers to renew their strength through songs in which whales bring sons back and bears dance with wolves to announce the end of time. He has been so privileged to get a glimpse of Clint’s origins. Maybe soon the two of them will be taken to the ocean village where fathers still carve long canoes from cedar trees, to get his father’s blessing. Walter won’t kill the fatted calf! Why should he?
Here comes the steward, British with a posh accent and stoic patience, who removes his tray with casual accomplishment over the heads of an American couple with no appetite for idle conversation, their eyes glued to the screens.
‘Finished with the whisky, Sir?’
‘Yeah. I’ll try to get some rest. Unless you offer something else.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Only joking, man.’
Funny the way things work out. He still aches at the thought of Britain, remembering how he dreamt of leaving long before the summer of 1998 when Canada did not ask too many questions. British, aged 27, self-employed, sponsored by friends living in British Columbia. Born Leaford, 1971.
Since adolescence, he had reached so many lows. Everywhere you looked, you saw the same fucked-up kids, white or black, clutching sculpted hair, betrayed by futile back-to-work-schemes. Leaford was getting too dangerous at night and, in the day, too familiar. Too well stocked with folks like his parents, chuckling at exploding house prices, swaddled in comfort, untroubled by horses crushing miners. They found one excuse after another for every mess, big and small – war in Kuwait, a shattered windscreen – “we’ve done our best, dear”.
Why did the old man cajole him back home?
They used to row, but in the end he did what was expected. A levels, a summer fling with Marianne, an acupuncture licence in a college chosen by his father. For Christ’s sake! He had to leave.
With his sister he shared a few laughs at Leaford. White people who believed in thrift and family as well as warring St George; grubby plaster divinities offered for sale; orange- robed geezers on smoking terms with Vishnu. The dome of the mosque glistened with tinsel like a brothel. As the Tory virus became more aggressive, they plotted: they’d set up their own clinic on the south coast, wave to France, sell out and travel before Armageddon.
Caught in the games of prey and predator, the wider world was equally tragic. AIDS killed silently. Young enough to be arrested, he chopped off his long hair, aping respectability.
Timid in sombre parks, he became eloquent in public. Put an end to the arms race. Waste not our natural resources. Lower the age of consent to 18. It was not long before street agitation had little to offer. In this state of mind, acupuncture was also losing some of its appeal. There w
as no scientific evaluation of treatments. This bothered him deeply. For his father, the patient was the best and only judge. That attitude seemed tacky and dictatorial for a guru. He was in his twenties, still looking underage, wishing to get away. He considered switching to journalism. A hack or a quack?
Damn! The couple is watching American Body Shop, laughing, nudging and making loud comments. They’re getting on his nerves. He searches for the earplugs he keeps in his breast pocket. He ought to fly back first class. That can’t be too soon!
His parents had put travel and adventure behind them, clinging to a future in which their two children would run the clinic. Virginia capitulated. After falling for Khalid, the turncoat hankered for respectability and a baby – only an amateur at women’s lib.
If only he could catnap!
Didn’t Walter say Marianne might be around? A generous girl, first class, glossy as a queen. They were a giddy pair! His parents believed in their good fortune but he broke it off. Sooner or later he would have to come out, not wanting to give a childhood friend a bad time. At Victoria station, he told her. There was a long pause, followed by a tornado of reproaches until, the fit over, she went icy, vengeful. Friends! Never! Hypocrite. The lashing stripped him of any affection for Leaford.
In London, he was never short of small change as he serviced people with his acupuncture needles. This went on until he moved in with Martin, a one-time war correspondent. Martin thought Brighton would be better suited to his convalescence. An intense town where seagulls bickered over ice creams, kids over pebbles and adults over sex. They talked of surf, books and miracles. With redundant needles by the bedside, there was no cure. The injustice bonded them beyond the indignities of the dying.
‘Do you want an extra blanket, Sir? Blue or red?’
He wraps his shoulders, trying not to disturb his old neighbours. They are asleep, heads sloping towards each other, holding knotted hands. Quite touching. Untested. Until their feelings for each other fade away like family photos pinned to bedroom walls.
He takes a sip of water. His parents are ageing too. He has never given much thought to it. The last time he saw them was so painful! Exhilarated by his imminent departure for Canada, he unravelled his life at their feet. He was a dickhead! Mother was worst – still-love-you sort of thing. Father was sanctimonious, as ever the bleeding doctor. What else did he expect? Had he really told them about Martin? No matter. He is not so needy anymore. Hopefully, they’ll manage to talk of his life with Clint. Maybe that’s why he’s going back. What about Virginia? Were they that close? Anyway, he’d like his people to know about Clint. He was made by Clint as much as by Martin.
The drone of the plane lulls his mind. Images of inscrutable ice caps permeate the reverie. In Canada his hunger for rebirth was inexhaustible although he had no wish to forget Martin. He travelled, walked and watched. He sold his practice – perhaps as an impulse to tell the old folks of his liberation, like a joke they would understand. Also, he had had enough of palling up with sick people! Patients, like lovers, can be hopelessly clingy. He had saved enough money and could at last try his hand at journalism.
That’s enough. He needs to rest.
Blast! He sits up, gripping the armrests. Was he that four-year-old whining at Marianne and Virginia who wouldn’t let him onto the swing, intent on torture? Closing his eyes again, wisps of memory from the Languedoc cling to him. He could have the swing back, they promised, if he caught three or four of the beasts, bigger than a chestnut though the same colour, spilling horrible sticky trails. Mission impossible. It was so unfair! He jerks his head on the pillow. There was a family photo – or did he invent it? – showing the criminal girls dressed in white shorts, hugging the ropes. Maybe the snap was taken another day. But one afternoon, a bucket full of snails was brought in. Incredulous, expecting to die, he watched his father drop the grotesque thing into his son’s palm. At the repulsive, slimy, cold contact he grasped his little dick, thus discovering how anyone, good or bad, can find comfort as well as despair in the most testing moments.
Laughable, really! In his thirties and still blaming the old man! Better to spend the time watching the stewards, but these days they’re piss artists with the sex appeal of a lunch box.
3.15am. Get some sleep! It’s no good working over old stories. Virginia will vouch for the parents by claiming they didn’t treat the siblings differently. As for Walter, he will resist sneering at journalism, a lightweight profession, when seeing that the boy, still bubbling with cheek, has a fat bank account.
– 7 –
Damascus
It is a freakish sultry day for October. Strong light shafts cascading into the courtyard stir the birds whose cage is now hanging from the corner of the main arch, low down, so that Zaida can clean it easily. She tackles with zest her morning duty while trying out new songs on her recalcitrant pupils. Today, London’s Burning is faring no better compared to the fresh seeds which Tom and Jerry gobble up while the other two sit safe on the highest perch.
‘You silly!’ she shouts, and stops. ‘OK, that’s not fair, I’d be bored to death too.’ She lifts out the most colourful one and, cooing and stroking, puts him down on her left shoulder. ‘You’re a sweetie.’ Gripping her top, his bright red claws scratch her slightly. Mesmerised, she doesn’t move. Will Pip fly off? Will she lose him?
‘Dad! Dad!’
Her father, tousled, tumbles down the iron stairs, alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Dad! Look at Pip! He doesn’t mind!’
‘Sweetie, don’t cry wolf, please!’
‘Why is Pip so tame?’
‘They were born in a cage! Bred as pets. To be handled by people.’
‘Pip has been in prison all his life?’ She takes her time to return the bird back and when she faces him again, she looks sullen, mouth pinched, oddly grave.
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘Grandad showed me a photo of Aunt Seema in that camp! I don’t look like her, no way!’
‘You don’t, that’s true.’
‘Swear it?’
‘Come here, my pet.’
He whispers sweet reassurance while keeping for himself the volatile signs which have enchanted him since her coming home: the same grin, the same twinkling eyes, the same jaunty shrug; but how can he be certain of such resemblance? These traits are not rare among young girls. And memories are made as much of imagined things as of lived experiences. This is why, maybe, Zaida’s edginess and fleeting moods also bring glimpses of Virginia.
Wriggling out of his arms, Zaida opens the cage, her voice challenging. ‘Why can’t you tell me anything? Did you starve?’
‘No! Nothing like that! Listen! Why upset us now? We’ve just come back from the wedding; we had a great time, didn’t we?’ Pangs of anxiety engulf him, difficult to control. They could topple him over into the crippling world of jaundiced memories and fears he has attempted to escape since boyhood. Shell-blast, he clenches his fists. He can’t let Zaida stab him again out of the blue with her crude questions. No way! Even for her, he will never be able to shrivel those horrendous times into smooth sanitised tales. His rage was too volcanic. He saw too much.
‘Dad! Were there rats around?’
‘Stop it! I don’t want to go there. I’ve already told you it’s no good. Nothing so terrible will happen again. And when he says you look like Seema, it is his way of saying he loves you as much as his lost daughter.’
‘A funny way! Oh! Here you are!’
The raised voices have called Mariyam Ajemian from the depth of the cellar kitchen. Without a word, her bustling presence and severe looks express such disapproval that Zaida sheepishly removes herself to the iwan where she waits for her father. He remains talking to the cook. Dad was fobbing her off. But what are these two up to now? He is pulling out his purse. Why? High-pitched words hit her harsh and fast. She prefers listening to her
Grandad, whose voice, when he reads Arabic, is magical – lower and softer, flowing with mysterious sounds. ‘Because he is reading poetry,’ Dad said. ‘You would enjoy having a go if you stay long enough.’
Ouch! Her father throws a cushion at her before dropping at her side.
‘A penny for your thoughts?
‘What was that about?’
‘She has a son who lives in Sydney. He’s written asking her to get him a Syrian Christian bride.’
‘Cool.’
‘She needs time off in the evening to visit prospective mothers-in-law. It is a great moment for her.’
‘Oh! Can you hear? Listen!’
‘Dad! You silly!’ The words, although screeched and croaky in turns, are clear enough. Zaida and Khalid are rolling on the floor, fingers on their mouths, silently shaking with laughter. ‘Dad! You silly!’ The rondo stops after four rounds.
‘Unbelievable! Clever Pip! Clever girl! Here’s my hanky to wipe your eyes. I haven’t laughed like this for ages!’
‘How long will Pip remember that?’
‘Not long, I hope! Imagine Tom and Jerry picking that up.’
‘I’ll teach them!’
‘You won’t! Ah! I can hear Farouq coming in. I was waiting for him. Get dressed properly, will you? You can’t swoon around the house in those pyjamas.’
Pretending not to hear the reprimand, Zaida runs to the newcomer emerging from the dark recess of the entrance arch. She enjoyed his compliments at the wedding and he never treated her like a little girl, unlike her father.
Homecomings Page 7
