Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  Fish in a Bowl

  Placing the phone back, Ian feels light-headed, tired of harping on at Clint. As expected, he has been walking on quicksands these last few days, struggling against waves of disappointment, confused as to how to handle people. Keyed-up parents, a dispirited sister and, on top of it all, Marianne to deal with.

  No. 12 hasn’t changed that much: books on Zen and leather-bound Dickenses; insipid watercolours of Snowdonia and Kathmandu; hideous brown furniture; macabre birds; and in his room, there are left two Mods and Rockers posters which were already out of fashion when he put them up. Maybe as a teenager he was an oddball – shy, parochial and self-effacing – and not the rakish, dynamic townie he likes to imagine.

  Like a cat watchful of the precarious balance, he sits down gingerly, wary of the rocking chair. Grandad’s. An affair of solid oak and carving on the uprights, which his mother waxes with a sickening polish. Can he slip away from the party she has organised at the clinic to celebrate Walter’s acolytes? Not really.

  Everyone appears straight enough. Andy has acquired slouching shoulders and an aching back – ‘the acupuncturist’s badge,’ he jokes, hugging him tight, radiating warmth. The red-skinned face has retained, beneath extravagant eyebrows, the kindness and modesty of a natural listener. As for old Sue, her feverishness has slowed down with the passing years; no longer taking his pulses, she scans him up and down to check he is not dying.

  ‘Sorry, Ian, I must go. Andy, why don’t we introduce Reiki to the clinic? It’d do no harm.’

  Andy steps forward. ‘I suppose, now that you’re a hard-hitting journalist, you’ve forgotten all these sorts of things?’

  ‘Is she serious? Is Dad for that claptrap?’

  ‘Don’t mock, my lad! To make ends meet, the clinic may have to open up its range of therapies. We are about £30,000 in the red. But let’s talk about your work. What’s your biggest scoop?’

  ‘A couple of years ago. Uncovering a mob of forestry barons selling native lands to Seattle and Alaskan firms mad for oil. I came across grizzly bears but not Sarah Palin.’

  ‘We can’t match that! I still think, though, it’s a privilege to practise acupuncture. See our AIDS survivors. Or cancer patients.’

  ‘Sorry, acupuncture no longer works for me. A placebo? Maybe. No offence, folks.’

  Walter ambles across the room to join Ian’s group, loud, punctuating his words. ‘Get real, lad, people heal in all sorts of ways, including odd ones. When I was a boy, GPs prescribed “the mixture”, that’s what they called it, syrup in reddish bottles. For flu, coughs, bones, chest pain, epilepsy, you name it. Isn’t it true, Andy, people felt better?’

  Disinclined to listen to yet another lecture, a few people leave while flimsy tops moulding generous cleavages rush closer to witness the fracas. Unable to resist an audience, Walter acknowledges vigorous nods from old and young.

  ‘I’m far from saying acupuncture is just a placebo, but, as you’d expect, the mind plays a crucial part in healing. Today’s patients want their complaints to be understood as events unique to them, both disastrous and meaningful. Well… no, enough of that now. Let’s have another drink.’

  Wishing to end his spat with Ian, he gets a glass of Chardonnay. The boy’s cheek is still formidable. And on top of that, he exudes a kind of charm, cloying and sweet. People hang on his every word. Gwen remarked the day after he arrived, ‘Marianne is eating from his hand already.’

  It has been a long day. No reply from Khalid who hasn’t bitten the bullet. The sod! Walter swears, wiping his forehead with a paper tissue. There’s also the strain of having Zaida’s defection on the brain. And Ian’s quibbles hurt more than he’d like to admit. He shovels in a last lamb samosa. Too bad for his cholesterol, but Gwen is right to patronise Indian shops. Then he takes a bottle of tonic water and a tumbler, hoping to sit down in a corner, rest and avoid Ian, who is helping Marianne circulate trays of nibbles.

  Virginia is coming back to the party, mobile stuck to her ear. Any news? She shakes her head and leaves again. He has left no stone unturned. But women don’t understand the world of finance where to ask for money is reasonable. When Khalid needed to fund his export business, he had no qualms. Helping out a third-world country was as natural as plucking an apple from a branch. Under the young Assad, new technologies of which he knew nothing were at hand over there, with better trained brains than here. He made his investment on the quiet and Khalid paid back on time. Pessimism has been sapping this country’s energies for far too long. Khalid would still be living here had he been able to borrow from a bank, and yet his was a good idea – a British law firm dealing exclusively with immigration from Muslim countries. Khalid had to leave. He was far less shocked than Virginia when her ex did not return. Khalid would be a winner. Not a child abductor. But his silence about the loan is blunt. He deserved a polite response. Something else must be going on. He isn’t so sure about Zaida. She is too young to tell, but there is plenty of grit in the girl. Virginia shouldn’t get on her high horse, just send affectionate, funny letters. Zaida, bright as she is, can make her own choices. And if things work out for the worse? Heaven forbid! He allows himself to sigh loudly without fear of being overheard.

  Someone bumps into his chair. Marianne, grasping his lapel to coax him back to the party. He bends his head towards her, eyes nudging her breasts. ‘Super frog! I’ll do anything for you.’ Uneasy, Ian watches the stilted pantomime. The old-timer is back to his tricks, but the performance somehow lacks conviction.

  Walter glances at Ian. A funny lad, his boy – wiry, with sparks of anger exploding at random, telling hammer-and-tongs stories about corrupt oil barons and the abuse of first-nation children. Can he tell him about Khalid? Gwen, dressed in a frilly top that he shouldn’t fail to compliment, catches his eye and waves discreetly. They should let people understand it is time to depart by collecting trays and platters.

  From the corner of his eye, Ian sees his father, six foot two inches, flawlessly working the room to say goodbye. Flowing white hair. A diamond pinned to the left ear, he sails forth, showy with savoir faire, right ear cocked towards the last speaker, registering skin colour and the quality of the voice. A real pro!

  The washing up done, Ian reclaims the rocking chair for himself. The party hadn’t been that awful, but he wishes they hadn’t rowed. His dad is quite a decent guy. He pushes back the chair, which swings violently before gently coming to a stop. Mouth half open, he marvels at its moods: movement and stillness born of each other in a single sweep, like love and anger.

  Another day. A sturdy rain cloaks the Scots pines relentlessly, cutting out a walk with Marianne. Ian roams from room to room, idle, disoriented by the churning of return. He is unable to read the paper. English news is provincial. Glazed-eyed birds cramming the room yap away, cantankerous. What is the story? ‘You’ll never grow up, kid, never. Look at that gold chain round your neck and that tattoo! Showy and selfish, that’s what you are. For you, we’re aged and baffling but we, old birds, love you all the same. That’s enough, isn’t it?’

  As a boy, he was in awe of the athlete in Walter who could, without much training, run a marathon in four hours to raise money for Shelter. At the party, he recognised the old feeling of insignificance standing next to Muscle Man whose strides used to leave him panting. Not for long. He has just learnt that the giant strutting at the party suffers from the wrong cholesterol and works backbreaking hours to save a shoddy business at an age when other people think of retirement.

  Stupid rain swirls outside. Another wasted day, making him long for Clint. When Marianne asked about adoption rights in Canada – they are pretty straightforward – a stomach cramp flashed through, a surge of a possibility. Is it that strange? It’s the old place that does it. Once full of his adolescent yearnings, it is now bursting with Zaida’s. But he will never be a dad. Selfish guys, balls packed in tight jeans, live with insouciant me
n and have no kids. Why the cold sweat, then? He presses his back against the caned back of the chair, spreading his gangly limbs, pushing with his toes at every move, rocking hard, a fractious tarantula ready to pounce.

  He peers at the garden, listening for the first clap of thunder that will bring another gale. He enjoyed his father asking for his advice, but was Walter being overdramatic? Should they replace the clinic accountant, an old friend with no incentive to stir things up, with a new firm keen to make a name for itself? That would set alarm bells ringing and worry everyone, staff and family. Business will pick up before Christmas. Meanwhile, getting Zaida back is their top priority.

  Is there something concrete he can do? Help with the clinic where Dad still behaves like the Messiah? Gwen never complains. She has awful warts on her neck and hands and she walks funnily when she thinks no-one is looking. As for Virginia, he hasn’t made any progress with her. She shores herself up with ironic smiles, slipping away whenever he asks how he can help or giving him accusing looks, proprietary over her grief. ‘You don’t know Zaida.’ Christ! How could he? Though, he supposes, the child is of his blood too. He has never considered the fact, and Virginia knows this. She frets like an eel caught on a line, heroic and helpless as if her girl has been kidnapped. Overdramatic! He remembers her antics all too well, having never forgotten the only time they went out to the Athena Club. He shoved her off as soon as they walked in. The following morning, she was found slumped into ecstasy by the Patels’ corner shop off Victoria Road. The fuss filled him with resentment, disfiguring her in his mind.

  He sits upright. After a long absence any child faces the relatives’ blessing and disorientation, the memories and the loves in need of repair. Clint said the same on the phone. ‘Be patient, prodigal son! Help out.’ Easier said than done. Gwen has refused to let him replace her at the reception desk and even if he wanted to, he can’t take on any of Virginia’s patients since he isn’t insured to treat anymore.

  Marianne is so determined to help. He will seek another conversation. This perks him up. Right now, he can shop to fill up the fridge.

  – 10 –

  Damascus

  Tireless, Zaida has asked to be taken out at night to a place where young people hang out as they do in Leaford – ‘I mean, without a chaperone.’

  ‘We’ll try downtown, sweetie. And it’ll be fun to walk.’

  In daytime, Zaida skips ahead through the maze of souks. Tonight, in Al-Bzouriyya, feeling a bit sickish, she sticks close to her father. Most of the shops are closed behind ugly iron shutters, and the light from the ancient chandeliers of the few traders still offering roasted vegetables and nuts is too feeble to dispel the deep gloom. In the old days, Dad says, traders with donkeys brought onions, sweet potatoes, beans, fruit and gas bottles to every house through these narrow alleys all day long. People and animals knew each other while affecting disdain towards the strangers squeezing past.

  ‘How d’you know? You’re not that old!’

  ‘My little finger!’

  Joking all the way, they reach a grand square fringed with imposing buildings, restaurants and falafel sellers sitting cross-legged on pavements of blue and white mosaic. They have booked a splashy place, recently restored, spreading over several levels. At the top, delighted, they take in the minimalist black and purple décor broken by huge mirrors and windows overlooking the marble-clad fountain of the square.

  ‘An internet café-bakery and bar called “Sweet and Spicy”, or “SS”. Clever, isn’t it? Sorry love, there’s no mango juice left but it’s an Edfina juice. From Egypt, they say.’

  She screws her nose up at the banana smoothie, changes her mind and sucks at the plastic straw. ‘That lemon tart is French?’

  ‘You’re wolfing it down! The French occupied Syria not that long ago. There are still several excellent French patisseries and restaurants.’

  They glance around. There are no wooden panels. No carved ceilings. No floor rugs. The severity of the modern is broken by splashes of colour from cushions stacked in angular steel and white leather armchairs; and in the far corner, there are the predictable computer desks where people perch their laptops and ambitions for a Syria connected to the liberal West.

  ‘Dad, look at them! Over there!’ Controlling her excitement, she discreetly scrutinises two elegant young women with glittering jewellery, strutting on high heels in search of a quiet corner. Tight black dresses. Animated. No chaperone. Neither knees nor arms are covered. They settle down at a coffee table nearby, chatting, taking for granted stares from men and women alike.

  ‘Dad, how old are they?’

  ‘What if they understand English? Shush! 16 or 17. With all that kohl they look much older… I don’t like it that much. What about you?’

  Zaida, feeling plain and boring with her Benetton jeans and a tacky Miss Selfridge blouse, is mesmerised. With her long sleeves, she looks like a granny, resentful of her mum who doesn’t care a pin for fashion. Khalid smiles at her, happy to share her fascination. The pair are so striking, confident of their looks and opulence, unburdened by wealth gained by blue blood families from… Syria or Qatar? Kuwait? Rolex watches. Yves St Laurent handbags. The older one holds the menu card with red-painted claws. She has an expressive high-cheeked face under a thick coat of powder that does not mar her pale looks. Her jet black hair drops onto her shoulders. The other also has pouting vermillion lips. The perfect oval of her fresh-skinned face is encased by a purple and gold scarf underlining the harmony of her features. They could be models for Vogue – he registers the image while repressing a sigh of disapproval.

  ‘Can you see yourself made up like that?’

  She mulls it over. ‘Mummy wouldn’t like it but Aunt Halima would!’

  ‘How is that?’ he asks, hoping that both women would object to such ghastly masks.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? You don’t know anything, Dad! Time to grow up, you know.’ Her bubbling laughter comforts him. She is the best teacher he has ever had about women’s things. This café is a good choice for tonight. No-one is harassing the posh girls – about whose conversation, out of earshot, he can only speculate. Zaida, losing interest, leans over her seat to contemplate the floodlit people milling around down below. His heart swells with pride. His little girl is so mature, soaking everything up. But he must never tell her too much; she can be far too perceptive. Behind her questions about him as a boy there still lingers this unhealthy curiosity about his dead sister. Anyway, he can’t even share his happiest memories without—

  ‘Dad, look! I’ve just seen Walid! He walked into the music store with CDs and books outside. Can’t you see? I called you but your eyes were on the women!’

  He shrugs off her tease. ‘It’s his night off. You could be right.’

  ‘Could be wrong. Forget it. Look at those crowds; it’s so busy. Why?’

  ‘The Christian quarter closes late tonight and sells alcohol.’

  ‘Come on, proper Muslims don’t drink!’

  ‘Walid can. You see, Alawites don’t observe the five pillars of Islam. That’s why many Sunnis and Shiites don’t like them… cut them off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve been persecuted for centuries—’

  ‘Like the Jews?’

  He nods. ‘Outlawed for being devoted to Ali, Muhammad’s son-in-law.’

  ‘Where does Walid live?’

  ‘I told you already, in Jaramana. The suburb we drove through on our way up to Mount Qassioun. Above Damascus. With stone houses clinging to each other? Some with collapsing roofs. With loads of kids. You remember? You want another juice?’

  ‘No thanks! There were funny houses, we went up and up and the streets became so narrow! I was scared we’d scrape the walls. And when Walid bumped into the woman in a black djellaba, didn’t you see me blink like that?’ She pulls a face at him which he ignores.

&n
bsp; ‘He didn’t run over her! He knew what he was doing. She was sitting on a stool. On her doorstep. It’s what they do. Walid didn’t harm her or we’d have heard her screaming! Her people would have thrown stones at the car or gone to his place to give him hell. Don’t worry, love. Can I leave you a minute, to get another cocktail?’

  Her dad drinks quite a lot. She chews over the other revelations she has to piece together day by day, patiently. He helps people to settle in Syria although he hasn’t yet quite told her that. Kurds? That’s risky, for sure. She has a fair idea as to why he helps. He can’t forget the camps. She loves him more than ever. Because refugees live in bad places with bad food and bad health and they have nowhere else to go. And it is much worse for Jews and Muslims, she’s done the research about ghettos and massacres. She can’t ask, it’s too painful. ‘For you two to be happy together, don’t talk about evil things!’ That’s what Grandad said, word for word. She said OK, but it isn’t that OK! Adults are jumpy. Immersed in her thoughts, she hardly notices her father returning with a tray.

  ‘Sorry, it took ages to get served. Wake up and help yourself.’ He puts down a pink and orange drink full of fizzy bubbles arising from a lump of caster sugar and a plate of creamy sweets. ‘“Qanafa madluqa”, can you say it?’

  Her tongue chews the words like gum and finally twists them out sounding nothing like her dad’s. She looks down, peevish.

  ‘Not bad!’ He pats her hand. ‘You like them?’

  ‘Tell me, where did you kids live in Leaford? On top of each other?’

  ‘We were lucky. Soon enough my dad qualified, you know, as a doctor. And we moved to a splendid Victorian house. Not far from your place.’

  ‘Oh! I saw it. Mum showed me where you lived before you got married.’

  ‘Did she? Good of her! Let’s walk back home.’ He slips his wallet and Android into his attaché case, pushing to the back of his mind Farouq’s email he has just read at the bar. Two of their acquaintances have been stopped and searched. Very likely he won’t keep Zaida if the going gets rough.