Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  Gobsmacked. Just outside their entrance, there is Walid again, crouching on the stone bench, muttering in Arabic, waving his arms around, overexcited. Smells vile. She can’t really see his face because it is dark. Dad bends over. She can’t see his face either but he doesn’t sound amused. Was the horrid man waiting for them? He seizes her father by the hand and kisses it twice before collapsing against the stone wall, whimpering, recoiled into himself.

  Now urgent, concerned, Dad whispers to her. ‘Help me get him off the street! Before he gets arrested!’ He shouts into Walid’s ear. The effect is astonishing. The clown shakes himself and, hiccupping, stretches up onto unsteady legs as if walking on eggs! Then, hands gripped over his heart, he bends his head forward to salute them like royalty. He takes hesitant steps down the curve of the alley into the night, oblivious of the scents trailing over the neighbours’ high walls.

  Khalid pulls the iron bars, closing the ramshackle, worm-eaten door behind them. In the courtyard, released from street ears, they crack up.

  ‘I’m in stitches!’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘What a fool!’

  ‘I’ll die laughing!’

  The outburst over, they exchange a long, truthful, penetrating look before she asks, ‘Was he waiting for us?’

  ‘We’ll never know!’

  ‘Are you keeping him?’

  ‘He is not that educated and he’s done well to get where he is. He doesn’t appear that clever. I like the fact he is an Alawite, like the president. But I could sack him any time. It’s what I shouted! It gave him an electric shock.’

  ‘Just words, no weapon! What a trick! You’d beat Voldemort!’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Come on, Dad, the death lord in Harry Potter.’

  ‘Dear me, what a compliment!’

  Another giggling outburst over, they relax, enjoying the fragrant night. Mariyam has placed dozens of sweet-smelling pots filled with carnations and red Damascene roses on floors and stairs. Zaida tiptoes to the birdcage, sending silent kisses to Pip and his friends, huddled on the lower perch, asleep, colourful like toys.

  ‘It’s bedtime but let’s sit a bit longer and have some flower water. You like it, don’t you? Help me take this table to the corner Mariyam has cleared under the vine. Please don’t wake up Pip and the other rascals! I couldn’t cope with their nonsense on top of Walid’s panto!’

  ‘Can you really sack him for being tipsy?’

  ‘I could, but why? He’s got seven kids to support. Let him have a bit of fun. He doesn’t drink that often. Don’t you worry, sweetie.’

  She leans forward, whispering, avoiding his stare. ‘He pinched my bottom.’ She pauses. ‘When he helped me into the car.’ Another pause. ‘I’m not sure really.’ Pause. ‘Sorry, I’m wrong. Maybe...’ Words stick to her like mud.

  He is stung. What a bloody awful night! He wipes his forehead and neck with a tissue. She won’t say anything else. She is sucking her thumb. Is she having him on? Flirting? With whom? Annoyed with her for getting him in a muddle, he snatches her glass away, hammering out every syllable. ‘Listen to me. No joking. Tell me if anyone doesn’t show you respect. It has to be real facts. Understood?’

  She isn’t dumb. She was serious, but she can’t bring herself to argue, wishing them to be happy together again. ‘Understood, boss!’ She nudges him with her elbow. ‘Remember the children in blue uniforms? They looked smart. Running around. Boys and girls. They waved to us.’

  ‘Pouring out of that shabby school? In Mount Qassioun. One boy was carrying the Syrian flag. Security people guarded the road by Saghrir park – I don’t know why.’ He speaks dryly, uncertain where she is leading. Will that be another accusation?

  ‘Walid wasn’t drunk then.’

  ‘Of course not! He was driving and—’

  ‘He was really nice. He waved back out of the window. Said something funny – the kids laughed too. He looked really happy. Maybe… his own children were among them.’

  ‘We’ve never talked about his kids.’ An acute weariness comes over him imagining Walid drunk as a lord, dragging himself up terraces of prickly pears, hobbling over cobblestones, past the orchards to reach the slopes crowded with aggressive tower blocks and higgledy-piggledy houses with no water. In Al-Almara, Walid would pray no-one was watching before dropping into his cane chair by the locked door, hoping no child was waiting. For the first time, Khalid feels some sympathy for the man. It is hard work to be a father.

  Zaida appears to follow his thoughts. ‘You won’t sack him, will you? Poor Dad! You’re whacked!’

  ‘Let’s forget him. It’s bedtime.’

  Back in his bedroom, his neck and shoulders aching with fatigue, Khalid flops down after retrieving from the Persian rug the dark blue beads of a bracelet Mariyam must have dropped when cleaning. He will lie down a few minutes to think things through. Why did that creep get pissed? Why on our doorstep? ‘I’ll catch him!’ he mumbles, jumping up, stretching out his limbs like a bonobo testing its agility in anticipation of an athletic leap. From the left drawer of the cumbersome Victorian desk, a reminder of his father’s GP days totally at odds with the retro Cairo furniture he later purchased online, he pulls out a pad of A4 and switches on his phone. From his contact list, he selects a dozen numbers and jumbles them up with relevant international codes into a list of fictitious international contacts for Lebanon, Turkey, Egypt, Israel. He includes Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch and Refugee International. He writes on top in Arabic “to call again” before ticking a few numbers to show who he has already contacted.

  Reaching the courtyard, he is distracted by the soft trickle of water and captivated by a first crescent moon whose light strokes walls and balustrades, fortifying his resolution. It should work. The prayer over, he scrunches up the coded page as if it has been taken out of a pocket before hiding it under the Bakelite phone on the leather trunk. Walid knows he can make the odd business call from the iwan after his office hours. He is careful to let the top part of the sheet stick out before taking a few close-up photos of the trap.

  He kicks off his Turkish slippers and tiptoes back upstairs, savouring the thought of tricking Walid into displacing the paper and sacking him if he refuses to say who he is working for. The only thing left tomorrow morning is to tell Zaida and Mariyam not to touch the paper but without explaining why, so as not to alarm them.

  On the last balcony, he stands still to enjoy the night scents – jasmine in particular whisks him back to his father; the word in Persian means “a gift from God” – to calm his nerves. ‘As good as valium,’ the good doctor would say. ‘We were right to return to the old country.’ Once again he is restored by the thought of his bastion being tucked away in a city with many faiths whose stones of worship and trade, dignified by time, will continue to protect the people. He lets the moonlight, moist with cooler air rising from the Barada, bathe his face while resisting the urge to ask Zaida to join him. Other rituals, less private, are looming up soon enough since the lunar calendar will bring the Al-Hijra festivities to the streets to celebrate its new year, on 29 December. Even if it turns out that Walid spies on his phone calls, couldn’t Zaida stay until Muharram, the most holy month after Ramadan? Zaida would love the idea. Not her mum, though. But with regular contact she ought to be reassured. And what about Walter’s ridiculous message – to exchange Zaida for £20,000? Crazy! Ignore it.

  – 11 –

  Old Flirts

  When Ian is googling Beef Stroganoff for tonight’s dinner, someone knocks and, in a characteristically French manner, walks into the sitting room without waiting for a response. He grins.

  ‘I hope you do not mind.’

  Marianne has lost her hungry adolescent look. Barefoot, she takes her time to settle among the cushions. A confident dresser. He smiles again. As for him, how does he strike her as
he strides over to the quirky rocking chair? Effortlessly raffish?

  ‘I’m sorry you’re leaving so soon. We haven’t had much time together, but you’ve been a wonderful support for Virginia, I hear. Any idea about how I can help?’

  She enunciates each word as if transmitting a coded message over a long distance. ‘I have experience of missing people.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘A long story. I’ve looked for my natural mother. I am adopted. You may not remember my grandmother?’

  Ian stops rocking, injured at her suspicion. ‘Come on! Remember us in that cool library? And her telling my parents off – “reading never hurt anyone”. They wanted us out for another boring walk. She liked to shoo them off us with a flap, like waving flies off meat. True?’

  An exceptional person, they agree. Outside, leaves glisten, an exalting moment between showers, fresh as the perfect love one never gets.

  ‘Sometimes, I help people with missing relatives. Not for money, naturellement.’

  ‘Zaida isn’t missing, is she? Virginia has Khalid’s home address and she’s writing to her. Or do you know something we don’t?’

  Marianne feels wrong-footed. The room needs fresh air. As she struggles to open a sash window, it gets stuck halfway up. They push, two bodies pressing hard at the frame until it jerks free. They laugh, connected to each other, ready to spill secrets like dating people.

  ‘Where does Khalid really live? Is it Zaida who writes? We don’t know. Child abductors are clever. They lie. Easy. Very easy. Does your… penny drop?’

  ‘Christ! You could be right, of course. What does Virginia say about this? If you raise the stakes, she’ll flip.’

  ‘Pardon? The stakes? Flip?’

  ‘Never mind. I’d say Khalid is a good guy and he will respect the law – he is a lawyer after all.’

  He looks inscrutable. Under his stare, she feels like a podgy, middle-aged woman. Better attack. ‘We know nothing for sure. Virginia has never been to Syria. They can… fabricate many… histories. Were they really refugees? The family can spy for Assad. Abdul in Britain had occasion for a mission secrète. Sorry for my English… to be a doctor can be… a blanket.’

  ‘A cover? Come off it! We all respected the man. I remember him well – he was genuine, and handsome to boot. And a good listener.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  They battle on. Like any insightful detective, she believes all scenarios should be examined, while he ridicules her portrayal of spies and terrorists swarming from the Middle East.

  ‘Ian, don’t mock. Who help Virginia? Courts take too long to get children back.’

  ‘What else can she do?’

  ‘You go to Syria now. Check their address in Damascus and Hama. See Zaida. You’re her uncle. Get Khalid to trust you and find out what he is playing.’

  Furious, Ian scowls at the woman: a fucking menace, scheming to send him on a wild goose chase. Just because, once, long ago, they had shagged upstairs. ‘What about you? Why don’t you go?’

  ‘Relatives do better. And Zaida will trust you.’

  ‘How do you know? And can you honestly see me? “Hi, I’m Zaida’s uncle – yes, the poofter from Canada.”’

  He lets out a long sigh at the thought of complications ahead, feeling a pang of regret for the boredom he was fighting against a few minutes ago. But he will have to consider Marianne’s scheme. She is as persistent as the rain.

  ‘Listen. I’ve never been to Syria. I don’t know how I’d cope.’

  ‘You’re a journalist!’

  ‘Will they cope with me? Have you looked it up?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid…’

  ‘I get it. Homosexuality is outlawed?’

  She recites, ‘Carnal knowledge against nature is punished with one to three years in jail.’

  ‘Could be worse! Suppose… I go for one week. I don’t know a bloody thing about bloody Syria!’

  ‘Ottoman palaces—’

  ‘Jesus! Spare me the crap, will you?’

  ‘Just a few days. Talk to Zaida and see what she wants. I believe journalists go for adventure.’

  He is beginning to enjoy the game: she throws him up into the air and drops him gently, not quite letting go, not yet breaking his neck. A subtle change is taking place in him. Her idea isn’t that terrible. What is there to lose? He could be back in Vancouver by mid-November. Could he play his cards right among people whose culture eludes him?

  ‘Can’t you see I’d put my foot in it? Forget it. I’m a selfish bastard. Find someone else!’

  He resumes the rocking, sheepish at letting her down. Stuff the kafuffle! He deserves a bit of comfort at home and won’t oblige the lady this time. He did ‘oblige’ out of bravado; his first time with a woman, a first for her too. He had warmed to a boyish body marked by infant breasts and a golden tuft twitching between long thin brown legs. For some time, he felt tearful afterward, dispossessed maybe, sad at clammy bellies pressing against each other, frightened by the intimacy he could not give women. He owed Marianne for this gruelling lesson.

  ‘Please, stop that chair! Sorry, Ian, it’s the noise.’

  A hangdog silence fills the room. There is a raw edge to it, expectant and angry. Sitting up, frozen, Ian looks out of the window, pretending interest in the garden. Marianne concentrates on arranging cushions from a bygone world of women embroidering quilts and covers with herringbones and Basque loops. She pats a couple into shape while also thinking that the English never see disaster until it stares them in the face: Dunkirk, Northern Ireland, Iraq, Afghanistan, Northern Rock. The Franklins should take their chance and get Zaida out without delay. Or else, a drawn-out case costing thousands of pounds. Her friends’ passivity is exasperating. Their financial situation is not as good as the house stuffed with antiques and the state-of-the-art clinic lead one to believe. They are so short of funds that Virginia cannot afford a private investigator to track Khalid’s family in Damascus or Hama. Ian is free to travel. How can she persuade him?

  He looks more reflective than during that fatal summer. Despite the cherubic face he was jittery, intolerant of other people’s vulnerabilities, prone to fits of anger, mercurial to the core.

  Life is full of incoherence, no matter the logic you weave between seasoned expectations. It will catch you off-guard, as it had that warm night when she lost her virginity. The exultation gone out like a candle, she probably opened the window onto the climbing roses, frozen to the spot, listening to the dawn, quiet traffic, a fox, doves already cooing. Flushed, she turns her face away briefly to disguise her longing, before staring back at him, taking in the sharp line of nose and brow, the high forehead, the full mouth – more sensitive, less willing to exploit his alarming good looks.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my question…’ Pleased to be let off the hook, he encourages her to go on. She drops the brisk teacher’s voice for a softer tone. ‘Why… you and me… that summer?’

  Pleased to explain himself, he ventures, ‘Things were different. Believe me. More fluid for young men. Pride wasn’t asking me to support them. You understand?’ Seeing the hurt look, the shrinking mouth, he pleads, ‘I wasn’t cheating, I was in love with you too. Very much.’

  She shoots a perplexed glance. Is she thinking words in his mouth are easy and naïve? He has to persevere. ‘We were all in love with you: Mum, Dad and Virginia. With you, of course, you are so attractive! And your godmother in that chateau was terrific. The Languedoc seemed made for us Brits. Honestly, for me, you were then that idyllic place. Take no offence. I was sincere.’

  ‘Let’s move on.’ Does he still care? She must not look flustered. She shuts her eyes. He used to see through her. Such an intuition, brittle for men. They could work together, if she doesn’t frighten him off. Get Zaida back.

  They listen to the muffled sounds of rain and sorrow, the same furti
ve smile floating on their lips. Nobody knew of their shenanigans, though Ian wonders about Virginia – she’s the jealous sort. Does she still take the mickey out of Marianne, mouth pinched like a chick’s ass, clicking her tongue between the words, “ZoRRI... mON AngLICH”?

  Encouraged by his attention, Marianne shifts the conversation back to Zaida. Yes, the girl sent a few photos – a dromedary licking her ice cream, souks, crumbling Roman temples.

  ‘Zaida can be anywhere… east… after the Pyramids! Ian, please, will you go? Do you care?’

  ‘Care enough? I don’t know.’

  Irritated again, they look daggers, a stale couple, each wrestling with the other’s obstinacy. The thought makes her snap. ‘I’ve got something on Khalid.’

  ‘Go ahead! But before you do, tell me something about Chateau Mourel.’

  He points to the family albums, carefully labelled and dated, in the alcoves by the fireplace. Yesterday morning, he leafed through them methodically. Unlike people who wolf down family photos like chocolates, he picked at them with caution, anguished by faces he should remember: Marianne’s godmother at the piano; Grandfather’s farm near Banbury, a frightening place – ‘Get the boy onto the damned horse, or else he’ll turn out a fairy!’ Did someone say that?

  ‘I’ve found quite a few snaps but there’s one missing. Do you have it? You two girls, on the swings with a bucket in the front full of brown snails. Did I make it up?’

  ‘No, I don’t have a photo with swing. And we do not have brown snail in the summer, it is too hot. Sorry.’ The grin fades out. ‘This Khalid, there is more to him than… meet… the nose – is that what you say?’

  Ian is baffled again. She is dangling him like a bloody mouse. She has collected information about Khalid with the help of a private investigator. What a fixer!

  ‘I’ve got this man looking for Khalid. I mean, his business affairs.’

  ‘What? How did you manage that?’