Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  She hands him a memory stick. ‘It’s all there. Now Khalid has big money. I don’t think Walter knows.’

  ‘What about Virginia?’ His voice is croaking as he slips the memory stick into his pocket.

  ‘You are the first person I tell. John Norman gives it to me yesterday night when I meet him at the station. He works fast.’

  ‘Not on his own, and at a price, I bet. How much did you pay for this service? We can’t afford somebody like that—’

  ‘Chut! I’ve got money from my godmother. It’s a Christmas gift. The Al-Sayeds are now rich Sunnis, that’s sure. The information is good. They have… diversified – can you say that? OK. They possess the Umayyad Import-Export Company; they sell carpets, textiles and chemicals.’

  ‘If the Al-Sayeds own a string of businesses, how does that bring Zaida back? And—’

  Marianne casts him a warning glance, stopping him in his tracks.

  ‘The question is: what do they do now? Don’t you want to know? Crude oil and gas pipelines from Iraq.’

  ‘So what? Is that a crime? Jesus! I don’t like it. You think Khalid is on Assad’s side now?’

  ‘The regime has Mafia methods – corruption, drugs and assassins. You see, you are the man for the job. You get a good story for your paper.’

  ‘Christ! I need a stiff drink. Do you want one?’

  When he returns, Marianne lights up at the sight of the blood orange Campari – he has remembered her favourite drink.

  ‘You like adventures. Am I right? You will have fun. Better than stay in a cage – Leaford, I mean.’

  ‘You have a point.’ He pretends not to hear her triumphant tone. ‘You’re quite a schemer. Impressive. How did you learn such tricks?’

  She blushes, flirtatious. ‘Big heads think the same thing.’

  ‘And you’re leaving soon? I’ll miss you.’

  He bends over and kisses her abruptly on the cheek.

  Marianne’s conviction has stirred him out of his afternoon lethargy with buoyant images of Arab horses and minarets, mint teas and halva, and a page-boy to rescue. He will have to get a tourist visa as fast as he can. That shouldn’t be a problem. In no way will he attempt to investigate the Al-Assads’ business activities. How foolish of Marianne to suggest it! His head spins. Once you take responsibility for family affairs, the burden grows. One week isn’t a life sentence, though. The point is to do the job. Check out Khalid. Bring Zaida back.

  Maybe the idea of sending him off came from his father in the first place and Marianne acted as a go-between. Is that why she was pussyfooting around? Will his parents be glad to see the back of him?

  He looks for clues around the bedroom, now refurbished with Welsh antiques. Despite the substitution, the room still reminds him of the unhappiness that filled him when waiting for a Martin, a Clint. There is the familiar crack in the glass of the grandfather clock, Georgian, heirloom from Gwen’s father who died before he was born. What is most pleasing, though, is that its fastidious clanking came to a grinding halt the morning he flew back. ‘Time stops when you are around,’ his mother quipped.

  He will be more comfortable in luxury Syrian hotels. The bed sits high on bulbous turned posts, complete with a sagging mattress that has consumed his relatives. In his turn, he will shuffle his back over the bumps while hearing voices from the Banbury farm. “The boy is a chicken”, did Grandad say that? Bitterness seeps into his bones like the smell of naphthalene. He has to rescue a damsel from a dangerous country. Will he fail to bring her back? Marianne is right – the journalist instinct clinging to him, he won’t lose Khalid’s scent. What about Zaida? She must have quite a story to tell. He won’t bring her back by force, of course not. Jesus! He’s got another idea. So obvious! Ask Father to come with him! The Al-Sayeds will open their door to the older man, if not to him. And Walter will accept, suppressing a vague worry that his son might get trouble from the Syrian police.

  He’d better check gay sites on Syria to see how bad things are. Doom swells in him at the thought of having yet again to hide who he is, act dull and conventional, waiting for the right girl to marry. What the fuck to expect? How will he take it? He’s no chicken, he tells himself, raging against the bumps and holes that will give him a stiff back in the morning.

  – 12 –

  Damascus

  ‘Shut up, Pip! Stupid bird. I can’t be bothered. Things aren’t fun, you know. Dad is doing his best but he leaves me for hours with that Arabic teacher or Aunt Halima. I’m missing school. You see, when Dad is with his friends, he’s rude. He forgets I don’t understand anything. And Halima wants to be – you won’t believe it – my mother! I choked. No way! She dresses me up to pass me around. No! No! I am not Seema. I am going mental. Pip, I hate Walid. He’s a freak.’

  She blows into his back wings, his puny head eyeing her, listening from the cradle of her hand while the others are pecking at the seeds. She loves his flame-orange patches. He weighs nothing; she could easily hurt him. He is so cute. She smoothes his wings. ‘In Britain, they’d kick him out. They do that in films too, but Dad doesn’t. He follows his uncle and cousins. I don’t know what.’ Once Pip is dropped into the cage, he hovers and flaps until the others shuffle along the perch to free his favourite space in the middle. She claps. ‘You stick together!’

  What is going on? High-pitched voices. Khalid and Walid in the dark corridor by the front door, shouting, bellowing in that awful language. She puts down the water jug and the cleaning brushes, listening to the onslaught, petrified until Khalid rushes out, squinting at the full light of the yard.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She runs across but collides with Walid, also dashing out. She falls onto her knees. There are more shouts as they pull her to her feet.

  ‘Are you alright, sweetie? I am so sorry!’ She shrugs them off.

  Her lips are sealed – she won’t cry in front of the man who keeps annoying them. She watches her father gesturing to Walid. The creep hesitates then leaves.

  ‘Are you OK? Sure? I’ve to go out now. You’re upset? Never mind. Syrians shout about nothing – over beans, peas, peanuts. I mean real peanuts. Listen. I’ll be back early and we’ll have a long chat. Farouq is calling with his son. Put your nice clothes on. For me, not for Ali! Bye for now.’

  How childish he is. She gallops to her room, breathing fast, leaning her back against the closed door, needing to calm down before examining her knees. Dad is talking crap but alright, that’s his business. Her knees are not bad. She sticks on an Elastoplast. Buoyed up, her attention turns to Ali. Does she fancy him? She’s got an idea. She clicks an app. He’ll see how much she loves playing demons, zombies, vampires… war games. That’ll test him. But why bother?

  Before dinner, she approaches her father who is standing on top of a step ladder in the sitting room opening onto the courtyard. ‘You’re back already. I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘I was worried about you. What about your fall?’

  ‘Nothing much. I’m fine. What are you doing up there?

  ‘Mariyam said the air conditioner has stopped. It’d be nice to have it repaired.’

  ‘You’ll sweat like a pig up there.’

  ‘Pigs don’t sweat, my love, though they have that reputation.’

  ‘You want me to help?’

  ‘I’ve just dropped a plastic container full of screws somewhere near the sofa. I can’t see it from up here.’

  The black screws have scattered like ants on the floor, where they have the decency to stop moving. Kneeling, she squeezes her forefingers onto each beast to fill the box. A good moment to get her dad’s attention.

  ‘What was wrong? You were shouting at Walid.’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Can you switch this machine on? It saves me going up and down the ladder. Look. The controls are over there, by that radio.’
The conditioner does not start. He looks bothered.

  ‘Poor Dad. You’ll have to try again.’

  ‘Can you hold the ladder for me? I need to reach that wire high up.’

  She stands close to the bottom rung, holding the sides tight. ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘Christ! Let me finish the job!’

  Chastised, she waits until he climbs down.

  ‘I’ll try and switch it on. We’ll see.’

  ‘Clever you!’

  ‘I want to get a proper tool box, light, with drawers for storage. I could give that heavy wooden box to Walid, though it’s Father’s.’

  ‘Spies are bribed with precious stones! Not junk!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Teasing!’

  ‘I won’t sack him! You see, I much prefer to have him stay with us. We can keep an eye on him. And bear in mind his large family up Mount Qassioun – we can’t be unfair, he needs the job. And I trust Uncle Omar. He said the man is loyal to our family.’

  ‘Has he said sorry for being tipsy?’

  ‘Not in so many words! Love, it’s a question of honour; Syrians are proud men. But that’s enough about him. Let’s move the table to the middle where it belongs.’

  The room cleared, they sit down by the antique radiogram. Junk to Zaida? The shiny fifties piece, with large white buttons sticking out of a squarish mahogany case, resurrects his father hanging to the BBC News in the early evenings. A Winchester given by a Leaford family devoted to the doctor for reasons he has forgotten.

  ‘Have a look!’ He reveals the record player underneath the top lid. ‘Isn’t that clever?’

  She is astonished. ‘You had… umm… plastic records when you were a kid?’

  ‘Vinyl, they’re called. A collection of our great classics! Umm… Kolthum Farid, Al-Atrache, Fairouz – all beautiful singers but, I expect, not for you! Halima’s kids have a diet of Syrian pop bands.’

  She giggles. ‘Ali had me listening to Lena Chamsomething.’

  ‘Oh! You liked her?’

  ‘Very romantic.’

  ‘Who? You two?’

  He strokes her hair, happily listening to her babble. She had enjoyed herself with Ali, watching flocks of pigeons racing over Hama roof terraces while listening to CDs, not plastic stuff. The sight of the Bakelite phone breaks the interlude by bringing back to his mind his failure to catch the chauffeur. The test was too crude to prove anything. Walid played dumb – No! He’s never touched or photographed a list of phone numbers. He claimed a pious probity: he doesn’t take dirty money and serves only his good master – ‘I pray, Sir, Ali to recommend you to Allah and do well by Him with a kind heart!’ The sod was unflappable. He had the gall to refuse 500 dollars. Too cool. Too well-rehearsed to be convincing.

  Zaida, fiddling with the radio, draws him back to her. ‘Lovely, it stopped working ages ago. If you want, I’ll find someone to see to it.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Listen to me. As long as my uncle is on our side, Walid won’t do us any harm. Things are too complicated to explain but, believe me, this is true.’

  She gives him a kiss on the cheek. He clears his throat. ‘What about you writing a proper long letter to your mum tonight saying why you want to stay until the end—’ He is interrupted by the door-knocker, a rusty hand, Fatima’s, which he has inherited from the previous owners to protect the house against evil intruders.

  Zaida stands up to welcome the visitors, ready to bolt upstairs if Ali is with Farouq. No need! Khalid stretches out his arm to bar his disappointed daughter from retreating upstairs.

  ‘Sweetie, stay with us. Omar Al-Sayed has come with Farouq to have the pleasure of meeting you. Wait while I bring some coffee and rose water.’

  She steps towards Uncle Omar and stops halfway, overawed by his stiff military stance in spite of the crooked arm, the butchered face, the ghost of a smile. Repressing her dismay at his hideous presence, she forgets the Arabic greetings she normally masters. His mouth, a machine gun, shoots out jerky unfamiliar noises alongside oddly intelligible words – present, girl, happy – and then snaps closed, silent and offensive under his piercing stare. She panics, ready to run away. Looking diminutive, Farouq moves in between the two. Sensitive to his flourishing compliments, relieved, she gives him a radiant smile. In perfect English, he apologises at a great length for his son’s absence earlier in the day until his inconsiderate father pushes him aside to give her something wrapped in a silk blue and gold pouch. Two rings with jade beads. What for? Too big for rings and too small for bracelets. Omar bends down and swiftly touches her ankles, smiling.

  ‘Anklets, I see. Thank you so much.’ No, she won’t give him a kiss! How can she get out of here without being rude? As Farouq is encouraging her with a grin, she lets her hands be patted by the monster, fearing more displays of his good will.

  When Khalid returns with Mariyam, who is sorting out the nargile pipes from their niche in the wall, he is dismayed to see his little girl parading two jewelled anklets – far too expensive to suit a young girl. What’s going on? Omar welcomes him back, keen to honour daughter and father with celebratory gifts. A heavy silver ring carved with his initials. He plays along, slipping the Bedouin ring onto his middle finger, repressing a subterranean frustration at the timing of the gifts. Has Omar been alerted by Walid? Is he bearing gifts instead of bribes to teach the wimp a lesson?

  He directs the visitors towards the grand qa’a. ‘Zaida, help your uncles settle down. Not in the iwan, which is now too cool for our autumnal evenings.’ She leads the way, happy to show off the magnificent reception room, with its painted wood and plaster decoration – the first time her father has entertained there since she has been.

  Once they have settled on the cushioned banquettes, Mariyam brings in trays of coffee and sweetmeats. Zaida watches her arranging fanciful teapots, water jugs and pipes of all shapes on the mother-of-pearl-inlaid table. She has always loved the smell of strong mint tea. What is going on is fascinating. Her father is preparing what they call shisha tobacco and some charcoal to ignite it. The men chat by themselves while keeping an expert eye on their bubbling pipes until her dad asks her to open the sweet little boxes, he explains, for the guests to choose their flavour.

  ‘Oh! It smells of apple. That’s lovely.’

  ‘Yes, Nakhla shisha. What about the Al-Amir shisha?’

  She sniffs at the crushed tobacco a few times. ‘Pass!’

  ‘Blueberry. Sweetie, it’s time for you to leave us grown-ups to ourselves.’

  Khalid smiles to himself. Zaida should have left much earlier, but hopefully she won’t tell the Franklins about their evening. Virginia’s solicitor could go to town about the corruption of youth, but the British Council would not move a finger against him. Anyway, it is also good that Walter has been silenced by him not acknowledging his ridiculous offer to exchange Zaida for a loan! For sure behind Virginia’s back. Quite a few Brits are nowadays losing the moral high ground! He chuckles at the thought, but enough of bad feelings. The three of them should now enjoy a perfect session and, all being well, even manage to feign some bonding. That’s what the gifts are about – some truce for the evening; forget politics and spies.

  ‘With respect, can I interrupt your thoughts? For no reason, I’ve just remembered my father often quoting a proverb… something like… “having faith in men alone, and not Allah , is like having faith that water will remain in a sieve”.

  ‘Typical of my brother. What’s your problem?’

  Farouq is as sharp as ever. ‘That’s obvious, Father. If godless men are sieves, there is only despair left. That’s what bothers you, Khalid?’

  ‘Something like that. Do we mostly act out of faith, self-interest or naivety?’

  Father and son have, or feign, a mild interest in discussing the saying. To his surprise, they rapidly agree with each ot
her: one must have faith in men if one is to move on in a godless world, or else life would be a daily diet of derision, cynicism and corruption. Khalid listens without interrupting, inhaling deeply, pushing to the back of his mind questions about Walid’s loyalty. To Omar? Who else? Best to drop them. Enjoy the moment.

  Much to her relief, Zaida has been sent to her room. Her mother would hate her dad smoking like an addict in front of a child! She kicks off the silly anklets. Will he come and say goodnight? To fight back a pang of loneliness, she slips onto her right arm the Hermione’s charm bracelet her granny gave her for the journey. It’s not too late to write home. She tears three pages out of her All About Me diary, which she ought to start one evening, but not now. Impelled by overflowing confusions, she dashes off a letter.

  My Dear Mummy,

  I am missing you and Grandpa and Granny. It is also true I love staying with my dad. Getting to know Aunt Halima, Grandad, cousin Farouq. Omar is scary but he has given me anklets and a big silver ring to Dad. I don’t want to marry Ali. He does not talk but Aunt Halima says it is not a problem for married people. She wants me to morph into a Syrian niece. She never stops talking of weddings, dance, shopping, festivals, picnics. She is good though. She gets me long dresses to cover my figure. In Hama, she made a hullabaloo to celebrate my period! Can you believe it? She made special cakes for me and girls I didn’t know. I do not like the fuss about me and clothes and other things. Dad can’t help, he does not know things about girls.

  She goes over the lines. Her features relax. That’s all true. Go on then.

  I love Dad’s house. He loves it too. We have fun when we open the roof every morning. The chauffeur is not a Sunni like us, his name is Walid. The cook goes to church, her name is Mariyam, she is a Catholic. Nobody does Ramadan in my house, Dad says. Mum, you were right to stop me from coming in September.

  She stops again before tackling other niggling thoughts.

  Walid drove us up the large hill above the city where refugees live. I was upset, the houses look like ruins, there were poor people staring at us inside the car. Dad says it is our duty to help them anywhere in the world. I understand – he can’t forget, I won’t either. I hate the chauffeur. He is a spy. Dad does not know what to do. He has so many children Dad can’t sack him because he is kind.