Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  Marianne’s daily call interrupts Gwen’s train of thought. They share the good news. The two families plan sightseeing together. It was a short call – the Hama line was cut off – but it was thrilling to catch a “hello Granny”!

  The following day, Gwen looks at the rose beds critically. Too many suckers, too much powdery mildew. This autumn, severe pruning is required to counteract the neglect. She unscrews the cap of a concoction devised by her mother and, ready to spray, waves to Virginia, who is tending to Zaida’s patch with the gardener.

  ‘I was thinking of that Patrick of yours. He has a crush on you!’

  They smile, knowing there is no harm in the man, only a corroding loneliness; and as he says, one treatment does him more good than a dozen lagers.

  They are doing well holding the fort in the absence of husband and brother. They hug briefly.

  ‘Mum, I’d give anything to be a fly on the wall! Right now they are touring Zaida’s dream castle! Or was that yesterday? I don’t know!’

  ‘I’m thrilled they’re getting on so well. Your father has forgotten the clinic. That has never happened before!’

  ‘What if they’re being fooled into thinking all is well?’

  ‘They’ve three passports and three flight tickets, they’ll be back soon. Trust them!’

  ‘The calls are so short!’ She picks the secateurs from her mother’s basket and angrily deadheads a few withered roses, which she lets drop onto the ground. She works fast while her mother watches the arched back, the knitted brows, the refusal to let go.

  ‘Mind my Abbaye de Cluny!’

  Virginia pretends not to hear as she drags the plastic basket to the vegetable patch, lurching over young shoots poking through the gravel. Jesus Christ! How stupid to have bamboo! As saplings they trip you up, and fully grown they make you look short and fat. Ouch! She presses her lips onto the pearl of blood running down her right forefinger, sucks hard and spits the thorn out while shaking her hand, annoyed with herself for being so careless, so sloppy with Mum, so cross at Ian earning yet more brownie points. Mind you, to give her parents their due, they also made a fuss over Khalid from day one, treating him like another son, spoiling them both rotten because they have balls! Of course, she was the dumb daughter, the predictable and dependable one who would return home! And she did!

  Heck! It still hurts, there’s another bit of thorn left. It serves her right. Outside the acupuncture room she is altogether too slapdash. As her mother goes in, she follows, sucking her finger, a miasma of longing taking over. Whenever Khalid has visited Leaford he has been appreciative not only of her work but also of her appearance – her innate modesty and grace. Fancy him still saying these sweet things! A rare talent, according to patients complaining of husbands cold at the table and frozen in bed until death do them part! The woman under treatment is not really the sick one, but what can you do?

  She rummages for a Boots first-aid pack Gwen keeps in the reception desk. Sticking a white plaster on, she remembers that, bizarrely, Marianne had advised against letting Khalid leave. Somewhat pompously, her friend declared, ‘Parenting, more so than marriage, can be shaped and cut for different fits. Act positive!’ And even on the phone, shameless Marianne recommends seduction! Echoing Angela Wright, who had singled out cases where the offer of sex was used to trick the ex into bringing back the child.

  Have an affair with the father of her missing child? A good man, certainly, but constrained by traumatic times! Oh! The joy of Zaida flying home soon! No need to think the unthinkable. She bursts into smiles as she pushes the first-aid kit back into the drawer. Would she have screwed Khalid to get the girl back? Too late. Tearful, she wipes her face with the silk handkerchief Zaida gave her.

  What will her baby look like? In need of rest. Brimming with stories, she’ll sound quite grown-up at first. Or shy away from questions. Virginia skips out of the office, hearing her voice: ‘Mum, Mum, I’m dying to go back to school!’

  The indoor plants do not need watering and feeding. What annoys Gwen is the ficus, a dingy plastic addition by the interior designer that gives the annex the air of a cheap hôtel de charme 2 étoiles tout confort. She will drag the ghastly thing out with Zaida’s help. Well, not really. They’ll have to give her their full attention, without making her feel bad about having to be fetched.

  She turns to a glass cabinet, where dozens of pie birds have found prime place in front of a mirror placed at the back so that the objects and their reflections give the uncanny effect of a multitude. Patrick Brookside whistles “four and twenty blackbirds” whenever he comes in. What a hoot! Time to do some dusting. At the risk of being obsessive, she keeps cotton buds, paper tissues and white vinegar in the desk for that purpose. As she wipes beaks and contorted necks the size of sunflower seeds, she wonders how Walter is coping with the trip; it can’t be good for his heart. With rapid strokes, she brushes the glazed folds of the feathers, unable to forgive her husband for refusing any drug to relieve arterial pressure. He’s as stubborn as Ian. She’d love to know how those two are getting on. In the long run, Ian will manage to make a good living anywhere. He has bags full of curiosity, talent and warmth; and the knack of getting his way with all sorts, as Marianne said. He should settle well to journalism. Virginia, if the clinic went to the wall, would never learn another trade. And how will they keep the clinic running when Walter goes? Gwen rubs hard her favourite creature lying in her palm as if forcing it back to life before placing the amulet on the shelf, safe, shiny black and yellow under the mirror light, throbbing with reflections.

  Back in Chateau Mourel, Marianne cocks her head to listen to house martins bickering under the eaves while making the bed, satisfied that it shows no more sign of her shenanigans. The flight back is booked for the three of them! Last night, uplifted by the tremendous news, she pleased herself, as happens when there is no partner on the menu. She celebrated by herself, waves of joy pouring into her.

  Waking up, she continues to rejoice. Getting Ian and Walter out there was the right strategy in spite of Virginia’s misgivings. Her pride blends with the astonishment at things working out so well.

  To calm herself, she resumes the routine that never fails to steady her by transporting her to the girls’ dormitory where a well-made bed was seen as the apex of obedience, personal hygiene and a pure mind. Literature had been French since Tristan et Iseut; Art resided solely in Le Louvre; History and Religion had the knack of betraying le Peuple. Unlike internet generations, she was taught by acerbic females in awe of the subjunctive, harsh on mediocrity, patois and spelling, who believed in the power of books to combat womb-shaped destinies; praised for thinking for herself. Will Zaida be equally fortunate when wired up to social networks? How can she grow through the rupture from the Al-Sayeds? Which talismans will she hang on to? Prayers and books in Arabic, and what else?

  Virginia won’t change, paralysed by distrust and pessimism. She was still doubting that dramatic call from Aleppo, saying she can’t be in seventh heaven until she sees them. Never mind! There will be no drawn-out lawyers’ war.

  With orderly gestures, she folds up her Thai silk pyjamas and rearranges the two pillows. No-one can accuse her of neglecting her duties! She is untied, thoroughly liberated from that 17-year-old self. Owing to Ian. Friendly enough, he helped her shred what little was left of the romance, an imprint for the paper basket. Jolly good! Good riddance to her befuddled yearnings for the Franklins. Virginia sees in her a needy orphan, always on the lookout for substitute parents. Certainly, she has taken to the Franklins instinctively; and not just because father and son are irresistible. She saw in them that sense of the common good and discipline, generosity and respect for civic values that her godmother was also nurturing in her. Let Zaida carry the baton!

  – 17 –

  Aleppo’s Citadel

  Hotel Al-Rais, with oodles of character inside and a sprawling rooftop terrace, could not
be better situated. The 18th-century hotel is close to Bab Antakya, a medieval gate leading to the thriving heart of Aleppo and the Christian warren of Al-Jeida. On Friday, as night falls, throngs of Muslims join Christian and Jewish crowds who jostle past each other, as they have done for centuries, in the narrow stone-flagged lanes to patronise shops, bars and restaurants sprouting in the courtyards. Abdul shines with good will when his friends congratulate him on the booking. A World Heritage site, Aleppo has much to offer to all faiths. They had better not lose any time. After choosing rooms facing a leafy inner courtyard, the group splits up.

  Ian switches off the television, where what seems like a burlesque opera has replaced the generally unintelligible news. At least he could make some sense of the political importance of an international weightlifting event, fascinated by the shivering Syrian flags tattooed on chests and biceps. Then more suicide bombers in Iraq. It struck him that he had not missed the news all that much… McCain and Obama bickering over the right number of troops to withdraw in 2013, as if politicians could predict that far ahead! Journalists, too, collude in the pretence that somebody, somewhere, has things under control. Assholes! Well, he shouldn’t remain at The Vancouver Sun. Clint is dead right – he lacks the cynicism, the hardened heart, the objective eye. It’d be good to talk. He’ll try and ring after exploring the city. Changing his tired jeans and naff trainers for something less American-tourist-on-the-prowl, he wonders why he should bother about his looks here. He buckles the red leather belt carrying his wallet and mobile and slips in his passport, just in case. Grabbing a map of the old city from the reception desk, he puts on the smart white basketball cap that Zaida likes him to wear.

  Abdul proposes to take Zaida to the Great Mosque for the evening prayer. Super. She likes to watch the children playing in the side alleys of the prayer hall. Afterwards, she will look for an internet café where she can email her mother: “I am living a dream, signed Princess Lascha.” She has enough sense not to mention Grandpa being sick. She won’t say either how brilliant Uncle Ian is with his needles – that would annoy her mum no end!

  Walter rushes to the reception asking for a new phone card. It is not too late to make a call and find out how Gwen and Virginia are getting on with the clinic. He will babble on, but keep to himself his fear that Zaida may be staying behind for several weeks. International numbers are so expensive that his calls never last more than two or three minutes. Back in his room, he cannot take his eyes from the decor, imagining his wife exclaiming at each opulent detail: mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture; handmade fabrics swirling from floor to ceiling; latticed windows with carved shutters; a ceiling patterned like a rug. Here’s an idea! Give Gwen one of the heavy-textured tablecloths Damascus is famous for. She is prodding him about the accounts. He helps himself to icy water, thinking that in less than a week the business side of the clinic has become such small beer to him. There is a pleasant feeling obliterating the early disorientation and that weird sickness in Hama, a lightness of heart that pushes the question of Zaida’s return to the back of his mind. Perhaps he ought to consider letting go of the clinic altogether; think of retirement, travelling, leisure. And return to Syria with Gwen and Virginia for a less pressured visit. Tomorrow morning, he will feel light on his feet, free of fatigue, the faint pains having gone after a few treatments; bog standard, of course, but Ian does them with good grace. He will get postcards and then pop into one of the coffee bars by the gateway to the citadel, thankful not to have the overprotective Al-Sayeds at his side. With the city map at hand, he will enjoy finding his way around the maze of alleyways; and he will cope nicely with touts pestering tourists by scoffing them off – “Allah will show me the way!”

  Khalid checks Abdul is happy to unpack by himself before the evening prayer. Afterwards, should they take their guests to the rooftop restaurant in the new city where Italian and French dishes are on the menu? His father prefers an old favourite by Souk Ibn Al-Khashab where the finest cherry kebabs are served with spicy aubergines. Not the bland tins of tuna fish and baked beans they had lived on as refugees.

  Careful not to draw Zaida’s attention, Khalid tiptoes past her bedroom intending to have a quiet time, however brief. His luggage has been left by Walid on top of a low wooden cupboard hiding an ugly metallic safe. He flips through his attaché case where he keeps his papers and a work file he has not yet opened. That can wait. Nobody has been through his things but what’s the point of checking, or even changing his passwords? He is small fry! And Omar is bound to play fair with family. He won’t unpack apart from the clean white T-shirt emblazoned with a large CND sign that Ian gave him. Disregarding cotton shirts – too formal, he slips it on, pleased to look like a tourist.

  Khalid’s mobile rings. Ian. Surrounded by police.

  ‘I beg you, talk to them. I’m in deep shit.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The citadel. At the gate of Khan Al-Sabun, something like that. Help me, please!’

  To let a minivan squeeze through Souk Al-Zerb, Khalid flattens himself against a stall, spilling nuts and sweets before falling flat on his face on the rough cobblestones under a torrent of well-practised insults from a shrivelled face peeping from the shade. ‘Who wants to kill this dog for me?’

  Before anyone moves, Khalid apologises and throws a handful of Syrian pounds into an empty basket. As he shuffles off, there is a shooting pain in his left knee. He stops walking, swearing for wasting so much time. Luck returns at the sight of Walid moving out of the vine-hung trellis hiding the regulars’ side door to Hammam Bakri. There is no time to explain anything as, waving in the direction of the citadel, he urges Walid on.

  ‘Forget about me! Get my guest out of the police’s hands! Take this purse and go!’

  One hour later Khalid leads the way up the stairs, limping to the empty top terrace of Hotel Al-Rais where one may not be overheard. He tugs at a glass of pomegranate juice while glaring at Ian who, crestfallen and apologetic, is recounting the bundles of Syrian notes he has just stacked on the squat coffee table separating them.

  ‘How is your knee?’

  ‘No fuss, please. I should be fine tomorrow.’

  At first they talk in whispers, blind to the view sweeping over minarets, domes and arcaded gates leading to the natural mound whose fortress walls and fortified bridge dominate the old city.

  ‘Is that bribe enough to get my passport back? How much will Walid keep for himself?’

  Khalid grunts with impatience, his good manners pushed aside. ‘Forget the money for the moment! Tell me what happened before Walid found you. Before you rang me. Everything. Not so fast this time.’

  Flushed, Ian leans back, screwing up his eyes to revisit the scene. ‘It’s bloody stupid! I was strolling along the esplanade taking photos, stopping to check the map, enjoying the crowd at the café tables, and…’ He draws his breath in. ‘It wasn’t planned, I swear… I found myself following this kid.’ He gives Khalid a sly look.

  ‘You’re bonkers, man, following a pimp in the full glare of the police! I can’t believe it!’

  ‘The guy came out from nowhere, or an alley on the right, just a few steps ahead of me, balancing his hips, mincing steps, slowing down. I was just behind—’

  ‘Spare me the details! What was he wearing?’

  ‘A black shirt, loose over tight jeans. Nike football boots, black and red. Quite posh. A light blue canvas handbag over his left shoulder. He knew someone was following him – he turned round and gave me a kind of twisted smile. The next thing, I was surrounded by security. With guns. Three guards in camouflage gear shouting at me, doing my pockets, my bag. The smart kid ran off. That scared me. I managed to call you, before I was punched in the stomach. A security van arrived, they got handcuffs out. Everything went so fast. Then, thank God, I heard Walid shouting.’

  Khalid looks more thoughtful as the story unfolds in fragments.

  ‘The
y let me go. I couldn’t believe it was over. They turned their backs on me, ignoring me, smiling and chatting with Walid as if nothing had happened. Jesus, it was close!’

  ‘You goat, you fell for it. No bum dresses like that unless he’s a pimp cruising the tourists. Or, much worse, these shitheads could be on the game too – I mean, a bit of extortion on the quiet since no victim complains officially.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Not that I saw that guy properly.’ Maybe he did... a shape at his side in the shop selling old prints… a flick of painted fingers holding a book… a whiff of perfume, a yellow streak of hair, a glitter of an earring. How resilient and swift these impressions are! He can’t tell Khalid about them. And why did he ignore the obvious? The tawdry pinch on his buttock, the narrow alley… the dope vendors scampering away at the sound of heavy stamping. Did his mind register all of these warnings to no effect?

  ‘Forgive me, please! What can I say?’

  ‘Forget him! Whether he was working on his own or not, in the end they are sure to get him or another guy to swear the bloody American was soliciting. Pure and simple. Looks like they can charge you for indecent assault – quite a crime.’

  ‘I’m not an American! And being gay is not stamped yet on passports.’

  ‘Makes no difference.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’ Ian jumps to his feet, searches frantically in his bag and looking contrite drops back into his seat. ‘The bastards! My mobile, gone for good!’

  Khalid can hardly control his voice, mocking Ian. ‘What do you expect, you bloody journalists? The red carpet treatment? Amnesty International on tap at your hotel? Plenty of people here would cheer at the prospect of a disgusting American queer ending up in jail.’