by Sarah Hall
My wrist was bandaged in crêpe; you’d wrapped it very neatly, to my surprise. The military service, you explained, when there was little to do but patrol the border, watching for feudal village activity, learning to polish, drill, practising first aid.
And watching pornography.
With the confession, you glanced up from doctoring my wrist.
Sorry.
Why? I don’t care. I’d have watched it too, I’m sure. What kind did you watch?
You laughed, looping the white roll over and under. There was a dull ache in the joint and the occasional throb of pain travelled up my arm. The whole area felt stiff.
Come on, distract me, please.
Well, I had to take it off the men, usually – what’s the word?
Confiscate.
Yes, confiscate.
What was your rank?
Captain.
Oh, Captain.
You gave a heavy sigh.
Everyone has to do it. Not everyone, actually – Hassan, who I worked with before the restaurant, didn’t. He was considered European. Is it too tight?
No, it feels OK. So, what did you watch?
You shook your head, trying not to smile.
What did you like?
I don’t know.
You do!
Well, all kinds. When the woman is in charge.
Oh.
We can’t talk about this.
I leaned forward and kissed you on the neck, very softly, brushed my mouth up towards your ear, a zone you couldn’t resist.
Tell me, I whispered.
You sighed again, capitulating or deciding to play along.
When you can see it going into her mouth, and everything she is doing with her tongue.
Do you like it a long way into her mouth? Deep?
A red patch was beginning to form on your neck.
No, over the end, licking it.
What else?
When she is on top, she really wants it, and the camera can see her ass lifting up and down and it …
I finished your sentence.
When you can see her riding on the dick and the dick is really wet and getting worked.
Oh my God! Definitely!
You laughed again, shocked by the frankness, and caught between discomfort and pleasure. You kept looping the band of crêpe, maintaining its neat rows.
Do you like it when she is shaved?
Not really, that doesn’t remind me of anything.
It’s better if it’s real?
Of course.
Some men just like to watch – they prefer it.
No. How can that be better?
I guess they like to see a woman getting fucked.
I always wanted to fuck her. I don’t think I can finish this properly if the conversation keeps going.
I waited for you to tie the bandage, splitting apart and tucking the crêpe. The pinch of jealousy, as your courteous, discreet front spoiled and experience spilled out, was both painful and exciting. Shadowy scenes from your past, and I was a voyeur. You were kneeling beside me, had been looking down throughout the explicit interview. Now you held my gaze. Your eyes were brightly minted, full of mischief, mild disgrace, the glimmer of arousal.
Why are we talking about this?
It’s a painkiller.
I lifted my arm. The dressing ran in neat chevrons to my finger joints, shortening the digits to stumps. You shook your head.
Some of it was very bad. What they were doing to the women in the films, I mean. I don’t like those things.
Some people do.
I don’t. Actually I don’t know if it was a film or a crime where someone made a video.
The line in the centre of your brow deepened. I knew you enough now; there were two sides close together, different states – from levity, the blue of an iris quickly cooled, becoming glacial, aloof.
It’s hard, being away from your family. No friends, no lover. Even for only a year. I had to talk to soldiers who were going crazy. I don’t want to say it but it has to come out somewhere. There were guns and men. A film is better.
We could talk about most things. But there were native compartments full of history I couldn’t access, and in which I would never belong.
Did you have to use a gun?
You mean did I kill anyone? I saw someone get shot. The border runs through such old villages, people have been there hundreds of years. The same families – it’s tribal. A man crossed over to see his fiancée. The watchtower caught him. We had to take the body back and explain. So, I was responsible, yes.
You were on your knees, upright, with your hands on your hips. A man rearing up from prayer, or refusing to bow, his chest exposed to everything incoming. I wasn’t sure what to say.
So stupid, he was just running. That could have started something.
It was hard to reconcile – the genial partner with hair now falling below the shoulder, and the soldier packing the corpse, your translator doing his best to relay an apology and keep control in a settlement stoked with grief; you turning and walking away with rifle crosshairs on your back. Your smile was tight, not a smile but a defence. He will be better at this than me, I thought. We will be safe.
After a week I was using the hand gently. It wasn’t broken – I was sure I could drive and even help lift food into the van. I wanted to come to the restaurant but you refused.
You have to let it heal. You’ve got to be able to use it to work.
Are you sure?
Yes, I can carry the things.
Maybe you should take your residency papers.
Do you think I need that?
They are stopping people.
I’ve been here ten years!
I don’t think it makes a difference now.
You emptied the last few items out of your rucksack, checked your pockets for a mask, your ID. We stood by the door, preparing, as if it were an airlock, with protean space beyond.
Will you cover up? And wear the gloves?
Yes. I’ll be quick. It’s fine.
OK, bye. I kissed you.
Bye, canım.
An hour later you arrived back. I heard you walking up the iron staircase, slowly, pausing between each step – weighed down with supplies, I thought. I went out onto the fire escape to help you. You were clutching the rails, looking down, stepping upwards slowly, lifting only one leg, then bringing the other beside it. You had no bag and your shirt was hanging loose. On the street was a military Land Rover, its window open, the driver waiting and watching.
Halit. Are you all right?
You didn’t look up; you were concentrating on the stairs.
You weren’t arrested, were you?
You raised your face. There was bruising round an eye and the temple was misshapen, egging out.
Oh shit. What happened?
I moved to help but you lifted a hand and winced.
Go back in.
When you got to the top of the stairs the Land Rover pulled away. There was a grinning cut under your eye. It was not until you were through the door and I saw your back that I realised the extent of it. The shirt was torn and bloody, and underneath, wet red gashes.
Oh God.
You bent forward, trying to remove your shoes, but stalled and gave a sharp cry.
Please take them, you said.
I crouched and undid the laces. You heeled the shoes off.
Why did the army pick you up? Did they do this?
The cheek was swelling madly under your eye.
No. They drove me to a clinic but it was full. One of the guys pulled out some glass but I need to wash the rest.
In the bathroom I helped you undress. You managed the buttons but shouldering out of the shirt was impossible. I gently lifted the material off your back and peeled the sleeves down your arms. There were eight or nine serious lacerations, surrounded by raw grazes and crusts of grass. The cuts were not bleeding heavily; one or two looked deep, gaping through the inner layers.
A long shard was still embedded.
Hang on.
I ran to get a stool and you sat, lowering yourself rigidly.
Did they give you anything?
Aspirin.
Aspirin? That’s it?
I didn’t take it – I’m allergic.
What? I didn’t know that.
It’s fine.
It’s not fine. Where are the bloody police? People are just attacking anyone?
I took the tweezers from the cabinet, tried to clasp the hilt of the glass shard but the metal hands slipped off as I pulled. You made a bitten-in noise, flinched.
Sorry, I’m sorry.
I put my hand on your shoulder, tried again less tentatively, and the shard came out, a long transparent needle. A trickle of blood ran from the puncture, dripped off your back onto the floor.
I really think you need some stitches, Halit.
You stood slowly.
The water will take the rest out.
You stood with your hands on your hips, breathing hard. I switched on the shower.
Can you make it hot?
It’s going to sting.
I turned the setting, and steam began to plume from the cold surface of the bath. You undid your belt, pushed down the jeans and shorts. I bent to help pull them off your ankles and take off your socks. There were marks on your thighs and calves, crescents, the first bloom of bruises.
Do you want to tell me what happened?
I just want to get clean.
OK, let me help you.
I need the toilet.
Shall I leave?
It doesn’t matter.
I stood aside, turned my head and heard the trickle into the bowl, a grunt of discomfort as you lowered the lid. You stepped into the bath, gasped as the water ran onto your chest. Your back was demonic, hatched with holes and stroked by lines of blood. You looked like a creature whose spines had been pulled out. The last, freshest socket was still weeping red. For a minute, you let the water drill your front, your face. Then with huge effort of will you turned and put your back under the spray, crying out as if receiving the injury all over again. You tried to withstand it, but the wails were involuntary and awful, lamb-like. Water ran pinkly round your feet. Your face was distorted underneath its flow; the expression altered so the pain looked ecstatic.
After, you sat, stunned, flushed with heat and trembling, waiting for the air to dry you. You told me what had happened. They’d seen you go into the restaurant. They’d been very quick, so were probably used to doing it by now. You’d locked the door behind, but they smashed and came through the window, took produce, the little money there was in the float. One of them kicking and stamping on your legs so you wouldn’t follow.
As if I would really have tried to stop them, you said hollowly.
I dressed the cuts, stuck cotton pads and tape over the worst. You tried to put on a T-shirt but it was too uncomfortable, so you sat next to the stove, upright and immobilised, then exhausted from the posture, leaning on a pile of cushions, the cotton patches staining. I found some old tobacco and hash, rolled a cigarette and we smoked. Neither of us said what we were thinking – that you’d been badly exposed.
That night you slept on your stomach. Every time you began to move onto your side the pain disturbed us.
Are you OK?
I’m so stiff.
I took your hand, stroked the places that did not hurt.
Halit?
Your eye was open. Then it closed. For weeks you’d reached for me across the bed, in the layer between awareness and unconsciousness, bonding warmly to my hip and waist. Now I guarded the space between my front and your injuries. I adjusted the sheets, as if you were a child. You were awake or unconscious, unreachable either way.
That was the last time you went out. The days after were sober and quiet. You slept a lot, moved carefully from the bed to the chairs, or out into the yard to feel the sun. There were heavy purifying rains, then sunshine again – the plant pots were growing wildly, new flowers had seeded themselves in the patches of earth, the gaps in the wall. You kept going to the sink and drinking water. My birthday passed; I made a small meal, and we sat and ate quietly, and it was enough. But a feeling of violation remained.
We cleaned the cuts every other day. They began to heal, bonding blackly, and could be flexed without reopening; occasionally a bolt of pain jolted you. I found myself inadequate, didn’t really know how to cheer you, what to say. The restaurant was ruined, you were certain; even after repair, how would it withstand the economic collapse that was sure to come? I kissed your cheek.
I’m sorry. I know how hard you worked.
The gentle sex, on our sides, only brought momentary escape. You drew the blanket up, hid us. We were back to being polite and cautious.
Do you want toast?
No, thanks.
You didn’t eat today.
OK, then.
Are you going to work in the studio?
No.
Please don’t let me being here interfere.
For something to do, I cut your hair at the kitchen table. The dark drifts slipped to the floor. The first few greys were appearing above your forehead and in the middle of your beard.
Hold still.
The scissor blades worked crisply; you didn’t move. I tipped your head: the neck tautened, offering an artery, and the harsh whiskers above your lip sprinkled downwards.
What a shame. You looked like Jesus.
That would not go down well with my family.
Jesus was sexy.
Not as sexy as Muhammad.
By the way, I have clippers if you want.
What? Shave it all off? Why do you have them?
I scrolled back in my phone and showed you a photograph of the award ceremony, my stripped scalp, the tattoo. You looked at the picture.
This is you.
Yes.
You look – really thin. And strange.
Yeah, I know.
I mean, you look very different. How do I not know about that! Where is it …?
You pulled me down, sat me on your knee and parted sections of the hair above my ear until you saw the ink.
What is it?
It’s my mother’s name, written in Kanji.
You turned my head and held my face in your hands. You kissed me with a new, uncovered mouth, the old mouth from our beginning, when we’d stood in the winter street.
Don’t look sad, I said, it was just a difficult time.
Worse than now?
In some ways.
Edith, you whispered, you are my love. And I am quite afraid of you.
I liked it. Part of me enjoyed the crisis, I admit. There was relief, almost, in the promised worst, and I think that being two, as we were, so dependent on each other and against the world, was like my upbringing. Artists don’t age, no matter how serious the game they play, how fine and cunning their creations. Even now, can I say what’s real?
This bed.
The sky, in the window, and all its unsettled colours.
This condition, so weak, so unsexual and defenceless, a state of being that has almost passed but still is.
The black, flickering door.
You.
I’m still a halfling on the moors, finding berries, cupping from the underground river, making things out of twigs and thorns. The world exists through recreation, how it is perceived. You were a tear in all that, a gift of sudden truth. Because of you I could say, with certainty, I believe in it, all.
At the table you lifted your arm and reached for the salt, and I saw the rash around the point of bone. Wet, yellowish, with a red halo. There were small bubbles under the skin with pale liquid inside. I caught your arm and held it. Some blisters had burst and their pus was already crusting.
What?
You tried to see, twisting your arm round, then went to the bathroom mirror and held up the elbow. Under your breath, you said a word I didn’t recognise, then closed your eyes, and you
r head fell back. I felt the first sick rising of alarm.
Did you burn it? Or anything.
Silence.
Halit?
No.
We’d both been counting the days – nine since you’d come back hurt.
You faced the ceiling, blind, like the head of a plant waiting for light’s instruction. I tried to find something to say. Then your attention snapped back, you opened your eyes and looked at me.
Do you have anything?
No, I don’t think so.
We have to check.
We stood apart in the bathroom and undressed. There was no thrill; even when you’d been hurt and I’d taken down your shorts I’d noted, for a fraction of a second, the bones of your hips, the brownish penis in a nest of dark hair.
My skin was clear. You made me turn several times, looking everywhere, in my armpits, the backs of my knees. The examination was horribly thorough.
I’m fine. Please stop.
No, turn again. Lift up your feet.
Perhaps you were delaying.
Halit, let me look at you properly. Please.
You stood still as a pillar and I walked round, squatted. There were more marks on your lower back, in the ridge between buttocks. They looked like infant sores, fever blisters, nothing I’d seen in adulthood even when travelling.
Do you think it’s nova?
Your voice was small, urgent.
Yes.
I tried to hug you but you held my shoulders and stood me away.
No, come on, you can’t do that!
You walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom and began stripping the sheets.
We have to wash everything. I’ve touched everything!
Halit, stop, please.
You pulled the covers off the pillows, half frantic, half furious, full of self-reproach.
