The Gifts

by Karen Perry

  Karen Perry

  * * *

  THE GIFTS

  Contents

  The Gifts

  Follow Penguin

  The Gifts

  Night

  In the end, he takes the candles from the bag and places each one in a candle-holder on the table. He gazes at them a moment, before taking a long match in his hands. His fingers are shaking a little – difficult not to after all that has happened. He strikes the match against the coarse strip on the matchbox and watches its end fizzle and fire.

  Outside, Tangier remains in darkness. Who knows when the electricity will be restored?

  He lights each candle with a ceremonial grace, folds away the bag and places it under the table.

  The tray lies on the couch – a discarded present. He reaches for it, runs a finger over the fine filigree, and holds it up to the light thrown by the candles. For the second time that day, he admires its workmanship.

  What will happen to it now, he wonders? Where will it find a home?

  He sets it on the table next to the candles, thinks about fixing a drink – another one – but decides against it.

  The darkness around him is thick, so thick he feels that if he reaches out he could grasp it in his hands. The candles flicker and throw the shadow of his form about the room. This light, paltry as it is, feels intrusive, somehow. After all that has happened, perhaps it is only right that there should be a blanket of darkness and silence. Still, he leaves them burning.

  Lastly, there is the roll of fabric – the final purchase from the souk. He holds it in his hands, brings it to his face and smells its rich odour. He can catch a whiff of the pungent fumes of the marketplace, of diesel from whining scooters mingling with Turkish tobacco.

  He throws out the roll of fabric with a flourish, watches its rapid unfurling, the snap of it as it takes its form then gently finds its landing on the sofa. It is saffron in colour, the shade made softer in this candle-lit room.

  Outside, the streets remain quiet. An eerie calm has returned, but it is not the same as before. A nervous crackle stirs in the air.

  He turns from the sofa, a lit candle in one hand, and walks slowly down the corridor to the bedroom. He pauses at the door. In the silence, he strains to hear something – anything. But there is nothing.

  He knocks gently, then pushes the door open.

  She is lying on the bed, her back to him. The curving slope of her hip running into the valley of her waist. Her hair spread over the pillow. Something reckless about it, he thinks.

  Silence in the room, but she is not asleep. Her body gives out soft shudders at intervals. There is something steady in the staccato tremors of them, evenly paced.

  He feels himself holding back. Waiting. Steadying himself.

  It’s ridiculous, he supposes, after all that has collapsed around them and between them. He goes to the bed, leans over and says in a soft voice: ‘My dear?’

  He can feel the strangeness of the words in his mouth – as if he is her father.

  Then he puts out his hand with the briefest hesitation, and touches her.

  Midday

  ‘What a curious choice,’ Cozimo said.

  He was holding the tray in both hands, testing the size and heft of it. He took it to the window, held it up to the light, saw the sun shimmer briefly through the tarnish; then he peered down the length of his nose at it, the better to see the fine filigree worked through the silver, the whorls and curlicued tails made by the craftsman. All the while he could feel Harry’s gaze hot upon him.

  ‘Curious? Why curious?’

  Cozimo smiled to himself and then looked at Harry.

  ‘You’re giving your wife a gift of a serving tray, my friend,’ he said wryly, handing back the gift. Then he went to the table and began to pour the tea.

  It was almost noon when Harry and the boy had called on him. Buffeted and exhilarated from their morning at the souk, they swept into his home bringing with them a charge of restless energy. He had not been expecting them, and felt the change in the air keenly, but tried not to show it. Orange juice for the boy, mint tea for the men. He held the teapot aloft; the tea poured in a high steaming arc into the cups below. Harry accepted his cup without a word, stared into its depths, and Cozimo felt a twinge of regret over the remarks he had made about the tray.

  ‘Why do you live in a cave?’ the boy asked.

  He was sitting cross-legged on a cushion, staring up at the domed ceiling of the living room. A small boy with a cat-like face, hair falling into his eyes. A serious child, Dillon, whose expressions, it seemed to Cozimo, fluctuated between quizzical and doubtful. Too serious and intent for a three-year-old, he thought.

  ‘Do you think it’s like a cave?’

  ‘Yes. Like Aladdin’s.’

  ‘Ah!’

  And indeed, the domed shape of the ceiling did make it feel like they were in a cave of sorts, although not a dark cave, because of the glass doors opening on to a light-filled courtyard where water spouted from a fountain over a gold and blue tile mosaic, the reflected light bouncing and shimmering over the ceiling of the cave.

  Dillon drank his juice and stared up at the stars that Cozimo himself had painted on to the low stone dome when he had first made this his home. Now, with the midday air feeling heavy and strange, and the unsettled feeling that had been lodged in his chest since early that morning, Cozimo found himself looking at his home in a new light. He looked at the low sofas and the battered cushions scattered over the tiled floor; he looked at the shelves bowing under the weight of his books, at the trinkets scattered over every spare surface; he saw the chink in the china bowl, the bloom of dust on the undersurface of the light’s ceramic orb; saw a corona of grease above the hob through the doorway into the kitchen. He followed Dillon’s gaze up to those stars, and considered for the first time how tawdry they seemed.

  ‘It’s for her birthday,’ Harry said, drawing his attention back to the tray. ‘Robin’s.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He was sitting on the edge of the couch, legs bent, his forearms resting on his knees, cradling the cup in his hands. Somehow, Harry seemed to make this room smaller by his presence, his energy contained like a pugilist before the fight. He had large hands with paint and pigments trapped around the nails and in the creases of the knuckles, and the teacup shrank within their clasp. His eyes, blue and thoughtful, clouded with this new doubt.

  ‘Do you think it’s okay as a gift?’

  ‘It’s a fine piece, my friend.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that she should wait on me, or anything like that.’

  ‘Of course not. It was just my little joke, Harry.’

  The younger man’s eyes flickered towards him – then a quick smile, his nodding head. How young he looked in that moment, Cozimo thought, all that uncertainty inside him. And with that thought came a small stab of envy, catching him off guard. He took a sip of his tea.

  ‘It’s just I want it to be special. After what happened, you know …’

  Harry’s voice drifted into silence, and Cozimo left it there, each of them considering the weeks Harry had spent sleeping on Cozimo’s sofa during the time of his recent disgrace. Now was the moment to ask, to tentatively probe and test the healing of the wound, for he loved Harry – as much as he had loved any friend – and Robin too, in a way, although with her it was different. Her natural reserve, her distrust. Their separation had pained Cozimo, and he was relieved when the reconciliation had come about. Yet still it lingered, that whispered doubt, the sense of unease.

  ‘How is Robin?’ he asked, and Harry brought his gaze up to meet Cozimo’s.

  Noise in the next room – Harry’s head whipped around. The boy was no longer on his cushion.

  ‘Dillon?’ he called to his
son.

  A moment’s pause before the boy appeared in the doorway looking sheepish.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Playing the numbers game.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In there.’ His outstretched arm pointed down the corridor in the direction of the bedroom.

  ‘Is that okay?’ Harry asked Cozimo.

  ‘The numbers game?’

  ‘Cards. He means cards. Solitaire or whatever.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, no!’ Cozimo said, smiling and waving his hand, playing the indulgent uncle, a role he enjoyed.

  ‘Don’t break anything!’ the father called after his son. Then, looking back at Cozimo, he sighed in the fatigued way of parents, and said, ‘Thanks.’

  Cozimo gave a nod of understanding, insofar as he could understand, childless as he was. In moments like these, it was customary for him to feel a small glow of satisfaction that he was unfettered, unencumbered by children, that he had made that choice and was both happy and relieved he had. But today, with this strangeness that was upon him, he did not feel that way at all.

  ‘I have it all planned,’ Harry was saying, ‘Robin’s birthday. Look.’

  He reached for his bag and began pulling things out – other purchases and gifts from the souk.

  ‘Candles – for a little romance. The saffron throw to cover the sofa and hide the general grubbiness.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I’m going to prepare roast lamb and couscous, and I have a couple of bottles of rosé chilling in the fridge.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  ‘I want it to be just right.’

  ‘Just the two of you, is it?’

  ‘Sorry, Coz. We’ll have you over another time. Tonight, it’s just the two of us.’

  Harry smiled broadly and leaned back into the sofa, one arm resting along the back. The relaxed posture, the confidence in his smile, was suddenly maddening. Cozimo thought about all the hours he had spent consoling his friend, a forced witness to the rending apart of Harry and Robin’s marriage. He thought of the despair and the grief that had been brought into his home, which he had borne patiently and uncomplainingly. And now, he looked at his friend sprawled on the couch, the doubts over the tray all vanished now, replaced by this confidence that seemed to teeter close to smugness, and Cozimo couldn’t help but feel a stab of betrayal. This refusal to acknowledge the recent hurt, this blanking out of the recent past, bothered him in a way that took him by surprise.

  He got to his feet, poured the last of the tea into their cups, and turned the conversation to art – a much safer subject. If Harry had noticed the older man’s discontent, he did not say. But Cozimo was well-practiced at concealment, and he doubted whether Harry had noticed at all.

  ‘I suppose we’d better get moving,’ Harry said after a while. ‘Leave you in peace.’

  Cozimo smiled.

  ‘Let me gather up your charge for you.’

  He left Harry there and went down the corridor to his bedroom, heard the shush-shush of his leather slippers on the tiled floor, felt pain in the muscles of his face now he could let his expression clear. The air was so heavy and thick – he felt it clotting in his chest and pressing down on his head. He thought about going down to the harbour once they had gone, or even venturing up into the hills above the city. The trek would be worth it for a breath of fresh cooling air.

  It was darker in his bedroom, the louvred blinds half closed over the window. The boy was crouched on the ground in front of the bureau and for a moment Cozimo didn’t realize what Dillon was doing. The numbers game, he had called it – cards. But these were not playing cards spread out on the floor. Cozimo looked down at the images fanning out around the child’s knees.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said, and the boy, catching the sharpness in his tone, the current of anger that ran through it, looked up quickly.

  Instead of answering, Dillon began scrabbling for the cards, trying to gather them up, and the sight of this sent a brief spasm of panic through Cozimo – the boy’s fumbling hands, cards spilling from his grasp, images flashing and falling. The sandalwood box where he so reverently stored the Tarot lying open on the floor, like gaping maws.

  ‘Don’t touch them!’ he shouted. ‘Stop, just stop!’ He reached forwards and snatched the cards from the boy’s hands, felt the child’s fright as he shrank back against the bureau, but he couldn’t tamp down on his own rising fear. These cards held their own power. They were not to be interfered with. In the wrong hands they could wreak a quiet devastation. The blood was pounding in his ears.

  Hastily, he gathered them together, straightened them into order and slipped them back into the box, closed the lid, and felt the release of his breath.

  ‘Here,’ said Dillon. ‘You forgot this one.’

  He turned and looked at the card held out in the boy’s hand.

  A skeleton in armour riding a horse, a black banner in its hand. On the banner a white rose. Scattered around the horse and skeleton, bodies.

  In this deck, the card was not named. But Cozimo knew it. He knew it immediately.

  Fear rose up in him; the card held out to him like a judgement of doom. In that small triangular face, Cozimo saw all of the boy’s youth and innocence, the years unlived, and his own life seemed to run through his fingers like sand, too quickly, leaving behind a fine residue of regret. It was then the panic rose up and overwhelmed him. Moving quickly, Cozimo rushed to the boy, plucking the card from the child’s hand and holding it aloft, his own hand shaking as he held it there for an instant, fear turning to anger and he was certain, in that moment, that he was going to bring his hand down and strike the child.

  ‘Daddy!’ the boy cried and ran to the door where Harry stood, his face shadowed, his expression unreadable.

  The boy flung his arms around his father, buried his face into his shirt, and Cozimo saw Harry’s hands large against the boy’s trembling shoulders.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Cozimo realized the card was still in his hand – it felt like it was burning there. He opened the sandalwood box, slipped the card inside and let the lid fall down with a snap.

  He looked back to Harry, went to say something, but Harry broke the silence first.

  ‘We’ll let ourselves out,’ he said steadily, his voice giving away no emotion.

  Cozimo stood where he was and listened until he heard the door close behind them. Around him, there was nothing but the sudden stillness of the air and the sound of his blood thrumming softly in his head.

  Afternoon

  He set the bag containing the gifts on the chair by the window and took for himself the seat with the view of the street. It was quiet in this part of the quarter – unusually so. The heat seemed to have driven everyone out of the city. The café, usually vibrant, was half-empty, a listlessness hanging over the place like a held breath.

  Cozimo ordered coffee and turned in his seat to watch the waitress as she went back to the counter. He observed the way her hand skimmed the counter-top as she passed, the sound her flip-flops made as they hit her heel, the line of her underwear beneath the white cotton stretch of her jeans. Her name was Maya and, like him, she was past the first flush of youth. Perhaps this was why he liked her. Perhaps this was why he had come here today, a day that felt blighted by the youth that surrounded him.

  ‘Coffee for the Prince of Tangier,’ she said as she returned, setting the demitasse down in front of him, the crockery clinking on the table-top. He smiled sadly down at the table.

  ‘Not a prince of anywhere, Maya,’ he said softly. ‘I’m feeling very mortal today.’

  She caught the tone of his voice, lingered a moment considering him, her tea-towel slung over one shoulder.

  ‘Is everything alright, Cozimo?’

  The way she said it, the quietness of her tone, brought a hush to the table and to the noisy clamour of his thoughts, and the fact of her conc
ern – this woman he barely knew – came over him so swiftly and unexpectedly, that he found he couldn’t speak.

  Maya looked about her. The café was quiet. Her coworker was wiping a table and, recognizing Maya’s appeal, she nodded her head. Maya sat down next to the chair with the bag. She looked at it briefly, took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Cozimo.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said, gathering himself a little.

  She shook one out and lit it, patiently waiting for him to pull himself together.

  ‘You have been shopping,’ Maya said, looking at the bag.

  He followed her gaze, remembered turning the tray over in his hands, examining the engraving under the light.

  ‘No. No, those aren’t mine. A friend left them in my house when he was visiting earlier. I was going to return them to him.’

  At the counter, the other waitress was polishing glasses, slotting them back on to shelves, and he thought then of Robin, at work in a different bar in another part of town. Her birthday today. He thought of the stillness of her face, how unreadable she was. He tried to imagine her reaction to this gift, and found that he couldn’t.

  The ash fell from the end of Maya’s cigarette into the ashtray before her.

  ‘You look a little tired, Cozimo. I hope you don’t mind me saying.’

  Her elbow rested on the table, the cigarette held gracefully between her fingers. Tiny lines fanned out from her eyes to the corners of her face. Her eyes were very dark and there was a kind of bravery about their clear gaze, as if she could face down anything. As if she had nothing to hide.

  ‘Do you have children, Maya?’

  She nodded, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth away from Cozimo.

  ‘I have a daughter in Madrid. She’s twenty-two.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  She smiled then, pride creeping into her expression.

  ‘She’s an old soul, I think. From the time she was a little girl, always so self-possessed, so in control.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’