The Nothing

by Hanif Kureishi

  I feared that contentment would ruin me as an artist. I would lose my edge, fury, aggression and bitterness. I’d have better things to do than entertain the public. I’d seen it in others. But being with Zee was an experiment I had to make. I’d been over-defended. It had kept me from deeper, more disturbing and exciting experiences. I wanted to see, at last, how close I could get to a woman. How close I could get to another human, while we remained separate human beings. I wanted to lose myself and become utterly dependent. I wanted her to change me.

  Another thing. It was curious: from the start Zee told me not to spend the night beside her. Did she find me unattractive? Did I snore, sweat or curse more than usual?

  She had a djinn. An aunt had used black magic on her.

  As a fan of the occult, I insisted on witnessing the djinn’s business. These really were the black hours. I’ve never known anyone suffer from such nightmares. She’d scream, and often kick and punch me. She’d cry out that she was dying. Being murdered, more like. I never left her side. She was comforted and less ashamed. I have never abhorred a single thing about her, and I always tell her that.

  Zee and I married, to show our seriousness. I wanted to be a husband, but had to become a stepfather too. I took care of her twin daughters, who could be a handful and sided with their meek father. They were brought up to be respectful but I had kidnapped their mother, willingly, and them, unwillingly. I learned the hard way what a catastrophe being a step-parent can be: how much hate and humiliation you are obliged to swallow. These children, who were not mine, but belonged to a decent man, were more difficult than any movie I’d made. Some days their cruelty was unbearable. We sent them to their father when we could. I went into therapy when I found myself wishing they were not there at all. I believed I was even prepared to give up their mother when the kids made me into an ogre I couldn’t bear to be.

  I took good advice, and survived. The achievement of loving a woman meant more to me than anything else.

  At last we settled the kids in American universities, for which I paid. I got one girl through rehab and madness. Now they are doing well. Jasmine works in hotels. Samreen reminded me of myself: an indolent, grubby and vile-tongued teenager, who rejected most education, became a vegan and a slut, and disappeared herself from several expensive schools. I rescued her from police stations twice. We almost lost her. In her late twenties she gained momentum with a sudden ambition to become a doctor. She sat down and studied. She became a dedicated gynaecologist, working with poor women in Los Angeles. We have come to like one another. Both girls have taken my name and they can make me laugh. I am proud to be head of this family.

  In the last ten years I declined and became weak. Cocaine had done for my heart. I have a stent. I also have most illnesses: diabetes, prostate cancer, an ulcer, early MS, constipation, diarrhoea and only one good hip, a cough, phobias, addictions, obsessions and hypochondria. Otherwise I’m in great shape. Zee takes care of me. It is her responsibility, and love.

  Until now: there is much muffled talk and laughter until at last near-silence.

  He is melting her down. Soon they will be doing things for the first time, sharing confidences, songs and kisses, exchanging jewellery, discovering one another’s likes and dislikes, becoming a couple, an essential part of one another.

  I can catch some of it but not enough. I will need a better way than this to receive the minutiae.

  Then, if this betrayal is real, you can count on me: I will do something stupid.

  FIVE

  I still wake up as a young man, until I begin to move. However, I decide to decide. There will be motion. Something must happen. I will not surrender. We should go out. It might change something.

  I dislike the country; I despise the suburbs; the city is a trial. I inhabit a small world. It’s no loss. Recently Zee and I went on an enjoyable day trip to West Kensington: the Talgarth Road was our Route 66. We’ve discussed sampling the ecstasies of Acton, a place as exotic to me as Liberia. Graham Greene would have had a ball.

  In the next few weeks we have two social events lined up, followed by foreign trips. Zee and I discuss them. We will attend. It is too enclosed in here. We need more life.

  Growing old isn’t for pussies. Despite my disabilities, Zee and I still carouse. It’s an effort; I do it for her, since her pleasure is mine. She loves parties and openings. Being a little naive, she considers them glamorous and goes keenly through the invitations which still arrive every day. She replies, organises a car to get us there, and checks out the facilities at the other end. The nurse will wash and dress me, and in I roll in my chariot of ire. Old friends come and take my hand, crouching down next to me to hear my bad news and give me theirs.

  At lunch she puts a ‘stiffie’ – a stiff envelope – to one side.

  ‘This would have been an opportunity.’

  ‘We must go. Zee, I’ve been so inactive—’

  She says, ‘Last month there were three funerals of your close friends and two memorial services. And one deathbed scene.’

  ‘I’ve neglected you. The dying are egotists. Let’s do it—’

  ‘I think Eddie should help us,’ she says.

  ‘Eddie Warburten?’

  ‘He’s kinder than you realise.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He squeezed that spot on the back of your neck which I couldn’t bear to touch, and gave up two days to take you to the doctor’s and to hospital. He’s better than any assistant and never complains. He helped you in the shower.’

  She’s right. It’s not often a film critic fondles your balls. I was naked, splayed on a stool, as he rubbed my ruined body down with a flannel. I pity him having to touch me, but he wasn’t afraid. I’m too intelligent for shame, but he gave me no reason to be embarrassed. He dressed me and got me into bed: strenuous work.

  ‘Eddie has a knack with bow ties. You can’t wear that torn Frank Zappa T-shirt all the time. Those stained shorts are for the bin. The balaclava makes the neighbours think you’re a terrorist. You know I love your silver hair, Waldo. You should show it off.

  ‘Anyhow, you enjoy his company: I hear you laughing, or, rather, coughing up your lungs with that ganja he gets for you. It was you who invited him here – not me. You encourage him with his projects, and asked him to stay the night.’

  Even I tire of myself. It is essential for her to have some relief from me.

  I say, ‘Let’s consider this. Most of my friends and allies are dead, and many of my friends disappeared once I stopped being a working artist and could be no use to them. But why not take Anita, if she’s free? They’d rip the clothes from her back.’

  ‘Would anyone look at me? I’d feel undermined. Don’t you see enough of her? How often does she call?’

  Zee decides to take Eddie shopping. He’ll be fine once he’s been redecorated, or ‘sharpened up’.

  ‘Like a knife?’

  *

  It is serious work. The rebranding of this mildewed ear takes several afternoons. There is, I admit, much to do.

  They have been buzzing around London in taxis.

  Eddie is prepared at last. We open a bottle. He shows us a nice suit which fits him, unlike most of his clothes. We witness a new raincoat, several jackets and a leather bag slung across his puny chest. I stare at his hair, which my Macedonian has cut. It shines like a bird’s wing: jet-black, for the first and, I hope, last time.

  I notice, when eventually I look down – and this is a stomach-emptying fright – that he is wearing my crocodile-skin Italian loafers. Even the crocodile would blush.

  ‘Good, eh?’

  Zee is proud of him, this comical new man with new teeth, looking slightly sheepish, if not embarrassed. A flute-playing kid with a music certificate, patted on the head by his mother.

  ‘Eddie, aren’t those my shoes?’

  Zee says, ‘You’ll never wear them again and they fit him like a glove, Waldo. They were on their way to the charity shop with everything els
e you’ll never need again.’

  Eddie adds, ‘Waste not, want not. We saved money there.’

  I’d be shocked if I weren’t paying for the toad’s renovation. There is nothing to indicate he has made a contribution. Or that he has any independence. I am puzzled that he will allow himself to be patronised in this way. Where is his pride?

  He is in a jaunty mood as he inspects himself in the mirror from various angles. He attempts to distract me with slanderous stories about movies, directors and actors.

  Zee has bought herself an Algerian shawl and some pretty dresses to ‘cheer herself up’, along with some furniture and rugs. I have to admit, the place looks less blighted. We have neglected it. Many of the drawers are broken; the fridge doesn’t shut properly; the bathroom has become a danger. I try never to lower my eyes, since the carpet is stained, and there could be dead animals down there.

  Now Zee and Eddie are reborn, we launch ourselves into dinners, galas and parties. Without anything being said, he accompanies us.

  ‘Just in case’, as she puts it.

  When you’re in a wheelchair, people literally look down on you. Eddie is useful when we are out, forever behind me, pushing, smiling, keeping fools away where necessary. He recognises faces, and knows how to whisper a few words in my ear as an old friend approaches and their name and accomplishments escape me.

  We fly to Spain for a couple of days, where, crazy with the heat in my orange kaftan and flippity-floppity hat, I’m showered in clichés and receive a lifetime achievement award, always an anticlimax, and apparently signalling my benignity. Zee pushes me out on stage and I smile, wave and weep while she thanks everyone on my behalf. I despise such respectability, even at my age.

  A few days later there is what I can only describe as the big one. My final lap of honour. We go to Cannes. Once, as chairman of the jury, I was given my own car, a driver and two outriders with flashing lights. I strode through crowds and photographers like an emperor.

  As I am rolled towards the stage through the pouty-mouths, playboys and Euro-stardust, I receive a standing ovation. Eddie helps – there really is much pushing, pulling and carrying – and he walks behind us at all times. While he is with me, no one can snub him, ignore him, or refuse to take his calls. They must take his hand, sit next to him at lunch, hear extended accounts of his projects and be offered the opportunity to invest in them. He is in the photographs, passing me a handkerchief to weep into. I weep as easily as others ejaculate. It makes a good impression.

  After the unnecessary fuss over me, the couple park me in the hotel with some bad movies before rushing out to parties with my invitations. I hear that Eddie was greeted at one as if he were me! They gossip, dance and revel until their feet disintegrate, strolling along the edge of the sea to cool their burning soles.

  She returns to our suite at the Carlton early in the morning. I’m half-asleep but say, ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Sorry I’m late, darling. I heard something. Gossip. It took a long time. Of course, I will never tell you. You don’t deserve to hear it. Not this time.’

  ‘You know you will tell me, baby. But, all the same, I love you to tease me.’

  When we return to London I take a long lucubration and make my voice diary. I am becoming more determined. Eddie is taking too much for granted. I will have it out with him and begin my jihad. My wife – and now my hospitality. The world has tilted a little. Everything in it is going wrong.

  All my working life I’ve dealt with producers, publicists, stars and fools. Some I’ve got through to and others I’ve had to smack. A few were wrestled to the floor in the long term.

  He and I will talk. I will wait until she’s out shopping and he is here on his own. I will have him on toast.

  *

  One afternoon the moment arrives. I am in my chair watching him organise the DVDs, my pathetic fists clenched. I know I must act.

  It is amazing how he gets on with things without paying me any attention, as if he hasn’t lapped her sweet snail right under my nose while wearing my shoes. He even whistles – I can see his lips twitching – which I consider a sure sign of wrongness. Perversion has its limits for us normals, unfortunately. It has taken me a lifetime to become as uninhibited as I am. I still wish I could be more committed to the weird.

  ‘So, Eddie …’ His every movement has become a flagellation for me. He turns. ‘Tell me something—’

  ‘Yes? Sorry, Waldo, can I get you a drink? Do you know where your glasses are?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Round your neck, dear friend. Do you need the toilet?’

  ‘No. But you might.’

  If he has a mind, it is elsewhere. I ask him to put on ‘Helter Skelter’ and insist we listen to it twice through my sixties speakers. My blood heats. I’m pumped until I believe my greatest regret is not doing more harm.

  ‘Anita’s favourite song,’ I explain.

  ‘Is she coming here?’

  ‘Would you like to meet her? I could arrange it.’

  ‘Please, you know I would swoon, Waldo. But you’ve always kept me from her. You tease me, sir.’

  I say, ‘Eddie, you’re here – in my flat – a lot of the time, but I don’t know you any more. It’s been a while since we talked. Are you married at the moment?’

  ‘Not exactly right now.’

  ‘You have a lover?’

  He says, ‘I have been drowning. Waldo, things have become difficult for me, man. It’s a hustle out there. You’re well known and admired as a master. Lower down it’s constant graft to get a few hundred pounds here and there. If you’re lucky …’

  ‘Remind me how many children you have.’

  ‘It slips my mind too. Five. Two of them are still at school, and one is at university. One is disabled. She won’t grow. She needs constant care. It’s a misery and has unnerved me for life.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You might remember, there are three mothers, and they pursue me for maintenance, school fees and more, which I can’t cover.’

  ‘Isn’t it your duty, Eddie? We all must struggle to remain upright. You see it in me, the daily work of decency.’

  ‘It’s unmissable in you, Maestro. You know I have several schemes in the air. But I can’t become a millionaire overnight. Still …’

  He looks jittery.

  He leans towards me. As a favour and education he talks about the new Baal: precariousness, the lack of work, of social support and pensions. That we have created a world of billionaires and paupers. He informs me that money is the devil, and that the financial class uses debt to control the population. The cannibalism of capitalism, the emptiness of democracy and hyper-neo-liberal alienation, commodification and stupidity; the virus of money and the way the poor bust their balls to save the financial class – he lays it out for my benefit.

  ‘I have a vision of your future,’ I interrupt. ‘Transgression is the new norm, and enterprise the new word for cheating others. Politicians, entertainers, lawyers – the most respectable fill the prisons. Eddie, can I suggest you go into crime yourself, albeit disorganised crime? How can you afford not to?’

  ‘Very funny, Waldo. No wonder the Queen was keen to pin that CBE on your breast. I’m surprised you weren’t offered a knighthood. Do your best work at a young age, and join the ruling class, eh?’

  He goes on: ‘You, your friends and contemporaries are the most talented people around. But it would be foolish to think that the whole world is like you. Weren’t you a Leftist? A Maoist? Didn’t you stand outside the factory gates at five in the morning selling revolutionary newspapers with the activist actors?’

  I raise a finger to pause him. ‘Eddie, never think of me as anything but a man of the people with a taste for exclusivity. A snob with a common touch. I’ve asked Zee to toss what’s left of my body into a pauper’s grave wearing diamonds. Where do you actually live?’

  ‘I’m still in a small shabby room with a single bed in Soho. The bathroom down th
e hall with a broken window. The landlord a savage who walks in whenever he likes and takes what he fancies. Luckily a friend is helping me find a better place. If I had a grand for a deposit I’d be set.’

  Human beings are double or triple. But one thing I do know, as any noir would instruct, is that they want money more than anything else. They are, in that regard, totally reliable.

  I say, ‘You tempt me, Eddie.’

  ‘I’ll be gone.’

  ‘I want you to be settled. I’d worry otherwise.’

  He looks at me. ‘What are you saying? You’d get the money back.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘I’d never dare, sir.’

  I say, ‘Ask Zee for a grand. Like the Queen, I never carry money. And don’t forget, Eddie, if there’s something you need to say, you can come to me. I am a big ear.’

  When Zee returns he hurries across to her with some enthusiasm. They go across to the kitchen. It is not long before I see her hand over the cash.

  Yet I cannot stop laughing. I intended to dissect Eddie and feed him to the squealing pigs down the hall. But I ended up loaning the bamboozler the bread. Milton refers, in Paradise Lost, to a ‘devilish engine’. Eddie is that motor, roaring in my living room.

  I know laughter is not good for me. I could shit myself or have a stroke. How vulnerable I turn out to be; how Eddie tangled up this wily old fox by appealing to his conscience! Despite my efforts at a Nietzschean elevation, the cunt melted me like an ice cream under a blowtorch.

  I may be a sucker – you will recognise that I have more than enough foolishness in my nature – but momentarily I have bought happiness. This jester has cheered them both up.

  Zee looks delighted, as Eddie slips the wad in his pocket, grinning – but not too much – at my absurd generosity.

  She believes I have seen sense at last. Everything is going as she wishes it to.