Four Letter Word

by Joshua Knelman

  I send you my sweet kisses and tight embraces …

  Svetlana (Sveta) (Sweetie)

  HISHAM MATAR

  Nori al-Alfi,

  c/o Daleswick College,

  Greystoke, England

  Mona al-Alfi, 21

  Fairouz Street,

  Zamalek,

  Cairo, Egypt

  29 October 1978

  Beautiful Mona,

  Yesterday was my birthday. Today is the first day of my new fourteenth year. Strange to think I will only be thirteen once, as I was only twelve, eleven, ten, once and will never be again. I cannot say I feel any different, but I suspect I have grown even taller since the summer. You will be amazed now how fast I am growing. Soon I will be taller than you.

  It has been six weeks since we were last together, 43 days exactly. I can still remember how my throat tightened as we approached Cairo airport early in the morning, trying to keep my promise of not crying. Why must all horrible things take place early in the morning? My feet are still browner around the strap marks of my summer sandals. Now it is so cold I must wear one pair of socks over another, and still my toes freeze. You are right; England is turning my skin the colour of garlic.

  Alexei, the German boy I share my room with, is one year older than me and tells me he became a man midway through his thirteenth year. He told me about something called wet dreams. He says they are wonderful. When I asked him if girls have wet dreams he said he did not know but suspects they do not; so I have no idea if you know what wet dreams are and if you, too, think they are wonderful.

  It was fantastic to see Father yesterday. He flew from Geneva just to spend the day with me. He managed to convince stubborn old Mr Galbraith, my housemaster, to let me skip school on account that I was ‘Mr Birthday Boy’. That was how Father put it. You are right; he can convince anyone of anything. He is a fantastic talker. What a great surprise it was: in the middle of morning class Mr Galbraith walks in and who is behind him, wrapped in a coat and scarf, but Father. I almost cried. I know you keep telling me to stop being sad, that I must be careful of my sadness, but I do not know why such surprises make me sad, as sad as they make me happy. I could see the other boys squirm with envy as my father took me away. I was even permitted to skip the evening study hour, and so was exempt from handing in my prep the following day. I only had to be back by lights-out. What a treat it was to be driven away in Father’s car. It was wonderful to sit in the soft warm leather upholstery all the way to London, particularly when I knew I should have still been sitting at that hard wooden desk facing the blackboard. When we drove away, I hoped that by some miracle I would never have to return to this cold place ever again. Father let me choose the music on the radio. It was wonderful, but it would have been paradise if you were there.

  I hope you like your new coat. Did Father tell you that it was I who had spotted it first? I hope he did. But he might not have because when people buy someone a gift they like them to think it was all their idea. But, believe me, I saw it first in the window of Annabell’s, the shop you like on South Molton Street, and it was also I who convinced him to buy it even though it was ‘horrendously’ expensive. I do not know how much, but Father’s eyes bulged when he inspected the price tag and he said, ‘It is horrendously expensive.’ When I asked him what that word meant exactly, he said horrendously was similar to extremely. So I told him, ‘You must buy it then because Mama Mona is extremely and horrendously beautiful.’ (I called you Mama Mona because, as you know, he insists I do.) This made him laugh and he took the coat to the cashier. Anyway, I hope you like it. I cannot wait to see you in it, your hair rolled up in the usual way, like an actress in one of the old films.

  It is almost 10.30 now, time for lights-out. I can hear Mr Galbraith’s heavy footsteps coming up the long corridor, making sure that the two boys in every room are in their pyjamas and under the covers. It is so cold here. Which brings me to your beautiful gift. The pyjamas are perfect. Abu Muftah is the best tailor in Cairo, do you not agree? At least in pyjamas he is. Please tell him that they fit perfectly. The fabric is so soft and warm and comfortable that wearing it is almost like being in your arms. They are my favourite birthday gift ever. I am so thankful that God gave me such a beautiful stepmother. I have not looked at Mama’s picture for at least a year now. Before you married Father, I used to keep her in my pocket. I was so happy when you finally married Father, not only because it meant you moving in with us, but also because now you and I share the same last name.

  I have to stop. Mr Galbraith is about to open the door and switch off the light, say what he always says every night and morning: ‘Good night, girls. Good morning, girls.’ He thinks he is being funny. He is here, bye.

  After Mr Galbraith left, Alexei and I lay in the dark talking, as sometimes we do. I asked him to tell me what I will see in a wet dream and he said I would see the woman of my dreams, the woman I will some day marry. I could not sleep after that. And long after we had stopped talking I had to wake him up to borrow his pen-size flashlight, which he and I call the James Bond pen, so as I could continue writing to you from beneath the covers. I must be careful because at this time Mr Galbraith takes his dog, Jackson, walking in the fields behind the house. He must not see a light.

  Sometimes, like now, I miss you so much something in my chest hurts. When I cannot sleep, or if I am woken up in the dark by a bad dream, I say your name over and over in my head. I shut my eyes and try to see your eyes, hear your voice, smell your neck.

  Let me return to my birthday with Father. He and I ate at your favourite restaurant, Clarisse’s. I chose it because I knew you would have. You are right; they make the best cheese fondue in London. And you are also right that it is nowhere as good as the Cafe du Soleil in Geneva. I cannot wait for us to be there together in December. I am counting the days, 48 from today. But I was devastated when Father told me that I would only have one week with you. One week! He is taking you after that to visit his friends in Rome and I will have to return to Cairo alone and spend the holidays all on my own in that big flat in Zamalek with only Naima the maid to keep me company. I know Father loves me, but I think he hates it when you and I are together. This is why he sent me here after you got married. This is why he is taking you to Rome. This is why he asks me to call you Mama Mona. He is jealous. I wish we were Christians so as I could spend the entire Christmas holidays with you. God should have made us the same age.

  He waited until we finished our meal at Clarisse’s to tell me. I of course ordered the cheese fondue. He ordered a large steak that bled every time he pressed it with his knife. Afterwards I ordered strawberry ice crème and he asked for a black coffee. When it arrived he lit a cigarette that kept smoking in my direction. As usual, we did not talk about much. He always seems bored when he and I are alone. His eyes looked beyond me and every time the waitress came, he seemed to come alive; whenever he has to speak to anyone else he comes alive. Sometimes I wish I can come to him as a stranger, to ask him things like if he ever misses Mama. She has been dead for over six years now and he never mentions her name. When someone would ask him about a plate or a piece of furniture she had bought, like you used to do, he would say, ‘Nori’s mother bought that.’ Do not worry; I am not upset at him. Please, please, please do not mention any of this to him. I love him and I love him more for bringing you into my life. You know how some films switch from black-and-white to colour when the director wants us to know that time has moved on, or that things have become happier? The last year, since you married Father, has been like that. Anyway, just when I started eating the ice crème, he told me that you two would be spending Christmas and New Year in Rome without me. At that moment I wished he never came or took me to London; I wished it were not my birthday.

  I have to stop now. I will try to wake up early to finish.

  It is 6.40 in the morning. I am under the covers, but already dressed in my uniform. It seems even colder now. The sun might as well not be here. The clouds are as thick
as blankets and their edges look bruised. The trees are leafless and dark. The whole thing looks like an ugly black drawing from a horror book. I remember, when you came here a year ago with Father, how you said that you love the English countryside, how romantic you find winter, how much you miss England. And when I said it was gloomy, you said it was exactly that gloominess that made it romantic and asked me to read Wuthering Heights. Well, I have read that book now and I still do not understand what you mean. I hate the cold and I hate Daleswick. There are boys here as old as eighteen; is that how long Father intends on keeping me here?

  Summer is too far off to imagine. For a while all I could think of was December with you in Geneva, sitting beside you in the Cafe du Soleil, but ever since Father told me of his plan to take you to Rome I have been trying to imagine the summer months with you instead. Let’s go to Alexandria again. Father will have no excuse then; we will spend the entire time together, swimming and getting as brown as we can.

  I do not think it was a wet dream, but last night I dreamt I was kissing your shoulder. When I woke up I touched my underpants and they were dry. Alexei says that is the proof. But maybe they dried by the time I woke up. Anyway, it was a beautiful dream. You started laughing and snorting like you do when I tickle you.

  I am keeping to my promise: praying all the five prayers and saying my dua every day. And I have already memorised the five suras you asked me to memorise. I cannot wait to recite them to you.

  I have to go now or else I will miss breakfast. Today there will be no chance of Father turning up, and even less of you.

  God protect you. I kiss your neck, the spot we agreed was mine and only mine. 48 days. No, I forgot, 47 now.

  Forever yours,

  Nori

  GEOFF DYER

  Letter to several possible recipients from the mid-1980s

  To whom it may concern

  Obviously I am writing to say sorry. I know this is meant to be a love letter but, as you will have guessed, I am one of those men for whom love – contrary to what the Ali McGraw/Ryan O’Neil film claimed – always means having to say you’re sorry. At some point love letters become letters of apology. The thing separating the two is also the thing that makes the one blur into the other: a relationship.

  To start at the beginning, I saw you at that party in wherever it was and you were beautiful. Is it superfluous to say that? Is there a man in the world who does – or at the very least did – not think his woman beautiful? (I fear that this is a paraphrase of something Arsène Wenger said, and back in the 1980s, when this letter purports to have been written, no one had heard of Arsène Wenger. But the thing about this letter is that while it’s meant to be sort of written by me in my twenties it’s a version of me in my twenties who benefits from all the wisdom and insight I’ve amassed – not much actually – since then. So, for the sake of clarity: as well as being a letter not to one but several exes it is also a letter from several versions of my previous self, some of them also exes. As such it was written both then and now and at various points between. Its tense, if it has one, is the present retrospective.) All else followed from seeing you at that party and thinking you were beautiful and that, somehow, I had to connive a way of talking to you.

  You know those software statements? ‘By opening this package you agree to abide etc …’ I think you effectively sign a contract like that when you have your first kiss, and it’s an agreement renewed and extended with every subsequent kiss: I agree that by participating in this kiss I am willing to have my heart smashed to pieces in return for this one moment of bliss. It’s a version of the Faustus thing – ‘O moment thou art fair, stay.’ (I’ll come back to this too.) I’m happy with the terms of that contract. It would be a dull life otherwise. The important thing is that we had some great times together, some great moments, most of which, if we’re being utterly frank, I can no longer remember. Life is all and only about those moments. (So when I say this is a letter of apology I mean the opposite; it’s a letter of non-apology.) ‘You say yes to a single joy and you say yes to all woes’ – that whole trip. As you know I was – in this context I am simply too embarrassed to use the word ‘am’ – somewhat of a Nietzschean. Sorry about that, about the way I was always quoting Nietzsche. In fact, while we’re at it, I’m sorry about the way I was always quoting, period. All that Rilke and Dylan too … Well, honey, what can I say? That’s what young guys do. They quote Nietzsche and Dylan and Rilke. Ditto the music, the relentless torrent of late Coltrane I inflicted on your ears. Sorry about that too. More specifically, I’m sorry that, after listening to First Meditations (for Quartet), at top volume you said ‘I guess I’m just too mellow for this.’ Yes, that’s right, I’m sorry you said that because that left me no choice but to say, ‘Right, that’s it.’ After which you said, ‘What do you mean?’ After which I said, ‘It’s over. We’re splitting up.’ That may seem like rather an extreme reaction to your reaction but, even now, looking back, I think: fair enough, good for you (me, I mean). Frankly, anyone who doesn’t swoon at the moment of transition between the first track, ‘Love’, and the second, ‘Compassion’, when the aftermath of the tenor is hanging over everything and there’s almost silence, just the faintest residue of a pulse, before Elvin and Trane bring the whole suite swelling back to life again – frankly, even though we’re dealing, literally, with the movement from ‘Love’ to ‘Compassion’, that person deserves to get booted out on their arse! After all, it’s not like we’d been listening to Ascension. Now that really is a racket. For what it’s worth I never listen to free jazz now. I’d rather put my head in a metal dustbin and have someone bang it very hard with a big hammer but when you’re that age you just have to fill your head with this stuff. It calms you down at some level.

  Another thing I’m sorry about is the way that I always wanted to go to that pub, the Effra. God I loved that pub! I loved all pubs but I loved that one even more than all the others. Now that I hardly ever set foot in pubs it seems hard to believe that I could have loved them so much. They strike me as horrible, smoky, violent places and they were probably smokier, more violent and even more horrible back then. It just seemed so implausible to me that you didn’t like pubs. How could anyone not like pubs? Pubs weren’t just where one had a good time; pubs were what one did. Especially the Effra. On a more general, beer-related note, it is a source of deep regret that you had the ill fortune to meet me in the depths of my real ale phase so that all our holidays (I know what you’re going to say: we only had two) were organised around the CAMRA guide. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to throw the baby out with the bathwater and de- (or re-)nounce real ale. I still love the stuff. Flat beer served at room temperature is one of England’s great contributions to the sensual life of the world. But this I will concede: it seems a weird way to have spent one’s twenties, always chucking pints of Dog Bolter down your – my – neck and searching out a boozer where they served Old Peculiar. This became especially clear in my late thirties and early forties – the Ecstasy years – when I ended up leading a life that was in some ways more youthful than the pubby one I led in my mid-twenties but, as with Arsène Wenger, the alternative just wasn’t available back then.

  I’m really sorry, as well, that you were such a headbanging feminist nutcase. Honestly. What a waste. There you were, twenty-five, slinky as a cat, and I never saw you in stockings or a G-string (I still remember the fury that the ‘Underneath they’re all lovable’ advert induced in you, in me, in us), never even saw you in a dress in fact, only in dungarees and (a concession to glamour) that Simone de Beauvoir headscarf. Poor you, poor me, poor us. Hey, the sex was great though, wasn’t it? In spite of all the political prohibitions about penetration and patriarchy and the dread figure of Andrea Dworkin hanging over us like a curse it turned out that, at some timeless level, naturally enough, we liked doing all the stuff that people have always liked doing. Those moments when you’d say, ‘Do anything to me.’ Well, call me an opportunist but I took that a
s meaning, in so many words, ‘Do it in my arse.’ Turns out that’s exactly what you did mean, of course, but to have actually said so would have been craving your own oppression, like choosing to read Norman Mailer (at least I never quoted that tosspot!) instead of Toni Cade Bambara. All of which, of course, was part of the thrill. Ah, good times. Or great moments anyway.

  Anyway, what I’ve been leading up to saying, basically, is that I’m sorry I was such a jerk. I’m sorry I thought the way to seduce someone – yourself, I hardly need remind you, included – was to undermine their politics, that the way to demonstrate that I was an alpha male of the mind was to quote Nietzsche and generally let it be known that I had read more Adorno and Lukacs than whichever rival male was also trying to do exactly the same thing. So, to show how genuinely contrite I am, I’m going to make a confession – a double confession, actually, the first part of which, if we’re being entirely honest, is actually a boast: I did sleep with M that time, after that party in Bonnington Square when I said I’d ended up crashing at Pete Johnson’s place in Oval Mansions. Guilty as charged (I’m trying to wipe that smile off my face but it’s not really a smile, more of a smirk). That’s part one. And the second part, I realise now, is also a sort of boast: I never actually read History and Class Consciousness. It was just too complicated and boring. The days when I could even contemplate reading such a thing are long gone – the brain is not what it was – but back then I was, theoretically, capable of doing so. The funny thing is that of all the stuff that didn’t happen back then, that’s something I really don’t regret.