Only in London

by Hanan al-Shaykh

  ’Do you pluck these?’ Nicholas asked. He passed his finger between her eyebrows. She was not used to talking during sex, nor to her tongue being sucked by another person. Her tongue was only for tasting food. He touched the mole on her neck and said, ’That’s beautiful.’ He tasted her ears and said, ’Turkish delights.’ He held her breasts and then he looked into her navel and said, ’I’m looking for a pearl,’ and he left her to kiss her toes and said, ’They smell of mint.’

  ’What’s wrong? Why don’t you come?’ she whispered to him.

  It was as if she’d struck him in the heart. He awoke from his reverie and said, ’What? What did you say?’

  He thinks he’s not supposed to make eye contact with me, because I’m an Arab woman and I’ve been stamped with a skull and crossbones, and the words ’Danger, Keep Off’, thought Lamis. But all he can see is the desire on my face, then as he plunges inside me, scattering the letters far and wide, he finds himself remaining on the surface, for the inside of me is like shifting sands which subside and sink without trace.

  Their movement was co-ordinated, harmonious. They each wanted more, now that their bodies had grown accustomed to the contact and breathed in unison. She knew now that he’d been waiting for her, but she also knew that she wouldn’t reach a climax. How could she make herself recall the feel of the wood now? A woman she knew used to keep some of her lover’s cologne in a bottle and would make some excuse to go into the bathroom and sniff it, and then hurry back to have sex with her husband before she lost the smell.

  Lamis shut her eyes and thought of herself sprawled over the edge of the table. It didn’t work. She could hear the voice of her mother-in-law’s friend telling her confidentially, ’Take some advice from me. Don’t leave your husband for another man. I know. I once met a younger man who showed me what love was. What can I say? He became such a habit with me that thirty years later I still enjoy my memories of being with him. Dream! Don’t go ahead with the divorce!’

  But there were many men in Lamis’s life. She looked for them wherever she went: tables, chairs and other suitable points of contact, and when she didn’t find them she was disappointed. They were the men in her life; they looked different and came from different countries. The feel she liked best was the pure ebony wood, dark and warm, of a chair from Goa with a pineapple carved on each arm, which she used to rush to whenever she begged to be left alone at home. Afterwards she would wipe it with a damp cloth, afraid that her son’s dog would sniff out where she had been intimate with herself and lick the chair and arouse her husband’s curiosity. Her friends had never found out the secret of the muscles in her legs. They stood out like high cheekbones without any of the normal exercises.

  Whenever Lamis thought of sex she used to stop what she was doing and hurry to the bathroom, lock the door and put on her lipstick.

  ’Why do you bother locking it?’ her husband would ask, and she answered that it was a habit from childhood.

  She would pull the shower curtain to one side to expose the bathroom mirror that took up an entire wall, and part her thighs so that she could press against the maple surface surrounding the basin. She could see the hollow beneath which her backbone lay, reflected in the mirror, and the two dimples and the two mounds of her buttocks sloping down to her thighs as she moved. Her red lipstick was the dominant feature of her reflection in the other mirror facing her over the basin, and reminded her of the riddle: What’s red and goes up and down? Answer: A strawberry in a lift.

  Lamis lay with her head on Nicholas’s chest, and he was quiet with her, stroking her hair and smelling it. She waited and nothing happened. She lifted her head off his chest, trying to reach his lips, but he covered her with kisses and whispered, ’Never mind. Don’t pretend. It doesn’t matter,’ and stayed by her side.

  As if he felt that she wanted to confess something, or as if she were a child suffering from a high fever, Nicholas started blowing faint breaths on her forehead. She held him tight and told him about her secret, and that it had started with a chair in her childhood. Not wanting to see his reaction, she stood up and went over to the window after wrapping herself in his shirt. She glanced outside at the buildings, all alike, around the square with its luxuriant trees. A stranger like her might be looking out of one of those windows to observe how the English lived and take her for an Englishwoman pausing for a moment’s reflection or to examine the weather.

  The brass instruments that wailed from an old soldiers’ club every Sunday would never make her feel alienated again, nor would the approach of summer, whose warmth used to bring a chill of loneliness to her.

  She looked back into the room.

  II

  Amira couldn’t sleep. Should she ask Nahid to be a partner in her new plan?

  Guilt and betrayal had been roaming through her mind ever since the previous night, when she thanked God that she’d not found Nahid - it meant that she could keep her plot a secret - and yet, by thanking God, she was also disentangling herself from the proverb, ’Two arses in one pair of pants’, that perfectly characterised her friendship with Nahid, a friendship that had lasted many years, from the first time she and Nahid met, ten years earlier, in a hospital in Richmond, where they were both having abortions: Amira, pregnant this time by a client, and Nahid by the owner of the cabaret where she danced. From then on, they had infused each other with love and tenderness, confiding everything to each other, from the least to the most significant, to such an extent that when Nahid had fallen in love with the Englishman called Stanley, who asked her to marry him after a few weeks, Nahid’s first concern had been whether it would threaten her friendship with Amira.

  At the beginning of their friendship, Amira ignored Nahid’s requests to be introduced to Amira’s clients. She advised Nahid to concentrate on her dancing, urged her to brush up on her technique and perform at many different nightclubs: she could enhance her skill by visiting Cairo or, in London, by going to a dance school that taught raqs sharqi, belly dancing. Then as soon as her marriage ended Nahid stopped dancing and started to work with Amira.

  So this morning Amira hurried over to Nahid’s flat, in the parallel street to hers. She’d decided to involve Nahid in her scheme, on condition that Nahid drink less, cease her giggling, her sly winks, her stubborn behaviour, refrain from starting fights with people and, finally, solemnly promise not to tell Bahia.

  Nahid was in her nightdress. The sour smell of sleep and whisky engulfed her small flat. Whisky bottles were still out on the table, some of them filled with candles. As usual, Amira asked Nahid to throw the bottles away. ’But why? They are so original, very original.’

  ’Listen to me, Nahid. You should pay your phone bill.’

  ’I’m going to ask for a new number.’

  ’They won’t give you one, not unless you pay the existing bill. But why don’t you get a reliable mobile phone? Yesterday it was impossible for me to contact you.’

  ’I’ve turned it off. I had the blues yesterday. It was the Princess, at the Dorchester. Why God prefers some people to others, I don’t know.’

  ’That’s why I’m here now. I’m going to impersonate a princess. In fact, I did, yesterday. After I left you.’

  ’Why? Did you kill her?’

  ’I’m not in the mood for jokes. Listen, I’ll pretend to be a princess and you’ll be one of my companions. We’ll get another two, as well. And our profits will be at least five thousand, if not more, for every trick. I’ll divide everything fifty-fifty ...’

  ’Yeah, I’ll be paying that much to bail you out of prison.’

  ’But listen to me. I’ve decided. I’m one hundred per cent sure that this will work.’

  ’It won’t. I don’t want to be a companion or a princess.’

  ’At least give it a try.’

  ’Try without me.’

  ’Do you want to keep on taking five hundred, three hundred, two hundred, one hundred, then ten pounds?’

  ’Come on, your highness, let’s
go to Speedy Gazelle’s first.’

  They headed for the fabric shop in Duke Street. They hoped fervently that Bruno - Speedy Gazelle - would be there. Amira spotted him before Nahid. ’There he is! We’re in luck.’

  They went in and Amira chose some material. Speedy Gazelle made certain that his boss was taken up with another customer, and measured out an extra few metres. Then he offered to show Nahid some fabrics that were not out on display. She followed him downstairs to a passageway piled high with bolts of cloth. Amira dawdled, amusing herself by flicking through fashion magazines laid out on the table. She went to the cash desk to pay and Nahid reappeared, alone, followed shortly afterwards by Speedy Gazelle who carried up rolls of cloth to conceal the after-effects of his intimate encounter with the Egyptian woman. Amira and Nahid glanced at the materials then said goodbye.

  Nahid remembered that she was meeting Samir. He had to renew his visa and, since she knew the ropes, she had offered to go with him to Croydon.

  Amira left carrying her parcel of material and turned into Bond Street. She was making for a street whose name she did not know, off Hanover Square. As soon as she saw the varnished wooden door, she knew it was the place she was looking for. She’d been there on one other occasion: to fetch a dress for the employer for whom she worked as a maid during her first few months in London.

  She was told she would have to make an appointment. The first was not for ten days.

  ’Perhaps you can help me,’ she said to one of the three young women who were bringing cups of tea to the waiting customers. ’If you take my measurements and I tell you the style I want, then you could explain it to the couturier.’

  But the young woman didn’t understand what Amira meant. She walked away, her high heel catching in the crack between the floorboards.

  Amira wouldn’t agree to wait ten days, or even three. She told another of the young women that she was going abroad the next day, she’d been sent by Princess Ferial of Jordan, and she must speak to the couturier for one second. ’Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.’

  The young woman went away. She came back with the couturier. ’Darling! How are you?’ he exclaimed, trying not to look disappointed that Princess Ferial was not with her.

  ’I want a princess dress.’

  His hair was dyed a nice colour, and he had a good skin. Amira would have liked to ask him what cream he used. He examined the material, felt it. He didn’t seem impressed.

  ’Don’t you like it?’

  ’Sorry. It’s lovely but it’s too thick for a princess-line.’

  ’I don’t want a princess-line. I want a dress a princess would wear.’ The princess she’d seen was so ordinarily dressed. But Amira was much younger and prettier. Besides, just as people differ from each other, so do princesses.

  ’Ah! Décolleté? Like Marie Antoinette, and the waist like Lady Hamilton, and a flounced skirt?’

  She nodded her head, too embarrassed to say, ’I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ as he cast a surgical eye over her. She felt like a Russian doll trying to swallow all her children inside her buttocks.

  ’There isn’t enough material. In any case, this style will make you look fatter. Are you going to a fancy-dress ball? You can hire a dress from the Strand.’

  ’No. But ...’

  He turned to address the young women, and a customer who was trying to make a call on her mobile. ’Did I tell you that Mrs Fallaci was trying to find a Little Red Riding Hood dress for her daughter to wear to a Hallowe’en party, and a girl in one of the dress agencies told her to try Ann Summers? The poor woman wrote the name down and phoned one of their branches. The girl said, "Sorry, we don’t have what you’re looking for, but it’s an excellent idea." And Mrs Fallaci only discovered she’d been set up when she walked past an Ann Summers shop one day and looked in the window.’

  The girls laughed. Amira seethed with annoyance, but pretended to join in.

  ’OK, I’ll leave the choice to you. You choose a style for me,’ she suggested to the dressmaker.

  ’Then you’ll have to make an appointment with the secretary.’

  ’Why? We’ve agreed what I’m having. You just have to take my measurements. As I said, it was Princess Ferial who told me to come here ...’

  ’No, no. You must have an appointment.’

  ’Don’t be so English, please.’

  ’Excuse me, I’m English and proud of it.’

  She cursed to herself as she put the material back in its bag and went off in the direction of Bond Street. She didn’t need this tailor. Going to him in the first place was only to prove to herself that now she belonged to another class. Halfway along Bond Street she stopped outside a jewellery shop that she’d once visited with a punter, where he had bought her a ring and she’d managed to swallow one of a pair of small pearl earrings that were on display. She went on her way until she came to the shop owned by Roya, the Italian woman who’d been born in Cairo and who played with the singer Dalida as a child. Her shop was famous with all the women who preferred a bird in the hand to ten in the bush, women who came with men to buy clothes, then a day later, or even a few hours sometimes, returned alone with the dresses. Roya would give them back whatever the men had paid, minus her own inflated commission - but not until she’d personally taken each dress over to the door and examined it closely, wearing her glasses, paying special attention to the collar and under the arms, and wiping her lipstick away with a Kleenex before burying her face in the garment and sniffing it.

  Roya was not there, just a salesgirl, who looked like part of the display, sitting at a table with a dark band on her dyed-blonde hair, bright-red lipstick, and an artificial mole painted on the side of her mouth.

  ’If Roya’s here,’ Amira said to the girl, ’tell her it’s the Princess and she’ll know.’

  The salesgirl suddenly awoke from her lethargy and jumped eagerly to her feet.

  ’Please, have a seat, madam. We’re at your service.’

  The Princess sat down, crossed her legs comfortably, and watched the clothes come and go before her, assuming expressions of indifference or displeasure. Finally she settled on an elaborate outfit, and the salesgirl complimented her on her taste.

  ’One doesn’t know what to wear in the morning,’ murmured the Princess.

  ’You’re right, your highness,’ cooed back the salesgirl. ’This dress is casual and easy to wear.’

  Amira made no attempt to try it on, but said in a bored voice, ’I’ll take it to the hotel and try it there, and if I don’t like it I’ll send it back with the driver.’

  The salesgirl did as she was told and began to wrap the dress painstakingly. A flicker of doubt on her face suggested that she wondered how the Princess was going to pay. But the Princess went over to the door and looked through the glass, then picked up her bag, muttering, ’I told the driver to come for me in two hours. I thought Roya would be here and I could take her for a coffee once I’d bought a dress. If he comes, tell him I’ve gone to Cartier and he should pick me up there. And if my attendant turns up - her name is Iman, remember, Iman - tell her where I’ve gone too.’

  She picked up the bag containing the dress and went off saying, ’Ask Roya to send the bill, please. I’m at the Dorchester.’

  The salesgirl, despite her embarrassment at not recognising the Princess and not knowing her name, opened the door and bid the Princess a smiling goodbye.

  The fact that the salesgirl believed in her was proof to Amira that she appeared quite authentic. Nobody asked princesses for their identity documents. Everything was possible when you were abroad. You could recreate yourself with a name and parents of your own choosing. She walked for longer than was usual for her, glancing back from time to time, until she had left Roya’s shop far behind. If she looked at people at all, it was with disdain rather than curiosity. She went into interior design shops, picture galleries, jewellers and more fabric stores, happy to spend ages looking before she decided on anything. T
hen she said discreetly that her driver would be back to make the purchase. She asked them to write down the information, the price, and the English respectfully complied. One man offered to open the shop for her after six if she wanted, and she left the shops feeling buoyant and positive.

  She flew to her flat, kicked off her shoes, dropped the shopping bag on the bed and lay down beside it. Then she got up and fetched a plastic carrier bag from her wardrobe. She emptied out papers, cards and letters and searched through them for phone numbers. Alongside the numbers were the nicknames she had written down to aid her memory: Tits-like-Pamela Anderson, Who-was-my-father, Arrogant Shit, Cow, Big Mouth, Goldfinger, Bunch-of-grapes, Chewing Gum, False Teeth, Brown Sugar, Fatin Hamama, Eczema.

  She chose three names and tried each in turn without success, then called the car-hire company and ordered a Rolls-Royce. ’I want an English driver. Not Indian English, Arab English, African English, Chinese English, Polish English, Scots English or Irish English. English one hundred per cent with a cap and jacket. Yes, yes. I’ll pay so much an hour plus tips. OK. Until the day after tomorrow.’

  Then she went out in search of the three names she’d chosen - Tits-like-Pamela Anderson, Fatin Hamama, Who-was-my-father. She went to casinos, hotel lobbies, cabarets, and when she caught up with each woman she took her aside and told her, ’Right, Cinderella. I’m not promising to help you marry Prince Charming, but I’ll show you the way to his fat wallet, on condition that you listen to what I say, do as I tell you, and keep it a secret.’

  So Amira the fairy godmother, who was also Amira the Princess, hired an English driver instead of the dog-coachman, a Rolls-Royce in place of the pumpkin, and three companions as her retinue rather than coach horses.