She saw her grandfather squatting on the floor, bent over a short-legged table, penning words. Hidden away from the brightness of the day in his room, he would stop from time to time to drink an infusion of herbs and rub his eyes, and explain to Lamis the meaning of the saying, written in a calligraphy that looked like drawing, ’My hand has written so many books; my hand will wither but the books remain.’ And when she asked him, as she pointed at the books, ’You’ve written all of these?’ he smiled.
Lamis used to visit her grandfather in the afternoons, in order to hold out her palm and receive a few drops of the perfume that he kept in a drawer. She would sniff it and repeat after him the refrain for inhaling a beautiful fragrance, ’May God pray for the Prophet and his family.’
Her grandfather would untie her hair ribbon, comb her hair and then braid it. He would take the ribbon, which he’d folded around his finger, let it unwind, and steam out the creases over the vapour rising from the samovar.
When Lamis was nine years old, she began to be aware of her grandfather’s criticisms of her parents, especially of her father, who often hid in the basement when her grandfather visited their house. He would scold his daughter: ’I know you’re covering for him. He’s in the basement, amusing himself with his lute and drinking alcohol, interfering with God’s creation. Look at all these birds,’ he would exclaim, striking the birdcages with his stick, surprised by the loud commotion made by the birds’ flapping wings relative to their small size. ’If the Almighty had wanted bloody sparrows to sing like nightingales, he would have given them different larynxes. Your husband’s a degenerate.’
By her side Nicholas twitched and Lamis realised that her reading had tailed off.
’I’m thinking of my grandfather.’
’Your grandfather?’
’Yes. This manuscript makes me think of him. Would he ever have imagined that his little Lamis would be in England, falling in love with an Englishman.’
’Living in Londris, Ingelterra, falling in love with a Franji ...’
’I wonder if my parents ever thought when they pushed me into getting married that I’d be living in London and that they were imposing a new culture and language on me. And on their grand-children, too.’
’But darling, I’m grateful they thought nothing of the sort. I can’t imagine life without you now.’ And he returned his hand where it belonged.
They were lovers.
Lovers’ breath is hot, their eyes lock in a permanent, fiery dialogue, their saliva runs, they breathe loudly through their noses, their chests are as fragile as glass and threaten to shatter when they inhale and exhale, and their spines bend like cucumbers.
All this was harmful to the manuscript, which had been kept in the museum storage room at a constant, even temperature, much like Lamis herself who, up until then, had been preserved from the heat of the passion that the Franji’s eyelashes, lowered in longing for her, had now engendered, and from the damp caused by his sighs, that seemed to rise from his entrails.
The Cassiopoeia of stars relaxed the tightness in Lamis’s brain cells, where she’d hidden her masturbation secrets. She felt that each part of her was stretching into life in front of what she used to fear the most, men. ’Oh, there is nothing to hide, nothing.’ And, as if for the first time since she’d been wrapped in a blanket as a newborn infant, she found herself standing completely naked in front of the mirror of reality - Nicholas - and feeling like a child who, upon seeing herself for the first time, becomes aware only by degrees, with a few moments of doubt and fear, that the image in the mirror is really her.
People who saw Lamis and her husband together thought that she was his secretary or an interior designer. He was like a eunuch who felt no sexual desire, or at least no urge for physical contact with her, and if their hands happened to touch when he was taking a cup of tea from her, he might as well have been touching the saucer, while she only felt the money that he gave her in English pounds. All the same, the eunuch and his secretary shared the same bed. And his seduction routine had all been concentrated in one question, ’Are you asleep?’
Later that day, in his flat, Nicholas bent over her as her father used to bend over his lute when he noticed the tone was degenerating. Lamis embraced Nicholas; she clasped her hands round his neck, then his chest, so that he would not see her face. His fingers on her, trying to rouse her, were like the little cupids in the painting of Venus and Mars, fluttering over the sleeping god to try and bring him back to life.
Nicholas touched her strings one by one, his touch varying, depending on the tune he wanted to hear. Like a teacher who had not yet despaired of his pupil, he tried again and again, with infinite patience, until she fidgeted and said into his stomach, ’It doesn’t matter. I’m happy as I am. It doesn’t bother me.’
’It bothers me.’
He was like a mother weaning her child off the breast; as a child who screams and only wants milk, Lamis only wanted the touch of wood. And as the mother offers affection, so did Nicholas. Nicholas stopped and lifted himself off her the moment Lamis felt her body had become a thick barrier, resistant to the pounding waters. He moved aside and lay along the wall and she looked furtively at him, her eyes travelling all over him, taking in his neck, shoulders, stomach, thighs. She’d never once lain naked side by side with her husband in all their thirteen years together, and he’d never got out of bed without curling up into a ball and pulling on his pyjama top, and sometimes the bottoms too.
She felt as if her eyes had left her body and were hovering above her, watching them as man and woman - Adam and Eve. From such intimacy, a hand on a breast, a hand on a thigh, hands and eyes tranquil, from a feeling of closeness like this, life had begun.
Then he made her kneel and spread her thighs so she was crouching over him and finally Lamis lost her centre. She did not know whether to respond to her nipples and her beating heart or to what was there between her thighs. The feel of him made her cry from her long orgasm, and forget the feel of wood for ever, even lignum vitae, famous for its oily resin.
II
Lamis’s ex-husband was waiting for her with their son at the door of the Trocadero. She’d been hoping that some minor illness would keep her away: she was afraid of meeting her son, afraid she would cry and cling on to him and ask him to forgive her. Her husband was without his customary thick cigar, and he was wearing a new cashmere jacket. As soon as he saw her approaching he said to his son, ’Right. Don’t be late. You’ve got a lot of studying to do.’
Lamis caught her ex-husband’s eye as he was going and asked how he was. He mumbled a few words and kept walking, but Khalid stopped him. He wanted money. Lamis said quickly that she would give Khalid any money he needed, but his father put his hand in his trouser pocket and handed the boy a ten-pound note.
Lamis had prepared herself for an ultimatum in case her husband took her aside and tried with all his might to convince her to go back to him.
His pride and his lack of ability held him back as usual. Before she’d gathered the courage to ask for a divorce, he’d witnessed her bouts of nausea, her insomnia, her habit of leaving the bed to swallow sleeping pills and tranquillisers, and shutting the bathroom or the bedroom door in his face. Why don’t you go to the doctor? he would often suggest. His admiration for her youth, beauty and apparent serenity was one thing but to let that beauty disrupt his life was something else.
Is it possible that he used to touch me with that hand once upon a time? thought Lamis, that I shared his life, and that if it wasn’t for him I would never have set foot in this country and got to know Nicholas? And I was the one who insisted that Khalid would always be my son, whatever anyone said.
But now she was replaced by Khalid’s grandmother, who had taken him in her arms when he was first born, weeping with love for him, while Lamis had wept because she was suffering from urine retention and was scared the nurse would come back and stick a rubber tube between her legs, and because she was afraid to hold her baby
in her arms.
She could see now that Khalid and his father had unintentionally joined forces against her. It was as if they were singing the Egyptian song she used to sing with Khalid, pointing to the passers-by, ’We’re together, together, while the dog’s alone, gnawing at his flesh.’
Except now they were both pointing at her. Then she glanced at her ex-husband and changed her mind: he couldn’t sing, and he didn’t make jokes. She was just feeling guilty.
She took Khalid in her arms and when she smelled him she had to pull away and break the moment by laughing and pretending that she had got a fright after momentarily losing him in the crowd.
’Darling, you’ve grown up so much. Have you really got taller in one month? You hair’s the latest fashion! I love the kiss curl! And that black leather jacket?’
’Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you to make Dad let me go back on the tube alone.’
’Next time ... and no swearing, please.’
’This time. He’ll never know. I’ll tell him you brought me right to the door. Please.’
’No, no, no.’
’You’re both such scaredy-cats all the time. Nothing’ll happen to me. I’m not a child. I’m nearly thirteen, remember.’ And he smoothed his hair down.
She wanted to laugh. He always smoothed his hair down as if it was the clue to understanding what he was saying. She took his arm and said, ’I’ve really missed you. And your grandparents in Dubai and your auntie and cousin all miss you too. I’m so happy that I’ve left Dubai, and that I’m back here for good.’
’Me too, but ... I was looking forward to visiting you in Dubai. Did you get me the things I asked for?’
’We’ll get them here, today!’
’Does that mean you didn’t bring me anything from Dubai? Everybody goes to Dubai to get all the computer games and you were there and didn’t buy anything. Mum!’
’Things were difficult.’
’I don’t believe it. I don’t believe you were in Dubai and didn’t buy anything.’
’I decided to come back to London a few hours before the plane took off. It’s amazing I got a seat at all.’
’What about the airport? They have all the computer games for less than five pounds.’
She had a sudden memory of watching Samir at Dubai Airport, then visualised Nicholas holding her and drew her breath in sharply.
’But I thought your father and grandmother told you what happened. Do you know what happened to me?’
’I know they’re totally stupid there.’
Khalid doesn’t love me any more, Lamis panicked. How could he after she’d abandoned him, even though she’d promised him that she would come back to London to see him every two months, and that his father would send him to visit her in Dubai between times. But of course he loves me, she chided herself. He’s so young. It doesn’t occur to him that I’d like to be shown proof.
She waited for a hint, a gesture. She wished that there were a thermometer that she could place on his forehead to gauge his reactions - I-love-you’s or I-don’t-love you’s - like the one she’d used for taking his temperature when he was ill.
When she had shouted at her husband and his mother that she wanted a divorce, Khalid had been at the computer having a conversation with his friend Timothy. He had looked up from the screen and asked her if she were really going to divorce his father because this time he really felt it in her voice. She hurried over and flung her arms round him saying, ’I love you. I don’t know, but I love you,’ whereupon he returned to his e-mail and typed, ’I don’t think they’ll get divorced. They quarrel but they’ll never divorce.’
Lamis and Khalid went into Planet Hollywood. She could not attract Khalid’s attention or draw him into conversation: his eyes and ears were riveted to the screens that were showing clips from different films, while his mouth was busy masticating food. She wanted to be put on trial now, and for Khalid either to pronounce her guilty, in which case she’d attempt to justify what she’d done, or to clear her, and then she could rejoice and relax. But he was absorbed in trying to guess which films the clips were from, and hinting that she should buy him a red leather jacket with the restaurant’s name on it. Would he become friends with Bruce Willis or Schweizhof if he wore it? she asked.
’Schwarzenegger,’ he said sarcastically. ’Schweizhof the name of a hotel in Switzerland, Mum.’ Then, ’Mum, I don’t like it here any more. It makes me feel sick, it’s so noisy. Please can you take me to the aquarium?’
’At the zoo?’
’No, near Big Ben. Past Westminster Bridge. The taxi knows.’
’An aquarium with fish in it?’
’No. Elephants.’
She smiled at him. She would rather he was cheeky like this than miserable because she had left home.
He stopped a taxi with a wave of his hand and told the driver they wanted to go to County Hall.
It turned out that the aquarium was in an old building facing Big Ben and the river. Its calm atmosphere made her think it would be the ideal place to talk to him and make him understand how much she loved him. She sensed that her son was developing some independence. If he had access to money, he wouldn’t need her to take him on outings. The days when she’d been his guide in the outside world, the tongue that spoke for him so that he could look and learn and try things out, were gone. She didn’t now know that he was interested in fish, or in anything apart from the latest technology. But he wasn’t making for the aquarium; the fish and the sea creatures didn’t receive more than a passing glance from Khalid.
When Lamis’s own mother was a little girl, she used to say to her father, the cleric, whenever she liked a song that was playing on the radio while he was twisting the knobs, trying to find the Qur’an, ’It’s on the right station, Dad. Straight after this song, they’ll recite the Qur’an.’
Her son dragged her to the Namco arcade, next to the aquarium. Lights shone in her eyes and bounced off the stairs and walls and ceiling, and there were machines with knobs, flashing colours and music blaring. It was like walking into Las Vegas. Khalid dived into a red sports car, pressed the accelerator, and went racing through the streets, the cold wind blowing in his face and ruffling his hair.
’Look, I’m driving, Mum. I want to learn how to drive.’
He went from one machine to another. He was a pilot, a soldier, a professional racing driver. He had to destroy tanks that were blowing up everything in their path. He was a giant who chained up a woman, beat her, then licked the chain clean. He did not listen to his mother, he urged her to play the games with him, implored her desperately for a moment, then forgot all about her, shrieking enthusiastically as he became absorbed again. Lamis grew used to the flashing lights and the din, and to being a mobile bank feeding the pounds into these machines, and to watching her son grind his teeth in his efforts to concentrate, as if he were sharpening them to attack the one-handed giant.
’Fifty-three video games, Mum! I want to try Choker. Timothy told me it was cool.’
’No, don’t. No means no. It’s an electric chair.’
’No, Mum. It’s not real.’
’I know, but I don’t like the idea of it.’
’Mum, read what it says. Read it. Please.’
She read, ’Try the electric chair. Test your strength. Can you bear it? Simulates lethal voltage with intense vibrations. Totally safe.’
’See? Did you read it? They say it’s not dangerous.’
A man was sitting on the chair, gripping levers on either side of it, lights flashing at his face, then he grimaced and began shaking. ’Cool,’ he said to his girlfriend as he got off. ’You feel as if you’re touching a lethal current.’
Lamis moved away, aware that she had gone back to being a mother, dragging her son along by the hand as if she were still at home.
Khalid could not believe his mother didn’t know how to play the games. He set about teaching her, still eating chips and KitKats between shots. The lights, the noise, the fla
shing colours, her son’s adrenalin, finally conspired to make her feel that she was the same age as he was, in a city of electronic marvels. This gave her a feeling of familiarity and warmth. Her divorce seemed inevitable. She thought Nicholas had been wise to advise her to let her son suggest their first outing. She rode the red car, the Ridge Rider, at the entrance, the cold wind flying in her face, and found herself putting her foot down harder and harder.
They waited for a taxi. Big Ben was in front of them, and the river and the bridge. Dusk was the best time in London, when the weather was good: it rarely seemed to rain at this time of day. The twilight sky was like a field of red anemones. People said that this was the colour of pollution, but she thought that London wanted to see itself clearly, and it chased away the clouds of daytime long enough for the sun to wink an eye before the grey calm returned.
They boarded a taxi and she asked the driver to take them to Regent’s Park. She put her arm round her son because she felt a lump in her throat.
’Do you want me to come back, darling? Do you miss me?’
’Yes, I miss you, but you were always unhappy. I used to see you crying.’
She cried now, holding him tight, and he hugged her back.
’I love you, Mum.’
She hugged him again and choked back a sob. They were getting close now, and the taxi was passing in front of the statue that had always made her feel anxious. It was of a woman shading her eyes from the sun or the rain so she could see better. The woman was watching people approaching from a distance, and on her bad days Lamis used to imagine her mother-in-law had ordered this bronze woman to spy on her.
She asked the taxi to wait until she saw her son hitting the electronic numbers to open the door. If only she could go after him and hug him again. Her heart lurched when she saw the wrought-iron gate with its gold curlicues bang shut behind him, then immediately she breathed more easily because she was outside it. As the taxi drove off with her she wiped away her tears.
Only in London Page 14