’No. From Najaf.’
’Najaf, the holy city! I’ve never been there, although I visited Baghdad in the late sixties and stayed in a small hotel owned by a Sabaean family. They were certainly persecuted. I remember they said their prayers in the cellar. What attracted me about their religion was their belief that there was a link between the stars and music. You should tell Nicholas about them. You know he’s interested in astronomy?’
Then the guest moved on to discuss the civilisation of ancient Mesopotamia, and Lamis felt like a geography book and history book rolled into one. A thought crept into her mind and nudged her increasingly low self-esteem into the abyss: Nicholas thinks of me in the way these people do.
’I believe there are about forty thousand Iraqis in England. Am I wrong?’
Lamis nodded her head. ’Going by the official statistics there are forty-five thousand, or fifty. I think fifty would be closer,’ she lied. ’In Germany they found fifty-four Iraqis hidden in sealed crates. They had just enough food to keep them alive and they’d been smuggled out of Istanbul on a mystery tour. The smugglers sent them to Germany and charged them three and a half thousand dollars a head. The funny thing was that the German police asked them how they’d got into the country!’
When he did not react, she repeated the story, then smiled fixedly until he finally registered some kind of amusement. She found herself switching into her mother-in-law’s voice and recounting her tale as if she had metamorphosed as suddenly as the woman in the television series Bewitched. She told him about the pretender to the Iraqi throne and that some of the Iraqis in England hung around him because he reminded them of the young King Faisal, who was murdered; about one of her mother-in-law’s relatives who hid in a rubbish bin in Iraq because she was afraid of Saddam’s son, Uday; how the Iraqis kept up the custom of trilling for joy at weddings, even in London’s grandest hotels, and having traditional mourners at funerals, to convince infiltrators from home who might be present at these gatherings that they were genuine, and dissuade them from interpreting them as anti-Saddam demonstrations.
Then, to raise the tone of the conversation, she brought in the UN, Amnesty International, the Committee for Lifting Sanctions. But it was as if a television screen had been installed between her and the other guests: they were the viewers and she was the correspondent from Iraq, not there to be talked to or argued with, but to deliver information.
She busied herself with hospitable tasks, asking them if they wanted more to eat, going round with the red wine, but again she forced herself to try and construct a bridge between herself and them. She would see some of these people on a continuing basis. Nicholas was introducing her to one person after another, and she was trying - against the barrage of difficult words, the insistent beat of their rapid pronunciation, the sparring between them to prove who was the most knowledgeable, the most serious, the most witty - to interact with them. When, despite her desperate, breathless attempts, she didn’t succeed, she became almost certain that there was a conspiracy. She switched her attention to the plates and glasses again and took them out to the kitchen. In the same way she knew these English words, she knew the structure of the language, yet found it hard to talk, because the language was like a private club, barred to any individual who hadn’t had it planted in his mind like a tiny seed, so that it sprang from his lips automatically and was always correct. These English were born to it as they uttered their first cries in an English hospital. How could she ever hope to have the history, literature, politics all mingling in her head, so that when she heard ’the Scottish play’, instead of asking what it was, she knew automatically it was Macbeth? What images would words like ’fiver’ and ’cuppa’ evoke, if she hadn’t learned the hard way that they meant a five-pound note and a cup of tea? When David Copperfield sits with Peggotty ’by the parlour fire’, she would never feel the fire’s blaze or smell its smell in the same way they did.
She soon realised that it was only her presence that made their conversations deviate, albeit slightly, from their normal course. They were set in moulds according to their jobs: politics, the antiques trade, the international business community. She found herself on the edge of a conversation.
’I didn’t see you at Anthony’s this afternoon?’
’Poor old Anthony. I couldn’t face it. How are his children?’
’Bearing up. They’re being remarkably brave about his death.’
Lamis gasped in dismay.
’Oh, did you know him?’ One of the speakers turned to look at her. ’I thought it was only Nicholas who did.’
She coughed to cover her confusion and said, ’No,’ in a voice nobody heard, but did not say, ’We don’t sit there in silence when we hear someone has died.’
’I chose some of Anthony’s books and records, and a wooden hand from his collection. One of the records was in the wrong sleeve. Instead of Ravel, I found I had Hutch.’
’Never mind. I like Hutch,’ somebody said, and Lamis wished that she had been the one to say it.
It was a simple remark, but it would have shown she was following the conversation, even though she didn’t know if Hutch was a singer or composer, and if it were not for Boléro, she wouldn’t have known who Ravel was.
’I was flicking through Mrs Beeton and the pages fell open at the letter "c", and there was a little stash of coke powder next to roast cod!’
’Great filing system he had!’
Everyone laughed, including Lamis.
How did you get to know Nicholas? When did you get to know Nicholas? Do you work with Nicholas? They were circling round one another asking questions, as if they had some strange gauge on which they could measure Nicholas’s personal and social standing by seeing what number he registered.
Towards the end of the party, a blonde woman appeared from nowhere. When she walked in the guests stopped talking and eating and drinking. Anita the blonde, in red shiny pants that ended at the knee and showed off the tight triangle of her hips and bottom, spindly stilettos that threatened to snap at every step, a child’s jersey that flattened her breasts and emphasised her rib cage, and a pretty face; she was carrying an artist’s portfolio with a fake-fur cover.
’I was passing in a taxi and I guessed Nicholas was having a party and hadn’t invited me.’ She said this with great coyness as she embraced Nicholas. Lamis watched the blonde stare into Nicholas’s face and felt her tummy clench, and not waiting for the inevitable introduction she rushed to the bathroom even though, ultimately, she knew she’d have to meet this tall beautiful blonde lady.
Lamis was pretending to be busy offering her guests more drinks, until Anita cornered her and introduced herself.
Anita’s accent was worse than Lamis’s, her pronunciation variable. She left out letters or changed them, and pronounced the letter ’j’ as a ’y’, saying ’enyoy’ for ’enjoy’. Yet all the same she raced ahead, conversing without restraint, even though nobody asked her about Denmark. She understood and made herself understood, engaged in equal dialogues; the conversation between her and them floated along, and went deeper sometimes, spontaneously and with no forced effort. Because she’s from Denmark, thought Lamis. Because she’s European.
’Oh, you’re from Arabia?’ Anita asked Lamis.
Nicholas corrected her, seeming irritated. ’From Iraq.’
’Yes, yes, from Arabia,’ said Lamis not wanting to complicate things for Anita.
’By the way, Nicholas, I have answered your message and left you several in return ... do you think you would be able to get a special price for a Pierre Loti? The one where he’s dressed up as Nefertiti! Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
’Lamis.’
’Lamis, do you know Loti? Pierre Loti. It was him who made me love Arabia. He talks about its smell. He says it’s like the smell of musk, invigorating and delightful. He makes me really want to go there. Oh, those photos of him in Arab dress are beautiful! You must see them. They’re really inspiring.’
’Listen, Nicholas, OK, listen, Lisam. Sorry. Ah, Lamis. I like your name. I’ve been thinking about Arabia all this week, and then I meet you! Did you know the harem is a sadomasochistic institution? Nobody realised that before me, not even the Orientalists. The women in the harem used to help each other bathing, beautifying, massaging, getting dressed and made up, preparing themselves for one man. Then they sat there waiting for him to choose one of them. Just like that. Can you imagine the jealousy, the torture, when he chose one rather than another! I want to take some photos portraying the harem. I don’t know how to do it but I’ve got an idea about how the Sultan should look.’ Lamis and Nicholas finally caught one another’s eye and the tension evaporated as they burst out laughing - Anita joined in without understanding why.
Nicholas left them to say goodbye to the last guests. Anita congratulated Lamis on the beautiful flower arrangements, and moments later, Lamis opened herself up, confiding in Anita and telling her everything as if she were a little girl eager to be accepted by the most popular girl in her class.
’Is it difficult getting divorced? You’re an Arab woman.’
’It wasn’t difficult in practical terms. Psychologically, yes.’
’Why did you do it?’
’I had depression for months. Every time my husband and I had sex, I threw up.’
Anita looked completely taken aback by Lamis’s unexpected openness, while Lamis didn’t notice a thing, only happy to be making a new friend.
’Sometimes I couldn’t help laughing when Nicholas was screwing me.’
Lamis’s heart sank. Does she know about us?
’He was so romantic and gentle! Anyhow, I don’t like normal sex any more. It’s boring. When I know you better, I’ll tell you what I mean!’ Lamis swallowed the thorn but asked casually, ’How did you get to know Nicholas?’
’At some party. He asked a friend of mine who’s in the theatre why she was wearing orthopaedic shoes. They were boots she’d paid a hundred and fifty pounds for! When I asked him where he got his nice shirt, he ripped the collar off and handed it to me!’
Lamis’s heart sank further and she wondered if she really knew Nicholas, but Anita went on. ’I was so happy when he invited me back to his flat, and then he opened the Bible and started looking for a particular bit, while I was almost panting with lust for him. Can you imagine a man inviting you back to his flat, giving you a really sexy kiss on the lips, then opening the Bible and reading something about daughters of Zion and their anklets?’
Lamis saw herself with Nicholas at Leighton House and the British Library; she also saw him with Anita, even heard the anklets of the daughters of Zion and felt somehow betrayed.
Once Anita had finally left they both cleared the glasses and dishes, before they prepared themselves to go to bed. Lamis felt as if they were married and she was the jealous wife.
’But, Lamis, there was nothing, nothing between us. We played games, that’s all! It was thoughtless of her to tell you.’
’And you called her on your arrival, though you told me that you’d fallen in love with me in the taxi ...’
’Stop it. Just remember that we didn’t know each other then. Besides, did you expect me to be a virgin?’
Lamis calmed down because she remembered wondering the first time they were making love how any woman who had slept with him could bear to be away from him, and in her imagination there were many.
In bed, Lamis and Nicholas talked about the evening. Lamis turned over.
’Thank you, Lamis, you were an amazing hostess. Now tell me, did you have a good time, apart from Anita? I couldn’t believe that every single bloody person came. I saw you talking to David and Matthew. As soon as David set eyes on you, he asked me if you had a sister. He envies me.’
’Why? He told me he has a girlfriend, but she’s abroad.’
’Oh, so Lamis is fishing for compliments now! In their opinion you’re an exotic bird. Despite how familiar they are with other cultures, and how much they’ve travelled.’
’What about you? Because, actually, I found myself wondering during the party whether the fact that I’m an Arab attracted you. It never occurred to me before ... only when everybody talked to me as an Arab - Iraqi - rather than as a person. It made me wonder about you and me.’
’I thought about it too, when I found myself so attracted to you. Was I drawn to you because I was involved in the Arab world? I agree, it happens sometimes ... but only at the beginning... It’s like having a beautiful Arab dagger in your hand. After a while, you cease to think about where it came from. You marvel at the wonderful craftsmanhip but otherwise its origin is neither here nor there. You appreciate it and love its beauty for itself ... but tell me, did David flirt with you?’
’I didn’t like him. He asked me whether I was the one who’d introduced you to Sayf, where I was living in London before, if I’d met you at Sotheby’s, and if I knew the pretender to the Iraqi throne! Apparently he’s met his father-in-law who’s extremely rich.’
’That’s David. You should have just gone along with it. But did the women ask you what you did, and when you said nothing, dismiss you?’
’I lied. I said I was a volunteer Arabic teacher at the Saturday school for the Iraqi community.’
’My beautiful liar.’
’Well, Nicholas, you know I’m looking for a job, but not just any job ... and tell me, who was the young woman with grey hair? When she found out that I was an Iraqi, she was so hostile to me, because Iraqis are fleeing Iraq. Then I told her something that shut her up. I told her about my grandfather and my uncles, and my auntie’s family, who were wiped out by an Iraqi bombardment when they were waiting with thousands of others for help from the Americans.’
Nicholas looked at her again. ’The more contact I have with other cultures, the more I find us naive. We really don’t understand the political situation in your country. And the more I travel, the more I discover ways in which we English are odd. In my childhood, I thought we were quite normal; yet now I think of the English as being introverted, shy, clumsy. We lack self-assurance. We have so many taboos - over money, wealth, religion and especially sex ... That’s quite a list.’
They laughed, and Lamis agreed. ’It explains why the English start their conversations with the cliché, "I am afraid that ..." even if they’re telling you that they are about to go on holiday!’
Nicholas laughed and held her nestled in his lap so they were like two spoons in a drawer.
’Oh, your mother called, Nicholas. I forgot to tell you,’ Lamis said, feeling comfort in their closeness.
’Did you chat with her?’
’Yeah. I think she liked me. You didn’t tell me that you’d sent her my picture!’
’Well, since you were refusing to meet them ...’
’I’m postponing it, not refusing. She’s very amusing. She told me she’d got rid of your father’s old gloves and the dog took them out of the rubbish, all muddy and dirty.’
’Did she tell you whether they’re still coming the day after tomorrow? I’m having lunch with them, before I take them both shopping.’
’Yes, she told me. I said I was sorry that I couldn’t be there ... my son, et cetera ...’
’You mean you lied to her! I’m in heaven, Lamis. Are you tired? We shouldn’t have stayed up with Anita.’
Lamis thought of asking him now about Anita but instead she kept Anita’s image hidden behind her eyelids, talking, moving and laughing. She pulled his hand up to her mouth, kissed it, and returned it to him. He knew she was going to sleep. She turned her back to him, disengaging herself, preferring to sleep at the edge of the bed. He could not persuade her to sleep close to him all night, as close as
two spoons - the expression was his mother’s.
II
Amira had rented a room in a five-star hotel and when she was settled in, she had a bath and used the body lotion provided by the hotel. The amount in the miniature jar was insufficient. After tonight, God willing, I’ll lose weight, even if I have to go into hospital, she said to herself, although, since she’d started to put on weight, she frequently told herself that the pots didn’t contain enough lotion to smooth over the whole of her body simply because she was tall.
She dressed again hurriedly, still smelling good. Being fatter made her sweat more profusely. She composed herself before phoning the switchboard.
’Could you put me through to the Prince’s suite?’
She swallowed, and a voice from the suite answered.
’Yes please?’
’Good evening. Is May-He-Live-Long there, please?’
’Who’s calling, please?’
’He knows who it is.’
Silence. Silence.
’Hello?’
’What’s your name, please?’
’He knows. If you could get him for me.’
’Where are you calling from?’
’From London. Is he there, please?’
’Just a moment.’
She swallowed again and heard the sound of footsteps down the receiver.
’Would you mind giving me your name?’
There was a knock on her door. ’Police! Police! Open the door.’
Amira put the receiver down and picked up her bag, then was not sure what to do next.
’Police! Police! If you don’t open the door, we’ll have to force it.’
She opened it, shouting at them in terror, ’I’m alone. I’ve only just taken this room. Ask the hotel management. Search the room. Search my handbag. You won’t find anything.’
Three plain-clothes detectives entered, and an Arab, who looked Lebanese. One of the three closed the door while the other two took it in turns to look in the bathroom. She heard the shower curtain being drawn back and drawn to again, cupboards opening and closing, then they transferred their search to the bedroom. She felt reassured suddenly. There was some mistake. They were looking for a criminal. One of them bent down to look under the bed, then he pulled back the curtains, opened the window and stuck his head out briefly, closed it again and closed the curtains, arranging them as if he were helping his wife get ready for guests.
Only in London Page 17