Out of It

by Selma Dabbagh

  ‘There, looks a bit neater like that. Bit of a mess really. Cleaning lady only comes on Mondays.’

  Iman was quiet now, but at the party she had got heated about some erroneous supposition he had made. She had become fiercely aggressive and tremendously beautiful.

  Charles tried to find something else that was as easy to fix as his desk, but could not see anything else that was as easy to remedy. He drank his Scotch in one go instead. Ha. Done.

  Iman had come into the flat with a purpose, but then with a stunning suddenness, like a floodlight coming on to a stage she realised that she did not know what it was that she was supposed to do. She had no lines to utter, no directions as to which moves to make. She was a woman alone in a flat with a man. But still nothing had been resolved. Her message was not being picked up on. Normally just to talk for this long to a man would be enough to make her intentions clear. The drink stuck all over her mouth and her hands. It seemed to glue them all up. She felt a bit sick. She had not been drunk since school when the girls in her dorm had smuggled in some sweet wine. She had spent most of that night vomiting into the shower tray. Sometimes she had sipped arak with Sabri but that was not the same.

  ‘Another?’ Charles took the glasses and came back with them full and tinkling. ‘Not quite the right shape, I daresay, but it will do, no? Better for brandy that one.’ Charles moved across the sofa so he could see Iman. ‘See, we are searching at the moment, at the FO, for a so-called Partner for Peace. It would be a cross-departmental collaboration; we’d be working with the development people, just at the non-governmental level, you understand. Now, I suggested Abu… someone. Well, whoever, but I have had some discouraging reports.’

  Iman guessed a name and got it right. She smiled at it. She felt more comfortable now in this safe little hole underneath the centre of London’s government, this flowery little bunker, unchanged for over a century or two, filled with the regalia of the past. There was comfort in victory, in the silence that it brought. The knowledge that the bed you slept in would always be yours in the morning. She could see Charles’ confidence coming back with his subject matter. He furrowed his brow and small freckles found each other and merged into a tanned splat on his forehead. He had a habit of pushing his glasses up his nose as a sign of concentration. He did this now although he had already taken them off.

  ‘So, what I would like to put to you is, what would you do? Hmph? I have been, you may have noticed, skirting around, flirting with this issue all night, but tell me, what would you do in that role?’ He spelt out to her the mandate, the proposal, the limitations, the freedom, and the possibilities.

  Iman found the muscle in her tongue and spoke of ideas that had knocked against her head in her room, had been interrupted for ‘points of organisation’ at her women’s meetings, would be taken as givens by Khalil and Sabri. Things that they all thought, that everyone knew.

  ‘I see. I see. Excellent. Excellent. Well, let’s see what we can do.’

  Had she had one glass or two sitting there? Whatever it had been, even if it had been more, they had both gone into her brain and seemed to have both fouled it up and bedazzled it at the same time. The desire to giggle at her host and the pictures which surrounded him flooded through her. She fought an urge to stick her toe up his trouser leg to test for a reaction. A rush of opportunities all presented themselves to Iman at the same time. She thought of the things that had made her laugh, the bawdy Jahalia poem found by the Israeli border guards about the man’s key wilting in its lock (how could she even try to translate that?), the men that Suzi had tried to set her up with and even (in a really warped way, that she had not thought possible), the sheer weirdness of that day when Seif El Din was murdered and Abu Omar arrested, that man Ziyyad Ayyoubi outside the house. It was quite a story to be told. She was about to start recounting it all, in all its hilarity and horror, when she was overwhelmed by a feeling of fatigue and loneliness. She could not see the point of any of it. He would not, he could not understand. She didn’t know what she was doing. She had forgotten what the point was any more. She didn’t even know where she was.

  ‘You look a bit bushed.’ He leant over enough so that he could stroke her cheek. He could not help it. Her hair against the sofa’s pink roses and curling leaves made such a contrast. He would not get the sofas upholstered like his ex had gone on about; he didn’t need solid colours. They were beautiful sofas. Exquisite. ‘Shall I get you a taxi? Or I could make a bed up for you, I have this old camp bed that I can pull out and sleep on. You could have mine?’

  ‘No, no, I’m OK, really.’

  Iman stood up clumsily as though heavily pregnant and walked over to the bookshelves. He followed her and took her hand as he gave a commentary on the titles. ‘A lot of it was here when I moved in.’ He pulled out a red leather-bound copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and she flicked through its pages, marvelling at how there was much much more curiosity back then than now. He moved behind her and kissed her near her ear. She stayed still and waited for kisses until they compelled her to respond and it was all so much easier than she had thought.

  The bed had been narrow and soft, a child’s bed, pushed next to a wall and sunken in the middle. He had been courteous and she had refused to be shy. It had not hurt as she had been told that it would, nor had she bled, but his skin was foreign and on it his sweat had the smell of wet potato peel.

  Chapter 35

  As the march entered the square, Khalil was standing, as agreed, by the fourth lion in front of the burger place. He blended in better here, Iman thought, seeing him up there in his black jacket, than he did back home. Behind him, banners waved and in front of him a row of speakers sat on fold-up chairs on a platform. Lisa was to their side, writing on a clipboard, a phone squeezed between her shoulder and her ear. An elderly politician, his legs crossed, smoked a pipe.

  Ziyyad Ayyoubi had been on the stage when they came into the square. There had been some applause when he had finished a point and then he had started another one before he looked down, and she knew it was ridiculous to think this, as it was hardly possible, but she thought that he had seen her. He had stopped mid-sentence. The audience waited, but instead of continuing he had stepped off the stage. The audience held on, murmuring and speculating loudly until a poet in an anorak stepped forwards, silver hair lifted around his head in a static cloud.

  Iman could not see Ayyoubi once he had left the stage and she found herself looking for him until she realised that Rashid, who had been at her side when they entered the square, had also disappeared. She pushed through the crowd towards Khalil thinking it was the route that Rashid would have taken.

  ‘I thought he went ahead to find you,’ Iman said to Khalil when she found him.

  ‘Is he avoiding me or something? I told him I would be here today.’

  ‘I expect he just went to get something to eat. He’s like that when he gets urges, he just shoots off; whatever it is, food, sleep, needing a smoke, he doesn’t tell you or ask you, you just turn round and he’s gone. You know Rashid. We went to the Public—’

  ‘I know. You were out. I went to your flat.’

  A choir in red T-shirts were now on the stage.

  ‘What happened to your hair?’ Iman asked.

  ‘My father insisted on me cutting it. No, in fact he bribed me into it, true to form. I needed a pass to get to see Jamal in detention and he wouldn’t help me out with getting one unless I cut my hair off. I know, it’s outrageous, but you know my father.’

  The red choir threw their shoulders back and formed a line of ‘O’s with their mouths on stage.

  ‘You came with my flatmate?’ Iman raised the tone of her voice to something a bit jokey, a bit mocking, which Khalil declined to pick up on. He answered her question seriously.

  ‘Eva? Yes, I sent her off to talk to one of the speakers from the Medical Union of Healthworkers and one of the other medical charities.’

  ‘Oh, good, good. Great idea.’

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nbsp; The crowd, muddy coloured and anonymous from afar, appeared diverse and Technicolor up close. People spread around the fountain and along the stairs. They stood in the roads; tourists photographed them from the top of buses; faces leant against windows to watch them pass. Some of the groups around her carried placards: Socialist Jews Against War and Occupation, Muslims for Palestine, Welsh Singers for Peace. Khalil acted as though he was entranced by the round-mouthed singers with their low-slung breasts (Aaah! Peace! Aaah!).

  ‘Did you see Ayyoubi?’ Khalil asked.

  ‘We arrived just as he left the stage.’ Iman checked Khalil’s face to see if somewhere behind the diplomatic manner of his father he was mentioning Ayyoubi specifically to test her. She could not see anything like that.

  ‘Strange. He stood up there staring at the sky giving a very impressive talk and then in mid-stream he just stops and goes. Gone…’ Khalil continued to look around him. ‘Where is Rashid? I was really looking forward… Is there any point in waiting for him?’

  ‘He’ll turn up. How’s Leeds? How’s the course?’

  ‘It’s not bad. It’s nothing that I need to know, but they want to vet me for their own processes. I don’t have much choice if I want to apply for a grant. Most of the funding for our type of work has gone. They’re more interested in peace initiatives, “building rather than critiquing” in their words. Where is Rashid? I’ve missed the bastard.’

  Khalil tried phoning Rashid as he looked around and up at the row of policemen and vans standing at the top of the steps, the rows of hard Perspex shields near the black-booted revolutionary workers. But Rashid was not down by the fountain or up by the museum, nor was he in any of the groups standing at the front of the stage. Pigeons fluttered around them pecking at the ground, unperturbed by the thousands of pairs of moving feet. Surveillance cameras focussed in on the faces of the crowd, twisting their hydraulic necks in order to record their images for ever.

  ‘At least we can see that he’s not with her.’ Khalil gestured with his head at Lisa sitting primly up on the stage.

  The crowd by the stage was too compressed for Iman to make her way through it and she didn’t think it was Rashid’s style to push himself up to the front. Some flyers caught on her feet. She slipped slightly on a ring of fried onion. A voice called out ‘Yo!’ from the brigade of black-shirted revolutionaries and she recognised Rashid’s friend sucking on a rolled cigarette. He jumped forwards to meet her.

  ‘Have you seen Rashid?’ Iman asked.

  ‘Not since earlier. We haven’t met by the way. I’m Ian.’

  ‘Iman.’

  ‘Cool name. Does it mean anything?’

  ‘Faith.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ Ian indicated his approval with a half-smile and a contemplative nod.

  ‘So you haven’t seen him, then?’ Iman asked again.

  Ian clicked the side of his mouth. ‘Nope. Sorry. Rollie?’ He proffered a squashed box of foil at her but she had already gone.

  She moved towards the edge of the square where the traffic was still moving and she became pressed against people, bags and the sticks of banners until she came to a side street. There were so many dark heads, so many leather jackets, short sideburns and high foreheads; it would be impossible for Rashid to stand out in any way.

  An alert-looking Eva stood by the Medical Union stall. Her right hand was full of leaflets and booklets. Despite the hazy light, she looked brighter and healthier than she did indoors, but her internal light seemed to flicker as she saw Iman approach.

  ‘Eva, about what I said this morning. I’m sorry I upset you.’

  ‘Thanks for saying that, but it’s OK. Really. It turned out for the best. It’s totally OK. I think you were right.’ Iman looked again at Eva. ‘I mean, it really got me thinking and I had this amazing conversation with your friend, Khalil, who is just incredible, and he suggested coming down here, which I really didn’t think was my kind of thing, but I did it and it’s just been so, so interesting and I’ve met these really awe-inspiring people from the Medical Union and this other direct action campaign. It’s been amazing. So, no, please don’t apologise.’

  Iman nodded at the doctors by the stand and wondered whether they knew her. ‘They do good work,’ she said.

  ‘They’re outstanding.’

  Eva looked around her, and Iman tried to join her enthusiasm, struggling to recreate the sensation of elation she had felt earlier. Maybe she should tell Eva who her mother was.

  ‘The number of people…’ Eva continued, ‘…I mean, the belief they must have, and so many of them are just like me, no connection at all to the place yet still they are here and, I don’t know, I’ve never been on a demonstration before, but it’s incredible.’

  ‘Eva, you’ve met my brother, haven’t you? You know what he looks like. You haven’t seen him, have you? I can’t find him. We were together and then he just disappeared.’

  Someone from the direct action group had come up to speak to Eva and was anxious for Iman to leave. Eva smiled at the volunteer, before turning back to Iman. ‘Oh, no. No. Sorry. I don’t think so, but I’ll look out for him.’

  ‘Get him to call us if you see him.’

  ‘Sure. Sure.’ Eva stopped and leant close to Iman as though she had seen a spot on Iman’s face that she was tempted to squeeze. ‘You’ve known Khalil for a long time?’

  ‘We grew up together.’

  ‘I see. Over there?’

  ‘No. Our fathers used to work together so we were together in Scandinavia, Switzerland, different places in Europe mainly.’

  ‘Europe. I see. So he’s like a good friend to you then, Khalil? That is… you’re not together or anything, are you?’

  ‘Khalil? No, no.’ Iman tried to laugh but she could not help thinking of Lisa and it made her want to claim Khalil as hers. She struggled to be bigger than herself. ‘I’m glad you came. I must say, I was a bit surprised when Khalil told me that you were down here, but I’m pleased that I got you wrong.’ It was a dauntingly difficult thing for Iman to say, but Eva had already been taken over by the direct action group and had missed most of it. Standing next to Eva all wired up and enthusiastic did Iman no good at all.

  Iman joined the stragglers leading into a side street. Smokers hung around in groups to chat; people made phone calls out of the noise of the speakers; some parents changed their toddlers’ nappy in a doorway; couples drifted away from the mêlée for a late lunch, a stroll by the river, afternoon tea perhaps? It was muggy and close. The sky was taut and anxious to be released from its rain.

  Chapter 36

  They had just joined the demonstration when Rashid’s gut filled with pangs that rose up in him and diluted the purpose of his body. A mussed-up haze had fallen over the demonstrators and the heat of them, the street and the tarmac was now trapped solidly between the buildings. It was dull and debilitating and the ligaments of his body were weak with the cravings of his stomach for it was a laborious ploughing that he felt he was doing through the crowd, stuck in place and barely shifting. He found himself unduly attracted by advertisements for food, the counters of small restaurants, biscuits being fed to children.

  Once decided upon finding food, he nearly blundered into the wrong hamburger joint before he remembered the boycott, and the demonstration that would remind him of it if he broke it. He pulled himself away around the corner into a small café with a glass cabinet piled with sandwiches, each one the length of half his arm. He stuffed buttered meats and soft bread into his mouth, closing his eyes at the relief of it, and shoving and stuffing until it was all gone, bread, butter, slips of meat and crisps. He felt his body become braced back into place enabling him to feel relaxed enough to take in where he was, which was on a wicker bar stool under black and white photos of 1950s cars and girls in red plastic frames. A stream of demonstrators slunk away from the square to his right and from the square the speeches railed and crackled. He cleared out his nose and felt a whole lot better about everything.
/>   There were four of them that came up to him as he left the café, or it could have been five. A lot of them anyway. Only two of them were uniformed. The one who was talking had a dark red mark across the bridge of his nose where some glasses had been and one of them had eaten garlic. Rashid knew that much because they were very close and piled into him, grabbing at his arms like he was going to try to get away, and saying a long name which sounded familiar and vaguely Arab. Inferences. The one with the takeaway breath was talking about inferences. There was a brusque closeness that was foreign and repulsive to Rashid; he wanted instinctively to hit them away but they had him pinned and stunned with his hands cuffed behind his back before he could possibly respond.

  They led him towards a van on the side of the road while someone screamed and swore, but then he realised it was him. No one else, and those streets were full of people. Not one of them so much as raised an eyebrow at the staggering, blundering injustice of the whole thing.

  ‘The suspect under surveillance is in our custody,’ one of the uniformed policemen told the radio held to his chest. It had to be some kind of joke. Rashid’s wrists were too large for the cuffs and they had pulled on them as though he was a reluctant cow, a prize cow.

  What had he done, for fuck’s sake?

  ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘I haven’t fucking done anything. Get off me.’

  The van wailed as it spun around corners and more corners as though it was roped on to a central pivot around which it rushed and spun, bumping up and down over kerbs and cutting through lights, barging through stationary traffic. Without the use of his hands he was thrown across the back of the van, off his bench and on to his side. He pulled himself up and tried to find a bar for his fingers to catch on to.

  Fucking calm it down…

  And when they could be bothered to turn to check on him, they laughed at him through the thick soundproofed glass, their mouths going on about something inaudible but definitely hostile and personal.