Dalila

by Jason Donald

  People place candles in jam jars, and lay them out in a wide semicircle around Mr Erdem’s final resting place. Some residents have brought flowers, which they lay out between the candles. Three football jerseys have been laid out, too. Children, holding their mothers’ hands, place teddy bears on the ground. Some people open flasks and pour the steaming-hot contents into cups, others sip from bottles and pass them to their neighbours. Most stand in silence, gazing at the flickering candles.

  The evening darkens and the orange glow of the street lights shines down on the gathering. Standing among the crowd, Dalila picks out faces from Africa and the Middle East, some from the Far East, but under this false light each face lacks colour. There is only shadow and contrast. Those who are new to this neighbourhood are marked out by their confused expressions. These people who have given up their lives to flee from death, who have travelled halfway across the planet to escape men in uniforms only to find everything they fear in the safest place they could imagine. She sees the disappointment in their faces as sharply as she feels it in her own heart.

  Fear – same.

  Sadness – same.

  Death – same.

  Next to the foreign faces are the others, the people born to this. The old locals with watery eyes gazing at the scene where another person has died. They do not hide their weariness. They stand, hands in pockets, stooped by deposits of disaffection. Whereas the younger locals seem hardened by something more elusive. Fierce-eyed and angry, glaring at the candle flames as if they have just glimpsed their inheritance and feel betrayed by it.

  Daniel arrives on the other side of the vigil. He nods and makes his way towards her.

  Habari, Dali, he says, and they shake gloved hands.

  Daniel, says Dalila, switching to English, this is my neighbour Mrs Gilroy.

  Daniel removes his glove and shakes her hand.

  It’s lovely to meet you, Daniel, says Mrs Gilroy.

  A pleasure to meet you also.

  The three of them go silent.

  Daniel removes his hat and clasps his hands behind his back, staring across the candles and the uplit faces. He lifts a tall candle from a jar, cupping the flame, and uses it to relight a smaller candle. He stands again, pulls his woollen hat over his ears.

  Erdem. I knew this man, says Daniel, in English. He was good. He only cared for his family.

  Aye, he was a good one, says Mrs Gilroy. Always well dressed, he was.

  He was my neighbour, says Dalila.

  Daniel looks at Dalila, searching her face.

  I looked after his daughters, she says. I ate with him and his family.

  It is a difficult day, my sister, Daniel says. Did you eat something today?

  Dalila takes a tissue and blows her nose.

  Aye, it’s been rough, says Mrs Gilroy. What they’ve done to this family, it’s no worth thinking about.

  A TV news crew sets up close to the vigil. The reporter wears a tweed coat. She crouches near the candles while the cameraman sets up the shot.

  I’ve been thinking about my Sam all day, says Mrs Gilroy. I cannae help it. I keep wondering what he’d make of all this.

  It is right to think of our loved ones now, says Daniel.

  Dalila listens to the murmurs in the crowd. She studies one face and then another, as if expecting to see someone. She stares into the flickering candles and it begins to feel as if her mother and brother are here, standing with her. Her father seems to be in the crowd, too, somewhere among these faces.

  Daniel clears his throat. While staring at the candle flames, he says, When I was a young man I went to one funeral in Uganda. We stayed there three days. At this funeral there was an old man, a healer. They said this old man was a priest before, and then became a common witch doctor. But people believed in his gift. On the first day, the brother of the man who passed spoke to the healer. He asked what he knew of the next world. But the healer man, he didn’t say anything.

  Daniel stares out, as if looking between the crowd, at the darkening evening beyond the towers. Will he continue his story? Dalila wonders. Perhaps she should say something. But Daniel draws back into himself and starts talking again. On the third day, Daniel says, all the men, we sit together. The healer said to us, he said this, As we live our days, every person must make their own narrative or it is made for you. That is the great struggle. From this struggle all stories are told and by their story each one is known, each one is remembered. When you pass over, only the story stays behind.

  Aye, that’s one way o looking at things, says Mrs Gilroy.

  Daniel continues. This old healer, he said to us, Your story remains in this world, but even more, it passes with you to the other place. Your story is all you have. In the next place it is all anyone has. There, our ancestors sit by the Great Fire and tell about their lives. Some tell stories of long journeys, others explain concepts. There are tragic stories and mysteries and tales of great adventures. Vast family sagas are coupled with romantic meetings which are met with braggings. When one speaks the others listen, paying close attention to what is told and closer attention to what is left untold. Every detail is collected. The weight of each word is tested, remembered. The more our ancestors listen, the more evident it becomes that every story is connected. Parables are linked to tragedies linked to jokes linked to legends. Together, all our stories become the Great Story. To all the men gathered at that funeral, the healer said this, It takes a lifetime to create your story, the rest of time to see how it fits in the Great Story. This is the only true work there is.

  See, I like that, says Mrs Gilroy. That makes sense to me. It’s easier to believe than all that bloody claptrap you hear from the pulpit. I’m sure ma Sam is up there the now, just gabbing away.

  Daniel chuckles. My daughter, Dembe is her name, she is there also. Ish, that one can talk. She never stops. Right now she is telling a very big, big story, believe me.

  She’ll be doing well to get a word in edgeways with ma Sam, so she will, chuckles Mrs Gilroy.

  Dalila watches the two of them smiling at each other. She never knew Daniel had a daughter and can’t believe she hasn’t asked him more about his family.

  A silence descends and their eyes return to the candle lights.

  What do you think the Great Story is about? Dalila asks.

  For a moment no one answers and then Mrs Gilroy says, I couldnae say exactly what it is, but I’ll say this, ma whole life I’ve always thought we’re building something, something good. And no just for our weans but for werselves. I dunno. In ma old age, I wonder if we’ve actually built anything at all. But if there is a Great Big Story, I’m sure it will show we’re all in this thegether. Like it or not.

  Yes, Daniel says, I believe this. It is like a long drama and everything is so, so important. Sometimes, when I am quiet, I think I can feel the shape of the Great Story. From its shape, I sense how it is moving.

  How does this story end? Dalila asks.

  Too many things will happen. In the end, everything will happen. But I believe after all is done, and after all is told about what was done, after every deed and word is consumed in the Great Fire and all is gone, there, in the deep for ever, a silent beauty will remain. I believe, in the end, beauty wins.

  As the vigil starts to break up, Dalila says goodnight to Daniel and Mrs Gilroy and goes back to her flat. In the lift, on the way up, she checks her phone for messages.

  None.

  Ma’aza is sure to be back tonight. She left without even taking a bag. She must come back soon. Dalila decides to wait up and watch the news, it’ll be better than trying to sleep alone in the flat. A hot bath will also be good. To soak in it till she is drowsy and her bones feel warm again. Then she will wait on the sofa, maybe watch a film until Ma’aza returns.

  The lift doors open and Mick is standing right in front of her, staring down at his phone. He doesn’t look up. Dalila stumbles back and touches the button to close the doors, but Mick reaches out and stops them.
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  A’right, he mumbles.

  She imagines running past him, but finds herself unable to move.

  You coming out, Irene?

  His eyes are bloodshot as if he’s been crying or drinking, or both. There’s a weary pull to his movements, a slowness. He steps back, keeping his hand across the door closing. He spreads his other arm wide, signalling her free passage.

  C’mon. You can come out. I’m no gonna touch you.

  Dalila glances past him at the two police officers guarding the Erdems’ flat. She walks straight to her front door without even glancing at Mick. The key goes in the lock and as she opens the door and steps in, Mick says, Here. D’you see what happened this morning?

  Dalila turns her head halfway towards him and nods.

  The lift doors starts to close and Mick lets them shut. He glances at the police officers, who are watching him without looking directly at him, and takes two careful steps towards Dalila. He whispers, You seen what happened, aye?

  Yes, she says softly.

  Looked like there were about thirty polis or something.

  Dalila nods.

  Mick takes a step closer and throws the policemen a sideways look. He whispers very quietly, So, they just burst in and threw him off, is that it?

  Dalila lifts her eyes. But Mick struggles to look at her. He glances again at the officers. He turns his head and spits.

  They did not throw him, Dalila whispers.

  He jumped?

  No. Mr Erdem, he . . . he stepped off.

  He stepped aff?

  Yes.

  Fuckinhellman, says Mick under his breath. He sniffs and wipes a hand across his mouth. Were the weans in the flat when he . . .? I mean, did they see their da . . . step aff?

  I think the officers, they took the girls out before, whispers Dalila. But if they saw, I don’t know.

  I seen him, whispers Mick. I seen him just lying there, like he was drunk or something. No movin or nothin. Just lying there.

  Mick swallows hard. His bloodshot eyes become redder as if he is about to scream or cry.

  I cannae get that picture oot ma head. Aw day I just seen him lying there. Mick swallows again. Know what I mean?

  I know, whispers Dalila. And then she says, One day, it will get easier.

  She steps inside and as she shuts the door Mick says, Here, Irene.

  She leaves it open an inch, waiting.

  See last time, whispers Mick, I didnae mean . . . I know I was a wee bit . . . I’d been on the bevvy and, and I know I went on a bit about fuckin toasters and the government and that, but I didnae mean it. I was just a wee bit . . . Mick points a finger at his temple and twirls it.

  The sign for crazy – same.

  Dalila nods and closes her front door. She lies down on her bed and listens to her heart pulsing. She takes a slow breath. In and out.

  Where is Ma’aza? Where could she have gone? And where are Parla and Rosa? Where would they have been taken? They must be with their mother. Do they even know what happened to their father? And the police? How long will they be here? Will they come for more people?

  She gets up, goes to the bathroom and blows her nose. She washes her face with hot water and massages her sinuses and then blows her nose again.

  She drags her duvet through to the sofa in Ma’aza’s room, turns on the TV and lies down. The news is still reporting on this morning’s events. There’s a clip with the body lying on the lawn covered in a sheet. She thinks about Mick, about his bloodshot eyes.

  There is a sensation in her stomach and she can’t tell if it is hunger, so she stands up and goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge. Nothing in the fridge looks appetising. She doesn’t want tea.

  Her mind goes back to Mick, about the look he gave her as she closed the door. It was a look she understood, yet could not explain.

  She unplugs the toaster, shakes all the crumbs into the bin and wraps the cable around it.

  As she opens her front door the policemen outside the Erdems’ flat halt their conversation. She crosses the landing and places the toaster right in front of Mick’s front door.

  One of the policemen raises his eyebrows. Before he can speak, Dalila says, This one is for him.

  Something grabs her foot and Dalila wakes, startled.

  Wake up, says Ma’aza, yanking off the duvet and dumping it on the floor. This is not your room. You cannot sleep on this sofa.

  The TV is still on, adverts mutely flashing across the screen. The window is dark.

  Dalila stands too quickly and stumbles onto the neutral linoleum flooring of the kitchenette. She runs water across her fingers and rubs her face with her wet hand.

  Where did you go? Dalila asks.

  Out.

  Ma’aza switches on the overhead light and clicks off the TV.

  What time is it? asks Dalila.

  It is late. No, it is early, says Ma’aza. She pulls her rucksack out from under her bed, unzips it and throws it on the bed. She pulls a pair of jeans from the drawer, inspects them and rolls them down the length of her torso into a tight scroll and shoves them into the rucksack. A T-shirt and pullover get the same treatment. A pair of shoes and a scarf are also stuffed into the bag. Kneeling on her bed, Ma’aza starts taking down the photographs of her family taped to the wall.

  What are you doing?

  Moving.

  But where are you going?

  I’m going. Finished.

  Ma’aza, please, you must stay at this place, this address. What about reporting? They will refuse you if you don’t report. You are scared, even me, I am scared, but you must stay.

  I will go.

  Where? Where can you go? They can find you anywhere. They will take you and send you back.

  Ma’aza gets off her bed and struts right up to Dalila, her scarred eyebrows raised. You have seen revolution? she asks, jabbing her index finger towards the ceiling.

  Dalila hesitates and says, I have seen election troubles.

  You have seen famine?

  No, she concedes.

  I have seen both. Both times, the ones who stay are the ones who die. Believe me. Moving is living, I told this to you before, she says, with another jab of her finger.

  But, yesterday, with the police, this was not a revolution.

  I see people like this before, says Ma’aza, her voice a little softer. They will come again. They will take you and you will be gone. In detention, back to Kenya, it doesn’t matter. You will be gone. I see this before, believe me. You have to go, Dalila.

  But where? There is nowhere to go.

  Ma’aza moves closer. You are right, she says, if we go frontways or back or left or right, they find us. Only a rich man can go up. If you have money and there is trouble, you go up to those places where they don’t come looking for you, or you pay them not to find you. You can hide up there. But for you and me, we don’t have money, so we go down. No papers, no phone, no address. If we go down, they don’t find us.

  Dalila blinks, not sure how to reply.

  Ma’aza takes hold of her hand. I know some people. We can work in their shop. We sleep there. In the spring, we pick fruit. We make money. With money, we go to Canada. Canada is better. Come with me, sister, please.

  Dalila looks away.

  Where do you want to go?

  I want to go home, to Kenya. As she says it, the homesickness descends. The longing to be back home again.

  Ma’aza gives her a flat look. And your uncle?

  Dalila has no answer to this.

  When he dies, you go home. Maybe next week, maybe in twenty years. But where will you wait until you go back?

  Here?

  Why?

  In her mind the answer is poised, ready. What better place to be than in the UK? It is the Father of the World. But she catches these words before they leave her mouth, the authority of them having somehow shifted. Instead, she looks at Ma’aza and says, It is safer to stay here.

  Ma’aza shakes her head. Was it safe for the
m? she says, pointing through the wall.

  At the first hint of dawn, Ma’aza is packed and ready to leave. Dalila watches her zip up her coat and tie her bootlaces.

  You won’t tell me where you are going? asks Dalila.

  Ma’aza shakes her head.

  Can I phone you?

  I won’t be able to answer, but if you text I can reply, says Ma’aza. She stands up and places her hands on Dalila’s cheeks. Don’t be sad, little sugar sister. I will be okay. One day I will phone and you will say, who is this? And I will say, Ish, you don’t know your sugar sister?

  Dalila can’t help but smile.

  And I will say, Come and visit me in my house in Canada.

  Your big house, adds Dalila.

  Yes, my very big house. Come and visit me in my so, so big house. I have a very big TV and you can stay and we watch movies every day.

  Dalila starts giggling. She wipes away the tears and says, We will watch comedies with coffee and popcorn.

  Yes. Of course. Lots of popcorn and ice cream and cookies and Coke and lots of BBQ, only BBQ all the time. You and me, we watch movies every night and we get fat. So, so fat.

  The two of them are giggling and Dalila says, I would like that.

  Ma’aza nods. She opens the door and checks. There is no policeman on the landing. She turns and says, Dalila, if there is trouble, you go, okay?

  Dalila looks at the floor.

  Promise me, girl. You just go and keep going and then you call me, okay?

  Okay.

  Ma’aza hoists her bag onto her shoulder and disappears down the fire escape.

  Two hours later, there is a tapping at the door and Dalila jumps up from the couch, thinking it might be Ma’aza returning, having changed her mind or perhaps she forgot something. She opens the door and Alison, Mick’s girlfriend, is standing there holding the toaster.

  Is this you, aye?

  Dalila glances around, unsure how to answer that question.

  The fuck is this? Alison holds out the toaster. D’you do this?