Abass shrugs again.
Kai says, ‘You don’t want her to go to church?’
‘I don’t like them coming here. All they do is pray and pray and then take all our money. They used to come once a week. Now they come nearly every day. And I don’t like them.’
Kai couldn’t agree more, but it would not do to say so. Instead he asks, ‘What would you like to happen instead?’
Abass shakes his head and shoves his hands between his knees.
‘Well?’
The boy mumbles something, so low Kai hardly hears it. ‘I want her to play with me.’
‘I see.’ He puts an arm around Abass. ‘Well, you’re getting a bit old to play, aren’t you?’
‘I mean stay with me …’ He tails off.
‘You want to spend more time with your mother, is that it?’
Abass nods.
‘I see.’ Kai looks across the top of the boy’s head, across the room. There on the windowsill, the row of origami animals he has made for Abass over the years, faintly red with dust. He says, ‘I think it gives your mum comfort to pray. And I think that’s something we should respect, whatever we think ourselves. We must just be patient and polite, even to the preacher.’ He nudges Abass lightly and the boy giggles and then grows serious.
‘What does she need comfort for?’
There it is again. Soon there will be no avoiding it. Abass believes his father died a natural death and a peaceful one, which is as much as he has been told. Kai needs to talk to his cousin, to make her listen. For now he says, ‘We’ll talk about that another time. Meanwhile you apologise to your mother and then you and I can do something.’
Abass turns, looks at him and says, ‘But you’re going away, too. You’re going to live in America.’
‘Well, I’m not going any time soon,’ replies Kai. Until now he hadn’t realised quite how much Abass has been quietly working out for himself.
And only several hours later, by which time the church congregation had departed and Abass was fast asleep, does Kai realise exactly what Abass had said.
‘Going away, too’, without even knowing it. Abass had said ‘going away, too’.
CHAPTER 46
In her room Ileana performs her own particular tea ceremony: silvered pot, Lipton tags, canned milk. To Adrian the teapot makes her look like a Roma.
‘How far gone?’ she says.
‘Three months,’ answers Adrian. A week has passed, a week since Mamakay told him she was pregnant with his child. He feels the responding tension in his stomach. His emotions are in the wind.
Ileana crosses the room and places the tea on the desk in front of him.
‘In my professional capacity I would have to say physician, heal thyself. These things don’t just happen.’ She pats him lightly on the shoulder like a dog, the first time that Adrian can ever remember her touching him, evidence of the magnitude of her sympathy. ‘Jesus, you’ve crossed the line so many times, I don’t know which side of it you’re on any more.’
‘I know,’ says Adrian, shaking his head.
Later he walks alone in the Patients’ Garden. Ileana’s bluntness came with wisdom. Not how but why, more importantly what would happen now. He is a man with a wife, a child, a job to go back to, a home. Beneath his feet the ground is damp with recent rain, the Patients’ Garden smells of earth and moss. Rain drips from the leaves high up on to those below, musical notes. Under the heavy cloud, the garden is almost in darkness. After the months of heat and dust, Adrian still enjoys the rain, can soak it up. At night, hearing it upon the roof and during the day as he watches from his window, he marvels at its power. The rain hurls itself down with such force it seems to rage at the earth, like an angry woman throwing herself upon her lover.
He thinks of Mamakay, the equanimity with which she seems to accept the fact of her condition. From the moment they met she had appeared to expect nothing from Adrian and now it is as though what is happening to her is taking place on another plane, a higher one, from where she can see years into the future beyond the details of their liaison, towards a different horizon. She has made the greatest decision by far and by which all the others are measured, and she has made it alone. She intends to create a life. Adrian might feel grateful that she would make it so easy for him. He might, but he doesn’t. Her self-possession draws him to her; there is the desire, the compulsion almost, to breach it.
He hears rather than feels the rain begin again, striking the ground around him, hitting the upper leaves of the tree. Eventually it finds its way to him. For a few minutes longer he remains seated, letting the rain soak into his cotton shirt and touch his skin.
A cigarette stub left burning in the ashtray marks Ileana’s departure. Adrian crushes it out, and as he does so looks up to the board behind Ileana’s desk. The coloured pins and Ileana’s earring are there still, stuck into the map, tracing the journeys made by Agnes. Though Adrian regularly checks the admissions records both here and at the medical hospital, Agnes has never come back. Once Salia had gone of his own accord to the old department store to find the former doorman and obtain his promise to be informed if anything was heard or if Agnes reappeared. Since then, nothing.
Adrian takes Agnes’s file and opens it, leafing through the pages to remind himself what is written there. In the short weeks he had known her he’d used his time well. The incident with the gold chain had seemed like a blessing, empirical evidence of her dissociative state. What is he to do with all this information, now rendered useless? For he lacks the crucial element, that which would bind it all together – whatever it is that impels her journeys. The thing that makes Agnes do what she does.
Babagaleh is outside Elias Cole’s room; he tells Adrian the man inside is sleeping. At other times Babagaleh will enter and gently wake his master, but today he says Cole had passed a bad night. Babagaleh has placed himself in charge now, a sure sign Elias Cole is dying.
Leaving the old man’s room Adrian catches sight of Kai ahead of him, recognising him even in the poor light of the corridor by his habitual flip-flops, theatre greens and T-shirt, wonders in that moment whether to call out, opens his mouth, hesitates and in his hesitation the moment is lost. Kai turns the corner and disappears.
From the apartment Adrian dials his home telephone number and listens to the distant ringing. He’s about to replace the receiver when Lisa comes on the line, breathless. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, it’s me.’
‘Hello? Sorry, who is it?’
‘It’s me. Adrian.’
‘Oh, hi. Sorry, I could hardly hear you. Some of the girls are round for lunch.’
‘Do you want me to call back?’
‘No, it’s OK. They’re fine. They’ve just opened another bottle. How is it going? When are you coming back?’
They never speak without her asking the question. Today, he can hardly bear it. Instead of answering he describes for her the new sessions. In the last he achieved something, in getting the men to remember and write down or draw – for several were illiterate – their experiences. A small triumph, but significant. He remembers back to when he first arrived, how high his expectations had been, how broad his assumptions. He’d been all wrong. So much ground needed to be laid before he could even begin to build their trust. Only now does he feel he is making progress.
‘Lisa?’
A pause. ‘In the cutlery drawer, Anne. Sorry. Well, that sounds all very good. They’re certainly lucky to have you. I hope they realise it.’
‘Thanks.’
Another small silence. He can hear her draw breath. ‘Darling, I’m pleased for you, I really am. But what can you expect to achieve with these people? How many problems can one man solve in a place like that?’
He has to admire her gift for putting her finger right on top of it. He tries for flippancy and fails. ‘Someone has to do it.’ His words are followed by a burst of background laughter, the scrape of chairs, someone calling for Lisa
.
‘Well, someone doesn’t have to be you,’ and then, with her customary restraint, ‘Let’s not argue. I just hope you haven’t forgotten your priorities.’
‘Of course not,’ Adrian replies.
When they have said goodbye he goes to the kitchen and, though it is early, pours himself a tumbler of whisky, carries it back to sit on the cane sofa. He thinks of Lisa and her girlfriends in London. Summer there now. They’d be in the conservatory. No husbands, of course. If Adrian was ever at home, he’d remove himself to his study or to sit at the bottom of the garden or else go out on some imaginary errand. He sips his whisky, presses the cool glass against his forehead. He is aware of something absent in his emotions and it takes him a moment to realise it. He does not miss home, at all.
Later he calls his mother. He pictures her in what he still thinks of as her new home: a triple-glazed bungalow by the sea, a model of architectural efficiency, free of any kind of charm and easy for her to manage on her own. A fortnight before his departure Adrian made a farewell visit. He’d arrived early and stood waiting for her at the gate, looking at the sculptures made out of jetsam and driftwood that decorated the lawn. In the distance he saw her coming towards him, a seventy-year-old beachcomber, in a corduroy jacket, her windswept hair a silver flame around her head. More masculine in manner and dress than before, as though she had shifted ground to fill the space left by his father. That day she’d been as happy as he’d seen her.
‘We had such a storm here last night,’ she tells him over the telephone. ‘She was furious about something, my goodness.’ To his mother the sea is always female, prone to womanly moods. ‘Thought she would sweep us all away. What a noise! But the light this morning was quite marvellous. I counted at least six dead birds. Gulls. Two avocet. Looked like they’d been washed out of the sky. Rather picturesque in their own way; I went back and fetched my camera.’
He listens to her and for the first time realises from where his love of birds most likely comes. He’d never given it much thought. Probably she used to take him for walks and talk to him about these things. It had all stopped with his father’s illness. But the memories, doubtless, had lodged in his subconscious. Suddenly he feels immensely grateful to her.
‘So how are you doing out there? How’s the work going?’
They talk for a while longer. She listens. At the end she says, ‘Well, you keep at it. We’re all very proud of you.’
And Adrian says without thinking, ‘Why don’t you come out and visit? It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Come on. I think you’ll like it. At any rate, it’ll be interesting.’
‘Oh, darling, what a wonderful idea. Don’t you think I’m a bit old?’
‘No, I don’t. There are old people here, I see them every day.’
She laughs.
‘Don’t say no,’ he tells her. ‘Say you’ll think about it.’
‘All right, dear. I’ll think about it.’
He hangs up. He realises they have never spoken about his reasons for coming here. He had taken it for granted she would understand that his connection to the place came through her. He has no idea how she actually feels about it, if she feels anything at all.
How does a man like him believe in love? A man trained to analyse the component parts of emotion. Measures of neurochemicals, of serotonin, hormones, oxytocin and vasopressin. He who would name, classify and diagnose every nuance of the human soul into attachments, complexes, conditions and disorders. There exists, somewhere, a scale for love invented by one of his profession. Others have identified the neurological reward pathways of the brain, the tripwires that mark the way to love. And there are others still who say love is but a beautiful form of madness.
Adrian does not know.
Above a moss-strewn yard, the night sky, so many, many stars. Next to him a woman lies sleeping, her head upon his thigh. The second when she passed from wakefulness to sleep he recorded as a momentary heaviness in her body, to which his own body responded with minute adjustments.
He didn’t come here looking for happiness. He came here to change who he was. And in her he has found his escape, this sleeping woman, for she offers him a way out of himself, away from the person he might have become. She wandered by accident through a portal into the hollow of his heart and led him out into the light.
How does a man whose task in life is to map the emotions, their origins and their end, how does such a man believe in love?
Adrian does not know. But he believes. There it is. He believes.
Again.
CHAPTER 47
‘Why do you wish to work in the United States?’
The woman at the US Embassy visa section had not looked at Kai since he entered the room, concentrating instead upon studying, at some considerable length, the letter advising him of this appointment, which he’d brought with him as instructed by the letter itself. A woman with a smoker’s tired hair and skin, she peers down at the signature at the end of the letter. The signature he assumes belongs to her, Andrea Fernandez Mount.
‘Well?’ she says. ‘What is your reason for wishing to work in the United States?’
What is the right answer?
To live the American dream.
Because it is there, like Everest. Was it Everest?
‘To advance my career,’ he says.
Andrea Fernandez Mount’s right eyebrow lifts.
‘My medical career,’ he adds. ‘I wish to gain clinical experience and to sit additional professional exams.’
So now she looks at him.
‘Are you looking for permanent residency?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. Kai has no plans ever to return, but he does not intend to say so, it isn’t as if there is anything honest about this process. The Embassy official’s job is to make Kai jump through certain hoops, to persuade herself that this man wants to come to her country, to live in a house like the one upon which she has just taken out a mortgage, shop in the stores where she shops and send his kids to school alongside her own. He exists to validate her dreams. Doctors are given special dispensation. Because the truth, again – only if it matters – is that they want him. But Andrea is careful not to reveal any eagerness. There are only a limited number of places each year, even for medics; this gives her a little leverage, restores a little of her authority.
Kai looks at his feet. He realises he has forgotten to change his shoes and is still wearing flip-flops. There is a smear of blood on his cuff. In the street outside the Embassy a queue of men wait for the green-card lottery. Kai had been five minutes late for the interview. They’d kept him waiting nearly forty.
‘Have you brought your preliminary documentation with you?’
Kai pushes the envelope across the table. Andrea Fernandez Mount opens it and removes the contents, placing each one on the table in a row, like a detective perusing evidence. Copies of his birth certificate, passport, school certificates, medical degree, medical licence.
After a while she says, ‘Fine. Somebody here will need to interview you, but there’s a wait list of three months now. In the meantime you can take your medical exam and a language proficiency test. I can give you a list of Embassy-approved clinics.’
‘May I undergo the medical at my own hospital?’
She glances at him briefly. ‘If it’s on the list. Do you know yet which state you’re going to be working in?’
‘I’m not sure. Maryland, I think.’
‘Once you have an offer of work you’ll need a state medical licence. Your employer should help you out with that. Sometimes the application can be held up waiting for the visa to come through. We can’t give you a visa until you have the licence.’ She shrugs. ‘Catch 22, but that’s the way it goes till some person fixes it. Let them know your visa is being processed. After your formal interview I’ll be able to tell you more.’ She pushes her chair back. ‘I think we’re about done here.’ Quite unexpectedly she looks up and smiles warmly at him. ‘You can pick these up in a week.�
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Kai stands up. ‘Thank you,’ he says. He’s been inside her office no more than five minutes.
‘Let me see you out.’ The meeting over, her manner seems to have changed entirely. As she walks with him to the door she says, ‘Well, who knows, I might see you around. It’s a small town, after all.’ She extends her hand. ‘Maybe you could tell me which your favourite restaurant is. It’s always good to have a local recommendation when you’re new to a place.’
Kai takes her hand, feels the slight pressure of her thumb on his. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t get to eat out much,’ he replies, smiles briefly and turns away.
Out in the street, he walks past the line of men. They look at him, with the same silent yearning as the patients waiting to be seen outside the hospital, working out who he is, whether he might be in a position to help them. He sees them notice his flip-flops and turn away. Never will any of them meet Andrea Fernandez Mount.
Kai goes to Mary’s for lunch, the second time they have seen each other in a month. It is early yet, the place is quiet. She spots him the moment he enters and advances towards him, manoeuvring her stomach between the tables. She reaches up to kiss him, her belly pressing against him. It feels warm, soft and at the same time resistant. He experiences a sudden urge to press his face against it.
‘You look good, Mary,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’ She is standing looking at him, her head on one side; the smile on her face is tinged with tenderness.
She knows, he thinks. She knows about Nenebah. And because he cannot bear the expression on her face, with all its pity, he says it first.
‘Ah, so you already know. Well, it will be good for her.’
There is firmness to her nod. She pulls a chair out, indicates for Kai to sit opposite her and claps her hands for the girl. ‘What will you have?’
‘Soda water,’ says Kai.
‘Nothing more?’
‘I’m in surgery later.’
‘Bring a soda water and a Guinness. Cold.’
The Memory of Love Page 42