The Nature of Blood

by Caryl Phillips

  She nodded, and then climbed from the stool. For a moment he imagined that she wanted to dance to his favourite tune, but the somewhat impatient manner in which she was staring at him left him in no doubt that she was now ready to leave.

  As they left the club, he noticed that there were only a few minutes of daylight remaining. The sky was darkening, but thin light still filtered through the clouds. He panicked and wondered where he could take her. Although she did not look like a prostitute, one could never underestimate people's imaginations.

  'Do you have any particular place in mind?'

  It was a foolish question, for it was clear that this woman had little understanding of society. He imagined that her visits to the club provided her with an escape from the claustrophobia of her family, and the stubborn manner in which they probably clung to their traditions.

  'Why don't we go to a hotel?'

  He turned to face her. He assumed that she must be making a reference of some kind to a hotel as a place to eat, but before he could disguise the embarrassing transparency of his own bewilderment she spoke again.

  'Or perhaps your place is suitable. I am sorry, but I have no money.'

  He turned from her. It was impossible to deny that it had not occurred to him that at some point he might meet a young woman on the dance floor who might offer him uncomplicated pleasure. Over the years there had, of course, been entanglements, including one protracted relationship with a musician, a cellist from Austria, whose daughter he had treated for bronchitis. Now, as he looked back almost thirty years, he had come to recognize this as probably the love of his life. Not including, of course, his wife. Since Renate, the cellist, there had been occasional and generally unsatisfactory encounters which had at least avoided the unpleasantness that he imagined an exchange of money would introduce into the whole business. However, these casual encounters were no longer validated by the thrill of pursuit and conquest, nor were they legitimized by passion. It seemed that the ladies, often grateful patients or freshly grieving widows, were, like himself, acting out some physical pantomime in which memory played an increasingly large role, and in which pity, from one to the other, seemed to be the dominant emotion. How could he tell this strange woman that he did not want a prostitute? He wanted a companion, someone to talk to, a friend even. But he had no desire to offend the woman.

  He looked at the hotels that lined the seafront – tall, concrete structures without any character, to which businessmen or package tourists confined themselves. He could not take her back to his apartment, for even if he was lucky enough not to meet anybody on the bus journey, he failed to see how he might get her into his apartment without someone noticing. To his neighbours, he was a respectable retired bachelor doctor, and the ladies who visited him either did so in company, or appeared to be decent enough not to warrant any comment.

  'Did you have any particular hotel in mind?'

  The woman shook her head. He searched her face for any sign of fear, but he could detect none. And then he pointed to the nearest hotel, one that lay less than fifty yards from where they were standing.

  'Perhaps this one here?'

  She said nothing and again the man re-examined his own motives, for he doubted that he would be able to fulfil whatever expectations this woman might have. He spoke quietly.

  'Are you certain about this?'

  The woman shot him a puzzled look so he pressed on somewhat awkwardly.

  'Well, we can eat first. They have a restaurant, I'm sure.'

  They were given a room on the seventeenth floor, with a large bathroom and a broad view of the sea. He slid back the glass doors and walked out on to the balcony.

  'It's very pleasant out here.'

  She explored the room. On either side of the large double bed were matching tables and night lamps. A small desk and a chair, a standard lamp, and a lumpy two-seat settee completed the furniture in the room. The pictures on the wall were of views that she imagined related to a different country, for the greenness of the grass and the large mountain ranges suggested a more temperate climate. She sat on the settee. This was her first time in a hotel. When her family first arrived, they had been housed in what they were told was a hotel, but within a few weeks she came to understand that, in reality, the place was something called a hostel. And a hostel was most certainly not a hotel. The conditions were intolerable, but she had promised herself then, during her first weeks in her new country, that one day she would stay in a real hotel. She was not going to be cheated.

  She was anxious to be seen to be behaving with dignity, so she rose from the settee and inspected the spotlessly clean bathroom, which boasted its own hairdryer and weighing scales. Having done so, she returned to the room and sat demurely on the edge of the bed. Then she changed her mind and crossed to the balcony. He pointed.

  'The sea is very calm.'

  She stood behind him, close enough that she could hear him wheezing slightly.

  'Looking at the sea always makes me want to travel.' He paused. 'Even at my age.'

  He turned to face her, and she smiled at him, which caused him to lower his eyes.

  They stepped clear of the lift and discovered the hotel lobby to be crowded with people. Those coming in from the street were closing umbrellas and shaking off their coats, while those ready to depart were reluctant to venture out. What had begun as a light drizzle had now turned into a downpour. He looked at the woman and spoke jauntily.

  'Just as well we are staying here and eating in the grill.'

  She said nothing as he led the way across the packed lobby to the oak-panelled reception area of the hotel restaurant. Troubled thoughts were erupting with frequency now, but even as they formed, he pushed them nervously to the back of his mind. He was simply having dinner with a young woman. That was all. They were ushered to a table by the window, and, once seated, he ordered white wine and steak, while his guest decided upon a large salad.

  'Two years ago I suffered a heart attack,' he said. "That's when I started to go to the club. It was important that I should start getting out a little.'

  He watched as she pushed the lettuce about her plate, as though uninterested in eating.

  'It's funny, but even I panicked when it happened. But, of course, I knew that it was a coronary.'

  He laughed slightly, anticipating his own humour.

  'If only I'd been able to treat myself, I could have saved on the hospital bills.'

  She would not rise to meet his conversation. Did she understand what he was saying? Perhaps it was simply a problem of language and culture. He decided to forgo dessert.

  (The mayor of the town in which we were first placed complained. He had requested that he be sent only those who could sing and dance, so that he might form a folklore group for tourists. Everywhere, we were told the same thing. First we will teach you the language, then when you leave the absorption centre you will be able to study at the university. Don't worry, your parents will find work. The first day that my mother saw a television set, she pushed a broom through the screen. There was a fire on the programme that was being broadcast and she tried to put it out. In our country, we did not eat in public. In our country, we had never seen a classroom. These things were difficult. In our country, we were not used to relying on outsiders. And then, as we learnt the language and your ways, our parents felt as though they were losing us. It was hard for them. They were no longer responsible for their children. Have you seen the ugly housing at the edges of the city where we live? My brother is in the army now. But my parents, they are sick. After the absorption centre, they are frightened of white walls and white coats. They simply watch television. My mother is tattooed on her face, her hands and her neck. She finds it difficult to leave the apartment, for people stop and stare. And my father is incapable of adjusting to this land of clocks. I try to honour him as I would do in the old country, but it is impossible if he will not change. So we do not speak, and when I get a job I will leave. Three women in one small apartment
. At certain times of the month, he says, we women pollute the place with our presence and so he will sleep outside. My sister cries. Like my mother, she does not go out into the world. Malka, stay with us. Stay with us, please. Please, Malka. I ask you, is this home? And yes, I went to your university – I am a nurse – but I cannot find a job. Four of us, we live in one cramped apartment. This Holy Land did not deceive us. The people did. The man at the hostel, he said to us, 'Welcome, my black brothers and sisters. You are helping us to understand what we are doing here.' Is this true? Are we helping you? I know now what a stamp is. I can use a telephone. I, too, can turn night into day by simply pressing a switch. I wear shoes. I have seen a highway. But please. My people never killed themselves. Hunger, yes. Disease, yes. But never this problem. During Passover, we kill a lamb and sprinkle its fresh red blood around the synagogue. But not here. You do not allow this. You say you rescued me. Gently plucked me from one century, helped me to cross two more, and then placed me in this time. Here. Now. But why? What are you trying to prove?)

  The meal was largely unsuccessful. The waiter offered him the opportunity of either paying directly, or putting it on the bill for the room. He chose to pay in cash, for he remained unsure if he would, in fact, be spending the night in this hotel. They left the dining room and sat together in the small hotel bar, a glass of whisky before each of them, the piano player hammering away in the corner to little effect. She sipped at her drink, and then she wedged an ice-cube between gum and cheek and waited for her mouth to go numb. Once it had done so, she spoke.

  'You can be honest with me. You do not want us here, do you?'

  'Not everybody feels that way.'

  He looked around the bar, but apart from the white-jacketed man serving drinks, and the two American tourists watching CNN, the place was empty. Nobody could hear their conversation, especially above the clatter of the piano.

  'I am asking you. You, a doctor. Why do they train me as a nurse?'

  'Well, why not train you as a nurse?'

  She laughed.

  'You do not understand.'

  Now the alarming question was beginning to take shape in the forefront of his mind. What did she want? Was there to be some attempt at humiliation?

  While she was in the bathroom, he stepped from his clothes and slid into bed. Ashamed of his body, and unhappy with the scar that ran the full length of his upper torso, he chose also to switch off the night lamps. The moonlight streamed into the room. With the curtains drawn back, it was possible to watch the sea, calm after rain, and to become transfixed by the sight of the surf as it tugged continually against the shoreline.

  'Why did you turn out the lights?'

  There was a note of bewilderment in her voice. She continued.

  'I can't see you.'

  'Why do you want to see me?'

  He laughed and tried to make a joke of it, but there was silence. And then she spoke.

  'Do you not wish to see me?'

  She was naked. Tall, smooth and graceful, she was carved like a statue. Before he could catch himself, he heard the words fall from his lips.

  'I would like to be your friend.'

  She stepped into shadow. Then she slid into the bed, taking care not to touch him.

  'But you are my friend. I have been here six years now, and no man has seen me naked. I am not that type of woman.'

  He turned to face her. She spoke again, this time in a hushed voice.

  'You did not look as though you would hurt me.' She paused. 'And I have never stayed in a hotel.'

  'But won't your family worry?'

  Now she turned from him and lay back on the pillow. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

  'My family worry about everything. Maybe, like my brother, I will join the army.'

  She paused, then looked back at him. She lifted her head from the pillow.

  'You may kiss me if you wish, but I prefer only that. I am sorry.'

  In the morning, she was gone. His first thought was to make sure that his wallet was still in his jacket pocket, but he resisted this ungenerous impulse. He rolled over to the part of the bed where she had slept. There was still an indentation where she had lain, but no warmth. He had spent most of the night staring at this woman, trying to understand why she had chosen him. Was there some quality he possessed that she had observed? Perhaps other women could see it too? (Did she feel sorry for him?) During the night, the sheet had slipped down to her waist, which allowed him the opportunity to examine her skin. If he had been younger, then maybe. But she belonged to another land. She might be happier there. Dragging these people from their primitive world into this one, and in such a fashion, was not a policy with which he had agreed. They belonged to another place. He thought of her now, taking the first of the buses that would carry her back to her cramped apartment. And then, upon her arrival, he imagined she would have to endure her parents. And her sister. Their questions. Their unhappiness. But there had been a private adventure. (For both of them.) The club, the hotel, the dinner, the bar, the room, the bed. She had lived. She was living.

  He paid the bill and stepped out into the bright morning light. It was a fine day. He walked slowly along the promenade that ran between the hotels and the beach, and passed the poorly arranged concrete benches, in that most faced each other rather than the sea. He had thought of taking a stroll down Dizengoff Street and sitting with a coffee, but he knew that soon he would not be alone. Inevitably, someone would interrupt his privacy with their unsophisticated questions. What are you doing in town? So early? I saw you last night. With a black woman. No, it was you. I am sure of it. He saw a bench which nobody had yet claimed and which, unlike the others, enjoyed a clear view of the sea. He sat heavily and tried not to think of his wife and child. But it was useless. Every day, assaulted by loneliness. Every day, eaten up with guilt. His only companion was memory, and how he struggled with the burdensome weight of this single relationship. He now understood that to remember too much is, indeed, a form of madness. And he understood that people are not made to live alone, neither when things are good, nor when they are bad. These inelegant attempts to heal the lesion in his soul. The woman on the first of the buses that would carry her back to the edge of the city. He did not want anyone to feel sorry for him. He, too, had lived. He remembered the garden with its wooden bench. And the two sisters who played beneath the wide branches of a large tree. They chased each other and screamed gleefully. Then they stopped and the older girl spoke first. 'Uncle Stephan. Are you leaving us?' He smiled. They were pretty girls, with dark eyes and long black hair. They would become beautiful women. And now the younger sister spoke. 'Tell us, Uncle Stephan. Tell us.' Again he smiled, and then he looked down at the space between his feet. The grass was yellowing in the sunlight. It had been an unusually hot summer. He was definitely leaving his wife and child and returning to Palestine. A decision had been made, but these two girls were not making it any easier. And then he looked up. Instinctively, he raised one arm to touch Margot's cheek, and then he stretched out his other arm to beckon Eva. But they did not see him. They simply saw strange Uncle Stephan staring at the yellowing grass between his feet. The sisters looked at each other, and then Margot began to laugh. And then again, they began to chase one another, their voices becoming louder and more excitable as their pace increased. And now he called to them, but they did not hear him, for his weary tongue was unable to bear the weight of these children's names. Strange Uncle Stephan, staring at the yellowing grass between his feet. It was Margot who decided that it was too hot to play, and that she and Eva should go inside. Uncle Stephan watched as they skipped away and left him alone on the bench, his arms outstretched, reaching across the years.

  www.vintage-books.co.uk

 

 

 
ith friends