Eva Confronts George
It didn’t take Eva very long to sense that there was something in the room with George—though she was not sure if she herself had brought it in, or if he had called it up. She had just sat down in the armchair by the bed, just begun to look at him, when her mouth stopped feeling like her own. Unbidden, unexpected, that sharp taste had come back, though it was hotter now. Cloves. What was going to happen?
She looked over at George, narrowed her sharp eyes. Was he really asleep? She could hear him wheezing, could see the stray hairs of his now unruly mustache ruffled by the air. She scooted over, pressed a water bottle up against his arm. At first, the old man didn’t stir. But next, he startled her. His head turned, very clearly, with a snap. Eva gasped, jumped back. George Hewett’s eyes were open. Open and unblinking. Was he coming to himself, returning? Eva leaned in closer to him and passed her hand near his face. George Hewett didn’t blink at all, seemed to look right through her. Eva, her own breath coming fast, thought, His eyes. Discolored, this pair was, the whites aged darkly, with occlusions, some the color of burnt onion, trailing at the edge. The irises like pond muck, all opaque. “George?” He did not respond. Eva watched, chest tensed.
It struck her that Flora Hewett’s husband looked, indeed, not unlike Fontanella did when she was channeling, or even Blackie just before the pencils darted to the page. Perhaps he even looked like her, when she was in the throes. Strange—the postures that in one person signal everything is as it should be, can, in someone else, be exactly wrong. As she watched, her hands began to ache. A tingle started at her fingertips and worked its sparkling way slowly to her elbows. “George,” said Eva. She didn’t, as a rule, try to open herself up when no one was around. She didn’t like that it was true, but she relied on Fontanella, Blackie, someone else who knew how these things worked. What would Fontanella do? “George,” she said again, this time loudly, anxious.
Eva Bright was not a person who was easily afraid. She did deal in spirits, after all, she walked in life aware that death was present, that death was just the other side, a different take on things. And she’d come to think that Sheikh Abdul Aziz was just another mystery, another facet of the thing. A spirit, in some fundamental way, just like any other, like herself, like Flora, like Susan Darling’s ardent red-haired boy. She was not afraid of Sheikh Abdul Aziz, no, that wasn’t it at all. She was amazed to find that what was frightening her was very definitely in George. What was it? Was he trying to speak? Did he see her? Eva brought her face to his, though this made hers go cold. “George,” she said. “Please. Can you hear me? Do you know I’m here?” Her arms continued tingling, she felt a headache coming on, but all over her skull, not a finder’s ache like Susan’s, something harsher and complete. George’s pupils shifted then, and he very briefly fixed his eyes upon her, sighed. His air coming from his mouth smelled of marrow and hot dust. He blinked, once, twice. “George?”
Eva found herself now actively desiring Sheikh Abdul Aziz’s presence; if he were with her, in her, she might be protected, Eva thought. But from what? From withered old George Hewett? Could that be? Could George, through the force of his own will, have designed this whole affair himself? She was irritated, angered by the thought. “George, is all of this your doing?” Eva asked. She knew her voice was shrill. Eva moved in closer, lifted her hot hand and set it on his shoulder. “George?” The old man’s flesh felt stiff, too full for a sick man’s, and unyielding. Eva’s head was spinning. Does he—is he—this thought would stay with her, despite her wish to be a good force in the world, despite Flora’s love for him—is that even George? It occurred to her as it never had before that old men could be frightening, even in this state, even weakened, with their good health hemorrhaging away, even on their deathbeds. “Sheikh Abdul Aziz!” she shouted. As she did so, the feeling in her hand returned all at once, and George Hewett’s head fell back onto the pillow. Eva’s skull felt soft again, familiar. When she looked at him next, George Hewett looked very nearly harmless, ordinary. Old and weak, for sure. Not a man to fear.
Susan’s Wondrous Ride
Susan, if excitement meant a journey, physical, to real-live places one had not gone before, had the most interesting time of all. The young man with the motorbike had come to visit her the night before, and, because she thought that he was sweet, because she hoped that she could trust him, she had allowed him—Julian, his name was, which she thought a good name—to kiss her on the mouth. Because the kiss had pleased her (not too much at once, respectful, even), she had granted him permission to spend the night sleeping on the floor of her front room, and in the morning, when she still found him nice and good, she asked Julian to take her to the countryside, where she needed, she told him, to find out about goats.
Julian was the sort of boy for whom the stranger a girl was, the less explicable, the more outrageous her requests, the better. He’d already understood by watching Susan from afar that she was such a girl. But this—waking up to slender, white-haired darling Susan, dressed already in a wonderful transparent sheath the color of pistachio, strapping on a glossy pair of high-heeled yellow sandals, an intent look in her light eyes, telling him very firmly in that warm, melodious voice that Julian had to help her find a goat or two—was far more wonderful than anything he could have come up with himself. He did not mind the aching in his arms from having slept, so cramped, against the wall; the dust and lint in his dry mouth were nothing. “Sure,” he said. “Where do you want to go?” Susan had said, “Never mind, just take me,” in such a serious way that Julian, in his mind another kind of taking, felt his heart careen.
He’d had the bike for years. He’d ridden with a girl in tow before, of course he had. But never one like this. He felt almost as if the mystery of his birth, the jagged, mismatched steps he’d taken until now, were suddenly as clear as the bright day. He’d go with her to the moon, he thought, to the hot core of the earth. And so they went, Susan clinging to him on the back of the loud bike, her thin thighs pressing at his hips, but light, just like, Julian thought, her butterfly tattoo. They were on the highway for a while, passing the old factories and car parks, construction sites that seemed somehow abandoned, although surely things were being built; the air held drilling sounds and thunks, the pounding of tough tools. Next, the broad country-side emerged, a wide, dark green expanse, broken here and there by square patches of fawn yellow. Stone walls lined the edges of the fields, bands of poplar trees. A wonderful, low quilt.
When Susan said, “Get off the highway now,” Julian did, and next—and this was thrilling on a good motorbike like his—they were trotting along country lanes, leaning into curves. Though Julian didn’t care what Susan was looking for, he’d do anything to find it. It was a delight to feel her tender weight behind him, the long flow of her hair, which darted forward in the wind to mingle with his own red fluff, and—a charming torture—pricked him. Oh! He hoped her hair left welts, all along his jaw. They rode along like this for quite a while, until Julian quite forgot that Susan had a goal. The sun grew high above them, hot and white, and, despite the movement of the air, whipping all around them, they both began to sweat. As far as Julian was concerned, Susan’s sweat was liquor.
Suddenly she stopped him. He felt her hands in slaps along his arms on either side, heard her telling him that they had gone too far. “Did you see the sheep back there?” He had, a cluster of them on a slope. “Do you think that there’ll be goats? Julian, I think I saw a goat there.” Julian didn’t think she could have seen it if there was one; they’d been going so fast. “Susan, are you sure?” His questioning annoyed her. “Look, I really do think they have goats up there. Please, Julian. It’s important. Do you think you saw a goat?” The more he listened to her, the more Julian thought Susan wonderfully unhinged. “I don’t know,” he finally said. Then, gently, “Shall we go up and ask?” Her answering smile and the hot squeeze of her hand on his happy, melting shoulder very nearly killed him.
They did go up
to ask, or, that is, Julian did. He parked among the weeds beneath a teetering pole and waited for Susan to dismount. Together, they stood a moment near the wire fence, beyond which three generously furred, vaguely golden sheep stood idly in the ragged shade of a modest apple tree. They didn’t see a goat.
Susan looked worn out. Julian, however, was not going to give up. Not if finding out whether there had ever been a goat here would make Susan Darling grateful. He called, “Hello! Hello!” and kicked purposefully at things, a rusted can, the stones, the root of a low tree, as though the kicks could bring the owner out. Susan walked around him in a circle, hands pressed to her face. They were moving towards the farmhouse (a stone thing, nestled at the bottom of the slope), just beginning to head down—when suddenly she stopped and told him to go on alone.
Her voice broke. “I can’t go any further.” Julian turned, held out a steadying arm. He didn’t mind feeling confused, he thought, about whatever Susan did. “All right,” he said. “I’ll ask. You want two goats, right?” he checked. “A black one and a white one?” Susan’s breath was coming out unevenly, and she’d grown rather red. But she did nod, push his hand away. “Listen, you’re sure you’ll be all right?” Susan urged him on. “I’ll wait right here, Julian. Don’t you understand?” He did not, of course. But he was dutiful and determined to please her. He would be her hero. Quickening his steps with several looks over his shoulder to make sure she was still standing, he went on to the farmhouse, where he did find things out.
He was back after a half hour with a canteen of fresh water. He’d found the farmer home, he told her. They’d talked a bit, he’d learned some things, but the news wasn’t very good. Susan drank the water greedily, drops of it abobble at her lips and chin. “I knew it wouldn’t be,” she said. “I knew.” She was patting her own brow now, fingers damp with sweat. “It’s all wrong, this is. This isn’t what I meant.”
Julian didn’t like to hear her so disheartened. He placed a hand on her thin forearm, cupped her elbow with the other. “It’s not wrong,” he said. “We just didn’t know enough about it.” Goats in these parts, he told her as she drank—she seemed only half there, he was not sure she could hear—were mostly golden brown. “Guernseys, mostly,” he said, proud of his results. “Some Toggenburgs, about five miles down the road. They don’t really come in white, you know, not really. Splattered. Muddy-colored things.” He liked to hear himself describing creatures he had never once set eyes on, was imagining already a new series of paintings in just these splattered, dreamed-up, muddy-colored shades. Life-sized, it would be, a gift for Susan at the end of term.
“The only white ones are called Saanens, and according to the farmer—a Mr. Mackey, that’s his name—he’s not seen one for years.” For the black goat, Julian said, now stroking Susan’s hair, there was a bit of hope. “Really?” Susan said. She did not believe him. But she wanted to, she did. Why did she feel tricked? She felt blind for having come out here. She didn’t understand it. What was it, what was she meant to do? Julian was explaining. “Anglo-Nubians, right?” He had a good memory for facts. “That’s a mix, this Mr. Mackey said. ‘Dual-purpose,’ milk and meat. Mixed from Egypt, India, and I think he said Ethiopia. ‘Got long ears,’ he said. Oh, and this: ‘upright and very proud.’ They do come in black, ‘not infrequently,’ he said. Black, right? Susan? Is that what you wanted? He thinks there may be some an hour off. He’ll telephone and ask, he said, if you just want him to.” Susan was looking off into the distance, violet eyes fixed on the horizon. She bit her lower lip. “Ethiopia is in Africa,” she said. “Isn’t it?” Julian had to think. “I think so. Yes, I think so, why?” Susan didn’t answer. He tried to put his arm around her, but she stopped him, cold, eyes hard. “Don’t touch me, Julian, please. I really need to think.”
Julian shrugged and shuffled off, slowly. He wasn’t going far, just down the lane a bit. Against the fence in a green bush he found a trove of blackberries. He searched for ripe ones, turning now and then to see how Susan was. At last, Susan screwed the cap on the canteen and wiped her mouth with her long sleeve. She came to stand beside him. She’d been crying. “I’m sorry, Julian.” He uncupped his hand over her flat palm, filling it with berries. She ate one. “But we’ve got it all wrong. It was stupid of me. This whole thing, this coming out here, asking you”—she seemed to realize that he had made an effort, and she patted Julian’s arm. “Look, you’ve been really great. Really. I know you’ve tried to help. But here’s the thing,” she said. “My nose is hurting me so much! My head! We’ve got to get away from here. Please, Julian. Please. You’ve got to take me home.” Julian did as he was asked, thinking all the while that this was really love. That he wasn’t going to trade her. With a girl as wild, as special as this Susan, Julian told himself, there was no telling what would happen, and ordinary rules just did not apply. Love! It meant being willing to be hurt, trying things and failing, until he understood. But he did want to know. “Susan. What about the goats? I mean, you don’t expect to find any in town. These Nubians are out there.” He gestured past the farthest trees, far into the west.
Susan, clearly still in pain, did her best to answer him. “Julian,” she said, trembling, holding out her hand so he could steady her as she raised a leg over the seat. “I really can’t explain. All I’ve got on my mind now is a bicycle. A bicycle.” She fixed him sweetly with her wonderfully vague eyes. “Don’t you understand?” Susan knew she often gave ordinary people the impression that she had lost her mind. She knew what it was like, the way a person who had started thinking that they liked her could all at once cloud over and move on, disowning any interest they’d felt. She didn’t want him to cloud over at all. She had wanted to please him. He’d kissed her nicely, after all, he gave her lifts from school. She would have let him kiss her later, even more, might have let him sleep with one hand on her bed. She would have stroked it in the night, held his fingers to her face, maybe even licked them. But now—she’d put him through so much! “Do you think I’m mad?”
A shadow passed over the sun, and Julian’s eyes and face looked dark. He smiled at her and touched his knuckles to her cheek. “Of course not, darling girl,” he said. “It’s me that’s mad.” He did put his arm around her then. “I’m crazy for you, Susan, don’t you know?” Susan murmured something low into his chest. “This bicycle,” said Julian, feeling very brave, “I hope it’s built for two.”
Flora’s Stumble at the Chip Shop
On her way back home, Flora neared the Overlook Café and had an inspiration. The chocolate cake, she knew, had given her a surge of energy. The supplies she’d carried in the shopping bag and which now took up the seat beside her were making her feel strong. Could she trust herself? Hassan’s Take-Aways, she thought. Weren’t the Hassans Muslim? Did they not, like Sheikh Abdul Aziz, believe in Allah and Mohammad? And did not—she had seen this on TV—Muslims often kill their animals at parties, before a fancy barbecue? Did they not quite expertly kill sheep and goats and camels? Could she go to them and get some information?
Her first idea was that the Hassans would naturally know these things and more. But she thought twice: not all people believed in things they couldn’t see, after all. Even Muslims might not be ready right away, to believe in unseen spirits. Should she try? She clasped her hands before her mouth and pressed her lips against them, then decided. Yes, why not? She needed something from them. She would ask them, just, if they’d recently slaughtered a goat, and if so, what sort of knife they’d used, and where could Flora get one? What harm could it do? She felt far gone already, a little more, a little, couldn’t hurt.
She parked across the street, wondering as she got out of the car and smoothed her blouse and skirt how she would begin. Should she mention Sheikh Abdul? Perhaps he was already known to them? Perhaps the Hassans were related to him—maybe he was their ancestor, in fact, not a djinn at all. Perhaps they should be invited to the Thursday Psychics Club. But she hadn’t ever gone into the Take-Aways, on
ly parked beside it. She did not know what the Hassans looked like. And was Hassan the family name or was there only one, like Jim?
She crossed the street and slowly, steady, walked up to the window. The sun was bright, and she had to hold a hand up, a visor from her forehead to the glass, to see. In the glassy gloom, a slender easel held the laminated menu. Fish and chips, she saw. Kebabs. Were kebabs made of goat meat? Beside the easel, on a doily-covered stool, a clutch of plastic roses, livid pink with candy-yellow hearts, stood tall in a vase. She liked that, roses, even made of plastic. Someone who put roses in the window had to have some sweetness in them, Flora thought, had to care about soft things. Oh, how should she begin? Perhaps she ought to ask for them: Excuse me please, but who put out the flowers?
In the restaurant, someone moved. She caught a flash of navy blue, a work shirt or a blouse. All right, she thought. I am going to go in. A cowbell on a leather strap thunked out its hollow ping as she pushed her way inside. It took a moment for her eyes to clear, adjusting to the blanched fluorescent light. “Hello?” A round young woman sat behind the counter, the dark blue was her apron. A textbook, maths, lay before her by the ancient, hulking till. A pencil in her hand. Efficient-looking, well filled out, and smart. Eighteen years, perhaps. Nineteen. Flora thought, So many young ones in my life! and she tried to find some strength in her own wisdom and her age. She took a small step forward. The girl looked up. “Yes, may I help you please?” She had watery green eyes that turned down at their outer edges, a high-domed brow and a pugnacious rounded chin, dark hair pulled tight from her forehead in a single, perfect braid. Flora touched the countertop and, apologetic, frowned. “I don’t know if you can,” she said. The certainty she’d felt outside of the shop, when she had stood across the street and looked up at the sign and thought, I must, seeped out, as if from her shoes. What was she doing there? Flora looked down at her feet. “What is it you want, then?” The girl’s voice was clipped and sure, not harsh, but businesslike. Not welcoming. Not the sort of Muslim Flora had imagined—though it’s true, she hadn’t before this imagined one at all.
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