by Rose Tremain
“That is the bar.”
“It’s all part of the same room.”
“No. This is Reception and that is the bar.”
Lev was familiar with this kind of illogic, knew that all you could do was resign yourself to it, that people in authority would never yield, so he put the cigarettes away. He looked toward the shrouded windows and the street. At this moment, a telephone on the young woman’s desk rang and she snatched up the receiver: “Embassy Reception, good afternoon.”
Lev held himself still. Tenthirty and she says “Good afternoon.” He tried not to let exasperation with the girl get its hold on him. He heard laughter begin to spill from the bar area. Heard the snicker-snicker-snicker of an unreliable, flint-worn cigarette lighter.
The phone conversation now absorbed the young woman. She turned her head away from Lev, spoke quietly but with sudden, flirtatious animation: “. . . I didn’t recognize your voice, Karli. I think you disguise your voice when you phone, just to tease me . . . No, I really think you do. You sound like a Russian . . . Yeah. A Russian businessman or something . . . What? . . . No, I’ve never dated a Russian! Why would I date a Russian? . . . What? . . . I never heard that. Who says their dicks are big? You just invented that to . . . Wait a minute.”
She turned back to Lev. “Will you wait over there, please,” she said, indicating a leather sofa under the window. “I have to take this important call.”
Lev fixed her hazel eyes with a hard stare. “No,” he said. “I’m not able to wait. I would like to fix an appointment. With the ambassador.”
“No, no,” said the girl, holding the telephone a few centimeters away from her ear and shaking the bun violently. “That is impossible. I’m not able to make appointments with the ambassador’s office. You must apply in writing, stating your business and your credentials . . . Hold on, Karli. I’m just sorting something out here . . . What? . . . No, he wasn’t a stupid Russian. He was a Finn . . . Okay, sir? You must make your application in writing, stating the nature of your business, your name, home address, occupation, address in the U.K., occupation in the U.K., and all other data relevant to the meeting you are requesting. Please remember that all applications must be made in writing, not via e-mail. We do not accept e-mail applications under any circumstances.”
“Is that because you’re not connected to the Internet?” said Lev.
“No. Of course we’re connected to the Internet, but e-mail applications have been deemed unacceptable.”
“Why?”
The girl now looked at Lev with undisguised animosity. “It’s embassy policy,” she said. “That is all I can tell you.”
“Embassy policy. I see,” said Lev. “But you say I can write to the ambassador?”
“Stating the nature of your business, your name, home address, address in the U.K. —”
“And the time of day, I presume,” said Lev, “to help you distinguish morning from afternoon.”
“Sorry, sir? . . . No, don’t go, Karli, I need to talk to you about last night . . . What did you say, sir?”
“Never mind,” said Lev. “Never mind.”
He got up and walked out. The front door was heavy and the sound of it closing behind him brought him a moment of unexpected satisfaction. He stood in the sunshine, smoking. The flag of his country hung lifeless from a white pole above him, with no breeze to move it.
He began to walk. He knew exactly where he was going to go. He wanted, suddenly, to feel it again, that long-ago moment of arrival in this city, in the hot sun, trudging round with his carrier bag full of Ahmed’s leaflets. As though remembering this in situ, remembering it all through his being, could reassure him that, if he’d survived this far, he was surely capable of realizing the great dream of his future.
And here was Ahmed now: standing in his brightly lit kebab shop, cleaning the meat spit, his beard bushy and full of shine, his girth still impressive, his forearms glistening.
“Ahmed.”
The Arab turned. Lev smiled and saw recognition arrive a few seconds later, as Ahmed wiped his huge hand on his apron and held it out across the counter.
“Hey!” he said. “One of my leaflet men, right?”
“That’s right. Lev.”
“Lev. Sure. I remember. Howya doin’? You look smart. Got a good job now, right?”
“Yes. I work in Highgate. Greek restaurant.”
“Greek? Allah! Beware Greeks! You know the saying? But it’s better than working for Ahmed, eh? Better money?”
“Yeh. It’s okay. But I worked for G. K. Ashe for a while and that was —”
“G. K. Ashe? That rich punk? You serious?”
“Yeh.”
“Why you leave him? Don’t tell me. He tried to pan-fry your liver?”
“No. I had . . . what you call . . . woman problems.”
Ahmed raised his brown eyes to his ever-vigilant Heaven, then set up two saucers on the bar. “Better have a coffee, then, to sober up,” he said. “Woman problems make a man crazy.”
Lev looked round at the small space, empty in midmorning, but hot and blinding on the eye, just as it had been the previous summer. He saw, though, that the floor needed cleaning and that the drinks fridge, from which he’d once drunk water in a green can, had a notice strung across it saying, Sorry broken. Mended soon, Allah willing.
“How are things going for you, Ahmed?” he asked.
Ahmed manipulated his Gaggia machine with his habitual panache and set two espressos delicately on the saucers. Then Lev saw his eyes flicker with sudden sadness.
“I can tell you, my friend—because you’re like me, you don’t belong to this country—these days my business is down. And I know why.”
Lev waited. Ahmed pushed a sugar bowl toward him. “You take sugar, or you sweet enough? G. K. Ashe grill your arse into a brûlée crust?” Ahmed chuckled, then he rubbed his beard and looked downcast again. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re down because people in this country got a prejudice now against Arabs. It’s crept up on us. Now, no matter what country you from, these days they just look at you and think, Shitty Arab, suicide bomber, Muslim scum. I’m not joking, Lev. That’s where we are right now. Got us all pigeonholed.”
“Yes. I’ve seen this.”
“I’m from Qatar, right? I got nothin’ to do with Osama bin Laden or none of those fuckin’ fanatics. I’m even more nice and gentle than the Baghdad Blogger. You know this, because I think I was good to you, yes? I treated you fair.”
“Yes, Ahmed. You did.”
“Right. But British people—young an’ old—look at me like I’m going to poison them. Some nights I got no business at all. Shit pizza joint next door is overflowing with customers and I got no one. Pub closing time and my doner spit’s sizzling with fresh meat and I got nice salads lined up in the chiller and there’s no one in my fuckin’ joint! I tell you, I just wanna stand here and weep.”
“I’m sorry, Ahmed.”
“Yeah. Weep. Like you wept in my toilet. And I notice something: I don’t invent no proverbs anymore. Like my mind is exhausted.”
Lev nodded gravely. The two men stood close to each other, leaning on the counter. Outside, on Earls Court Road, the crowds of people surged on by, blinking and scowling in the sun’s brightness.
“Perhaps,” said Lev, after a while, “this will pass. This way people think of you. Perhaps it’s just part of the time now and it will end.”
“Sure,” said Ahmed. “You may be right. Provided there are no more bombs. But the thing is, how am I going to hang on? Can’t afford to get my chiller fixed, Lev. Can’t even afford to print any fuckin’ leaflets! I got a wife and kid. I can survive maybe two, three months like this. Then it’s over. And it was my dream, this. To have my own place. To have my name on the window.”
Lev sipped his coffee, then he said quietly, “It’s my dream, too.”
“What you mean, leaflet man?”
“Got this crazy idea, Ahmed. Go home to my country, start a restaurant in a town called Ba
ryn.”
Ahmed’s eyes were huge with alarm. “Yeah? You serious?”
“Serious in my mind—you know? But G.K. did some costings for me . . .”
“Okay. Don’t tell me. Everything in the world comes down to money. That’s why people love religion all over again. They’re sick of the sound of the abacus.”
Lev went down the basement steps, saw the yellow front door and the cat dozing by the blue hydrangea bush. He stood still and stared at these things, and the cat didn’t move. The sun glanced down on the bushy hydrangea flowers and the sculpted bay trees. A tin watering can stood under the tap on the wall.
He was in Kowalski’s yard. The place was as silent and peaceful as it had ever been. Were Shepard and Kowalski at home? Was Lev going to ring their doorbell and announce to them he’d once trespassed all night on their land, slept tucked away under the road, relieved himself beside the tap? Something in him wanted to do just this, to say that he owed them a double debt, because that was when he’d first caught it, the scent of happiness in this city . . . But he didn’t move, just stayed where he was, halfway down the steps, watchful and calm. The cat slept on.
When his phone began to ring, he turned and walked back up into the street. He stood by the railings with the sun on his face.
“Lev,” said a woman’s voice. “Am I talking to Lev?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. Now I hope you don’t mind my telephoning your mobile number. I got it from Sophie.”
“Who is this, please?”
“It’s Mrs. McNaughton, from Ferndale Heights care home. And I’m ringing to ask you a favor. Is this a good moment to speak to you, or are you busy?”
He remembered her now, the director of Ferndale Heights, efficient and severe, yet with a kindly face. “I’m not busy.”
“Good. Well, now, this is our dilemma, Lev. I expect you remember Mrs. Viggers and her daughter, Jane, who worked in the kitchen here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid we’ve been very badly let down. They walked out yesterday, absolutely without warning. No notice. Nothing. Out they march and that’s it. How people can behave like that is quite beyond me, but there you are. The thing is, I’m having a devil of a job finding a replacement. All I have at the moment is piecemeal help. The daughter of Captain Brotherton’s former cleaning lady is doing sterling service, but she’s extremely young and inexperienced and I can’t leave her to cope on her own, can I?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Of course, I myself am pitching in. Needs must. But on Sunday I simply have to go to visit my sister, who has shingles in Kent, so I was wondering . . . Would you be available to help out with lunch? I do recall that the kitchen work you did here was much appreciated. I know it’s wretchedly short notice, but —”
“Yes,” said Lev. “Sure I will.”
“Oh, will you really? That is so kind of you. We shall pay you properly, of course. I really am so grateful.”
“It’s fine. How many for lunch, Mrs. McNaughton?”
“Well. Let me see. Sixteen residents. We lost Mrs. Hollander. So very sad. Such a . . . leading light. D’you remember her, Minty Hollander?”
“Yes. The Christmas-cracker game.”
“That’s it. Always loved to monopolize the games here. But nobody really minded. And we lost her so suddenly. I know everybody misses her.”
“Yes. I think so.”
“But there we are. Let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.”
“What did you say?” said Lev.
“Oh, just quoting from Hamlet.”
“Hamlet is talking to the grave-maker, yes?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Where did you learn that, Lev?”
Lev, standing in the sunlight, knew there was a smile on his face. Not only had he recognized the line, but now he felt as if he’d suddenly understood why Lydia had given him the play to read: she wanted to show him that words written long, long ago could travel beside you and help you at moments when you could no longer see the road.
“A friend taught me,” he said.
“Well. Very good. Anyway, Lev, I’m so relieved you can do Sunday. I immediately thought of dear Sophie, but unfortunately she’s busy with some art exhibition.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I didn’t think art shows happened on Sundays. They never used to, but I suppose times have changed.”
“I think so.”
“Well, Lev, if you get here at about nine-thirty, that should do well. The residents like to eat at one. Then, if you can come to see me during next week, we’ll settle your fee. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes,” said Lev. “Quite fair. One more thing, Mrs. McNaughton. What am I going to cook?”
“Right. Well, a roast of some kind. That’s what we always have on Sundays. Lamb?”
“Okay. Lamb. I’ll bring some herbs.”
“Herbs? Oh yes. Fine. But they like things plain. Don’t forget this is England, Lev.”
“No. I never forget.”
Lev put his phone away, turned and looked down one more time at Kowalski’s yard, imprinting it forever on his mind. Then he walked away.
The kitchen at Ferndale Heights stank of burned-on grease, of the familiar turd smell of boiled cabbage.
Lev opened all the windows, cleaned the cooker hob, tugged out a roasting pan, and scoured this till his fingers bled. Then he began peeling potatoes.
His young, black helper arrived silently and stood at the door, clutching a clean folded apron to her body. Lev turned and saw her. She was sixteen or seventeen, with a frosting of acne across her cheeks and hair straightened into a wiry halo.
“I’m Simone,” she said.
He shook her hand, saw she was suspicious of him, of his foreignness, so he began straightaway—as G.K. would have done—to give her tasks, telling her to finish the potatoes, wash and save the peelings for stock, then start on the carrots. Then, in front of her startled eyes, he took down all the packets of gravy granules, stock cubes, and instant mash and threw them into the trash bin.
“In this kitchen we make real food,” he said. “You agree, Simone?”
“Wha’ever,” said Simone. “You’re in charge, man.”
“Today I’m chef. So here’s what we make to go with the roast lamb: a potato and onion gratin, a nice jus, peas, a carrot purée . . .”
“Wha’ I call you then? Chef?”
“Yes,” he said. Couldn’t resist it. “You call me Chef.”
The joint was huge, blood-smeared, slippery from its vacuum pack. Lev rinsed and dried it. Went to the bag he’d brought with him, containing a bundle of rhubarb, and took out a head of garlic and some fresh rosemary. Saw Simone turn and watch him as he conjured up these new ingredients.
“You got, like, a kit there? A chef’s kit?”
“Yes. I know this kitchen.”
“Shi’, innit?”
“It’s shit. But today we make it better.”
Lev produced the rhubarb, then a nutmeg, cloves, butter, and cream from his bag. Simone shook her head. “Ma Vig didn’t know nuvvin’ about cookin’,” she said. “Dunno why she got this job, because she didn’t deserve it.”
“No. Lucky for everybody she’s gone.”
The worn white space soon began to smell of the fragrant lamb, the pungent gratin. Lev began squaring off butter and flour for a crumble, while Simone washed and chopped the rhubarb. He saw that the girl worked slowly, but with care. When he showed her how to caramelize an onion, then put the stock, made from the odds and ends of vegetables, in the onion pan to make a jus, he got from her a snuffling, delighted laugh. “Wicked!” she said. “I’m gonna show my mum this.”
Lev paused in his work, went to the door to smoke, and looked out onto the Ferndale grass. Pigeons had colonized it and waddled over it, clucking and murmuring. Straight into Lev’s heart came his old longing for Sophie. He imagined her sitting right there among the birds, arms round her knees, the su
n on her hair, smiling at him. Then remembered her singing on Christmas Day,
Somewhere over the rainbow,
Way up high . . .
and all the residents of Ferndale stilled by her voice, soothed into dreams of the past, breaking into clapping and cheering when the song ended.
Lev stubbed out the cigarette, came back into the kitchen, and asked Simone, “Did you ever work Sundays with a chef called Sophie?”
“Yeah?” She said it like a question: “Yeah?” Then she added, “She was nice, right? But she don’t come ’ere anymore. She got, like, some famous boyfriend, innit?”
Lev recognized most of the Ferndale residents: Berkeley Brotherton, Pansy Adeane, Douglas, Joan, the trembling and jerking Parkinsonian contingent, some of the wheelchair brigade . . . There were three or four new faces. But Minty Hollander was gone. She’d been their star, their diamond-dripping duchess who’d once worked with Leslie Caron, who bossed them all into obedience with her silvery vowels and her obstinate, flirtatious charm, and now she’d left them.
Perhaps it was a relief to them that she’d died. They were certainly quieter without her, less quarrelsome, it seemed to Lev. And when he and Simone began to serve up the lunch, they fell into silence, staring down at their plates, taking their glasses on or off to squint at the unfamiliar-looking food. Then they began to eat, and after a moment Pansy Adeane said, with her mouth full, “Who made this potato thing?”
“Chef made it, Mrs. Adeane,” said Simone.
“Well, it’s lovely. Tell the chef, dear. Far better than our usual muck.”
There was no sign of Ruby Constad. Her place had been laid at the table, but the chair was vacant. When Lev asked Berkeley Brotherton where she was, he replied, “No idea. Moping in her room, I wouldn’t wonder. Bloody children never visit her, selfish creatures.” Then one of the day nurses, tying a napkin round Berkeley’s ancient but proud neck, interrupted and said, “Mrs. Constad’s not taking lunch today. Lunch is not obligatory.”
Lev and Simone circled the table, helping the two day nurses to cut food for those who couldn’t manage to do it, sometimes lifting a shaking hand holding a spoon toward a gaping mouth or a tongue held out, as though to receive a communion wafer. Lev knew that some of the residents remembered him and some had no idea who he was. During the complicated High Mass of their Sunday meal, conversation was muted until the topic of Mrs. Viggers and Jane began to surface.