Pilgrims Way

by Abdulrazak Gurnah

  As he let her into the house, the smell of damp and rotting wood hit him again. Was he always going to live like this? He abandoned her in the living room and rushed off to the toilet. When he came back he found her waiting for him, a look of utter disgust on her face. He stopped by the door watching her. He could hear the sound of the mill, faintly.

  ‘How can you live like this?’ she asked, and swung her arm in a small arc through the air.

  He came into the room and sat in the brown armchair, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You get used to things,’ he said.

  ‘Is that it? You just get used to it? Or is it nice to wallow in these failures? How can you believe in anything when your life is this hovel, that job, hooligans shouting at you in the streets? You get used to them too?’

  He smiled, and then stood up and went to her. ‘You don’t even know what a great victory this is. You think getting used to things is failing? Getting used to things is defeating them, taking the poison out of them and allowing them to become nothing more than layers of grime and clouds of dust. You don’t know how hard it is to get to that.’

  ‘How the fuck do you know? How do you know what I know? And take that condescending smile off your face,’ she shouted.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘But living in dirt doesn’t mean you can’t believe in things.’ She reluctantly allowed herself to be embraced, and she muttered irritably while he encouraged and persuaded her to come upstairs.

  12

  He woke up late the next morning, not needing to hurry. The sun entered through the moth-eaten curtains, throwing lances of dust into his room. Catherine had left at first light, saying she needed to change in time for early duty. He stayed in bed enjoying the weekend, and watching the shafts of light slant imperceptibly towards him. In the end, it was hunger that drove him down. Downstairs, he glanced towards the front door, expecting nothing. A blue air-mail letter lay just inside the door. He turned hastily away from it, his face grimacing with misery.

  After a moment he went back and skirted it carefully, and in the end picked it up and turned it over. He sighed with relief when he saw that it was not from his parents. It was creased and dirty, and smelt of hot, steamy earth and sweaty hands. The name and address of a friend, Karim, were written on the back of the form, and all the remaining space was covered with HAPPY NEW YEAR wishes. In the middle of July. That seemed not unlike Karim, who had probably carried the letter in his shirt pocket since completing it, telling everybody he met that he had written a letter to Daud, then fishing it out with oaths and passion to silence the doubt he had invited by his bragging. Daud sat down at the table to read it, looking forward to it only a little. Karim always managed a joke or two, which in everyday abundance had made him into something of a tiresome clown. But in the end, he knew, Karim’s letter would become the same as the others, full of grumbles and blame for his neglect, and ending with some scheme that required Daud to give up his wages or the freedom to live as he saw fit. He opened it irritably, wanting to get the matter over with so he could shower and get on with his life.

  31st Dec 1975

  Dear Haji,

  (O Pilgrim to the Promised Land)

  I am sitting inside our office, or to be more precise, which I ever love to be, inside our store room, being entertained by the sound of sawing, planing, sanding and drilling machines. Together with the rhythmic tapping of hammers on nails, all this combines to form a unique masterpiece at the eleventh hour of the year. The prevailing atmosphere has nothing to do with my writing to you. I appreciate that distance makes communication difficult – my voice doesn’t reach that far – but I really hope that we don’t lose touch. Everybody here asks about you and sends greetings.

  Anyway, allow me to deliver my news. I am presently indentured to a cyclops by name Rahman, whose cave this Wood Works is. (There is no Sindbad or Odysseus to rescue any of us! Do you remember those myths and stories you were always so fond of?) I guess you will be surprised to hear that I am concubined to his daughter. You know how these things are done. She promises me love once the knot is tied and I have sworn undying devotion. Lucky me!

  You may also be surprised to hear that today I’m celebrating my first Go West Young Man anniversary. It’s only twenty miles west as you know, but how big that distance really is! We all have to keep reviving these moments, especially the pilgrims among us, lest we discover one day that they have overcome us. As Verlaine has said: Si ces hiers allaient manger nos beaux demains? Exactly a year ago today, on a Sunday afternoon that was hot and dry as December always is, myself along with some other freedom-lovers were preparing to act and follow that great genius, Master and Generator of Electricity, the organiser and pilot of our expedition, Captain-General Jabir Ahmed. (I am sure you have a vivid memory of the fantastic performance of Hamlet he delivered in the back seat of his father’s Austin 1100.) I discovered the identity of the mastermind too late to retreat, just as the sail was being hoisted in fact. But before we could wave fond goodbye to our homeland, for ever verdant and green, we were tackled by a wandering militia, those guardians of our state. It needed a hefty bribe to fix him, the good varantia. We had a hazardous journey, during which it became clear that our Hamlet did not know southerly from a hand-saw. Miraculously, we landed on a beach which was only eighty miles from our destination, which was Tanga. It could have been back on the Island of Paradise for all our captain knew. Once we landed the journey was smooth and easy, disturbed only by the Captain-General, who felt it necessary to discourse at length on the unpredictability of the sea. Water’s funny stuff, he kept saying. Suffice it to say that we arrived here bored but in one piece. So much for the forced adventure.

  What has been happening to you over the last year? Nobody seems to know anything about you. Are you still alive? Your last letter contained one line. It was a lovely line about a water-mill, I think, but it would be nice to have some news, blaza. Or have you simply forgotten us. Anyway, do write and tell me how you’re doing, buddy. Are you still studying? I want to hear about all those females who are keeping you busy. Send me a snapshot if you can.

  I’ve been continuing with my studies in evening classes. It’s hard work, going from the mill to college most evenings. As you might guess, I’m not doing very well. You don’t know how lucky you are over there. Still, nothing ventured and all that, so I am doing what I can over here. I’ve become very interested in the poetry of the French Symbolists, but as you know it’s not easy to get books here. If you see anything along those lines could you send it to me, ahsante sana. Refund by pigeon-post.

  I miss the conversations we used to have. People just want to gossip about politics here, at the level of who has been caught fiddling government funds and who’s been locked up. That is what passes for serious discussion. It is like an obsession, whenever people meet they talk about some new pettiness as if it is the greatest outrage since the destruction of Kilwa.

  A lot of the pals from home are here now. Hassan was caught trying to escape with some Goan girls in a ngarawa. He said he was taking them fishing. I don’t know how he does it (the Goan girls, I mean). Nothing happened to the Goan girls . . . that we know of anyway. Hassan found another way of escaping as soon as they released him from prison. He won’t say how he did it. Dan is now a rising star in the Gestapo Chekurity. Some people say he was already on the payroll when we were at school. Subash has gone to a university in Boston to do Intentional Chemistry. Don’t ask me, that’s what his brother said. I met his brother recently here and he told me that our Subash is paid plenty Yankee dollar by the American government. I can’t imagine him studying chemistry. He always so much wanted to be a barrister. Anyway, I’m thinking of applying to Uncle Sam to study nuclear medicine, ha ha.

  Did you have a nice Christmas? We celebrate it here now. It was very quiet except Bachu got drunk and started to call our island leader ‘ham-neck’. He always used to make up names for people, didn’t he? Incidentally, do you remember Amina, Marehemu
Rashid’s sister? She must have been about twelve when you left. She’s now a prostitute. No more room. Write soon and don’t forget the snap.

  Regards from all the pals.

  Yours,

  Karim

  He put the letter down on the table, his mind racing with Karim’s news. It was the thought of Rashid that came first, and the term of respect that Karim had put in front of his name. Marehemu. He saw that and felt pain like betrayal at Rashid’s name, even before he took in the horror of Amina’s fate. He felt as if he had neglected him too, had neglected to mourn his memory and keep its grief fresh in his mind. God’s mercy be on you, Rashid. He had never seen his name written with the word of death before it. Marehemu Bossy. He tried out the word with the joke name he had used for his friend. It seemed ostentatious, a term he had heard used only with the eminent dead. Not Bossy. Dear Marehemu, One of our friends from the past has written with all the news from our dear homeland. He tells me your sister is a prostitute . . . because you were not there to care for her. He wondered if Bossy’s mother still lived, and what privations could have driven them to such an end? Could the neighbours not have helped them out? He tried not to hear the sniggers and laughter of children in the streets as she walked past. We would have done the same. We would have watched while a neighbour turned beggar and sold his daughter for shark-meat. And we too would have laughed and mocked, and pointed taunting fingers at the girl. Our elders would have quoted the relevant lines from the Book to confirm the righteousness of our cruelty. The elders! All they taught us was how to be meek and docile, how to be obedient and to fetch and carry, and how to show respect. All we learnt was how to ride roughshod over other people’s pain. She appears as a footnote, and not a tear shed for her, at the end of a gleeful tallysheet of our past misdeeds. I think of the time there was, and how we ended it all with a careless selfishness. He calls you Marehemu, God’s mercy on you. You missed the worst, my Bossy. You missed the worst. Terrible, shameful things have happened to us.

  He folded the letter and pushed it away from him, then sat at the table for a long time, feeling the memory of Rashid warming in his hands like a chilled animal stirring out of stupor. It was not at all that he had forgotten him, but when he thought of him usually it was with fear. Over the years he had learnt to hide from the memory of the love that he felt for Rashid. When England was too cold and hostile, and when loneliness overcame him, he still wept for him, still missed him. But he had thought of him too much, and had wept for him with such grief that in the end he had learnt not to think of him. The thought of Bossy now made him remember how he had given way, as if by his weakness he had betrayed something of their time together.

  A long time ago that was, sitting on the barnacled pier, swinging our legs through the air. Princess Margaret Pier in the long shadow of the afternoon, watching the sea beneath us frothing with arms and legs and flashing teeth. A long story I told him, a narrative that was urbane and wise, a fabric of lies, and watched his suspicion turn to enchantment. I told him of a man who stood by the sea, oblivious to pain, awaiting the rains that the season had forecast, and how he peed and his pee was continuous without end. And to see him laugh then was like watching a bird take to the air, like watching a horse cantering down the green hillside. On Princess Margaret Pier I fed him lies that rose easily to the tongue and were too unlikely to be mistaken for wisdom. We watched Ferej eat up the water like a shark, Ferej whose bandy legs made life a torment for him. The water was choppy and bright on the day he won the Schools Championship. Princess Margaret Pier, named after a day in 1956 when the good Princess laid foot on our humble land and honoured it for all time with her gracious touch. We waved flags of welcome at her. We fought over the little flags, and I was forced to wave a Union Jack when others had the red flag of our Protected Sultan. On the other side of the pier were four guns, riveted into the concrete and facing the sea. Ceremonial firecrackers to bid the Princess welcome. The guns boomed their welcome, we waved our flags and the Royal Barge was met by the Plumed Resident. The guns had other uses later.

  He rose to go and wash when he felt the beginnings of the morning in December when he lost Rashid. He did not want to think about that day, not again. Even as he fought off the memory he knew it would come . . . but perhaps not yet.

  He was late for work, and arrived smiling tensely, ready for a fight. On the way he had passed Catherine’s flat, and had wished he could call to see her, to tell her about Bossy, to rant and blubber about his misery. He wanted to throw himself on her and wallow in the loss of his people and his home, and have her comfort and love him. But he knew she would be at work. He rehearsed instead what he would say to Solomon should he reprimand him for being late.

  He strolled into the general theatre, casting poisoned glances at Sister Wesley, the old hag. She looked up at him and then at the clock, and ignored him for the rest of the afternoon. A small group of nurses was standing round the surgeon, listening to him explain what he would be doing. When the afternoon’s business was in full swing, Daud was sent word that Solomon wanted to see him. He grinned what he hoped was a wolfish grin and left the theatre without waiting for Sister Wesley’s permission, thinking even as he did so how petty and irrelevant all this was. He went to the changing room first, stopping and wondering whether it would be best for him to change and leave. His miseries and guilts were none of Solomon’s fault, none of his business.

  In the end he went in to see him, relishing the prospect of delivering his rehearsed thank-you note to the Ineffable Solomon. The superintendent twitched his face in his peculiar smile and invited Daud to sit. Dear Papa Sol, he began. Thank you for the last million years of torture, and more besides. They have worked wonders on my character. I just wanted you to know that without the stability and support that you were able to provide me in this sanctuary where the only quality that counts is a battered body, I would’ve turned out all wrong. It’s not your fault but what’s that to me. Daud looked at Solomon’s leathery face with disgust, and watched as the Theatre Superintendent took his spectacles off and started to clean them. His eyes were red and swollen, popping out of his face. He looked tired and unhappy, and twitched at Daud again before he put his spectacles back on.

  Daud was tense with anger, waiting for Solomon to complain about his lateness, willing him to be crass and overbearing so he could run amok on him. He wanted to tip the desk over the skinny old fuck, rip the work rotas off the walls, tear the Beecham calendar into shreds and stuff them up Solomon’s arse. ‘Is all well?’ Daud asked in the end, unable to ignore the misery in the man’s face. ‘You look a bit knackered.’

  ‘One of the boys isn’t well,’ Solomon said, twitching his face again, this time with a kind of gratitude. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. Nor did he, Colin, poor lad. I’ll have to go early and I wanted to speak to you before I went.’

  Daud was surprised by Solomon’s sadness. He thought of him as an archetypal whingeing survivor, the kind who if he was a shopkeeper would have false bottoms to his measures, or if he worked in a hospital would steal rubber tubing and plastic canisters for his wine-making. Since the night he had mentioned his two boys, he had taken to bringing them up in conversation, opening up to Daud in an unexpected way. Dear Theatre Bully, What does it matter to me? I’ve got my own problems.

  ‘I hear that you’ll be leaving us,’ Solomon said, looking at Daud and waiting for a response. Daud could not restrain a smile. ‘It was always obvious that you would. I mean you were patently too intelligent for the job. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve stuck it out this long.’

  Daud twitched his face in a parody of Solomon’s smirk.

  ‘Was it theology you were studying?’ Solomon asked. Daud did not answer. He shrugged his shoulders, discouraging Solomon’s interest, and watching the dart of surprise on Solomon’s face with satisfaction. Get on with it, you old fuck, he thought. He wondered that Solomon should think that a few kind words now would make him melt. After three years of hurlin
g him out into the dirty corridor to wash instruments, and inflicting endless and unavoidable little snicks and cuts on him.

  ‘We’ll be sorry to lose you,’ Solomon went on, speaking with some disappointment but, Daud guessed, with an inkling of his real feelings. ‘Your contribution has been invaluable, and I know the other senior members of staff agree with me. I just wanted to tell you . . . show our appreciation and wish you luck. I hope things work out better this time.’

  Solomon nodded to emphasise what he had said. Daud laughed softly, making no effort to disguise his mockery, wanting to explain that he did not give a toss, to coin a phrase, for Solomon’s appreciation and would rather have his habitual antagonism. Dear Superintendent, Too little too late, and you can keep it. Your kindness is to warm the cockles of your own wounded heart and nothing to do with me. True, kindness is kindness and gives dignity to our existence, but I know you. Twitch your lips today and some coon joke tomorrow. You’ve got the wrong coon!

  ‘Sister Wesley’s got too many people in her theatre,’ Solomon said after a moment. ‘I’d like you to go out into the disposal corridor for the rest of the afternoon, and then clean the theatres at the end of the list and re-stock the anaesthetic rooms if you have time.’

  He nodded again and then twitched his lips, dismissing him. Daud glared at him, wishing he had the nerve to make a scene, throw a tantrum and curse the whole poxy establishment to buggery and back. He spent the rest of the afternoon smouldering in the dirty corridor, thinking he would call on Catherine on the way home. He did his best to hide from Karim’s letter and the memory of that December day, but once the day staff had gone, he was left on his own with three dirty theatres to clean.