Pisgah Road

by Mahyar A Amouzegar

  I walk over to Platform 1 and wait for the next train. It’s Friday afternoon but the place is almost empty. The family I had seen earlier is there. Four of them are huddled around a large map. The father is tracing their route while trying not to look too much like a tourist. A train is approaching and we all stare at it expectantly. It isn’t the right train, a loudspeaker announcement warns us. The speaker has a strong Scottish accent and I doubt if anybody understood him as they are still staring at the train. The announcer comes out of the booth. He looks Pakistani. Welcome to London.

  It’s not our train and it doesn’t even slow down. It speeds past us unceremoniously. An American couple shouts something about how backward the train system is but nobody pays any attention to them. We wait for ten more minutes. The German woman is standing a few feet away from me, but we don’t make any eye contact.

  Heathrow Express is a wide-bodied train that gives a sense of openness to each carriage. The seats are wide and comfortable and if you sit in the quiet section you’re spared the continuous TV programming. The train arrives and I quickly take a seat as soon as the doors open. The German woman takes another seat on the other side of the aisle, facing the opposite direction. She has a round white face with a narrow short nose. She has long black hair and is wearing a lot of silver. I think she regrets her decision on the seat selection. She has looked around several times already, but doesn’t move. There are a few other people in our section of the train. The couple in front of me are German too and the woman strikes up a conversation with them.

  I had emailed Gabrielle, telling her that I was going to London for a few days. We are told our email is always monitored. I don’t believe it. They don’t have the resources. I would know. Gabrielle replied and told me she would like to join me if I didn’t mind. I had hoped. I knew John was not going to come.

  The train jerks forward slowly but then picks up speed. I look out the window at the buildings, trying to remember the sights. I close my eyes but I can only think of my friend, Daniel.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  Two weeks after I met Daniel for the first time, he showed up at my flat unannounced. He knocked hard on the door, and as soon as I opened it he said: “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Where? Da’ y’ave bette’ things?”

  “No, but I have to ask my mother.”

  “Go then. I’ll wait.” He pointed to a car across the street. I was never into cars but even I could tell his was a 1980 Mercury Capri. It was a beautiful car with sleek lines and blue metallic paint. It looked grand.

  A few minutes later I had to tell him, “My Mom says she needs to meet you.”

  “Y’kidding?”

  I shook my head and he got out of the car. He combed his hair and tucked in his shirt. My mother was puzzled by Daniel’s unannounced arrival. I had not told my parents anything about school or Daniel. I rarely spoke to them. She was also not happy about him driving. I shouldn’t have mentioned the car but I was so excited about driving in London that I blurted it out.

  “He’s driving? How old is he?” My mother had asked. I could see she wasn’t going to let me go out.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Saldonik,” Daniel said with a great warmth. I had instructed Daniel to call my mother with her own name. “It’s a real pleasure to finally meet you.” He extended his hand and shook my Mom’s. In my mother’s circles, teenagers hardly spoke to adults let alone shook hands.

  “It’s Daniel, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am on both counts. My name is Daniel Wright.”

  He was pushing it but my mom seemed to eat it up. Things were moving in the right direction.

  “Well, Daniel. How’s it that you can drive? How old are you?”

  “Seventeen, ma’am,” he replied and before my mother could protest, he added, “I’m an excellent driver and I do have my driver license.” He took out his wallet and showed it to her.

  “I thought you had to be eighteen?”

  She was wrong and I was about to correct her but Daniel jumped in. “It’s very true but my father served on the diplomatic corps and…”

  “So he pulled some strings and got you a license?”

  I wasn’t sure why he wouldn’t just correct her and get on with it. By then I was certain that I wasn’t going to be permitted to go out with Daniel that night or any other night.

  “Oh, heavens no,” Daniel rejoined and his face showed so much pain that I knew my mother was already feeling guilty for even remotely insinuating such a thing. “Ma’am, when you get to know my father, and I hope it will be soon, you will learn that there is no person more honest than he. He’s a war veteran and he takes such things rather seriously.”

  “Then how did you manage to get a license? Is it fake?”

  “No, it’s very real. I can promise you that. As I was saying, we were stationed in Angola a couple of years ago and as you recall there was a lot of turmoil.” He stared at my mother and she nodded though I was sure she knew nothing about Angola or its real or imaginary turmoil. Daniel continued, “We were getting ready to leave the country but we weren’t sure when. It had been deemed that any person who could possibly drive should learn just in case and my father thought it would be good for me to know how to drive as well.”

  “Sure, of course. It must have been very scary for you.” I gave out a sigh of relief but it was premature because my mother added, “But I’m still puzzled on how you can get a British driver license.”

  “Well, Ma’am. As I’m sure you’re well-versed in British customs, you wouldn’t be surprised to know that the government is rather obsessive about keeping everything on up and up, so the Consulate issued a driver license to everyone above the age of fifteen.”

  My mother wasn’t convinced, though I could see she was impressed by the story. Daniel took the license completely out of his wallet and said: “If you look very carefully on the bottom of the card, you’ll see the seal of the Consulate.”

  I was curious as well. All that time I was sure Daniel was bullshitting my mother, but he was urging us to examine the license carefully. There was something there but very hard to see. We both could tell that my mother was already convinced, but Daniel wasn’t finished. “If you don’t mind getting a magnifying glass, you can see it better.” He offered in earnest.

  “No, that’s fine. I believe you and I’m so glad you and your family made it out of Uganda safely.”

  “Angola,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. Angola.”

  “I’ve a magnifying glass. I’ll get it.” I ran to my room without waiting. It took me some time to find it and by the time I came back Daniel and my mother were sitting on the couch and Daniel was telling her about his life in Angola. My mother had served him a large piece of apple pie.

  “Here it is,” I said.

  Daniel looked at me for a second and slightly shook his head but didn’t say anything. He took out his wallet again and gave me his license. I eagerly look at it through the magnifying glass and there it was: the seal of the Consulate with Luanda, Angola imprinted around it. My mother came over and looked at it too. “So it’s honored in England?”

  “It has been inspected by the police several times and I haven’t had any problem.”

  “You’ll drive carefully, Daniel, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m a very safe driver. If you wish you can call my father and ask. He’ll attest to my driving habits.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not necessary. But please be safe and come home before ten.”

  “Ten?” He asked. He sounded perturbed for a moment but he quickly added, “Ten. Yes, of course. Ten is when I need to get back home, too.”

  “Wow! I didn’t know you were in Angola. It must have been amazing,” I said, as soon as we sat in his car.

  My mother was standing in front of the flat, watching us. I could tell she was very nervous but at the same time very proud that I actually had a friend that would show up to the house.
I was sure she would grab an encyclopedia to read about Angola or Uganda, depending on which country came to her mind first.

  Daniel turned on the engine, put on the right hand signal and then put his head out to check for non-existing traffic. He pulled out slowly and meticulously onto the empty street and then drove lazily to the end of the road. There was a faded stop sign that no one ever heeded, to my mother’s constant rage, but Daniel fully stopped. He then turned his left signal and entered another empty street. I looked back before my mother disappeared behind the building and she looked very pleased.

  “Wow! Angola,” I said again.

  He turned and looked at me as he maneuvered in and out of traffic on the main street, at times going toward the oncoming cars. There was no sense of rush or impatience about him. He was as calm as much as his car was in rage. I was not scared. He exuded so much confidence that I sat comfortably in the passenger seat while he drove twice the speed limit. He hadn’t responded and put his attention to the traffic in time to avoid a motorcyclist who wanted to race with him. He pushed him behind another car and then sped through the yellow light.

  “Never been there,” He finally said, as he floored the gas petal. “Wen’ to Paris once… bu’ tha’ was a long time ago.”

  “So the whole thing was bullshit?”

  “That’s a bit strong, no?”

  “You don’t know my mother. She’ll find out and then she will never let me out.”

  “Ya worry too much, man.”

  “You don’t know her,” I insisted.

  “I know mums. She luvs me.”

  “She’ll call your father. She isn’t stupid, you know? She’ll rethink your story and will call your father.”

  “Good. I offered ‘er, didn’ I?”

  “She’ll call him.”

  “Yeah? Ya’ ‘ard of hearing, man?” He paused and stared at me innocently. “Let me say it slowly,” said Daniel still looking at me and not the traffic. “Who do you think got me the license? Not that I need it anymore.”

  “So why not show your real license?”

  He slammed on the brakes and I was stopped by the seatbelt mere inches away from the windshield. It took me a moment to realize that we were at a red light. I looked at him but he had become agitated and impatient. At first I thought he was angry with me, but then I realized he was angry at our state. We weren’t moving. The traffic had stopped in front of us and Daniel was stuck behind a truck. He put his head out and inched forward and then with a quick maneuver moved to the next lane. It was not any better. The light had just turned red and no one was moving.

  “Fukin’ red…” he said under his breath.

  “It’ll change soon.”

  “I know,” he replied absently.

  The transformation was amazing. He was calm through the dozens of near misses but he couldn’t handle a few minutes behind a red light. The light turned and he pushed through the other side of the street and made it before anyone else had a chance to move. He was happy again.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Jus’ a little ‘arty,” he replied and then sharply turned right, barely missing several oncoming cars, and then slammed on the brakes and parked on the sidewalk under a large sign warning against such a thing. “We’re ‘ere.”

  It took us twenty minutes to get there. Later I learned, it was only two metro stops away from my own house, perhaps a ten-minute ride total. He got out of the car and I followed. “Are you sure?” I pointed to the sign.

  “Aye,” he said and then put his head in the car and after a few seconds of rummaging around found what he was looking for, a large cardboard sign. He threw it on the dashboard and closed the door. I looked over the card, which indicated he was on official business.

  “How?”

  “Don’ ask.”

  “Okay, but whose party is it anyway?”

  “A friend. You’ll like ‘er.”

  Her? I was scared. “What’s her name, your friend?”

  “Gabrielle!”

  II

  Daniel walked across the street and I followed. He stopped at the bottom of the front steps and said: “Her parents are cool.” I assumed he meant Gabrielle’s so I simply nodded. “They are!”

  “Okay.”

  “Gabrielle’s mum is kind, and friendly and…and very beautiful.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s a big shot at the Museum.”

  “Right.”

  He looked at me as if I was an idiot and then walked up the stairs and pushed the door open to enter but stopped at the same time another couple in their late-forties was coming out.

  “Dr. Desidéria,” Daniel exclaimed.

  “Oh, Daniel. I’m so glad you’re here.” I heard a woman’s voice and then I saw her step out.

  She was wearing a black cocktail dress with a long pearl necklace adorning her neck. She had her dark hair rolled and kept in place with a large pearl tipped pin. She noticed me and nodded but didn’t say anything. She appeared tall but when I looked down I noticed that she was helped by several inches of stilettos. A man came out behind her.

  “Be a good lad and cheer her up.”

  “Yes, Mr. Desidéria.”

  “Thanks, son. I think it was a good idea to have this party.”

  “It’ll be good for her,” Daniel replied while I stared at the three, feeling awkward. Their serious tone told me it wasn’t just because she was merely angry at something. I thought, Great we have to deal with a manic depressed teenager.

  “No silly games though,” Dr. Desidéria warned. She was regal and I could see why Daniel was so tongue-tied.

  “No games.”

  “I know you meant well, Daniel, but last year Gabrielle was bruised for a week,” she continued.

  “It worked though, darling, didn’t it?” Mr. Desidéria said and then winked at Daniel surreptitiously though not good enough to hide it from his wife or anyone else.

  Mr. Desidéria was also dressed up for the night, wearing a black sleek tuxedo and red cummerbund. He just needed a monocle to complete the picture. He was very tall, even taller than Daniel, with blond military style haircut though it was clear he was going to be bald soon.

  “Perhaps,” she agreed begrudgingly, and then she added, “The car is here. We must be off.”

  “Yes, yes, darling. Okay, Daniel. Be good,” he looked at Daniel and winked again.

  Dr. Desidéria kissed Daniel on the cheek and then looked at me and said, “Welcome to London. We’ll do proper introductions next time.”

  Daniel put his hand on his cheek, covering where she had kissed him, as if wanting to keep the feeling trapped beneath his fingers. I was surprised she knew about me and I was about to say something when Mr. Desidéria chimed in and said, “Oh, yes. Do come by next Friday for dinner and we’ll do proper introductions.” And then to Daniel, “Go on in and change the mood.”

  “I’ll do my best. And you two enjoy the party.”

  “Just sucking up to a bunch of rich dudes,” he said and then followed his wife to the waiting car.

  “She’s one of the curators at the British Museum.”

  “Wow!”

  “Fo’ sure. Let’s go in, man.”

  “What’s wrong with Gabrielle?”

  “Wrong? Nothin’s wrong with ‘er. She’s jus’ a bit gloomy.”

  “What game were they talking about?”

  “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I

  The trip from Heathrow to the city is quick and the train stops smoothly before long. I’m in Paddington. I step out of the train and there are thousands of people. Many are staring at the electronic board. It is the same board as ten years ago. There is the Upper Crust and the Tie Shop next to it and the Waterstone’s Booksellers. The bronzed Paddington Bear is still there with his hat. Everything is the same. There’s the same huge dome over the yellow and black trains with windows covered with decades of soot. The station is hazy grey and there’s th
ick air hovering barely above our heads. Everybody is talking at once, and their voices create a constant loud hum that intertwines with the sound of the engines. It’s disorienting for a moment, but I slowly blend in and the noise becomes a soothing background rhythm like the waves lapping against a rocky shore. I stand on Platform 7 and breathe in the essence of the station. She remembers me. And I remember her.

  My hotel is on Kensington Gore so I have to walk a few blocks to Bayswater Road and then cross Hyde Park, or more accurately Kensington Park. It’s a thirty-minute walk if I stroll there. Gabrielle’s plane will land around three. I have lots of time to walk to the hotel but this is a different trip. I don’t need to walk. So I don’t take the south exit as I normally would, but instead turn back and go towards the west exit, where dozens of cabs, packed tightly like a long black centipede, line the street. After paying the hotel, I’d still have over twenty-five hundred dollars left. It’s hard to spend twenty-five hundred dollars in two days — at least it’s so for people who rely on monthly paychecks. I’m not going on any buses or metros while I’m in London. I join the line for the taxis and wait for my turn.

  The cab ride is luxurious. The cabby tells me the gate to the park is closed so he has to take the long way. I love it. He drives down towards the park and then turns west towards Notting Hill Gate. My parents and I used to go there for pizza and movies. I try to look for the restaurant but can’t find it. The theater is still there but I can’t read the marquee. Every corner is a reminder of my parents, but for the first time in weeks I welcome the memories.

  The cabby drives around the park and then turns east on Kensington Road. I once kissed a girl on Kensington Road. I don’t recall her name. She was a plain small girl with thin mousy hair. It was a slight, clumsy kiss. We were walking side by side, not talking. We’d just left the movie theater and although it was a sweet romantic movie, neither of us felt compelled to comment on it. We simply started walking without agreeing on the destination. Then as if there was a signal, we both stopped and with a wordless agreement we thought it was time to kiss, so we did. Her lips felt chapped and dry and we were both clumsy. The air was cold but the failed kiss warmed us. We walked to Royal Albert Hall. I wanted to kiss again, now that we were in a warm place, but she no longer did. She wanted to be taken home. A week later, I caught her kissing Sean Andersen. It was fine with me. She was too complicated.