Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  I miss my dad when he is away but Auntie looks after me. Tomorrow Grandad will take me to the blue and gold mosque. I love him. Now I get less upset when he calls me Seema by mistake because he loves me. I enjoy him helping me with my Arabic. That’s hard but he is wicked. He tells me old stories and we laugh a lot.

  I told Dad I’ll never, never date Ali, he is too serious. I like my cousin Lilleth much better, we laugh when we talk gibberish, but she lives in Hama. I also talk to the budgies, they are so cute.

  Dad wants me to stay until New Year. I was happy about that but now I am not sure. I love you so much, I am missing you, my dearest mummy, I am lonely without you.

  She reads it through, sighs and tears it apart. It won’t do.

  – 13 –

  Self-healing

  Early morning, Virginia takes the opportunity of Ian being away for the day to rummage through an old steamer trunk kept under his bed. Has Zaida left anything of hers in that trunk? Entering his room, she looks aghast at the chaos around: soiled towels sticking out of a tennis bag, Prada sneakers perched on crunched newspapers, wires trailing to phone sockets and, on top of the console, a sleek Mac portable blinking at face cream and gel pots. Brother and sister? As different as chalk and cheese! He tall and effusive, which people take for openness and compassion; she squatty and uncertain of herself. Inside he must be as self-opinionated as ever, judging from his bickering with their father. She is on her knees pulling out the chest when Marianne comes in.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘Thanks… but before we have a look, I apologise for our quarrel last night.’

  ‘No need!’

  ‘Ian was interfering as usual. It isn’t his business to fly in and meddle with the clinic. That makes me angry.’ Virginia throws a tennis ball at the newspaper pile and misses.

  Since it isn’t the moment to raise the idea of sending Ian to Syria, Marianne seeks a diversion. ‘Do you have money problems?’

  ‘Temporary, I hope. Father borrowed to pay for the extension, the refurbishing and hiring more staff. The weekend courses are heavy to run and there’s a lot of competition for that sort of thing. In Oxford, Southampton, Reading.’

  ‘Andy say it is too soon to tell.’

  ‘Yes, it is, and to rattle Father won’t do any good.’

  ‘Is Walter taking the drug for his heart?

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s as stubborn as a mule.’

  Marianne looks at her watch. ‘Call me if you need me.’

  It is Ian’s junk, of no interest until Virginia comes across a pile of school reports tied up with elastic bands. Zaida’s. The blue covers are laid out with a large heading, Leaford South Fields Secondary School, and underneath in bold, Zaida Gwen Al-Sayed-Franklin. Such a midget for such a long name. Virginia strokes the crinkled paper with her thumb as if to flatten out the burden of family destinies that her daughter carries. From the day Zaida received glowing comments from school, Virginia knew each report by heart.

  Compensating for her own lack of ambition, she imagined Zaida a new Cherie Blair at the bar. She has a fantastic memory, hides her passions. She used to screw up her eyes at a tug-of-war over a toy, a voice too loud, and later, Abdul’s tales. What budding adolescent would not be fascinated by talk of crusades, occupations and homecomings?

  She can’t help feeling bitter. When a young wife, she had imagined another Syria – Zaida skipping ahead of her mum and dad on a long visit to Khalid’s family. A Syria full of the vestiges of history that she read about and loved: spicy dust tasted by Lawrence of Arabia; garlands of peddlers at the Ummayad Mosque; olive groves tended since the first writing tablets. How ignorant she was then! Already weary of the day, she reaches for a brown envelope which she recognises as Zaida’s. It is covered with a pencil drawing of Lascha, the female shaman Zaida played online – a powerful seal of protection, so she guesses, of the treasure inside: postcards from Syria; letters and photos, mostly from Khalid; newspaper cuttings on Chechnya and Srebrenica. Why collect this stuff? Virginia gasps. The Bosnian massacre took place before she was even born! Why? Does her baby believe only magic can save Muslim lives? Is that it? Something else drops out. Snaps of a sunburnt couple laughing and kissing on the bridge where the first crusade had assembled to hunt ‘us’ down, he said. The expression stuck.

  Her hair now tied up into a sloppy chignon, Marianne saunters back into the room. She looks bleary, having spent the night wondering what type of a child Zaida is. She can’t gather any impression from Zaida’s closest friends, away for the term with relatives, one in Islamabad and the other in Cairo. Bright, reliable, down-to-earth, Virginia says. Three children with English mothers and foreign fathers. Do the girls see the same ineffable condition of their birth quarried out of their parents’ idiotic coupling? Do they share , however dimly, the same rondo of questions ‘why my parents/why me’? Knowing herself abandoned at birth, Marianne has long suspected that plausible answers may come from unexpected scenarios. This is why Virginia is wrong to play down Zaida’s search, if this is what the girl is doing. Hopefully, she is finding in Syria something meaningful about herself, even if she has no words for it as she renews her intimacy with her father.

  ‘Still tidying up?’

  The trunk is back under the Welsh bed, ready to swallow, like any heirloom, hordes of victims. Marianne raises an eyebrow at Virginia disentangling sandals and trainers from each other.

  ‘Let’s go. There’s not much here. My daughter is still a mystery to me,’ Virginia says, self-mocking, unable to share her shocking discovery, her eyes watering.

  When Marianne helps collect things back into the envelope, she recognises the photo of the happy couple she took in Albi. Khalid was such a good number. An attentive husband, a good father, a fine cook and so sexy too – a combination which women of her generation have come to demand openly from their men and rarely find.

  ‘Look at you two! You sweethearts!’ Since only common-sense arguments will get Virginia out of the trap she has made for herself, she continues the attack. ‘He loves Zaida. And respect your family! Trust him.’ She waves the iconic photo. ‘Were you not in love? It is the same Khalid then and now.’

  ‘You’re so French! Talking about principles and not what’s really happening. After the divorce, he had regular access, things were fine, but he left his daughter for Syria. That’s what bugs me. Why did he drop her? For a life change? To be closer to God in a Muslim land like his father? No, no! What Khalid really wants is just to be back home. Serve Syrian democracy, if he can. And make money, of course.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘My point is… we don’t know what they are up to; the country is dangerous. Think of their bloody history. She already worries like mad about Muslim massacres… I bet they are still saying the two girls look alike. A raped girl!’

  ‘Calm down. I understand Zaida is vulnerable. I have a suggestion. Let one of you visit her now!’

  ‘What? I should go? Come off it!’

  ‘Ian is free… you see?’

  ‘He’d need a visa.’ She refrains from saying ‘don’t be silly’.

  ‘Syria is not a fortress. Calls from the Canadian embassy and the Al-Sayeds’ address get him a tourist’s visa. Quickly. Ian can use the uncle story, you know? “I am missing my only niece and…”

  ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘Make sure Zaida is where they say she is. And get a picture of the family situation.’

  Marianne reminds her of the advice given by Reunion in cases of abduction. Check the address. Ask the British Consul to visit. Send a detective. Much better, meet the father and sweeten him so he does not hide the child away at unreachable places.

  Mischievous, she asks, ‘How does Mum attract Dad back?’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘Naturellement! Let me see… one British woman had two kids kidnapp
ed to Egypt. They had mediation. She promises Dad she will never divorce. He pays for her to stay with him and the children. Got herself pregnant. Imagine that! Happy Dad sent Mum and children back to Britain to the best doctors. Months later, she got a divorce!’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘True. Parents do extraordinary things to get missing kids back. Reunion know a few bizarre cases.’

  ‘I’d cheer that brave Muslim mum of yours. Mind you, Khalid is not keeping Zaida against her will.’

  ‘The point was… find what was happening in the Egyptian family. Ask Ian to go. He is a journalist, isn’t he? His job is to follow difficult cases. ’

  The suggestion hardly surprises Virginia who has been admiring her friend’s cautious moves. Indeed, why not send Ian instead of him idling at home? That would be cheaper than hiring lawyers. She bites her lips, still irresolute.

  ‘Syria’s a dangerous place for gays, isn’t it?’ Ian is unpredictable. Impulsive. However, he is fun, enterprising, full of – qualities that both Zaida and the Al-Sayeds would trust.

  ‘Ian can do it. He’s great.’

  ‘Is there anything he can’t do in your book? Why not ask Father? That’d be much safer. He’d prevent Ian from being too sweet with anyone.’

  They fall silent. Piqued by the irony, Marianne plops down on the edge of the bed. She should have known better: Virginia is always testy about Ian.

  Unhappy at having crossed her friend, Virginia collects soiled clothes, recalling to herself the brief times her brother and Khalid had met. Never shy, Ian teased Khalid about his dress sense – “suits fit only for a dog’s funeral”. Maybe these two would get on.

  ‘Sorry for snapping at you when you are so full of bright ideas. But don’t let Ian go on his own. He should team up with Father. Him and Abdul have a lot of respect for each other and they—’

  Gwen shouts from the bottom of the stairs. ‘What are you girls doing up there? Walter left for the clinic ages ago.’

  They run down, Marianne seeing the lovers sliding down the handrail bellowing Aux Armes Citoyens before they landed in a heap of giggles.

  Patrick laughs at the impropriety. The acupuncturist has left open the top three buttons of her white coat, revealing her bra.

  ‘Shush! I can’t hear myself think. Tell me why you are still coming. It has been a long time since I first saw you.’

  Keeping at bay the fear of being dismissed, he bows his head into his chin, shaking it side to side like a dog baffled by life. ‘Are you fed up with me? I need you to stir up my energy. Oh, beg your pardon, Miss, it isn’t what I meant.’ He gulps at the air. ‘Prick me as much as you want, I don’t mind a bit.’ He bursts into laughter again.

  She grins. Such a softie in spite of the pandemonium. Why should she mind his innocent innuendoes? Laughing is what widowers need most.

  ‘I don’t like you telling me to bugger off.’ He sits up, head into his chin, embarrassed at the confession.

  She gives him a big hug. It is this sort of playful intimacy he is craving. Khalid was the same, easy to appease when disheartened. A slight touch with her fingertips, a stroke of his creased face and he would purr for more, curling up against her chest. The thought, sharp like glass, makes her clench her hands together to contain the pain.

  ‘You don’t look too good yourself. Your daughter? What’s up? Had no idea things would go wrong with a Muslim, did you, love?’

  ‘None of that, will you?’

  ‘I wish I could help you.’

  She straightens her back. ‘But you’re helping me no end… when you don’t pry.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You trust me, don’t you? That’s helping.’

  He sniffs, wistful. ‘You’re saying that to be polite to a spent old man.’

  Without trust on both sides, she ruminates, there won’t be any patching up. As in a marriage. She unrolls his socks and grips the finest of her needles.

  ‘Ouch! You hurt me!’ He nearly kicks her face as she bends over his feet. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  Her throat is tight. She was rough, too wrapped up in her own thoughts.

  ‘Sorry! Now, let me warm up that energy of yours.’

  Smiles are back in the room. Acupuncturist and patient are one team again. Patrick lurches down from the couch, swollen fingers struggling with the buttons of a brush-cotton shirt that he managed to iron – for her benefit, he says.

  The door shut, she seals the used needles into the disposal unit. The morning treatments have gone surprisingly well given the state she was in after discovering the news cuttings and her taxing conversation with Marianne.

  She interrogates the wall map showing the five cycles of energy that seamlessly flow in a healthy body. Life is movement and hope. Didn’t she embrace Khalid with passion! Gripped by his stories. His Sunni ancestors merged with him – seductive male figures with a bruising courage. Us with them, always, that’s what the woman in love wanted – then. And now, who is she? A dominating mother? A divorcee? Petty? Cynical? She should let go of Zaida, stop the distrust. An image of the child strolling through the Great Mosque, head towering over both of her parents, captivates her; she abandons herself to the golden mirage, then sniggers at her delusion. The Orient will ambush her daughter, as it has so many in the past.

  The afternoon brings the turmoil back. Mary Angel lies flat on her tummy while the needles work on her back. She has dropped the whining of the out-to-get-you patient, which she had deployed before – her sexual life is still shit, acupuncture is useless, why bother? The battle has receded into a stillness only broken by Mary’s bangles. The two women wait until the needles flop onto the side. Virginia is staring at the light picking up the soft shine of the black skin between the shoulder blades. Like the little pools of perspiration on Khalid’s back when the couple lingered in bed, thankful for the Languedoc heat, blessed, having as yet no inkling of the collapse of her desire in years to come.

  ‘I’ll try another treatment. I checked it yesterday night thinking you might need it. It treats imbalances of energy like wet and dry—’

  ‘OK, OK. Don’t hurt me.’

  It’s over. Virginia looks through Mary’s notes, making certain she has recorded in full the unorthodox treatment. She is learning to take risks.

  Why can’t she tackle her own deficiencies as well? Her fear of Walter. Her old jealousy of the glam brother. Her meanness in love. Her inability to deal with the Al-Sayeds. Screening her sagging desire behind Zaida, like a cockroach dreading the light.

  ‘Are we friends?’ The question soothes her. They exchange a long glance, accomplices, sensing in the other a vulnerability they do not understand and have to disguise. A need for faith, maybe, Virginia says to herself.

  Mary gone, she paces her room, brooding over Marianne’s crack: “love is more complicated than sex”. How helpful is that?

  She makes up her mind. There is no need to embitter Khalid further with a visit by the British Consul. He has unlikely qualities for a lawyer: considerate, adverse to quarrels and easily swayed by those he loves. Unlike Ian, who has the knack of getting into trouble. She ought to trust Khalid again. Zaida loves her dad and his family – that’s to their credit. Marianne is right, they won’t turn evil simply because they live in Syria. They will continue to love her and give her the best.

  ‘Do I serve tea in the conservatory?’

  ‘Coffee for me, and chocolates!’ The women laugh, happy to indulge Walter tonight.

  ‘How was Mary Angel today?’

  ‘There’s still a lot of self-destruction in her, God knows why, but she left saying she might try for children – not now, but some time.’

  ‘Well done, Virginia.’

  Ian out for the night, Virginia lingers by her father’s side, basking in his reassurances, ignoring Marianne who looks at her enquiringly, unwilling to break t
he tranquil mood of the evening. Pretending to read The Journal of Chinese Medicine, Virginia ponders over Marianne’s advice, reasonable and shrewd. No harm could come from a visit by Ian and Walter. Only immediate clarification and, hopefully, reassurance. And, if they both go, loads of fun for Zaida with her two families at her side.

  Walter sees his daughter nodding to herself. He takes in the jerky movements, the bloated eyelids, the creased temples, her gaping mouth as she turns the pages looking for absolute truths in obscure articles. He grieves; the child doesn’t trust enough in her father’s experience. As for Ian, there is a similar lack of faith, irrevocable and as absolute as loneliness. Be that it may, the lad is on the ball, even reassuring about the clinic since ‘debts make a business tick over these days.’ Ironically, Khalid is adopting a similar “wait and see” attitude. Has he reckoned that the unfortunate email came from a panic attack?

  Neither Walter nor the women can take their eyes off the newcomer. It is not the trendy casuals that attract attention but the Tintin hairdo coated with gel, short on the sides and high in the middle.

  ‘Ian! We didn’t expect you so early. Grab a chair and sit by me.’

  ‘Dad, I hope I didn’t upset you at the party.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  They hug and everyone relaxes except for Virginia, who catches Walter watching Ian idly playing with a pack of needles before putting it back into his pocket. Is he less ambivalent than he says about acupuncture? And if he brings Zaida back, it’d be unbearable! He will take over the clinic! Unless they fall out in Syria.

  Father and son make a show of teasing each other.

  ‘I won’t let in any crazy therapy. We’ll ignore Sue Benning’s claims. As you say, son, we’ll have crystal reading next.’