Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  ‘And white witchcraft. It thrives in Brighton. What a story for Super Frog to take home tomorrow!’

  Virginia, anxious to be included again, disrupts the fun. ‘I used the Eight Principles on Mary as a last resort this afternoon.’

  ‘What happened?’ Walter manages to keep his voice down.

  ‘The pulses became less wiry.’

  ‘How long for, I wonder. Soon you’ll be back to square one.’ Hammering each word, he threatens the naughty girl. ‘I’m telling you, if we lose faith in the Five Elements, our needles will stop singing.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Our needles empower people to talk. Together we make sense of the illness. Progressively. With thorough feedback. From pulses and, well, you know what I mean. Not from faceless experts and their expensive machines. Too busy to touch you, too busy to get to know you, too—’

  ‘Stop it, Walter! Or I’ll send you to Coventry.’ Gwen’s threat makes them laugh.

  ‘Why Coventry?’ Marianne wants an explanation. Then, a phone stirs the family.

  ‘Quick, Ian, under those cushions. Oh! It’s my girl texting.’

  I love you so much, I miss you in the morning in the evening in the day always. And Gwen and Walter to the end of my life. Why don’t you come and see us now?

  ‘You were so positive the other night about Zaida – you’re a blessing, darling!’ Gwen helps Marianne pack more children’s books into an overloaded suitcase. ‘As I keep saying, we’re sorry to see you go.’

  On the edge of laughing or crying, Marianne hugs her friends for a last time as the taxi pulls in at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Phone me soon. Please! When they will be with Zaida.’

  ‘Mind the future! Can’t explain now. Never mind! Get a lover, will you, mon amie?’

  The next two days will be busy for the two women left in charge of the clinic while Walter and Ian are in London applying for tourist visas. Waving through the open window, taking a last look at the house, Marianne swears to herself she will phone every day until her friends are back with the child. The late light picks out the borders, throwing into relief the patchwork of trim and wild across the garden. A perfect balance between bushes, flowers and lawn, emanating a serenity that masks the family troubles.

  – 14 –

  Meeting the Al-Sayeds

  In no time from Damascus airport, Ian and Walter have found themselves in a stunning house in the core of the legendary city. Already disoriented by the rashness of their move, both men are further unsettled by the master’s absence.

  Hiding his own puzzlement at their presence behind a florid complexion, the unflappable Dr Abdul Al-Sayed speaks in well-crafted Queen’s English, repeating his message carefully so as to be understood by these foolish people. He has just arrived from Hama, the family home; regrettably, his son could not cancel a business commitment but he will be back shortly. Walter apologises yet again for the untimely visit, bearing in mind a tactical agreement with Ian: at first they will take things as they come.

  The doctor seems a reassuring man, modest and cheerful, Ian observes to himself. Someone they hope to trust, unlike that sinister-looking man, with burning eyes above an ugly scar, who was rushing out of the house with a retinue of people, one in military uniform, just when they came in through an entrance door so low that everyone had to duck. ‘My brother Omar is an important man.’ No need to say. Ian wonders at the timing – did they wait for the taxi, intending to intimidate the foreigners with a show of strength? Why would they? Khalid had betrayed no hostility when they called from Leaford announcing their imminent Syrian tour, Walter wishing to grasp a once-in-a-life chance to travel with his son and, God willing, to renew his friendship with the Al-Sayeds and possibly take Zaida out for a few treats. The explanation appeared candid enough then, but now it is as implausible as a pope protesting interest in gay rights.

  Ian smiles at the older men outdoing each other’s politeness and good wishes like two palace courtiers. Sitting at a low copper table, they relax, absorbed by the display of courtesy and elaborate sweetmeats. A lean grey-haired woman, dressed in a white blouse tucked into a long brownish skirt, shuffles in, bringing fruit juice, minted water and dried fruit.

  ‘Mariyam Ajemian. Our fine cook.’

  In recognition of her name, she bends her head towards the guests, unsmiling, varicose hand over the crucifix hanging from her neck, then she disappears behind a plain black curtain.

  They chat amicably for a couple of hours, making the most of the interlude created by Khalid’s absence, about the Damascus sites and potential trips to Palmyra and Aleppo. And pious Hama, of course. Walter and Abdul enjoy sharing their jaded views of the world. The clinic isn’t doing too well. It’s impossible to get money out of the banks these days. Who will pay for the crisis? Not the Americans!

  Abdul has taken to retirement like a duck to water, writing poetry as a new member of the Syrian Union of Arab Writers and studying the lost cities of Mesopotamia, although only Allah knows the past.

  ‘The modern world is nothing but trouble.’

  ‘There’s no fair play in business.’

  ‘No honour anywhere. Not even among intellectuals.’

  One of his nephews could be in trouble at the Higher Institute of Translation and Interpretation of Damascus University. Khalid will have to pull strings on his behalf. Family is family. Sharply aware of the irony, Abdul stops talking, unwilling to say more.

  Left to his own thoughts, the house retains Ian’s attention. Authentic Damascene houses were built like forts around open courtyards for coolness and security reasons, Abdul explained. The square is shaded by awnings of white cloth flapping high above an octagonal marble fountain adorned with taps shaped like birds. The floor is covered with a mosaic of intricate blue, white and red geometric patterns. Four arched recesses act, Ian supposes, as sitting areas for the winter, with equally splendid floral patterns in gold and all shades of green. He glimpses musical instruments in the main iwan. Possibly an electric oud. That must be a bird cage hanging high up the stairs. Canaries? A fabulous place for a Leaford girl.

  ‘Oh, here’s Khalid.’ The fountain gurgles on with insouciance as the men stare at the entrance from the stairs leading to the street. In rushes a clean-shaven man, his sharp features softened by a wide smile. They laugh, shout and bear-hug.

  Taking a step back, Walter asks, surprised, ‘Zaida is not with you?’

  ‘She’s at home in Hama. She’s been over there for a few days. I thought you knew?’ Khalid looks puzzled.

  Walter gestures frantically, knocking a tray onto the floor. ‘Sorry, let me pick it up. Khalid, I’m pleased to see you looking so well.’ He stretches both hands out to his ex-son-in-law. There follow more greetings, lukewarm this time.

  ‘My father is very tired. With the journey. And disappointed with Zaida being away. He’s missed her so much.’

  ‘We came to meet my granddaughter,’ Walter explodes.

  Despite the tinkle of the water spouts, the silence thickens until, stone-faced, Abdul pats his son on the shoulder; and Ian, in a similarly appeasing mood, grasps his father by the elbow.

  ‘My sister is worried about Zaida.’ He keeps his voice low and non-threatening.

  ‘How come? Since when?’

  ‘Since the return flight was delayed.’

  ‘We let you know about it. On time. I believe we are honourable people.’ Hardly containing his anger, Khalid pronounces these last words one by one, as if dictating to an idiot.

  Inwardly fuming, Ian ignores the offensive tone while diverting the conversation onto safer grounds: the house, the trips to the Krack du Chevalier or to Aleppo’s citadel. Woeful, Walter does not say anything until Khalid brings the diversion to a halt.

  ‘Aren’t you a reasonable man, Walter? But why do you behave as if we have committed a crime? Because I di
dn’t oblige you in exchange for—’

  Ian splutters an apology before Walter has time to put his foot in it again.

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve offended you. The journey was tiring and my father’s under a lot of pressure at home. Listen, it’s a misunderstanding – quite simply, we hoped to see Zaida tonight, that’s all there is to it.’

  Ian gives a placating smile, wishing he had come on his own. He takes a paper hanky out of his hand bag to wipe his face and hands, not knowing whether it is the lack of fresh air or the tension that unnerves him most.

  ‘We’ve arranged for you to be driven to Hama tomorrow after a good night’s rest.’

  Walter stomps around the fountain in a rage, making dismissive gestures, mumbling, ‘Wild goose chase. Gosh! I’m whacked.’ He drops into his seat, slouching back. Ian nudges him with a sharp elbow until Walter sits up straight.

  Looking like thunder, unable to quarrel out of consideration for a distressed man, Khalid refrains from pointing out that Zaida pleaded to stay on, waking up sobbing, angry. ‘Mummy only cares for her patients,’ she wailed. The girl never tires of drawing an aggressive-looking witch who will help fly her mother to Syria. How sad that tale makes him feel! In no way is he letting the intruders near his own pain! He hastens out after exchanging a few words in Arabic with his father.

  A manservant carries in the invaders’ luggage. Abdul signs to him to drop the two suitcases by the iron-wrought steps leading to the top floors.

  ‘Abdul, I apologise to you and your son for any hurt I might have caused. I don’t know what came over me. I’m jet-lagged, I guess. Please forgive me. I’m spoiling our reunion. Sorry, my friend!’

  ‘It’s OK. I also apologise for Khalid. But consider his position. You burst into his home as if we have kidnapped Zaida. However regrettable, he had to leave the room.’

  ‘I understand. Let’s retire. I’ll speak to Khalid tomorrow morning and hopefully make amends.’

  Abdul assures them that they will be treated well, with the attentive consideration that Syrian families like to offer their guests. It is getting late. The servant will take them to their rooms and a cold meal will be served on the upper terrace in one hour. Breakfast will be at eight by the fountain. At 10, they will be driven to Hama where Zaida, very excited, is helping to prepare festive dishes; she’s spent the last two days rehearsing dances of welcome. Praise Allah to have given him an English granddaughter keen to learn Syrian ways. With rueful smiles, the grandfathers congratulate each other.

  It is seven in the morning in Hama. Ian is getting ready for a jog with Khalid on a path winding through the main city park alongside the river. An intriguing invitation. A male bonding exercise? To escape relatives? Whatever. He must protect his fair skin from the November sun. While applying coats of Gucci creams on arms, face and neck he reflects on the last two days, which have not gone badly. What tickled him was observing Zaida. At ease. Affectionate. With fire in her belly. She thanked him for bringing her grandfather in a well-rehearsed speech; she was not shy of him – that pleased him. She asked if he liked her family. He said yes, as much as playing chess. She laughed, saying it was more fun in Damascus, then she blushed – ‘I don’t want to criticise’, falling silent, arms crossed against a timid chest.

  ‘Your father told me you are learning the oud. What do you like best, the instrument or the music?

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Is that why you want to stay longer? I bet you’ve got other reasons.’

  Did she look up straight at him? Intense perusing eyes above plump little cheeks. His heart went out to the alarmed adolescent peeping from the body of the child, pleading and torn, as he had been for long agitated years when his mind and body were at war with each other.

  ‘Is Lascha helping?

  ‘Mummy told you?’

  ‘I can do anything for you since I’m… Bob’s your uncle.’

  She hung on his arm, chatting. She had two new dolls from Aleppo. Blonde and dark. ‘Lascha is a wizard and Xenobia, an Arab princess.’

  ‘Quite a family,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘I love them to bits.’

  ‘I bet you tell them stories?’

  She did not answer, staring beyond him, drifting into her own loneliness.

  ‘Let me see.’ As though taming an unknown species, he slowly moved one step closer, raising her left hand and turning the palm over, feeling the softness of her skin and trust.

  ‘You’ve nervous fingers with long tapering nails like a spider. Absolutely right for a dancer!’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘The life line here and the heart line tell me things about you. You’re self-assured. And success and happiness will follow you whatever you do.’

  ‘You’re making it up! What else?’

  ‘Those short lines on the side, they’re unusual for a girl – they are called travel lines! See, they don’t fade out.’

  He was not fibbing, not quite – she was understanding that too. How he wishes Clint could have seen him, avuncular, making contact with the child.

  Hama has turned up trumps. Particularly at night. A full moon sketched the silhouettes of olive and fruit trees out of the invisible terraces lining the river. Sitting in the open, the party admired the scented view. The Al-Sayeds repeated with good reasons that the fertile land below had been theirs for generations until stolen by the Ba’athist town council after the troubles. To forget their loss, the men drank an Egyptian beer once Halima and the women had left with the younger children. As Abdul played an Arabian fiddle and Khalid a small drum, Lilleth danced with the natural grace and application of a tutored adolescent who is soon to become a woman. Zaida joined her cousin after throwing off her voluminous headscarf. She did her best, trying to wobble imaginary boobs, until the two girls collapsed into fits of laughter. They were clapped. Walter, delighted, pointed out she had gone totally blonde like Grandma Gwen. According to Abdul and Khalid, the day after she arrived, she had wanted her hair – too wavy and too blonde – straightened out and dyed black, something they had to refuse. The Franklins joined the banter. When asked to go to bed, she took little steps backwards, joining her hands against her chest, mimicking a geisha’s bow while keeping the immobility of her stare, a kind of constant questioning. Is she far too mature for her age? Is that what Virginia said?

  Jogging along the slow-moving Orontes, Ian and Khalid are catching up with a gaggle of trendy-looking runners with sunglasses, smartphones and Kickers. The songs of the norias grow faint as they leave the bank. Playgrounds are still closed but breakfast and ice-cream bars begin to fill with a few men. Ian jaunts along, quite a picture in his electric blue tracksuit, sleeves rolled up; punching his fists in the air like an American paratrooper, indifferent to hostile looks from onlookers sitting on the peeling benches. He has to hasten his pace to keep up with Khalid before squeezing through an exiguous gate at the far end of the park. They run down a street lined with prosperous residences sighted through locked gates; they pass by colourless institutions of power – a town hall, a police station and a state-run bank – until they duck their way into a narrow passage between walls overflowing with bougainvilleas that takes them back to the chattering river.

  ‘As I said, last night was quite magical. Jazz and Syrian music together. Good stuff.’

  Khalid holds back his own question – are you that interested in our Roman ruins? Instead, he says softly, ‘You are taking quite a risk by coming here.’

  ‘Why? Me being gay? I had to for my father. It’s the first time we’ve ever travelled together, just us two.’

  ‘You are safe with me. Mind you, don’t watch us men clapping and hugging each other. Hama is a puritan town. People are oversensitive towards Westerners. And everywhere there are people paid to patrol the streets and report anything they come across, however trivial. Or they make things up.’ He takes on a more confessional tone. ‘For me, you know, homosexualit
y is no problem, I’m a liberal – Greeks used to do it too.’ After an uneasy pause, he says, ‘At times they bring girls to my house, you see the type, but it doesn’t take the heaviness from my heart.’

  ‘You’re missing my sister?’

  ‘What if I do?’ He grasps Ian by the shoulder. ‘Don’t trust anyone. I don’t want you arrested.’

  ‘Jesus, no! I have no need for thrills like that!’

  ‘Remember, British and Canadian embassies can’t help you here.’

  Ian recalls Virginia telling him to heed her solicitor’s advice – don’t trust either the father or the son. If they have something up their sleeve, they will smother you with words and hospitality. For all that, how can he distrust the sadness of Khalid’s eyes, the proud tilt of the chin? The man has invited him for a morning run to warn him. Fair enough.

  Khalid stops in his track, belligerent but also hesitating to let the skeleton out of the cupboard. ‘Your father! On the game like everyone else! I couldn’t believe it. Wire £20,000 and keep Zaida a bit longer. Blackmailing me! Discrediting both families!’

  Ian’s outrage is not faked. ‘Selling his granddaughter? The old man’s off his head!’

  ‘I was too ashamed to respond. Better let him think his email got lost. He’s got a lot on his plate with the clinic and Zaida being away.’

  ‘You’re most generous. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Has Zaida talked to you about our chauffeur? Not yet! She has bad vibes. He’s a spy! She’s got too much imagination. She’d like me to sack him.’

  ‘Why would anyone spy on you?’

  ‘That’s not the point. I offered him 500 dollars to tell me who he is working for. He refused.’

  ‘Does that prove anything? You trust him then?’

  ‘Come off it! In a dictatorship? Full of people ready to sell you! But Uncle Omar assures me the man is one of us. One of his protégés.’