Gravel Heart(42)

‘Salam alaikum,’ said the destroyer of souls.

I delayed as long as I could before replying, debating whether I should do so or just hang up. In the end I said, ‘Alaikum salam. May I speak to my mother?’

‘Salim, is that you? Do you know what time it is?’ he said, his voice stern. Then he laughed and said, ‘Haya, just wait a minute. How are you? Are you all right? Is there a problem?’

‘No, there is no problem. I just called,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ she said. Her voice sounded as familiar as if I had spoken to her a short while ago.

‘Mama,’ I said.

‘I knew it was you,’ she said gleefully. ‘Even before Hakim picked up the phone I knew it was you. Who else would ring after midnight?’

I had forgotten about the time difference. I pictured her face and her eyes and her gesturing hand as I spoke to her. I said I had no reason to call, just to say hello. I asked after her health and she asked after mine. I asked about the tests and she said the doctors were not sure what it was. It could be just early menopause, run-down and headaches and that kind of thing, but they were continuing with the tests. They were not sure what her mother died of. In case it was something hereditary they were doing regular checks on heart and blood pressure and kidneys and so on, but with nothing definite to report. When was I coming to visit? she asked. I said I would soon. There was, after all, not much to say but I was thrilled to hear her voice.

After a few more predictable exchanges, I said I was going now. I wanted to ask if she had any news of Baba but I did not. ‘You must call again,’ she said. ‘Often. Next time call when Munira will be able to speak to you. Call in the evening and don’t forget the time difference. She is always asking after you. She does not even remember how you look.’

‘I will,’ I said.

To myself I said: I will become one of England’s helots like Mr Mgeni if I don’t do something about myself, until one day England kills me too. After that call I lay in the darkness of the early hours, looking again at various plans I had considered in the past to extricate myself from my pointless life, then in the morning I dressed for work and fitted myself into the day’s events.

After the funeral, Marjorie went back to Jamaica for a holiday. She was to be there for a month, but when that time was over she stayed for another month and then another one after that. St Thomas’ Hospital kept her job open for her as long as they could but Marjorie did not return. She stayed on in Jamaica and did not even come back to pack up the house. Frederica and Chris did that. They shipped what they thought she would like to keep and gave away the rest. Then they put the house on the market and banked the proceeds for her retirement fund. I laughed with disbelief when Frederica told me how Marjorie just left everything and went back home. She would have gone years earlier and taken Dad with her, Frederica said, but he was too tired and could not face another move.

*

It was during this time when Mr Mgeni’s death forced me into a small crisis of reflection that I met Billie. Her full name was Bindiya but she was called Billie from birth. Her father was English, although he had lived most of his adult life in India, and it was he who insisted that the children should have Indian names, just as he always only used his own version of their English contractions. So he had familiar English diminutives for her brothers too and only used their given Indian names for ceremonial or disciplinary purposes.

I met her when I went to see a production of The Cherry Orchard at the National Theatre. I read about the play in the Sunday newspaper: Trevor Nunn’s brilliant production and stunning performances by Corin and Vanessa Redgrave and a cast of stars. I thought it was time to give Chekhov another chance after my disappointing encounter with him as a schoolboy. The play was showing in the Cottesloe, and the theatre was packed and buzzing, but the seat on my left was unoccupied until seconds before the doors were closed and the lights went down. When its owner turned up I was aware that it was a woman, probably more sophisticated and fashionable than the plainly dressed older woman on my right (linen trousers and a thick cardigan) because of the perfume that accompanied her arrival and the stiff swish of her clothes. I suppressed my curiosity about her so I could concentrate on the stage, although it took me a moment or two to do that.

Within the first few minutes I was lost in the play, mesmerised by the pathos of the dialogue and the beautiful staging and lighting. Vanessa Redgrave played Lyubov Andreyevna Ranevskaya and Corin Redgrave was her chatterbox brother Gayev. Brother and sister playing brother and sister, a publicist’s cliché, but they were brilliant. When out of nowhere Lyubov Andreyevna declared her anguish: If only this burden could be taken from me, if only I could forget my past, I felt my eyes stinging with distress for the middle-aged mother mourning her child. It seemed that human sorrow was always based on regret and pain in the past, and that neither time nor location nor history made much difference. And when later she told the story of her betrayal of her husband and the failure of her love, I wept for her. At the end of the play, as Lopakhin’s crew were cutting down the orchard, I knew that the thud of the axes into the cherry trees would always stay with me, as if the blows were a violence on my own body. Three hours went past quickly, and by the end I was on my feet, joining everyone else in enthusiastic applause.

The woman to my left turned to leave and I did too. I had seen during the interval – which I had spent in my seat while she went off somewhere – that she was attractive with a finely drawn face which gave her features an appearance of delicacy even though she was otherwise well-built. As we made our way between the rows of seats, she looked my way and then looked again and smiled. She said hello lightly, and it was apparent she was addressing someone she thought she knew. My mind was still on the play and I must have failed to respond fully enough to her because she smiled and reminded me that we had met at a wedding party some months before.