Gravel Heart(82)

I said: ‘There was no Duke to put things right for this Isabella, no one to restrain the man of appetite who, once he had her in his grip, never let her slip away. Nor was there any role for you in the play, Baba, because Shakespeare had already reserved the heroine for the Duke.’

‘I will not bother to read it then if there is no part for me.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if things were meant to happen as they did,’ I said, ‘or if there was a mistake, a mess-up along the way.’

*

Munira returned from her examinations in a cheerful mood. They had gone well. She rang her daddy with her news and told him that we were coming round to see him later that afternoon. I knew that I would not be able to avoid meeting him in the end. I told myself that I was doing it for Munira. My reluctance to greet her daddy made her unhappy, as if there was some wrong that still stood between us when I had declared to her there wasn’t. I knew from Baba that my mother asked for a divorce soon after I left for London because she wished to re-marry. She must have waited until I was out of the way so as not to upset me or to have to put up with my petulance, and then she did not tell me. So, in short, Hakim was her proper husband and he had lived with her in some fashion and had been there to bury her with respect in the end while I was in Folkestone, fucking and bickering with Rhonda.

I went with Munira to the grand house where Hakim lived with his first family. I heard dogs barking as we turned into the drive, and a lean uniformed man appeared from the garden side of the house. He smiled when he saw Munira and she waved at him. A Land Cruiser was parked in the drive and two other cars were in the garages to the left. I wondered how such wealth could be maintained without guards or locked gates and where even the dogs were kennelled out of sight. They relied on fear, I guessed, which terror had made into the citizen’s normal conduct. Who would dream of risking capture and its aftermath by attempting to steal from such ferocious owners?

Munira walked round the side of the house to the garden door, looking over her shoulder and smiling, tugging me along. I knew from her that both Hakim’s other daughters were away studying, one in Boston and the other in Utrecht on generous scholarships awarded by those countries. The son was around, and I met him when we were strolling in town one afternoon: the same age as Munira, handshakes and smiles, hurrying on after his own affairs. Munira entered without knocking, as if she was entering her own home. I was introduced to an aunt or cousin whom we found in the kitchen, and guessed she was another Bi Rahma, the household skivvy, a poor relation who had found a niche with the family. She told us Mama was resting but Bamkubwa was inside. Munira was already walking past by then, calling out Daddy, kicking off her sandals as she stepped through glass doors and down some steps into the sitting room.

I had only seen Hakim on television before and had only ever heard him speak on the telephone. He was in his mid-sixties, I guessed, his eyes shadowed by loosening bags of skin and his thick neck starting to sag and wrinkle. He swivelled his recliner towards us as we entered, and rose to his feet. To me it seemed that he did so without effort, a large powerful man despite his age. He was watching a recording of the European Champions League final on mute and he switched the set off as he rose. He smiled at Munira and opened his arms as if he would embrace her but the gesture was rhetorical because seconds later he held out his hand for her to kiss. As she bent forward to kiss his hand, he brought his other hand over and rested it on her shoulder. I thought I saw her stiffen slightly, like a reflex at an unexpected touch. Perhaps he did not normally touch her in that way. She stepped aside and turned towards me, her face all smiles.

Hakim looked at me for a long moment, his face composed and unsmiling. He then held out his hand and I stepped forward and took it. During the brief contact, I felt a hand that was thick with meat but was unexpectedly smooth, made that way I imagined by expensive soaps and creams. Hakim gestured towards a chair and sat down in his own huge lounger. Munira was talking, filling in the space with her words as we settled in our chairs.

‘Salim, at last,’ Hakim said gently, smiling. ‘Your mother would have laughed to see this moment.’

Lord Angelo, I thought. He would have looked even more intimidating twenty years before. Plainly conceive I love you. Redeem thy brother by yielding up your body to me, you bitch. I did not speak, and the space between the three of us was filled by Munira and Hakim, as they discussed her plans for the future. Should she go to Columbia to do an MBA or should she go to Berkeley to do Economics? She wished she could go to Italy but it would take years for her to learn the language. Italian men were so handsome, she said. But honestly, she wasn’t sure. She thought she preferred the United States, although if she came to London – glancing at me – she could stay with me. Hakim snorted at this and said I was staying on here, wasn’t I? I was not going anywhere now that I was back. He glanced towards me to see if I would speak. When I did not, he continued: There’ll be something here for you if you decide to stay. I can guarantee that.

At some point during the visit, I said how much I regretted that I could not get back in time for the funeral, and I was grateful to him and to Uncle Amir for their generosity on that and other occasions. It was as much my duty as it was yours, he said. When it was time for me to go, Hakim shook my hand again and said, I meant that, if you decide to stay. I nodded with what I hoped seemed like gratitude, but what I thought was, If I come back, it won’t be to become a beast in one of your pens.