Hand Me Down World (25 page)

I pressed Number 14 and waited. I pressed again. This time a male voice answered. ‘Hello?' I saw Jermayne as clear as day. I saw him more clearly than I'd ever been able to remember. I saw him and heard again that same lazy put-at-ease tone of voice as he told me he was just taking the baby out for a walk. I was back at the hotel bar. I was beneath him. I felt his hand holding me afloat. I saw his white teeth and laughing eyes. I saw the confident manner in which he moved across the lobby. I heard him say he wouldn't be long. When I heard him say hello I said nothing. In the end the little Frenchman pulled me away from the intercom. He put his arm around my shoulder and led me up the street.

He did not touch me that night. I lay in the dark waiting but it did not happen. I had to lift my head off the pillow to see if he was still alive. There he lay on the far side of the bed, in his black coat and socks.

We rose early. We didn't make a sound as we crept past people asleep, small children. The pigeons in the rafters blinked down at us. Outside we walked past other people huddled in blankets and sleeping bags by the fires. We went through that hole in the wall back into the world of early risers. A tall truck wobbled up a narrow gullet, its sides brushing the trees. A woman waiting to cross the road held the hand of a child. We walked back to the canal and waited in the mist rising from it. Out of that mist came a woman pushing a pram. Then there was the same young man with the bike we'd seen the day before. Bernard wanted a hot drink so we went to the cafe and sat at the table by the window. We were drinking hot chocolate when Jermayne came over the bridge walking with that slightly bow-legged walk of his; his shoulders lifted as he blew warm air into his cupped hands. A few minutes later he came by with bread and a newspaper. I watched him rise again over the bridge. Then we left the cafe to sit under the trees. It was the same grey day as before and everything about it followed the same pattern. I began to wonder if my boy lived in the building at all.

The next day Bernard has a firm hold of my arm as I inch my way across the icy path on the bridge. I have on his woollen cap and I'm looking down at the ice. When Bernard's fingers clench my arm I look up and he nods behind us. And that's when I see my boy walking beside Jermayne. We'd passed each other on the bridge. Three years and two weeks. That's how long has passed since Jermayne picked the baby up off my breast. We stopped there on the bridge. I studied his back view. Ski jacket, woollen hat, miniature legs in jeans. For the second time Bernard's fingers dug into my bicep—this time to hold me still. He held me there until Jermayne and the boy disappeared around the corner of the cafe.

The boy looked happy enough. Look at the way he walked, his hand in his father's—and in a city I didn't know, towards a future that excluded me. I did not exist in his mind. There was no reason for me to exist in that child's head. Jermayne had seen to that. I often wonder if this was the moment I was meant to walk away. The first time I shared that thought Ramona sat up on her bunk and thumped her pillow. I wasn't sure if it was Jermayne or my silly head she was thumping. When I say I often wonder, I don't really mean it. No. And it didn't enter my head either as I stood on the bridge staring after my child.

I remembered that my mother's brother made pots and he could recognise another man's pots by the grooves in the clay. That boy would know who I was as soon as he set eyes on me. A blind dog knows which are its pups. Ralf's physical world didn't change just because he couldn't see it any more.

That night my little Frenchman shifted onto his side. He was still in his coat and on top of the duvet. I felt his hand stroke my cheek, stroke my neck, stroke my shoulder, and my neck and cheek again. In a far corner of that dark building a child was whimpering. From the fires outside I could hear someone singing. And close by the little Frenchman whispered his urgent songs in my ear.

Here is the part Ramona likes best.

The next day I press the buzzer. Jermayne answers.

‘Hello?'

I say, ‘It's me.'

There is silence. I can sense Jermayne mustering all his authority. He replies in Deutsch. He waits, and then I hear the line go dead.

I check behind me. Bernard is under the trees where I left him. He gives an encouraging nod, so I press the buzzer again. This time before Jermayne has the chance to speak I say again, ‘It's me.' I can picture his face drawn into calculation, aware of whoever else is in the background in his apartment.

In English this time he asks, ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me,' I reply.

And the silence returns, though this time the intercom does not go dead. When he next speaks his voice is almost breathless. ‘How the hell did you get here?'

‘I swam.'

There is another silence.

‘What do you want?'

‘I want to see my child.'

‘Wait down there,' he says and the intercom goes dead.

By this point Ramona is rolling in her bunk, beside herself with joy, picturing bad Jermayne thumping down the stairs and across the landings. I have never told her the truth about that particular moment. About how terrified I was standing outside his building.

The door swung back and there he stood in his slippers.

‘Fuck,' he said. ‘Fuck.'

He looked back over his shoulder. He levelled his eyes into the dark behind me. He pulled on the collar of his black leather coat. He grabbed my arm and walked me quickly up the street. I managed to turn my head without Jermayne noticing and across the canal I saw Bernard move out from under the trees. We walked to the end of the block without so much as a word exchanged. Then he led me across the cobbles to the shadows beneath the trees.

I'd given him time to think, to consider his strategy, because now I heard the old charming Jermayne of the hotel bar. He wished me to understand that the boy was happy. That his life was here in this city. He said things were fragile at home. My turning up the way I had was like a rock thrown against the window. I had to understand that he had only the child's interests at heart. When people are panicked they talk just like Jermayne did. Words, thoughts. The doors swing wide open on their hearts and minds. They let everything out and hope that something they say finds the mark. Not once did I hear him say sorry. But then Jermayne is smarter than that. He wouldn't want to concede that much. As he spoke I looked at the face I thought I knew and I saw something I did not recognise at all. His mouth was swollen. Not from anyone hitting him—no, it had come from within. I couldn't take my eyes off his mouth. If I had seen the same mouth three years ago I would not have slept with him. I would not have ended up in Berlin or in prison; the woman would still be alive, and most likely I would still be supervisor, smiling my hotel smile and sympathising with the guests' sunburn.

I said to Jermayne, ‘I want to see my child.'

‘Jesus,' he said. ‘Have you not heard anything I just said?'

‘I want to see my child,' I said again.

He told me to shut up. He had to think. ‘If I let you see the child,' he asked, ‘what then?'

‘I don't know,' I replied.

‘Will you leave us in peace?'

I told him I had no wish to cause trouble. That wasn't why I was there.

‘No,' he said. ‘I need better than that. You must promise never to speak to Abebi.'

‘Who is Abebi?'

‘My wife.'

‘It's the boy I want to see.'

‘Do you understand? You are not to speak to her. Ever.'

He took a step back. Under the streetlamp I saw how angry and scared he looked.

‘I'm going through a very difficult time at present,' he said.

‘I just want to see the boy.'

‘Yes. Yes. You're like a fucking parrot. You have no idea.' He glanced back up at the building.

‘When can I see my boy?'

‘All right. All right,' he said. ‘You can see him. But I advise you not to tell him you are his mother. Because you're not. Promise,' he said, and when I didn't answer he said, ‘Those are the conditions. Take them or leave them.' Still I didn't say anything and he added, ‘You've forgotten something that is important and not entirely irrelevant. You signed the adoption papers. Abebi is the boy's mother. His legal mother.'

‘Tomorrow,' I said, ‘I want to see my boy.'

‘And if I don't allow it?'

‘I will still see him. Only,' I told him, ‘it will be a time and place of my own choosing. And you can forget any promise I have made.'

Jermayne's eyes widened. I thought he would hit me.

‘I don't remember you being like this,' he said. He turned his head slightly to view me from side on. ‘Are you here alone?'

‘Yes.'

His eyes shifted. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Quite sure.'

Then his face softened in a familiar way. ‘You are still pretty,' he said.

He reached to touch my cheek and I slapped his hand away.

‘The paw of the lioness,' he said, and he laughed quietly. ‘Everything has changed, hasn't it. Very well,' he said. ‘There is a playground further along the canal. Twenty minutes' walk along the bike path you will see it. Tomorrow at four o'clock. There are some things you need to know. His name is Daniel. He speaks only Deutsch. So. How should I introduce you, as my friend?'

I said, he can call me Ines.

twenty-seven

The next day I sat on a bench next to a red plastic slide and waited. Bernard had written down some words in Deutsch to say to the boy. He didn't know about my promise to Jermayne and had put down ‘mother' as well as
How are you? Are you happy? Do you know a song?
Bernard had written down what he said was a nursery rhyme.

Little boy. Little boy

Look at the trees

What moves the leaves

What moves the leaves

It is the wind

It is the wind.

On our way to the playground Bernard stopped to buy some chocolate and on the paper added the phrase
Would you like some chocolate?
We walked to the far side of the canal. Outside Jermayne's building I imagined him getting the boy ready for his outing. His wife was at work.

I sat on a bench looking down at Bernard's list of words and phrases. When I heard the gate open I looked up. There was Jermayne in his black leather coat. Bundled up in the ski jacket I'd seen the day before was the boy. The boy saw the slide and ran towards it. Jermayne put his hands in his pockets and walked over and sat down beside me. He may have said hello, that would have been normal, I don't know. I was watching the boy climb the steps on the slide. The steps were too far apart for his little legs but he managed each one. He came down the slide with his hands raised. As he dropped off the end Jermayne called him over.

I couldn't take my eyes off the little brown face hiding in the hood of the ski jacket. I heard Jermayne say my name. The little face peered up at me. I held out my hands. He looked back at his father. Jermayne gave a nod and he stepped closer—half hidden in that hood, but wary. I put my hand around the back of his hood and drew him closer until his cheek touched mine. I had to sniff him, taste his skin to see if he was really mine, but the boy drew back and went and stood by his father's knees.

I looked down at my phrases. I asked if he would like some chocolate. Jermayne laughed out loud and went on shaking his head. What I had attempted to say he said quickly to the boy and then answered for him. He said, ‘The boy does not eat chocolate. His mother is careful about what she feeds him.' The boy spoke up to his father. Jermayne gave a nod and the boy ran off to the swings.

Jermayne stood up. He gazed off towards the bike path and sat down again. As I watched the boy swing higher and higher Jermayne crossed one long leg over the other. I thought, that boy does not need me. He did not even need to know me.

Jermayne's long legs unfolded, I felt his weight come forward. He said, ‘You know the time will come when you will have to walk away.' He looked down and wriggled the toe of his shoe. Then he looked up. ‘Where did you get that name Ines from? It almost sounds real.'

‘I hope so,' I said.

‘Anyway, what you need to understand…' But I'd stopped listening. I told him I still wanted to see the boy again.

He said I was being selfish.

‘Yes,' I said.

Later, when Bernard asked me which words and phrases I had used I told him I hadn't used any. His words didn't work in my mouth. The boy kept swinging higher and higher away from my eyes. My words had sounded ridiculous to Jermayne. He had laughed out loud.

When we stepped through the hole in the wall I felt my anger rise. I said, ‘Look at these stupid people. They don't have homes.' Bernard stopped and turned around. He looked at me evenly. Without anger, with patience. The people I had denounced, he said, were not stupid. They were brave. Brave where it counts. I asked if there was another kind of brave. ‘Look at them. They live like dogs.'

Bernard turned away and walked on. For the rest of the afternoon until early evening I lay on his bed. Bernard left to go and do his work. The computer man fed me some soup. I looked carefully into his face. He didn't appear to want anything, so I accepted the soup. On dark Bernard returned. There he stood, with his diamond smile and a football under his arm.

Now the boy engaged with me. That is, he engaged with the ball. He kicked the ball to me, his keen eyes looking up as it left his foot. He waited to see if I would stop it with my own outstretched foot. The ball made me more interesting—more useful, more relevant to the moment. He would look up to see where I was, wait for me to nod, then kick the ball. Then I would do the same—look up for his signal, a nod, sometimes a raised hand. I would kick the ball over to where he stood on his little island, me on my little island. This is how a ball forces you to think. Over by the slide Jermayne sat on a bench, one leg crossed over the other, smoking, watching us carefully just in case I picked up the boy in my arms and ran towards the boat waiting on the canal. He always wanted assurances that I was alone. I don't think he ever quite believed me, and the fact is I was never alone. Bernard was always there, on the far side of the canal, beneath the trees, reading his book.