Authors: Colm Tóibín
On the morning of the concert as he prepared for the day, Malik still believed that Abdul would make some sign to him about his intentions, but instead Abdul seemed even more distant than usual. During the day as business was slack he found himself watching the door. Abdul could, in his break, walk to the shop and let him know what he was doing later. But Malik knew that Abdul was unlikely, in fact, to approach the shop. He went over in his mind the nights when Abdul had followed him into the room; he wondered now if he had done this to get away from the others, and if he was not actually making an effort to be his friend, and if the time he had washed him with the sponge had meant nothing, and if he himself was thinking too much about this.
When the shop closed at nine he had an hour to spare before the concert began and before Abdul usually arrived home. As he walked back to the house slowly, he felt almost happy that nothing about the evening had been resolved. Either Abdul would come back to the house, or he would go to the concert. Whichever it was, it would be something new, and it was this very newness in all its vagueness and uncertainty that made Malik smile as he walked up the stairs of his building and decided that he would have something to eat while he waited to see if Abdul would come home.
There was not a sound in the house, and even the noise from the street seemed oddly muted. He sat at the kitchen table and ate some cold chicken curry and bread that had been left over from the night before. And then he strayed into the bedroom. Having the room to himself like this made him acutely conscious that this was also Abdul’s room, the room where Abdul slept, the room where his lungs took in the air, the room where his suitcase held his clothes and whatever special things he treasured. Malik went over and touched Abdul’s pillow and ran his hand along the shape that he would make were he to come now and lie on the bed. Malik looked at the suitcase in the corner but he knew not to touch it, let alone open it. Instead he lifted the pillow and carried it over to his own bed. He could smell some shaving lotion and maybe some hair oil or tonic from it, but there was also something stale or earthy that belonged to Abdul, that came from his breath, his mouth. He put the pillow right up against his face and tried to breathe in the smell so that it would belong to him too. He then moved it against his chest and hugged it, keeping his eyes closed and pretending that he was someone else and that it was a dark room and that he was alone with Abdul, who was softly pushing against him.
When he put the pillow back, trying to ensure that there was no sign it had ever been removed, he saw that the time was nine forty-five. He decided that he would wait for half an hour or maybe thirty-five minutes to see if Abdul would come, and then, if he did not arrive, he would go to the square where the band was playing and hope that he could find him there. He wished now that he had some way of being able to read Abdul’s mind, or even know where he was, what he was doing so that he would not have to wait like this, moving from the bedroom into the kitchen and then into the bathroom to check himself in the mirror, and then back again to the hallway, standing close to the door, ready to go into the bedroom if he heard a sound that might be Abdul approaching.
He waited and no one came. As time passed slowly, seemed almost suspended in the shadowy bedroom, something came to him from a dream he had had, a scene that he had vividly remembered when he woke a few mornings earlier, as if it had really happened.
After his mother died, his father’s sister had spent a year in the house and had talked a lot about when he was a baby and his mother was sick and she had taken care of him and his brother and his sister. She had sung songs to them and looked after Malik when he cried in the night. Now, as he waited for Abdul, he had a sense of her deep voice, its softness and kindness. It was a voice he had always known. Even though he could not actually remember it from the time when he was a baby, he had a sense that it had always been with him.
This voice, he thought, was not in the dream, but his aunt herself was, his aunt who had been dead for five years. She was a silent presence in the streets of Barcelona, streets where she had never been. In his dream, she was in the supermarket, she was passing the window of the barber shop, she was passing him as he walked from the apartment to the shop where he sold mobile phones. She never spoke, but always smiled, moving easily as though she belonged to the place, or had been there for some years. It was strange, he thought, to dream about her like this now, when he had never dreamed about her walking the streets of home, when he had never, in fact, dreamed about her before at all, or did not think he had.
Once it was ten fifteen he presumed that Abdul must have gone to the concert, but still he waited, going through in his mind the streets between his street and the square where the concert was being held. Since he had decided to wait until twenty past ten, then he did, even though in the last minutes he could not think how he had not guessed that Abdul was never going to come back here. He would have gone with the others; that is what he would always have done. Malik, as he made his way down the stairs, wished he had realized that earlier in the evening.
Even when he was only halfway there he thought that he could hear the music, but then it faded and he did not hear it again until he was two streets away. It was a song he recognized but it was being played faster. And either there was cheering coming from the sound system or the crowd was really cheering, he could not be sure. The first entrance to the square was blocked off; he stood and listened for a minute as a song came to an end and then, when the applause began with cheering and shouting, he moved quickly back and made his way into the square by another street, which was open. As soon as he saw the stage he realized that the lights were too bright for him to be able to look clearly at the tightly packed crowd of men. He moved towards them, trying to find a place where he could stand and get a view of the stage as the group started up again to wild cheering. No one else was moving, everyone seemed settled, standing with their friends. No one had any patience for someone distracting them from the action on the stage.
It struck him that he had never known that there were so many Pakistanis in Barcelona. He wondered where they all lived, what they did. Up to now, he had thought that they all lived in the same street, but then he remembered that there were figures who had come just once to the barber shop or the mobile phone shop. Their being gathered together should have made him feel at home, but it somehow made the city seem stranger, almost more foreign than it had seemed before.
Quietly, he pushed his way between two men and managed to stand in front of them without blocking their view. He wished that he had not been worried about Abdul and had not spent that time alone waiting for him. He could not relax now and enjoy the loud sounds coming from the stage or watch the lead singer and the changing lights. He found that he was already wondering when it would be over. Suddenly, he began to watch a lone seagull hovering, as though staking the square out for food. As the lights moved from red to yellow to blue, the underbelly and underwings of the bird seemed to become even more white. He closed his eyes and started to take in the music, keep everything else out of his mind except the music, but no matter what he did he could not stop thinking that it would soon be over.
He edged along the front of the crowd wondering if there was a place he could sit on the ground and still see the stage. He watched one of the band playing what looked like a small piano; he was surprised by the sounds that seemed to come from the instrument, as though the man had a small orchestra at his command. And then he saw Abdul, the expression on his face glowing and happy; he was clapping his hands to the music. Malik moved quickly towards him and embraced him, the way all friends embraced when they saw one another on the street. Abdul smiled and pulled him near to him so he could say something, but the music was too loud to hear. He felt Abdul’s breath on his face and saw the light in his eyes but had to shrug to intimate that he could not understand. Abdul laughed and looked again at the stage. He seemed younger when he smiled like this. Malik stood close to him but he could not get a view of the stage so he moved away a bit and concentrated on the music as best he could, happy that Abdul was here, happy also that he knew to leave him alone with the music, not to look at him too much or try to speak to him.
As the crowd shifted, Abdul pulled Malik closer until he found a way of standing in front of Abdul, keeping his head to the side. This, he realized, was what he had waited in the apartment for, and why he had come to the square. It was like being alone because no one noticed them, and maybe, Malik thought, it was better than being alone because they could concentrate on the music as Abdul began to pull Malik against him, putting his arms around him and letting them loose again.
The lead singer began a slow song about love; it was about a woman who did not notice the man who really loved her. The chorus sang of how her eyes did not see him and her mind did not think of him and how he hoped that would change, and then repeated the words ‘would change, would change, would change’. The voice of the lead singer rose tenderly into the night air as the crowd stood still and Abdul held Malik, his arms around his chest and his crotch tight against him, moving tighter and tighter against him as the song went on.
When the concert was over, Abdul and Malik walked together out of the square into a side-street. Malik was sure that no one who knew them had spotted them leaving and was sure that in the excitement and crush of the last few songs no one had noticed how closely Abdul had embraced him and how much both of their hands had strayed. Malik knew not to talk, knew just to move slowly alongside Abdul. He would have been happy to walk home with him, to get ready for bed in the room with him and the others without saying anything, just knowing what had happened between them at the concert. And then lying in bed going over it in his mind while Abdul across the room from him fell asleep.
He presumed that they were walking towards their building and was surprised, once they had walked through a number of side-streets, to find that Abdul was leading him away from the flat towards the barber shop. Abdul did not speak even as he produced a set of keys as they neared the shop. Malik walked alongside him silently until Abdul motioned him to walk behind him. As the door was opened, Malik stood back and then checked the street before darting in through the doorway. Abdul shut the door and locked it from the inside with his key. Then Malik followed him into the room behind the shop where there was a sink and where the towels and sheets were kept.
Abdul closed the door so that this room was now entirely in darkness. Moving towards him and putting his arms around him as Abdul opened his own belt and unzipped his trousers, Malik put his hands inside Abdul’s shirt, touching the bare skin on his back and allowing his hands to move under the elastic of his underpants. He kept his hands there and then pulled the underpants down so that Abdul’s penis was free. He held it with one hand and cupped Abdul’s testicles with the other until Abdul began to apply gentle pressure to the crown of his head, indicating that he should kneel down, as he did now until his face was at the level of Abdul’s crotch. He could smell his sweaty flesh as he took Abdul’s penis into his mouth and wet it with his saliva. He released it and licked it and took it again full into his mouth as far as it would go while reaching in between Abdul’s legs with his hand.
At first Abdul let his arms hang loose by his side, but slowly he began to put his hands on Malik’s head, touching his ears and his face, lingering there, and then gripping his head, urging him to allow his penis in and out of his mouth, speaking only when he told him not to put his tongue too much against the top of the penis as it was making him too excited, just move his mouth up and down as he had done before. Malik did as he was asked.
As Abdul began to moan and Malik knew that he was soon going to come, the light was switched on. Malik did not move, did not look behind as Abdul pulled up his trousers and set about zipping up his fly and buckling his belt.
The voice that spoke was Baldy’s, who whispered something first before he shouted. Malik found himself hoping that this had not really happened when a blow came across the top of his legs that made him fold over. He could see then that Baldy had the leg of a chair in his hand and was now hitting Abdul with it as he crouched in the corner. He was shouting again as he moved towards Malik, shouting curses and obscenities as he began to kick Malik in the ribs, causing him to stand up and back into the corner to protect himself, with his hands guarding his face.
Soon Baldy moved away and began to kick Abdul, whom he pulled to his feet by the hair and beat on the back and on the legs with the piece of wood. Abdul screamed in pain. Malik wondered now if he should risk crossing the room quickly and making for the door but he thought that he would stay where he was for the moment until he was certain that he would be able to slip by Baldy, who seemed in an even greater temper now. He was hitting Abdul still and had pulled him closer to the centre of the room. Malik asked himself for a second if it would be best to pretend he was dead or unconscious, with his eyes closed, but he did not have time to make a decision about this as Baldy came towards him again and pulled him to his feet and gave him a knee in the balls that made him double up and cry out. As he lay on the ground Baldy hit him a number of ferocious blows on his arm and his leg with the piece of wood. He saw a flash of red and thought that he was going to faint with the pain as more blows came.
As soon as he opened his eyes he could make out that Baldy was standing in the middle of the room. His eyes were almost bulging out of his head as he looked from Abdul to Malik and then back again. Malik was unsure now if he was going to use the leg of the chair on his shoulders or his head, or hit him again on the leg and the arm. He could hear Baldy breathing. For a second Malik had the urge to move towards him as best he could and grab the chair leg from his hand and hope that Abdul would be agile enough to get him on to the floor holding his legs so that he could not even kick. And then he supposed that they would leave, but he did not know what they would do after that. As he was thinking about these possibilities Baldy walked out of the room. Malik could hear the keys turning in both locks that led to the street.