Authors: Hanif Kureishi
‘You. Fucking hell.’
‘Bad luck.’ Harry stopped for a moment. ‘I must ask, have you thought about whether I could visit and interview Marion?’
‘Why bother with her? There are always women. They come and go, apparently. So what? Don’t pursue them. Let them flock to you.’
‘Why do you refuse, sir?’
‘I’ve said it’s not a good idea. You’ll only irritate her. As if the poor woman hasn’t been through enough already.’
‘What exactly has she been through?’
‘Get out.’
‘There is one more thing, sir. Your backhand still needs work.’
‘Yes, I thought so. We must do that. I want to get back in physical shape again. I need you to encourage me through some stomach crunches and press-ups on the push-up bar. I need my body to work again. It might come in useful some day.’
Harry hurried away, but Liana was waiting outside for him, as he anticipated she would be, since she had no other company apart from Julia. She walked beside him through the fields, wanting to talk with him. When she said talk she meant she wanted him to listen. It was some relief to listen because he was exhausted after what he’d said to Mamoon, as if he’d attended, without wanting to, a down-to-the-bone therapy session.
She said, ‘You know me well enough, Harry, to see that I am a woman of longing.’ She wanted to talk about how much she wanted to get out of ‘the mud’, which was how she had begun to refer to the country. ‘The country smells of shit,’ she said. ‘Mamoon likes it, since it reminds him of back home. But now I need to get to London, and we must raise money to buy a flat. I hate to be so far from my hairdresser. My clothes are falling apart. We will give parties and dinners. You know I am keen to meet Sean Connery and the
Gandhi
actor. But in the meantime, I am giving a dinner for Mamoon nearby. Will your girlfriend attend, and then join us for a few days? I am so weary, Harry. Perhaps she will cheer us all up? Is she funny? I would so like someone out of the ordinary to come here.’
‘The invitation from both of you is very kind, but I am uneasy about inviting her,’ Harry said. ‘Alice is from a council estate, with a schizophrenic father. She didn’t go to university, and her brother’s in prison.’
‘For what?’
‘Drug dealing and burglary. She got into art school, but otherwise she’s uneducated. She read fashion magazines in her council house as if she were studying samizdat material, and, somehow, found a job in fashion. She’s not well paid, but she loves clothes and takes wonderful photographs of them. But as for literary talk – I can only say Valentino is her Dante and Alexander McQueen is her Baudelaire.’
‘The Roman maestro is her Dante? Once I took his hand in my city, as I did that of Fellini. Please, do invite her. Mamoon works but won’t complain too much if people come to the house and don’t irritate him. If he takes against them, of course, they can abandon all hope.’
Harry said, ‘The other morning, when I drove Mamoon into town to see his chiropodist he said he wished he had a shotgun.’ He did Mamoon’s ludicrously posh voice, ‘“Would anyone notice if we eliminated some of these young people? Would anyone care when there are so many of them just hanging about?”’
Liana said, ‘He says the same about cyclists. But if someone doesn’t come, I’ll scream like a banshee. Will you bring her to Mamoon’s birthday dinner – anyone young is welcome.’
‘I will ask her. I know what she’ll say.’
‘What?’
‘“What will I wear?”’
‘A woman after my own heart. Oh Harry, as Dante the famous writer says, “Tonight is the beginning of always . . .
Amore e
’
l cor gentil sono una cosa.
”’
‘Come on Boswell, are you a real man or are your stories all made up like mine?’ cried Mamoon, always keen on a little lethal competition after a morning keeping culture alive. ‘My nuts are not even sweating! Make me run! Don’t you want to kill the jumped-up wog who has stolen your white women? Take your chance with murder at last! What risk have
you
ever taken?’
Harry found it amusing to knock balls around for Mamoon to hit, and Mamoon enjoyed the vigorous sessions; they cheered him up, particularly the bullying part.
Thwack
– Harry hit the ball, calling after it, ‘There, Fred Perry, practise your backhand on that, if you can! Go, go, go, grandad!’
When Mamoon did run, he coughed; he hawked, retched and spat, his whole body shuddering. Then he wanted to play again, to push himself.
In the kitchen, as they were leaving, Liana had wagged her bejewelled finger at Harry. ‘Whenever he insists that you kill him, that he would love to be murdered by you, I do not want you to provide him with a heart attack, okay? This may be a labour of hate, and I don’t know the incidence of biographers actually murdering their subjects, but let’s not begin a trend.’
Harry soon wondered if he had indeed begun a trend. He sent across a strong but not-too-strong shot. The old man was lumbering after the ball when he suddenly pulled up as if he’d been shot, yelling out in pain and falling onto his knees.
Harry ran to Mamoon, turned him onto his back and told him to remain still. He would fetch help.
‘I’ve never been still in my life,’ said Mamoon. ‘I will rise up and walk!’
Despite what Harry reckoned to be a pulled muscle, Mamoon began to crawl across the court, insisting they restart the game. Holding onto the fence, he scrambled to his feet, bent to one side, and presented his racket.
‘Serve! I’m ready! Come on, you English public-school bastard!’
Harry gently patted the ball towards him. Mamoon hurried for it and keeled over once more, falling onto his face while clutching his side.
Harry hadn’t brought his phone. He had to get Mamoon to his feet and more or less carry him back to the house. It was quite a hike, and Mamoon was heavy, sweating and cursing. At last Harry asked Mamoon to climb onto his back; after some consideration, it seemed to be the most efficacious position.
As they went, Mamoon breathed into Harry’s ear, ‘I bet you wish you were writing another bad book about Conrad. Tell me, what is that story where a man has to carry a corpse on his back? Or perhaps I have become Kafka’s authoritarian insect?’
Having to conserve his breath, Harry was unable to reply.
Liana glanced out of the window to see the groaning two-headed, two-legged creature staggering towards the house. Out she rushed, demanding to know what Harry had done to her husband. While she ministered to him, Harry waited for Mamoon to explain, but the old man just yelped, cursed and refused to lie down until Liana threatened to spank him. She sent Harry to the woods to make a stick for Mamoon.
Since Liana was preoccupied organising Mamoon’s birthday dinner, for the next few days Harry was deputed to take care of Mamoon physically. He dragged the old man in and out of chairs, got him to the door of his work room – though, like everyone else, he was allowed no further – and helped him return to the house. Liana had strung a mobile phone around her husband’s neck with two numbers in it, those of herself and of Harry. A writer is loved by strangers and hated by his family. As a young man, Harry would have been amazed, thankful and flattered to have Mamoon Azam call him five times a day. Why would such a distinguished man, with whom everybody, surely, would love to converse, want to talk with
him
? Now, as ‘family’, he was too close, and dreaded hearing that languid voice. ‘Please, Harry, dear boy, if you’re nearby, would you be so kind as to fetch me a book – the one with the green cover, I think it’s green, greenish or perhaps turquoise, but I can’t remember the title or the author – from near the television . . . At least I think it’s near the television. Also, I can’t locate my glasses exactly. These are the ones with the blue
not
the black frames. Do you have any idea . . .’
It was unfortunate that Mamoon’s back injury, which rendered him physically incapable, as well as more irascible than usual, coincided with Liana’s desire to impress Harry with their friends. Liana had become particularly engaged with and, indeed, somewhat manic about the dinner – ‘the beginning of always’, as she referred to the evening.
With Julia flying behind her being shouted at, Liana hurried into town on numerous occasions, bearing lists, to organise the menu, drink and seating plan. She was keen to ensure it was the perfect mix of people. Apparently, most of the diners would be local, but friends were coming from London; others would be driving across the country. There would be witty talk and laughter, drink, and good food. It would be useful for Harry too: he would see how a successful man lived and was loved. It would be a rehearsal for the sort of thing Liana anticipated happening regularly in London, once they raised the money to buy a place.
Alice, now at work in London, had heard about all this from Harry. She had been in Paris with people from the office, but had promised she would get on the train and join them if she could, depending on how things went in town.
On the evening of the dinner, one month after Harry had arrived at the house, he and Mamoon were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Julia to finish helping Liana to get dressed. The two women, with Ruth’s assistance, had been at it for some time – since yesterday morning, in fact. Mamoon had compared it to redecorating Chartres. Meanwhile, the men, having taken only a second to get their suits on and jiggle their hair, had already had a number of bracing Martinis.
Harry asked Mamoon if he was okay. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you have the alarmed look of a man who has just noticed he’s boarded the wrong train.’
‘It’s not the juice making my hands shake, Harry. What could be worse than a dinner in one’s honour, my friend? I’d have preferred to stay in and self-harm. The wife, as you would call her in the faux cockney you must have learned at public school, seems to be having a mad spell, even for her.’
‘This dinner is making you both tense. Liana is wonderfully kind—’
‘I must say, you’re a sparky lad to be erecting one’s effigy and bringing drinks. I’m getting rather fond of you. You might have to do me a slight favour.’
‘I wondered if something along those lines was in the offing—’
Mamoon leaned forward. ‘Keep an eye on Liana tonight – you know how good you are at making conversation about brassieres, ley lines and other female interests.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re smart enough to recognise that the subjects of migraines and cats never fail with the women. Lead the old girl towards the mint tea.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mind you, you could do me another favour by fetching that bottle of vodka for me, please. The one in the freezer, where Liana keeps her cashmere sweaters.’ Harry got it, and two crystal shot glasses. Mamoon poured two hits and drank one off, replenishing it immediately. ‘Drink that. It’s better nude. The vermouth was confusing us.’ Harry drank his and Mamoon refilled his glass. Mamoon said, ‘I know you have a lot of experience in this area.’
‘What area, sir?’
‘Women.’
‘You know more, sir. You were with Peggy for years. I’m studying it.’
‘Harry, please do not omit to point out to the eager reading masses that she was a perfectly nice woman, but no one should have had to marry her. One falls in love, and then learns, for the duration, that one is at the mercy of someone else’s childhood. One will realise, for instance, after a time, that one is actually living in one’s wife’s mother’s armpit. I made a mistake. Perfectly understandable.’
‘How?’
‘I believed sex and work could take the place of love. I have to say, when Peggy died, I was relieved and perhaps a little exhilarated. For a while I didn’t know what to do. Really what I needed was what I have now. A girl, who is knotty – very damn knotty, without doubt – but one who is a man’s woman.’
‘What sort of woman is that?’
‘A woman devoted not to herself, to her children, to a cause or to alcohol, but to the man she idealises, and to his pencil and his genius. And that man, where possible,’ Mamoon sighed, ‘should be me.’
‘You are lucky, sir. Soon to get even luckier.’
‘Why?’
‘Wait until you see your wife tonight.’
‘Has she had a facelift?’ Harry shook his head. ‘More expensive? Tell me, please.’
‘One minute.’ Harry stood at the back door and lit a cigarette. ‘I will tell you.’
That morning Julia had come into Harry’s room, shut the door, and almost cried. Not that she was usually the crying type. When Harry asked her what was wrong, she reported that Liana, having become particularly frantic and anxious in the past few days, had vehemently reminded her that she, Liana, was in charge and that as she had everything and Julia nothing, Julia should watch out. Julia was on notice.
‘Girl, you should be more grateful and better behaved,’ Liana added. ‘Then,
insh’allah
, perhaps Mamoon and I will help you progress in this tough world.’
Harry learned that there had been an accumulation of hurts: Liana had accused Julia, on an earlier occasion, of having greasy hair and of being slovenly. Exasperated by Liana’s high-handedness, impatience and one more threat of a slap, Julia had thought and thought. She had come up with a plan to get back at Liana without being fired. Not that Harry thought Liana would get rid of her anyway; he knew Liana was not paying Julia for all the time she spent at the house and that Liana was trying to make out that the two of them were ‘friends’.
Julia didn’t see money as the essential thing here. She had found some purpose at last, and had been working to insert herself indispensably into Liana’s life. First thing in the morning she prepared her mistress’s wardrobe by laying out her clothes, crystals and accessories for the day. She ensured Liana’s bathroom was as scrubbed as an operating theatre. Then she drove her, shopped with her, brushed and fed the animals, and put out her vanilla ice cream when she became anxious. Julia was turning Liana into the grand lady Liana had always assumed herself to be, while seeing all. From the other side, Harry had heard Liana say, without embarrassment, that working ‘as experience’ for the couple would ‘look good’ on Julia’s CV, at which Julia smirked. ‘Why do you make that face?’ Liana asked, to which Julia replied, ‘But miss, we don’t have careers down here. Sometimes we have jobs. But not often.’
It was no secret to Harry that Julia prefered Prospects House to her own home. She had first come to the house as a child, when her mother was employed by Peggy. Julia’s brother Scott, who tended to take care of her, was away often, and in the past few months her mother’s carousing had been accelerating in intensity and frequency. Barely a night passed when Ruth didn’t go to the pub and bring several men back to the house for a further session. ‘I deserve a bit of company at this time of my life,’ Ruth insisted, dragging in a crate of lager. ‘I might have been unlucky in love, but it’s never too late to live! Look at you for instance,’ she went on. ‘You bring that posh boy back here and do I say nothing?’
‘But why should you say something?’ asked Julia. She said to Harry, ‘So, Mum has started to hate you.’
Harry said, ‘The other morning as I scoffed my scrambled egg I noticed her turning the evil eye on me. But have I been anything but polite to her?’
‘It’s just you,’ she said. ‘She does a hilarious imitation of you flirting.’ Julia was about to repeat it, but thought better of it. ‘She says you’re snobby, middle-class and patronising, and you’re everything she hates about this country. Someone’s going to teach you a lesson one of these days.’
‘I am eager to learn, as you know. But I hope to God Scott isn’t my teacher.’
With Ruth, on one of her ‘nights’, there’d be dancing, and boisterous copulation, followed by fighting, and blood on the floor in the morning. Julia stayed with her friend Lucy when she could; occasionally, when she thought it would be terrible at home, she’d creep into one of the barns and sleep on a sofa, unbeknown to Liana and Mamoon. But mostly she was at home, sleepless behind the bolted door, wondering whether, or when, she should intervene. If the shouts were desperate, and the punches too hard, she dressed, went down and yelled at the maniacs. She smashed the boom-box with a hammer. Another time she called the police. Although Ruth wore glasses and was thin, if not emaciated in the scrawny manner of some alcoholics, the mother fetched Julia a tremendous blow across the ear which seemed to concuss the poor girl, leaving her with a relentless buzzing. Not only that, one of the men seemed to have moved in, taking up residence in a cardboard box under the living-room table. When Julia sat down, a clammy hand would reach out and caress her ankle. ‘It’s like living in a pub,’ she said.
In her time off, she didn’t go home, but swam in the narrow, cold but fresh, almost concealed river at the bottom of one of the hay fields. She and Harry rode down to the river on the quad bike which Scott had repaired. While Harry strummed his guitar, singing her a slow blues, she considered the lavender sky and the countryside and the future.
She had begun to walk more vigorously, and soon she wanted to jog lightly, sometimes with Harry. She had dyed strands of her hair red, so the colour seemed to dance when she ran. To relax she’d sit on a kitchen chair at the bottom of the field with her face up to the sun. She said, ‘A lot of my friends have had kids. I know how they suffer. And how they go on suffering, long after the baby is born and the man has gone.’ Many of these kids she’d looked after; she was kind and patient with children. She said that girls like her were called ‘prams’ by the middle-class locals, but the only regular entertainment in the area was copulation.
One evening after he’d kissed her, she pulled an envelope from her bag and gave it to Harry. Inside were three stained, scuffed reporter’s notebooks full of Mamoon’s almost illegible notes, in faded pencil and biro. She had been keeping them under her bed. Harry thanked her and slipped them into the pockets of his combat trousers; later, when he had time to glance through them quickly, he saw they were gold dust.