Hanif Kureishi - Gabriel's Gift

‘You put it all together in the picture.’

‘Yes.’

Lester went on, ‘I write songs but I don’t know how. When something occurs to me, I write it down and put it in the song. What does an imagination do but see what isn’t there?’

‘I get that a lot,’ said Gabriel. ‘Sometimes I think I’m going mad with all the stuff that’s going on.’

‘Oh everyone’s mad. But some people can do interesting things with their madness.’ Lester was looking at Gabriel. ‘You’re talented,’ he told him. ‘I’m telling you — and now you know for ever. Hear my voice and carry these words wherever you go.’

‘I don’t know. I just sit down everyday and start.’

‘That’s how to do it. Talent might be a gift but it still has to be cultivated. The imagination is like a fire or furnace; it has to be stoked, fed and attended to. One thing sets another ablaze. Keep it going.’

‘The thing is,’ said Gabriel, blushing, ‘I’ve been copying other artists. I don’t know why … it inspires me, I suppose. Is that wrong?’

‘It’s what you make of the stolen objects that’s important. If you take something and use it, then it’s worthwhile. If you just copy it and it stays the same, then nothing’s been done.’

Gabriel felt excited. ‘How do you start?’

‘Like this.’

Lester took a crayon and made a line on the paper, followed by another line. He wrote a word; more words followed.

‘Y?u can’t will a dream or an erection. But you can get into bed, ‘he said.’ Any mad stuff that comes into my mind I put down. Wild pigs, fauns, guitars, faces … in dreams the maddest connections are made! If I know where I’m going, how will I get lost on the way? When I’m doing this I disappear. There’s no me there. I don’t know who I am. I draw and sing to get lost. If I’m not lost how can I do anything? This is how I live twice. I live in the world, and then in memory and imagination. If you listen to the greatest music like “Strawberry Fields” or Cosi Fan Tutte , or read the greatest books, like Hamlet , you’ll see how weird, almost supernatural and dreamlike they are.’

Lester kept writing, colouring in and sketching, his white hand disappearing into the white page.

‘You work quickly.’

‘As quickly as I can, these days,’ said Lester, ‘to keep ahead of the rising tide of boredom.’

With his face close to Gabriel’s, Lester began to talk of himself as a young man, before he was known or successful, and the difficulty of keeping alive self-belief when there was no one to confirm it. This was the hardest time for any artist.

After a while Gabriel became aware of his father watching them from across the room. Gabriel had been so absorbed he was unaware of how much time had passed.

Dad got up as though startled from a dream.

‘What did you think, Rex?’ said Lester.

‘What?’

‘Of the new tunes? I’ve been working on them for a long time. I wanted them to be really good. They’re an advance, aren’t they? The same as before, but different enough, don’t you think? I’m sick of people saying it’s not up to what I did when I was twenty-five. Tell me.’

Gabriel was surprised to see how apprehensive Lester was, as if it were his first record.

Dad seemed to shake himself. ‘As good as anything you’ve done. If not better. What sounds! Yes!’

‘Thanks.’ Lester took the piece of paper, looked at it, and turned it over. ‘You didn’t write anything down.’

‘No, no. I was too stunned.’

‘By which track in particular?’

‘All of them … all stunned me.’

‘The third track — the one featuring the trumpet, and later that jumbled piano — is my favourite,’ said Lester. ‘You?’

Lester was looking at Rex.

Dad hesitated. ‘I liked them all. The second, the third. The fourth especially. But I think the fifth took the biscuit. I’m still writing myself. You don’t want to hear one of my new songs, by any chance?’

‘If only there were world enough and time.’

‘Of course. Anyhow, I didn’t bring my guitar. I’ll send you a tape to the usual place.’ He offered Lester his hand. ‘We’d better not take up any more of your time. Thanks for everything.’

‘That’s all right, friend. I’ve enjoyed myself. I was going to say — I want to give you something.’

‘Really?’ Dad smiled widely. ‘You don’t have to. I know things will pick up after a bit. I myself am working on a bicycle — sorry, I meant cycle — of songs, on the theme of life, death and rebirth. It’s a triptych. Is that how you pronounce it? But I’m sure even someone as successful as you can remember what it’s like to fall on hard times …’

Lester interrupted: ‘It’s for your son.’

‘For the boy? Good, good. What sort of thing is it?’

Lester picked up a big sheet of paper from the floor. ‘This.’

‘Oh.’

‘I should give it a title. What do you think, Gabriel?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Lester wrote ‘Weird Weather’ on the picture, signed and dedicated it, rolled it up, slipped a rubber band around it and slotted it under Gabriel’s arm.

‘Put it on your wall or wherever. You might look at it now and again and remember this day. Some of the things I said might be of use. If not, it doesn’t matter.’

Gabriel said, ‘I’ll remember them.’

Lester touched Dad on the shoulder. ‘Rex, he’s good, your boy. Do you spend much time with him?’

‘I lost one son, a long time ago and I can’t afford to lose another. So we’re together a lot. I’m educating him in politics, astronomy and other stuff like that. He has always followed me around.’

‘Until recently,’ said Gabriel.

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Lester.

Dad’s eyes darted about. ‘I’ve had to move out … for a bit.’

‘Christ, sorry to hear that. I remember Christine very well. Is that her name? I even kissed her once.’

‘You did?’

‘Before your time, of course.’

‘Right.’

‘You won’t let him down, will you?’ said Lester. When he saw that Dad was taken aback, he added, ‘I have a daughter, you see. I hardly saw her grow up. I was away too much, working.’

‘No chance of that with me,’ said Dad.

Lester seemed to be pondering something. ‘Sometimes I think I became an artist because it was the only way I could avoid my parents. They argued and I escaped into the back room to read comics and draw and listen to records. Little Richard on 45 — “She’s Got It”.’ Lester sang, ‘“Sweet little girl that lives down the street / I’m crazy but I say she’s sweet … She’s got it!”’

Gabriel went hot inside. Lester Jones was singing to them!

He went on, ‘Somehow I never stopped singing that song! And drawing! And wearing Italian jackets with white linen jeans. Not to mention the Chelsea boots and eye shadow that matched the colour of the socks I was wearing!’

Lester started to laugh. Gabriel and Dad laughed along with him, like a couple of cringing courtiers, though they weren’t sure what was amusing. Gabriel knew Dad would be envious of Lester’s honest self-engrossment, and by the fact he could talk about himself, confident that others would listen. As a musician Dad had once been something of a little king himself; later, in his own house, at least, he had been attended to. Even that was gone.

Lester rapped on the table with his knuckle. ‘On we go! Forward, forward!’

The door opened and the girl in charcoal pyjamas came in.

Lester waved and turned away.

Dad and Gabriel were hurried through the rinsed-out maze of the hotel.

On reaching the lobby, Gabriel extracted an apple from his pocket, which he had taken from Lester’s fruit bowl. He placed it on the floor in the middle of a ring of drab stones. The little patch of colour would cheer people up. He and his father passed into the crowd of photographers and fans stamping their feet in the cold. Gabriel turned to see several colourless figures scampering towards the anarchic apple.