Hanif Kureishi - Gabriel's Gift

‘No.’

‘Good. In a couple of weeks I’ll be in touch.’

Gabriel said, ‘I look forward to it.’

‘Great.’

‘Great.’

He was about two miles from home.

Gabriel was used to walking about the city but it was late on Sunday afternoon and the streets were packed with concentrating shoppers. In places the crowd was so tight he had to stop altogether and lean against a wall. Blasts of heat from the open doors of the bright shops and from the Underground grilles in the pavement made him wonder if he weren’t in hell. He believed he could easily have been carried around a shop, through the changing rooms and out into the street again without touching the polished pine floor.

The picture in its frame was cumbersome and difficult to carry. It was longer than his arm, and its edges, which had penetrated the brown paper, seemed to be made of barbed wire. Sometimes he hauled it under one arm and then under the other. For a bit he carried it on his head but it tipped backwards and if he hadn’t stuck his leg out, he’d have dropped it.

His leg was inflamed; his hands were torn and sore; his arms ached. It would be awkward getting the picture through the doors of a single-decker bus, had he been able to get on one, and no cab would have stopped for him, even if he had the money. When people had bought something they simply stepped out of the shop and into the road, with an arm raised.

He turned here and there, not knowing what to do. He would never get it home. What a weight this gift had turned out to be!

He was so fatigued he became convinced his name was being called. He was thinking he’d had enough of the ‘hallucinations’ when he saw Zak gesticulating in his face.

‘Gabriel, where have you been?’

He was glad to put the picture down.

Zak was with his father and a young man with messed-up hair and drawstring combat trousers. They were laden with shopping bags. Zak’s father, now wearing several studs in his ears, put his bags down and took the young man’s hand. Gabriel remembered

Zak saying that his father’s boy lover was the same age as his daughter, Zak’s older sister. If Gabriel thought his own life had become strange, he had only to contemplate Zak’s in order to gain a sense of proportion.

‘I haven’t been anywhere,’ said Gabriel at last.

‘It’s been ages since you called me.’

‘I haven’t had time.’

It was the truth, in a way. But it made Zak annoyed.

‘Too busy for us, eh?’ he said. ‘I’m planning on making the film with Billy.’

‘What for? It was my idea. It’s nothing to do with Billy. For a start, Billy’s a bonehead.’

‘Right. My dad’s got a little camera. I thought you’d given up.’

‘Why?’

Zak blushed. ‘You’re too grand for us, hanging out with Lester Jones.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with this,’ said Gabriel.’ ‘You know he’s known Dad for years.’

‘You don’t really know Lester Jones, do you?’ said the young man.

‘I’ve met him,’ Gabriel replied.

‘I expect he’s met a lot of people,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ said Gabriel. ‘But not you.’ He turned to Zak, who was laughing. ‘I’ll come round with the story-boards.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Zak.

‘Zak —’ said Gabriel, grabbing him by the shoulders. ‘Please, believe me. I want to do it more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything.’

‘Yeah, yeah, sick of waiting for you, man.’

Gabriel realized he hadn’t been able to think of anything but his recent worries. What he wanted was a clearer mind, a mind that had, somehow, been on holiday.

‘Look at all this swag,’ said Zak’s father. ‘We’ve had shopping fever all day. We’ll be disappointed if we don’t get through at least a grand.’

Gabriel had never quite worked out whether Zak’s father lived with his family or not. Gabriel had the impression that sometimes he lived with one woman, occasionally with his boyfriend, and even, from time to time, with his wife. If the lives of adults were always puzzling, it was a mystery to Gabriel how such an aged and unattractive person could get anyone, except a doctor, to touch him. However, Dad had said he admired him, and Gabriel felt more open-minded, too.

‘We’re going home to watch the Tottenham-Sporting Depravity game,’ said Zak. ‘We’ve got the shirts and everything in here. Why don’t you come with us?’ He put his mouth to Gabriel’s ear. ‘I’d really like you to, mate. These lovey-dovers are going to get me down, kissing all through the Depravity game and rubbing their bottoms together at the end when the players take their shirts off. I just know they’d prefer to watch a Barbra Streisland concert.’

Gabriel laughed. ‘Maybe later. I’ve got stuff to do.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. But I will come round.’

‘OΚ,’ said Zak. ‘See you, mate.’

The break was useful; Gabriel continued his journey more hopefully.

It happened, after a while, that he was passing his mother’s bar. He didn’t want her to see him, not with the picture. But as he felt like looking at her — a glimpse of her face would ease his mind — he stood outside in an unobtrusive position.

Usually she was easy to spot, but he couldn’t see her pouring long streams of alcohol into what looked like little silver thimbles. He wondered whether she was there at all. He couldn’t believe she had lied to him and gone to see someone else, perhaps George. Maybe she was in the back.

A group of people moved and he saw her then, sitting at a table at the rear of the bar. She was with a man: his father.

Gabriel stared at these two ordinary people, leaning on the table, talking. His father, a wiry man who usually seemed intense, looked relaxed. At one point Gabriel’s mother reached over, said something, and stroked Dad’s hand. It was like an old photograph, a petrified glimpse of the past. For a moment he saw how they had liked one another long ago.

He shaded his eyes and tried to see if he could read their lips. He wanted to know if they were saying his name. Were they discussing his visions or his life as a lawyer? But he was too far away to know. Anyhow, his mind felt relieved. If they were together, worrying about each other, he could worry, once more, about his film and what he wanted to do once this was sorted out.

He picked up the picture and continued his difficult journey, inch by inch, shuffling, grunting and hurting.

Hannah said it was time to prepare his tea. She didn’t ask him about the picture he had staggered through the door with, until she came into the kitchen.

He was on tiptoe on an unsteady chair on which he had placed several art books. He was attempting to push the framed picture, along with the two copies, into the back of a high cupboard.

‘Ah-ha.’ She was standing beside the chair. She even wobbled it to emphasize her power. ‘You are caught like a squishy fishy on my hook!’

‘Hannah — don’t do that!’

‘Up to something.’

‘Hannah —’

‘Wait till your mum hears about this. You will be roast beef!’

‘Don’t tell her anything!’ he said, wondering if, at this moment, his parents were still talking, or whether his father had returned to his room.

‘I will,’ she said, grandly. ‘That’s what I am given food for — to tell things about you. For more telling — more pudding!’

To balance himself he put his arms out. This was a foolish but necessary position.

‘If you inform her about this, Hannah, you will be fired.’

‘Pah! Naughty boy! I’ll tell her twice now! Your bottom will be on fire! Thwack, thwack! Ha, ha, ha!’