Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

Eventually, the waitress returned with a cup of coffee for myself and another large glass of wine for Papa. The couple barely noticed as the waitress set two coffees in front of them.

'But the spring is my favourite time of the year. We cannot risk waiting until the summer.'

The woman looked disappointed.

'You know this is difficult for me.'

Papa snatched up the glass and gulped a hasty mouthful of wine. I glanced across at him in surprise, but he was staring at the couple opposite. He seemed nervous at the prospect of what they might say next, and then I heard the clasp of a handbag being unfastened. I looked over as the woman produced a blue cigarette case with gold trimming. She pulled clear two cigarettes, handed one to her companion, put one into her own mouth, and then lit them both. The smoke billowed across the table and I stifled a cough. Again, Papa whispered, 'Are you all right?' I smiled and nodded. Poor Papa. He picked up his glass of wine.

Papa and I had stopped at the cafe on our way home from the funeral of one of his colleagues. Over the weekend, Dr Singer had suddenly died from heart failure, and his death had shaken Papa badly. Two years younger than Papa, there had been no sign of illness, no shortage of breath, no putting on of weight, nothing. After hearing the news, and sharing it with his family, Papa sat slumped at the kitchen table. We left him to his thoughts and followed Mama into the drawing room. Three days later, neither Mama nor Margot were interested in venturing out on a cold November day to attend the funeral of someone they barely knew. Papa looked so lonely that I simply could not bear the thought of him leaving the house alone, so I pulled on my coat and boots, and slipped my arm into his.

There were only three others at the funeral. An old woman dressed in black, who I presumed to be the doctor's mother. A younger woman in a worn coat and ill-matching hat, who I imagined to be his faithful receptionist or housekeeper. And an older man, about Papa's age, who I immediately presumed to be another doctor. It soon became clear that Papa knew this man, for, once the brief service was over, they shook hands warmly and Papa introduced his daughter to a Dr Lewin. This done, Papa turned to the two women and introduced me to Dr Singer's mother and his housekeeper, and then we stood together, a small awkward knot of people, until it began to rain and hasty excuses were proffered. For some reason, Papa and I were the last to depart. We stood together on the stone steps and watched the three mourners fan out in their separate directions.

As we began the walk home, the rain became more insistent. I looked across at Papa and knew that his mind was churning. We would soon have to give up our beautiful house, and most of our possessions, and move to a special part of town. Papa had already been forbidden to practise medicine, and, although people still sought him out, he was able to prescribe only patience. These days, he spent his time at home either staring into mid-air or trying to occupy himself by reading a book What little money remained was slowly draining away. All of this he tried to hide from his children, but there are some things that cannot be hidden. And then it occurred to me that perhaps Papa's friend did not die of heart failure. Perhaps Papa's friend had no one to live for. Like Papa, he was no longer permitted to practise as a doctor and, his elderly mother apart, had no family. What else was there?

There was humiliation. There was the daily anxiety of being easy prey for groups of men who ran through the streets yelling slogans. There was the torment of their cruel laughter. There was the fear of being betrayed by a gesture, a slip of the tongue, or an accent. There was the waiting and the worrying. There was the knowledge that you might be pointed out by classmates or friends or colleagues. There was the constant bullying. (Remove your hat!) I knew why Papa stared into mid-air. I, too, stared into mid-air. I, too, had tried to bury myself in books. There was blackmail. An earring. A watch. There were muffled tears at night. Margot and I both understood this. There were those who had already gone into hiding. The classroom was shrinking. And everybody dreamt of escape to America. But in the meantime, there was humiliation. Forbidden to ride on a trolley-car. Forbidden to sit in a park. Permitted to breathe. Permitted to cry.

The rain continued to fall, and there was now a sizeable cluster of people huddled in the doorway waiting for a table. Occasionally the door would open and one or two would leave, having decided that they should try elsewhere. I turned from both the drama by the door and the antics of the couple sitting opposite, he now pressing her smooth, well-manicured hands between his own, and I began once more to observe life in the windy street. As the afternoon gave way to early evening, there were fewer people struggling against the wind. I imagined that most had either reached their destination or had decided not to venture out at all. The streetlights were now lit, and the mysterious half-world between day and night fascinated me.

'What do you want, Eva?'

Papa's voice was tired. I turned from the window and reached for the menu.

'No. What do you want. In this life?'

I panicked inside, realizing that Papa was asking me an adult question. In fact, an impossible question. I searched his face for some clue as to how I might answer him, but I discovered nothing.

'I want to be happy, Papa. To marry. To have two children.'

And then I stopped, disturbed by the realization that I was answering as a child might answer. But what did Papa mean? Really, what kind of a question was this?

'You want to be happy?'

Papa smiled as he asked the question. I nodded.

'That is enough, Eva. That is a fine answer.'

The woman opposite glanced across at me. I was sure that she had overheard some part of our conversation, but she smiled quickly, then averted her eyes. Meanwhile, her friend released her hands, broke off a piece of bread, buttered it, and then placed it on her plate. The woman looked quizzically at him and I wondered if my glamorous woman was truly happy with her old man.

The door opened wide and cold air rushed in. It was now dark outside and the rain was cascading down. A tall, elegantly dressed woman, in a thick black coat with an elaborate brown fur collar, made her entrance. Quickly, somebody moved to close the door behind her and keep the heat inside. The woman hardly broke stride. She was led past those who still congregated in the doorway to a space where a single chair and small table suddenly appeared. Papa looked up at her.

'That's the singer, Leyna,' whispered Papa.

Other heads turned.

'She's going to America next week. It's all arranged.'

The woman opposite reached into her handbag and again pulled out her cigarette case. She gave a cigarette to her friend, lit it, then took one for herself. One of the two waitresses bolted the door to the café, turned the sign in the window, and drew across a curtain. But the large windows to the street remained undraped. Papa turned from Leyna, raised his hand, and beckoned the waitress who had previously served us. She was tired. It was nearly time to go home. Papa ordered another large glass of wine and a coffee and then, with his eyes fixed firmly on Leyna at her single table, he idly wafted smoke from his eyes with a slow branch-like movement of his arm. The old man immediately stubbed out his cigarette, but the young woman did not appear to notice. I looked at Papa and realized that his family and his dead friend were far from his mind. Papa continued to stare at Leyna.

I SAT on the side of the bed and watched as Margot packed her suitcase. I wondered if I should tell her about Mama's strange behaviour, but I decided against doing so. It seemed better that Margot should leave without this additional burden. As she folded her clothes, Margot spoke loudly and with the recently acquired confidence that her new friends seemed to have instilled in her. 'You see, Eva, in spite of everything that we have lost, they still hate us, and they will always hate us.' I did not want my sister to see me cry. I looked at the window where the snow was banking into the corners and beginning to obscure the view. 'Papa must not wear spectacles in the street because they love to hit such people straight in the face. And men will probably start to ask you to prostitute yourself for them. They pretend it is a joke, but there is more to it than this.' Margot closed the lid of the suitcase and sat next to me on the bed. For a moment, she followed my gaze and looked up and out of the window. 'You see, in some ways it is easier for us women.' Margot shrugged her shoulders. "There is no trouser check, for one thing.' I wondered if Margot might talk now about her boyfriend. I knew that she must have one. But Margot stood up. 'You too must go into hiding. But we mustn't be apart for too long.' I tried to smile, but I couldn't. 'Peter says it is painful to have to walk on earth that is saturated with the blood of our people. He says we should have seen what was coming.' I looked at Margot. 'Peter?' For a moment our eyes locked. And then Margot pushed me back on to the bed and started to laugh.