Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

'Are you certain about this?'

The woman shot him a puzzled look so he pressed on somewhat awkwardly.

'Well, we can eat first. They have a restaurant, I'm sure.'

They were given a room on the seventeenth floor, with a large bathroom and a broad view of the sea. He slid back the glass doors and walked out on to the balcony.

'It's very pleasant out here.'

She explored the room. On either side of the large double bed were matching tables and night lamps. A small desk and a chair, a standard lamp, and a lumpy two-seat settee completed the furniture in the room. The pictures on the wall were of views that she imagined related to a different country, for the greenness of the grass and the large mountain ranges suggested a more temperate climate. She sat on the settee. This was her first time in a hotel. When her family first arrived, they had been housed in what they were told was a hotel, but within a few weeks she came to understand that, in reality, the place was something called a hostel. And a hostel was most certainly not a hotel. The conditions were intolerable, but she had promised herself then, during her first weeks in her new country, that one day she would stay in a real hotel. She was not going to be cheated.

She was anxious to be seen to be behaving with dignity, so she rose from the settee and inspected the spotlessly clean bathroom, which boasted its own hairdryer and weighing scales. Having done so, she returned to the room and sat demurely on the edge of the bed. Then she changed her mind and crossed to the balcony. He pointed.

'The sea is very calm.'

She stood behind him, close enough that she could hear him wheezing slightly.

'Looking at the sea always makes me want to travel.' He paused. 'Even at my age.'

He turned to face her, and she smiled at him, which caused him to lower his eyes.

They stepped clear of the lift and discovered the hotel lobby to be crowded with people. Those coming in from the street were closing umbrellas and shaking off their coats, while those ready to depart were reluctant to venture out. What had begun as a light drizzle had now turned into a downpour. He looked at the woman and spoke jauntily.

'Just as well we are staying here and eating in the grill.'

She said nothing as he led the way across the packed lobby to the oak-panelled reception area of the hotel restaurant. Troubled thoughts were erupting with frequency now, but even as they formed, he pushed them nervously to the back of his mind. He was simply having dinner with a young woman. That was all. They were ushered to a table by the window, and, once seated, he ordered white wine and steak, while his guest decided upon a large salad.

'Two years ago I suffered a heart attack,' he said. "That's when I started to go to the club. It was important that I should start getting out a little.'

He watched as she pushed the lettuce about her plate, as though uninterested in eating.

'It's funny, but even I panicked when it happened. But, of course, I knew that it was a coronary.'

He laughed slightly, anticipating his own humour.

'If only I'd been able to treat myself, I could have saved on the hospital bills.'

She would not rise to meet his conversation. Did she understand what he was saying? Perhaps it was simply a problem of language and culture. He decided to forgo dessert.

(The mayor of the town in which we were first placed complained. He had requested that he be sent only those who could sing and dance, so that he might form a folklore group for tourists. Everywhere, we were told the same thing. First we will teach you the language, then when you leave the absorption centre you will be able to study at the university. Don't worry, your parents will find work. The first day that my mother saw a television set, she pushed a broom through the screen. There was a fire on the programme that was being broadcast and she tried to put it out. In our country, we did not eat in public. In our country, we had never seen a classroom. These things were difficult. In our country, we were not used to relying on outsiders. And then, as we learnt the language and your ways, our parents felt as though they were losing us. It was hard for them. They were no longer responsible for their children. Have you seen the ugly housing at the edges of the city where we live? My brother is in the army now. But my parents, they are sick. After the absorption centre, they are frightened of white walls and white coats. They simply watch television. My mother is tattooed on her face, her hands and her neck. She finds it difficult to leave the apartment, for people stop and stare. And my father is incapable of adjusting to this land of clocks. I try to honour him as I would do in the old country, but it is impossible if he will not change. So we do not speak, and when I get a job I will leave. Three women in one small apartment. At certain times of the month, he says, we women pollute the place with our presence and so he will sleep outside. My sister cries. Like my mother, she does not go out into the world. Malka, stay with us. Stay with us, please. Please, Malka. I ask you, is this home? And yes, I went to your university — I am a nurse — but I cannot find a job. Four of us, we live in one cramped apartment. This Holy Land did not deceive us. The people did. The man at the hostel, he said to us, 'Welcome, my black brothers and sisters. You are helping us to understand what we are doing here.' Is this true? Are we helping you? I know now what a stamp is. I can use a telephone. I, too, can turn night into day by simply pressing a switch. I wear shoes. I have seen a highway. But please. My people never killed themselves. Hunger, yes. Disease, yes. But never this problem. During Passover, we kill a lamb and sprinkle its fresh red blood around the synagogue. But not here. You do not allow this. You say you rescued me. Gently plucked me from one century, helped me to cross two more, and then placed me in this time. Here. Now. But why? What are you trying to prove?)

The meal was largely unsuccessful. The waiter offered him the opportunity of either paying directly, or putting it on the bill for the room. He chose to pay in cash, for he remained unsure if he would, in fact, be spending the night in this hotel. They left the dining room and sat together in the small hotel bar, a glass of whisky before each of them, the piano player hammering away in the corner to little effect. She sipped at her drink, and then she wedged an ice-cube between gum and cheek and waited for her mouth to go numb. Once it had done so, she spoke.

'You can be honest with me. You do not want us here, do you?'

'Not everybody feels that way.'

He looked around the bar, but apart from the white-jacketed man serving drinks, and the two American tourists watching CNN, the place was empty. Nobody could hear their conversation, especially above the clatter of the piano.

'I am asking you. You, a doctor. Why do they train me as a nurse?'

'Well, why not train you as a nurse?'

She laughed.

'You do not understand.'

Now the alarming question was beginning to take shape in the forefront of his mind. What did she want? Was there to be some attempt at humiliation?

While she was in the bathroom, he stepped from his clothes and slid into bed. Ashamed of his body, and unhappy with the scar that ran the full length of his upper torso, he chose also to switch off the night lamps. The moonlight streamed into the room. With the curtains drawn back, it was possible to watch the sea, calm after rain, and to become transfixed by the sight of the surf as it tugged continually against the shoreline.

'Why did you turn out the lights?'

There was a note of bewilderment in her voice. She continued.

'I can't see you.'

'Why do you want to see me?'