Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

He laughed and tried to make a joke of it, but there was silence. And then she spoke.

'Do you not wish to see me?'

She was naked. Tall, smooth and graceful, she was carved like a statue. Before he could catch himself, he heard the words fall from his lips.

'I would like to be your friend.'

She stepped into shadow. Then she slid into the bed, taking care not to touch him.

'But you are my friend. I have been here six years now, and no man has seen me naked. I am not that type of woman.'

He turned to face her. She spoke again, this time in a hushed voice.

'You did not look as though you would hurt me.' She paused. 'And I have never stayed in a hotel.'

'But won't your family worry?'

Now she turned from him and lay back on the pillow. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

'My family worry about everything. Maybe, like my brother, I will join the army.'

She paused, then looked back at him. She lifted her head from the pillow.

'You may kiss me if you wish, but I prefer only that. I am sorry.'

In the morning, she was gone. His first thought was to make sure that his wallet was still in his jacket pocket, but he resisted this ungenerous impulse. He rolled over to the part of the bed where she had slept. There was still an indentation where she had lain, but no warmth. He had spent most of the night staring at this woman, trying to understand why she had chosen him. Was there some quality he possessed that she had observed? Perhaps other women could see it too? (Did she feel sorry for him?) During the night, the sheet had slipped down to her waist, which allowed him the opportunity to examine her skin. If he had been younger, then maybe. But she belonged to another land. She might be happier there. Dragging these people from their primitive world into this one, and in such a fashion, was not a policy with which he had agreed. They belonged to another place. He thought of her now, taking the first of the buses that would carry her back to her cramped apartment. And then, upon her arrival, he imagined she would have to endure her parents. And her sister. Their questions. Their unhappiness. But there had been a private adventure. (For both of them.) The club, the hotel, the dinner, the bar, the room, the bed. She had lived. She was living.

He paid the bill and stepped out into the bright morning light. It was a fine day. He walked slowly along the promenade that ran between the hotels and the beach, and passed the poorly arranged concrete benches, in that most faced each other rather than the sea. He had thought of taking a stroll down Dizengoff Street and sitting with a coffee, but he knew that soon he would not be alone. Inevitably, someone would interrupt his privacy with their unsophisticated questions. What are you doing in town? So early? I saw you last night. With a black woman. No, it was you. I am sure of it. He saw a bench which nobody had yet claimed and which, unlike the others, enjoyed a clear view of the sea. He sat heavily and tried not to think of his wife and child. But it was useless. Every day, assaulted by loneliness. Every day, eaten up with guilt. His only companion was memory, and how he struggled with the burdensome weight of this single relationship. He now understood that to remember too much is, indeed, a form of madness. And he understood that people are not made to live alone, neither when things are good, nor when they are bad. These inelegant attempts to heal the lesion in his soul. The woman on the first of the buses that would carry her back to the edge of the city. He did not want anyone to feel sorry for him. He, too, had lived. He remembered the garden with its wooden bench. And the two sisters who played beneath the wide branches of a large tree. They chased each other and screamed gleefully. Then they stopped and the older girl spoke first. 'Uncle Stephan. Are you leaving us?' He smiled. They were pretty girls, with dark eyes and long black hair. They would become beautiful women. And now the younger sister spoke. 'Tell us, Uncle Stephan. Tell us.' Again he smiled, and then he looked down at the space between his feet. The grass was yellowing in the sunlight. It had been an unusually hot summer. He was definitely leaving his wife and child and returning to Palestine. A decision had been made, but these two girls were not making it any easier. And then he looked up. Instinctively, he raised one arm to touch Margot's cheek, and then he stretched out his other arm to beckon Eva. But they did not see him. They simply saw strange Uncle Stephan staring at the yellowing grass between his feet. The sisters looked at each other, and then Margot began to laugh. And then again, they began to chase one another, their voices becoming louder and more excitable as their pace increased. And now he called to them, but they did not hear him, for his weary tongue was unable to bear the weight of these children's names. Strange Uncle Stephan, staring at the yellowing grass between his feet. It was Margot who decided that it was too hot to play, and that she and Eva should go inside. Uncle Stephan watched as they skipped away and left him alone on the bench, his arms outstretched, reaching across the years.

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