Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

At four o’clock she comes in, and again she sits at his table and reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a carefully folded copy of today’s Evening Standard . She takes out a small notebook and a battered paperback dictionary and she begins to read the newspaper. Every few minutes she carefully writes a word into her notebook, and then she reaches for the dictionary and quickly leafs through it until she finds the appropriate dog-eared page and meticulously transcribes more words into her notebook. Her face is strangely angelic, and he guesses that she is Slavic. She is certainly pretty, despite the fact that she is wearing no makeup, and her blonde hair is bunched untidily on top of her head and loosely fastened with some sort of bulbous plastic clip. The previous day their eyes met briefly as he stood up to leave, and she offered him the faintest of smiles before lowering her gaze and returning her attention to the clutter of material on the table. As he passed behind her back he noticed that the newspaper was open at the international news section, but he didn’t know if these pages were of particular interest to her, or if the girl just systematically worked her way through the tabloid.

He folds the flimsy piece of paper in half and then leans over and slides the note towards her. She looks up before he has time to withdraw his hand, and he self-consciously pushes the message the last few inches. It rises up and momentarily butterflies open before coming to rest, closed, in front of her. He smiles and shrugs his shoulders in a gesture of fake helplessness, and he watches as she ignores him and picks up the note and begins to read. She reads it again, and then again, and he worries now that either her English is bad, or his handwriting is unclear, but after what feels like an age she reaches for her pen and begins to write. Without meeting his eyes, she slides the note back in his direction and continues to read the newspaper. ‘In one hour, please.’ The letters are carefully attached to each other with anxious loops and curls as though this is a child’s first attempt at joined-up writing. He remembers that Laurie’s first sentences betrayed a similar deliberation, and he accused Annabelle’s mother of interfering with what the boy’s teachers were doing. Annabelle admitted that, on the afternoons that her mother spent with Laurie, she often sat him down on a bench at the zoo, or in a café, and helped her grandson with his writing, but Annabelle failed to understand what harm her mother was doing. When Annabelle asked him what exactly he meant by ‘middle-class writing’, he tried to explain, but he soon gave up, realising that he was beginning to sound ridiculous. He looks again at the four carefully inscribed words, then across in the girl’s direction as she continues to read, then back at the note. Okay, one hour it will be.

The girl looks around at the shabby interior of the Queen Caroline and gestures with one hand, palm turned up.

‘But this is an ugly place. For old men and tramps. Why does somebody like you wish to come here?’

‘Well, because it’s never full and it’s never noisy. I suppose I can think in here.’

‘And what do you think about?’

‘The same as everybody else. What I’d like to do.’

‘And what is it that you would like to do, Mr Keith? Do you have a big plan?’

He looks at her closely as she picks up her gin and tonic and takes an unconvincing sip. She wants to appear confident, but he wonders if behind the bluster she is perhaps unsure of herself. However, he can’t imagine an English girl reading his note and then agreeing to come for a drink with him.

‘Smoke?’ She offers him a freshly opened pack of twenty but, as she balls up the cellophane and places it in the ashtray, he simply shakes his head. He watches as she knocks the box against the side of the table and loosens the cigarettes, then she pulls one clear and prepares to light it with a blue throwaway lighter.

‘I’m afraid not. No smoking any more.’

She tosses down the lighter, but keeps hold of the cigarette. ‘Stupid country with crazy rules.’

‘Are you from Poland?’

‘What do you know about Poland? Have you been there?’

‘No, I’ve never been there.’ He smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. ‘It’s just that in the library I noticed the dictionary. “Polski”. That’s Polish, isn’t it?’

‘You are a detective?’

‘Of course. I am an extremely smart detective, which is why I worked out that “Polski” might mean Polish.’

‘And you think you are also a funny man?’

‘Yes, but only in my spare time. The life of a comedian is very demanding. And you, you are a student?’

‘Very good, Mr Keith. In the day I learn English at a language school in Acton. It is not far from here.’

She points quickly with her cigarette in the direction of Acton, and then carefully slides the cigarette back into the pack.

‘A twelve-week course but I have to practise as well, which is why I go to your library. To learn English words.’

‘And after your course you will go back to Poland?’

‘For sure, I will go back to Warsaw.’

He wonders if he is irritating her, for she is speaking to him with an exasperation which suggests that she thinks he is an idiot. In fact, her ironic tone seems calculated to remind him that his questions are somewhat tedious. He is curious to know about her family, and he would like to raise the subject of whether or not there is a boyfriend. Perhaps there is a small flat in Warsaw that she intends to return to, or maybe she has a clerical job waiting for her, or a junior university position that she has been paid to take leave from in order that she might improve her language skills, but he dare not risk these questions. She is a little overweight, but it suits her. However, the angular bones of her face do seem slightly at odds with the graceful curves of her hips and breasts. The truth is, it looks as though her body has recently put on weight but her face has yet to catch up. Probably fast food, he thinks. McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, deep-fried garbage that will quickly ruin a slim body. He wonders if she is hungry. Perhaps she would like to go for an Indian, or maybe to his flat for another drink if she doesn’t like this pub? He thinks carefully about how to pose the question for he doesn’t want to come over as tacky. Who is he trying to fool? She has to know that he likes her, for she will have felt the weight of his gaze in the library, and then again here in the pub, and she will undoubtedly have measured it and made her calculations. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that the girl will already have anticipated both his question and his uncertainty as to how to frame it.

He opens the front door and steps to one side, enabling her to pass out of the spitting rain and into the communal hallway. The light comes on automatically, the management company having installed a motion detector both for safety and to save money, for the young couple in the ground floor flat were in the habit of leaving the light on all night. As she squeezes past him she lets her rucksack swing down from her shoulder and it now dangles from her hand. He closes the door then stoops to pick up some mail, which he places on the small glass-topped table that stands beneath the ornately framed mirror.

‘It’s upstairs. Let me go first.’

He begins to climb the stairs, conscious of the fact that she is behind him and watching his every movement. Just as he reaches the top landing the light snaps off and plunges them both into darkness. He fumbles for his keys.

‘A sixty-second delay’s not really very much, is it?’ The girl doesn’t answer, so he concentrates on unlocking the door and then he ushers her inside. He gestures in the direction of the sofa, then excuses himself and passes into the kitchen where he leans against the cooker and wipes his brow with a piece of kitchen towel which he then pushes into the tall swing bin. He shouts through.