Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

And then he left her, and the quietness intensified and threatened to overwhelm her until she noticed Mahmood. All things considered, she planned her assault quite well. Nice perfume, translucent nail polish, grey hair unbunned, and the neckline just daring enough to suggest that what lay beneath the horizon might still be worth exploring. And much to her surprise it worked. These days he arrives every Thursday evening at 7 p.m. precisely. Before he comes round she lights a dozen scented candles, and then she turns off the lights. She plumps the cushions, and places a white china bowl of mixed nuts on the glass-topped coffee table. She once tried savouries, but he did not take very well to them. Another time she tried music, but he listened for a while and then told her to turn it off. He did not ask her to turn it off, he ordered her with one hand busily pulling his lobe, as though her choice of Chopin had somehow damaged his oriental ear. These days she does not bother with either savouries or music. At 7 p.m. he knocks twice, and then he rattles the letterbox so that the flap clatters noisily. She has lost count of the number of times she has suggested to him that knocking at the door is sufficient, but he seems to be helplessly addicted to the letterbox. However, as she quickly draws the curtains and then pads her way to the door, she reminds herself that this annoying little habit of his is just another part of their ritual.

Mahmood is tall and striking. To begin with he used to step through the door and bend and kiss her on the forehead before stooping to unlace his shoes. He would place them side by side, like soldiers, in the hallway and then follow her into the candlelit living room. Back then he was slightly apprehensive, and she liked the way his eyes danced nervously around the room without ever alighting on anything. She loved his smell, which was strangely sweet and cloying, but she knew that it did not mask anything unpleasant. Mahmood was scrupulously clean, and she understood that whatever oils or lotions he rubbed into his skin were in all likelihood related to his culture, and she did not mind. In fact, back then she did not mind anything about him. Since Brian had left she had only entertained one other man, a recently widowed partner of Brian’s from the bank. However, this man had come to visit wearing a parka, some grubby slacks and trainers, not the suit and tie and the smartly polished shoes that she had been expecting. It was a Sunday afternoon, but there was still no excuse for such ill manners. He demanded a piece of lemon wedge with his tea, and he seemed disappointed that she was only able to offer milk and a tablespoon of honey that she managed to scrape from the bottom of an old jar. He then proceeded to praise his former wife’s abilities at knitting tea cosies and bed socks, and he lectured her on the excessive calories in date and walnut cake. She offered him a digestive biscuit instead, but he refused, and then when he went to leave she was forced to momentarily endure the rough wood of his tongue in her mouth.

It was after this visit that she planned her campaign with Mahmood who, at least initially, managed to exude both coyness and interest. These days Mahmood has dispensed with this performance. Mahmood manages to meet her eyes before stepping first on the heel of one foot, then on the heel of the other, and wriggling his way out of his shoes. He still lines them up next to each other, but after such a dismal approach to their removal, this gesture seems almost insulting in its affected formality. She is relieved that he still seems amenable to eating first, for to dispense with the etiquette of the shared meal would be to abandon dignity. However, “dignity” is a word that Mahmood seems to be increasingly unfamiliar with. These days he eats quickly, often with one hand (always his right hand), and he makes noises that alarm her. Today is no exception. Having finished, he stares at her as she clumsily moves a piece of chicken breast up and onto the back of her fork. He watches closely as she dips the fork into the rice and then dabs the whole construction in a shallow pool of curry sauce before levering it towards her mouth. It is painful, for she understands that he is suppressing laughter.

In bed she knows that she satisfies. He always shudders, but he does so quickly now and only once. These days their bodies separate with indifference and Mahmood is quick to give her his back. Sadly, her lover seems to have bolted down the short slope from attentive to perfunctory without any intervening stages of incremental boredom. One week he took the time to speak with her before, during and, most importantly, after their relations. The following week he was racing through the motions as though he was late for an appointment. Gone were the revealing half-sentences. “They call us Asians, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it?” Or personal titbits that she could take as signs of intimacy. “When I see my reflection in a mirror I know that I can never go back home.” He used to listen to her when she explained what an electric blanket was, or when she told him what the difference was between a bishop and a priest. When she suggested that he read “improving” books, he took the trouble to ask her what she meant, and her use of the phrase “birthday suits” actually made him laugh out loud. They were, of course, in their “birthday suits” at the time. He kept laughing and repeating the phrase as though unable to comprehend the absurd precision of the imagery, and she laughed along with him. Today she bore his weight and coquettishly wrapped one leg around him as though she wished to pull him deeper. But she did not; it was all show. A gesture to prevent her from feeling as though she was merely an object speared.

She does not blame Mahmood for her present degradation, for she understands the real culprit to be Brian. She silently endured too many years of his conversation in the form of monologues about the virtues of architecturally designed patios and breakfast bars, and the superiority of South African whites over French Chardonnay, conversations in which her opinions were never sought. On other days he would simply seize a seemingly random topic and start to complain. Did she realise that you used to be able to see a specific doctor, but now everywhere’s a group practice and you never know who the hell you will be getting? Was she aware of the fact that because of the bloody unions, his bank employees were now only allowed to “interface” with the public from behind “anger-proof” glass? She quickly learned that Brian had absolutely no interest in her opinions, but by not answering back she allowed him to look through and beyond her, until he finally convinced himself that she did not exist. When Brian walked away, she too was convinced that he was walking away from nothing, and it hurt. However, at least to begin with, Mahmood did not treat her as though she were invisible.

She stares at his back. To be desired is not unpleasant, and to be mounted and entered suggests desire. In the beginning she toyed with the idea of asking him to find a way to stay over. She wanted him to tell Feroza that he had to visit his brother in Leicester, but somehow she never found the courage to put this proposal before him, and he never suggested it to her of his own accord. One night she did ask Mahmood if the next day they might go to the town museum to see a visiting exhibition of priceless Eastern miniatures, but he looked at her with disbelief writ large across his brown face. With some effort she was able to imagine that his curdled face was rejecting the art and not her company. She smiled. But inwardly she decided that she would never again suggest anything beyond the boundaries of their arrangement. She was not a woman who coped well with rejection. But, if truth be told, Mahmood had not rejected her. He had simply arrived at a place where he no longer felt it necessary to either woo or enchant his fifty-five-year-old mistress.