Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

“No, I won’t.”

“Lessons?” she asks. “Has the card in the window brought you any luck?”

I’m sure she knows that only Carla has materialised as a result of the card, and now there’s nobody.

“I’ve had some promising phone calls.” I say this in a manner which lets her know that there’s nothing further to be said on the matter. The other woman stands in the shop and looks at me with a kind of pity. There’s something about her which makes me angry. She has no right to be staring at me in this way, let alone thinking whatever it is that she’s thinking. I take my change and turn from the pair of them. I hear the doorbell tinkle as I walk out, but I also feel their eyes upon my back and I know that as soon as the door closes their conversation will resume. It will be a highly different conversation, one that will, of course, include me as subject matter. I’m pretty sure that I’ve become the sort of person that Weston people feel comfortable talking about.

Once I reach the top of the hill I don’t have any doubt as to what I have to do. I go straight to his bungalow and knock loudly. A somewhat crumpled Solomon opens the door and looks me up and down. He rubs his eyes and blinks vigorously, and then he politely stifles a cough with the back of his hand. It must be strange for him seeing me in the morning, standing on his doorstep with my few bits of shopping. Neither of us says anything, and then he speaks.

“We are not supposed to be going into the town today, are we? I have not forgotten, have I?” He seems embarrassed, but I let out a short laugh to assure him that everything is fine, and there’s no need to worry.

“You haven’t forgotten anything. It’s just that I thought I’d come by to see if you were all right.”

He seems puzzled now. Again he looks me up and down as though trying to work out what has changed about me. He’s looking for evidence of some change, but he won’t see anything. At least I don’t think he will.

“Well,” he says, “you must come in.” He steps to one side. “Or have you already decided the answer to your question?”

“What question?” He catches me by surprise now.

“You can ask your question when you come in.”

I edge past Solomon and into the house, and he closes the door behind me. It’s much darker than I’d expected, but when he switches on the lights I feel a little easier.

“Please put down your shopping and let me take your coat. Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”

“Whatever’s easiest for you.”

“Please take a seat,” he says, pointing to the living room. “I will be fast.” With this said, he disappears into the kitchen and leaves me by myself. There’s not much in the way of furniture or home comfort to the room. In fact, it’s really quite bare, but I am most taken by the absence of any pictures of his family, although strangely enough there is a framed photograph of a middle-aged Englishman. I’m looking for clues as to who this man is, but there are none. He shouts out from the kitchen.

“Do you take sugar in your coffee?”

“Two, please.” I pause. “I know it’s a bad habit.” He doesn’t reply, which makes me feel anxious. He is, of course, right. I do have a question. Does he realise that he is also one of those people who Weston folk feel comfortable talking about? Does he care? As I look up he comes through with two cups of coffee, both of which he places on a small table.

“Taking sugar is not sinful. You have only yourself to please, is that not so?”

“Well, yes,” I say. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Biscuits?” Clearly he’s remembering yesterday.

“No, thanks. I’m fine. But thanks anyhow.”

He sits now and picks up his coffee and takes a loud sip. Then he puts it back down and turns to look in my direction.

“Perhaps people have been talking to you about me?” he asks.

“No, they haven’t, but I don’t care what people say.”

He smiles, then laughs out loud. Then he stands and walks the three or four paces to a tall wooden chest, pulls out a drawer and claims a sheaf of letters. He shuts the drawer and puts the letters on the coffee table.

“What are these?” I ask.

“Letters. Perhaps from the same people who have been talking.”

“What do you mean?” I put down my cup of coffee now. “I’m not following you.”

“Some people like to write to me.” Solomon laughs. He picks up his coffee again, which I take as a cue to pick up my own.

“What do they write to you about?”

I feel embarrassed, as though I am somehow responsible for these people, whoever they are. Solomon can see the predicament I’m in, so again he stands up.

“I am going for more coffee. Would you like some?” I shake my head. Solomon points to the pile of letters. “This is England. What kind of a place did I come to? Can you tell me that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you like it here?” asks Solomon, his voice suddenly impassioned.

I look at Solomon, but I really don’t understand. I feel as though he’s blaming me for something.

“I really don’t know anything else, do I? I mean, this is where I’m from, and I’ve not got anything to compare it to. Except France. I once went there on a day trip. I suppose that seems a bit pathetic to you, doesn’t it?” Solomon shakes his head.

“No, but I am asking you, what do you think of this place?”

“It’s where I’m from.”

He points again to the pile of letters. “Then maybe you should not read the letters.” Solomon disappears into the kitchen and I hear the clatter of dishes, and water being noisily poured into a kettle. Solomon sounds angry, but I don’t know what to do, so I simply stare at the letters.

After a few moments the noises stop, and then Solomon comes out of the kitchen and he sits opposite me. He seems calmer, and his eyes are softer, but I notice that his hands are shaking slightly. He carefully moves the cup up to his lips and then he replaces it on the saucer. When he’s driving he holds on tightly to the wheel. He’s in control and I feel safe with him, but sitting in this house he seems curiously vulnerable. He glances at the letters and I feel as though I have to say something.

“Do you want me to read them, is that it?”

Solomon laughs now, but he doesn’t say anything. I realise that he’s been hurt, and I watch him for a while and then decide that I should leave. As I stand up he also gets to his feet. It’s awkward for both of us, but I don’t think the relationship is in any way broken. Solomon reaches down and picks up an envelope.

“How do you open your letters?” He doesn’t hand me the envelope, he simply lets it dangle between his fingers. I look at him unsure of how I’m supposed to answer his question.

“Well,” I begin. “I just tear open the envelope.”

“Ah,” he says. He smiles now. “Just tear open the envelope. I usually do this too, but for some reason I decided not to with this one.”

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from all of this, but I continue to listen.

“For some reason I took a knife to it. This was a fine decision, for somebody had sewn razor blades into a sheet of paper and carefully turned the page over so that I would grab the so-called letter and have my fingers sliced off. This is not very kind.”

He laughs slightly and tosses the envelope down onto the pile with the other letters.

“Love letters,” he laughs. “From people who do not want me in this place.” Again he laughs. “I am beginning to take this personally.”

I sit back down and stare at the pile of letters. Solomon sits too, and he asks me if I would like more coffee. I look across at him and nod. “Would you mind?” He takes my cup and saucer and disappears into the kitchen.