Hanif Kureishi - The Last Word

Harry found it amusing to knock balls around for Mamoon to hit, and Mamoon enjoyed the vigorous sessions; they cheered him up, particularly the bullying part.

Thwack — Harry hit the ball, calling after it, ‘There, Fred Perry, practise your backhand on that, if you can! Go, go, go, grandad!’

When Mamoon did run, he coughed; he hawked, retched and spat, his whole body shuddering. Then he wanted to play again, to push himself.

In the kitchen, as they were leaving, Liana had wagged her bejewelled finger at Harry. ‘Whenever he insists that you kill him, that he would love to be murdered by you, I do not want you to provide him with a heart attack, okay? This may be a labour of hate, and I don’t know the incidence of biographers actually murdering their subjects, but let’s not begin a trend.’

Harry soon wondered if he had indeed begun a trend. He sent across a strong but not-too-strong shot. The old man was lumbering after the ball when he suddenly pulled up as if he’d been shot, yelling out in pain and falling onto his knees.

Harry ran to Mamoon, turned him onto his back and told him to remain still. He would fetch help.

‘I’ve never been still in my life,’ said Mamoon. ‘I will rise up and walk!’

Despite what Harry reckoned to be a pulled muscle, Mamoon began to crawl across the court, insisting they restart the game. Holding onto the fence, he scrambled to his feet, bent to one side, and presented his racket.

‘Serve! I’m ready! Come on, you English public-school bastard!’

Harry gently patted the ball towards him. Mamoon hurried for it and keeled over once more, falling onto his face while clutching his side.

Harry hadn’t brought his phone. He had to get Mamoon to his feet and more or less carry him back to the house. It was quite a hike, and Mamoon was heavy, sweating and cursing. At last Harry asked Mamoon to climb onto his back; after some consideration, it seemed to be the most efficacious position.

As they went, Mamoon breathed into Harry’s ear, ‘I bet you wish you were writing another bad book about Conrad. Tell me, what is that story where a man has to carry a corpse on his back? Or perhaps I have become Kafka’s authoritarian insect?’

Having to conserve his breath, Harry was unable to reply.

Liana glanced out of the window to see the groaning two-headed, two-legged creature staggering towards the house. Out she rushed, demanding to know what Harry had done to her husband. While she ministered to him, Harry waited for Mamoon to explain, but the old man just yelped, cursed and refused to lie down until Liana threatened to spank him. She sent Harry to the woods to make a stick for Mamoon.

Since Liana was preoccupied organising Mamoon’s birthday dinner, for the next few days Harry was deputed to take care of Mamoon physically. He dragged the old man in and out of chairs, got him to the door of his work room — though, like everyone else, he was allowed no further — and helped him return to the house. Liana had strung a mobile phone around her husband’s neck with two numbers in it, those of herself and of Harry. A writer is loved by strangers and hated by his family. As a young man, Harry would have been amazed, thankful and flattered to have Mamoon Azam call him five times a day. Why would such a distinguished man, with whom everybody, surely, would love to converse, want to talk with him ? Now, as ‘family’, he was too close, and dreaded hearing that languid voice. ‘Please, Harry, dear boy, if you’re nearby, would you be so kind as to fetch me a book — the one with the green cover, I think it’s green, greenish or perhaps turquoise, but I can’t remember the title or the author — from near the television. . At least I think it’s near the television. Also, I can’t locate my glasses exactly. These are the ones with the blue not the black frames. Do you have any idea. .’

It was unfortunate that Mamoon’s back injury, which rendered him physically incapable, as well as more irascible than usual, coincided with Liana’s desire to impress Harry with their friends. Liana had become particularly engaged with and, indeed, somewhat manic about the dinner — ‘the beginning of always’, as she referred to the evening.

With Julia flying behind her being shouted at, Liana hurried into town on numerous occasions, bearing lists, to organise the menu, drink and seating plan. She was keen to ensure it was the perfect mix of people. Apparently, most of the diners would be local, but friends were coming from London; others would be driving across the country. There would be witty talk and laughter, drink, and good food. It would be useful for Harry too: he would see how a successful man lived and was loved. It would be a rehearsal for the sort of thing Liana anticipated happening regularly in London, once they raised the money to buy a place.

Alice, now at work in London, had heard about all this from Harry. She had been in Paris with people from the office, but had promised she would get on the train and join them if she could, depending on how things went in town.

On the evening of the dinner, one month after Harry had arrived at the house, he and Mamoon were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Julia to finish helping Liana to get dressed. The two women, with Ruth’s assistance, had been at it for some time — since yesterday morning, in fact. Mamoon had compared it to redecorating Chartres. Meanwhile, the men, having taken only a second to get their suits on and jiggle their hair, had already had a number of bracing Martinis.

Harry asked Mamoon if he was okay. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you have the alarmed look of a man who has just noticed he’s boarded the wrong train.’

‘It’s not the juice making my hands shake, Harry. What could be worse than a dinner in one’s honour, my friend? I’d have preferred to stay in and self-harm. The wife, as you would call her in the faux cockney you must have learned at public school, seems to be having a mad spell, even for her.’

‘This dinner is making you both tense. Liana is wonderfully kind—’

‘I must say, you’re a sparky lad to be erecting one’s effigy and bringing drinks. I’m getting rather fond of you. You might have to do me a slight favour.’

‘I wondered if something along those lines was in the offing—’

Mamoon leaned forward. ‘Keep an eye on Liana tonight — you know how good you are at making conversation about brassieres, ley lines and other female interests.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re smart enough to recognise that the subjects of migraines and cats never fail with the women. Lead the old girl towards the mint tea.’

‘Okay.’

‘Mind you, you could do me another favour by fetching that bottle of vodka for me, please. The one in the freezer, where Liana keeps her cashmere sweaters.’ Harry got it, and two crystal shot glasses. Mamoon poured two hits and drank one off, replenishing it immediately. ‘Drink that. It’s better nude. The vermouth was confusing us.’ Harry drank his and Mamoon refilled his glass. Mamoon said, ‘I know you have a lot of experience in this area.’

‘What area, sir?’

‘Women.’

‘You know more, sir. You were with Peggy for years. I’m studying it.’

‘Harry, please do not omit to point out to the eager reading masses that she was a perfectly nice woman, but no one should have had to marry her. One falls in love, and then learns, for the duration, that one is at the mercy of someone else’s childhood. One will realise, for instance, after a time, that one is actually living in one’s wife’s mother’s armpit. I made a mistake. Perfectly understandable.’

‘How?’

‘I believed sex and work could take the place of love. I have to say, when Peggy died, I was relieved and perhaps a little exhilarated. For a while I didn’t know what to do. Really what I needed was what I have now. A girl, who is knotty — very damn knotty, without doubt — but one who is a man’s woman.’