Nadine Gordimer - The Pickup

He saw — he remembered that — she had her lower lip caught tight under her teeth, as a child suppresses a sense of triumph.

— No. No, no.—

— Then we’ll let it be. If you start to have aches and pains, we’ll do something about it. — She’s an intelligent woman, she’ll enjoy sharing one of his old army quips, all his girls have heard it. — Don’t ask to see the brigadier unless he sends for you.—

She grasped his hand where it had alighted on her and pressed it. He gently but firmly withdrew, he was accustomed to these impulsive moments of gratitude, women indeed suffer much stress.

Back at his desk with the patient before him in her elegant clothes, the outfit of a woman who thinks of herself, presents herself, and not without reason, as good-looking, he wrote the usual prescription for amenorrhea and dismissed her with a word of caution, half-admonitory, half-joking — But don’t rely on that womb of yours — take your daily pill, eh.—

— I don’t need to come back?—

— You’re a healthy woman. Just take care of yourself. That’s what I tell all my girls and hope they’ll listen.—

— All. — A wry pull of the mouth. — Oh.— She picked up the little god, put it down. — You don’t think I should see you again. Anyway.—

His girls. As their mentor, sometimes their needs are beyond what he can give. When their time is up — time for the next one — he kindly indicates this by rising and coming round from his desk to shake their hands: on this day, with this woman, as usual.

That weekend he and his wife Sharon indulged themselves in their love of both music and country walks at a nearby resort where a chamber trio gave an all-Mozart Sunday concert. When he came from his morning hospital round to his consulting rooms on Monday a summons was served on him to appear in court on a charge of sexual harassment. His new patient was the plaintiff.

There was no place within their present for anyone or anything but the significance of the two airline tickets, her application for a visa, order of traveller’s cheques in dollars, notice to the owners of the cottage that it was to be vacated, abandoned within a week, the tenant would not be returning, no, whatever was left in it anybody was welcome to take. An elegant suitcase with its wheels and document pouches and combination lock (birthday gift chosen by Danielle for her father to give her a year or two ago) was already standing beside the canvas bag from the garage outhouse. She did not know what to think, what to say, when she burst in back from the parting visit to her father her lover had insisted on. That she would return in some sort of state of nerves — inevitable, he accepted that in advance. But now there was total confusion — what was all this about — the uncle, what uncle — not her father and herself.

Archie. The one I went to see, when we were still trying … How is it possible! What are they doing to him, what are they doing to all of us, what’s happening, what’s happening—

What could he be hoped to say. Each society has mores of its own and ways to deal with those who betray them — but he did not know the English words for this. He’s an old man, isn’t he. You must understand these things happen.

But he didn’t understand what she meant by happening! He didn’t understand! The earth-quaking within that no-one told you could ever come to you: banishment, deportation, an accusation of behaviour that could never, never ever, be held against such a man, the man who should have been her father. And now she was appalled by what he, lover, beloved, was thinking: complacent, not even shocked. You don’t actually believe he would do such a thing! You can’t believe that!

But do I know him. I have never seen this man. I only know about old men. Poor man.

Archie was always there for her. He said, only days ago, any time, come to me, Sharon and me, any time. And now: to be there for him … she made for the telephone but it was he, her lover, who knew better. That’s no good. To call. You better see him yourself. That is the right way, if you want …

Oh yes, she wants. This horrible thing can’t be allowed to touch Archie.

Sexual harassment — the boss putting his hand up the skirt of his secretary, the politician fumbling at his assistant’s breasts — that’s for the pages of the tabloids. He listened patiently — or perhaps his mind was elsewhere, she was too distrait to notice — while she continued to tell him again and again who this uncle was, what he was, not only to her but to others, how many years of care and skill and healing, begun even before she was born. Later in the afternoon she went back to the car and he heard her drive away. He knew where to.

Archie’s house: hardly changed. Only the trees grown, towering. The same garden where she had tumbled about on the grass over Gulliver. Dogs came shambling and jumping in greeting, she pressed the intercom and out of what she sensed was emptiness the accents of a black woman came through static to tell her the doctor and his wife were gone away, they said they will come back at the end of next week; she must not give to anyone the name of the place where they were.

Next week.

He and she would be gone away; the two plane tickets were carried about with her, her passport was at the embassy of his country for the entry of a visa.

She was back at the cottage sooner than he would have thought, and quiet. All I can do is write to him. What else. Who can this creature be who would get such a thing into her crazy head. But the letter was not written. When next day she received her official document, the visa stamped in her passport, something else happened. They had rejoiced, embraced, almost losing their footing together, and then suddenly, grave, he said it.

Now before we go we must be married.

Marriage is for suitable matings in the Northern Suburbs, for Nigel Ackroyd Summers and his wives. Whatever the foreigner might think of The Table at the EL-AY Café, other forms of trust have been discovered to her there.

What for. We don’t need that.

He looked at her for what seemed a long time.

What for. She said it again. We don’t need that. A bit of paper … like the one they wouldn’t give you… to let you stay.

But she felt he would withhold from her his rare smile, for good. Nevermore. The black mirror of his eyes refused to reflect her.

If you must leave with me then we must marry. I cannot take a woman to my family, with us — like this.

Just say the word.

She laughs, with tears.

He took her in his arms and kissed her solemnly as if exacting a vow. Two days before the aircraft took off they went to the Magistrate’s Court and before a marriage officer, the first time he had dared show his face in any place of law enforcement. David from The Table was the required and only witness. They kept away from any celebration, that night, at the café where she had taken him, on impulse, out of the garage, for coffee. He was right about The Table — something left behind, abandoned like the cottage — The Table was no more of use to her, to him and his qualities, than the gatherings at Sunday lunch on Nigel Ackroyd Summers’ terrace.

Let us go to another country …

The rest is understood

Just say the word.

Ibrahim ibn Musa.

He stands at the foot of the stair where the aircraft has brought its human load down from the skies. Lumbered and slung about with hand-luggage and carrier bags, he turns to wait for her to descend from behind him.

He is home. He is someone she sees for the first time. The heat is a gag pressed across her nose and mouth. There are no palm trees.