Nadine Gordimer - The Pickup

The mother looked slowly at her son and his wife, singling them out as if her hands were laid upon them, and spoke in the language of which his wife, suddenly inexplicably tense, forgot all she had learnt and could make out only the name of the Uncle — Uncle Yaqub, Uncle Yaqub, repeated, and the familiar invocation, Al-Hamdu lillah. When the mother had done, the son, lover, husband stood; at bay. That was what she, who had found him, followed him restored to his family, saw he was. With a lifting of spread-fingered hand to his forehead, and the drop of the hand to his side, a strange kind of obeisance, it seemed he took permission to himself to turn to her and translate in a low even voice from his mother tongue.

He thinks about, he thinks to make me his workshop manager.

The father summoned his own small store of English and understood what had been left out. — Your Uncle Yaqub, he can take you into his business …—

Everybody — poor Khadija is nobody — was animated in congratulatory exclamations, murmurs, a happy confusion of interruption with admiration for the Uncle’s generosity and the transformation he has the power to bring close to their lives.

It was hardly necessary for Ibrahim to respond: the family was doing it for him. Wonderful. Uncle Yaqub! In business with Uncle Yaqub! But his mother was gazing at him with proudly raised head. At once the message flashed: she had done it for him.

Julie was surrounded by the excited talk, unable to follow much, hearing approximations she could invent from the joyous cadence, what an opportunity, how lucky, how good, how generous an Uncle. And one of the brothers, Ahmad the slaughterer whose only opportunity was to have blood on his hands, jumped up with another kind of generosity and spoke for the brothers, a voice raised out of normal pitch by emotion. Ibrahim heard in their language: —We are full of joy for you, you deserve this. It’s great, my brother, for us to have you back with us as we were when we were kids! It has never been right, without you. Allah be praised. May you and your wife be blessed with happiness and prosperity. And now that this has happened, please — let our parents and your brothers and sisters see you married in our law, let us have a real wedding, we were not invited to the wedding before you came home.—

Laughter from everyone at this last. Maryam quickly translated breathily in her friend’s ear, and the two young women laughed and nodded, together.

His mother, perhaps alone of the gathering, was waiting for him to have the chance to speak for himself what everyone knew he must be feeling, what he wished to say to his Uncle, who had singled him out among her sons, the blessed one, the success.

Ibrahim was vaguely lifting and lowering his outspread hands — to quiet the affectionate voices answering for him, or to take in those hands — a lovely gesture, some interpreted — the opportunity offered him. In all the attention that pinned him down he felt that of his wife and he turned a moment to her and gave her a version — strange, final, its awful beauty — a culminating version of that smile she always awaited from him. He addressed his Uncle in the full formality of their tongue, as if there were no-one else present: He did not know what to say. It was an offer he would never have thought of, never have expected. Never. He knows how much the business his Uncle has created means to him. He thanked him, with the greatest respect, for his generosity, on behalf of his mother and father, brothers and sisters, for what he had done now, this day. He asked, with the greatest respect to have … a little time… to realize …

He did not turn to her. He sought the eyes of his mother; now she was the only one present.

And they all understood: overcome! They clapped and passed him from one to the other, men and women, in their embraces.

She kept somewhat in the background, although she, too, was embraced. She had had from him that smile that couldn’t be explained.

Something else was not explained: out of delicacy of feeling, among the family present, although all were aware of it. The Uncle has decided to take Ibrahim in; workshop manager? This means heir apparent. Of the vehicle repair workshop that has valuable contracts for maintenance of provincial government vehicles, the mayor’s fleet, whatever other notables this poor district has, and a franchise for sales of parts, a dealership in sales of both second-hand and new models of the best German and American cars. There is no son of the Uncle’s own begetting, alive, alas, and the son-in-law and prospective son-in-law of the educated daughters are not interested in learning the business by dirtying their hands — they want to have government positions, sitting on their backsides in air-conditioned offices in the capital. So when Uncle Yaqub retires — long may he be granted life in good health — and dies, Ibrahim will inherit the business, and live in a house with fine carpets and furniture in the style of gilt and velvet French kings used to have, with a maid to clean it all, as the house of the notable employs Maryam to do. That is Ibrahim’s blessed future. Al-Hamdu lillah. Praise be to God.

Ibrahim has declined the offer to take charge of his Uncle’s workshop. The chance of a lifetime.

Are you crazy?

She had said to him, It might still be months before we get visas, at least you’d have something a bit more… I don’t know, responsible, in the meantime.

Meantime.

Permanent residence. That’s what it means.

Like I was back there, under somebody’s car.

You wouldn’t be doing any of that kind of work yourself, the way you are, helping out, now—

Telling the others to do it, yelling at them like my Uncle has to. Sticking my head under the bonnet to see if they’re doing it right, waiting for my Uncle to die. Are you crazy.

At night she felt him turning in bed, rubbing his feet one against the other in affront, in turmoil. And was afraid to comfort him in case she said the wrong thing, or made a gesture that could be interpreted as referring to some rejected aspect of a conflict within him. He had made the decision, why was he still tormenting himself? When she made a decision that was the end of it; of leaving The Suburbs, leaving the doll’s house and charades at the EL-AY Café: while they were waiting she was at peace, at her place in the desert. Yet she herself was not sure of her reactions to what had suddenly been thrust before him, never thought of, never. Something he had cast himself about the unwelcoming world to put far away as possible from his life. When he stood there, at bay: did she think he had already said no, the refusal had surged and burst, his heart was sending it through the vessels of his blood. Did she expect anything else?

Brooding in a bed in the dark has a kind of telepathy created by the contact of bodies when words have not been exchanged. Whether she might be asleep or awake — he spoke. You thought I would take it.

A faceless voice. I don’t know what I thought. Yes or no. Because there’s so much I don’t know — about you. I’ve found that out. Since we’ve been home here. You must understand, I’ve never lived in a family before, just made substitutes out of other people, ties, I suppose — though I didn’t realize that, either, then. There are … things … between people here, that are important, no, necessary to them… I don’t mean the way you are to me … that doesn’t fit in with anybody, anything else, and that’s all right, but … You could have reasons for ‘yes’ I couldn’t know about because they’re … unconnected with me, with you and me, d’you see?

So she’s talking of my mother. He does not discuss his mother with her; he will not.