Hanif Kureishi - Something to Tell You

I sighed. “My Josephine?”

“Jamal, I had no idea what she was doing there, whether it was her first time or whether she was a regular.”

Josephine had always had a leisurely walk, daydreaming as she went, swinging her arms. I had often wondered, How can anyone walk so slowly and still move forward? We would go separately to parties, so as not to have to walk at different speeds.

I said, “It’s quite a change for Josephine, to go to a place like that. But most of her friends are just people she feels sorry for, and her boyfriend dumped her. At least that’s what I guessed. He was around for a while, then seemed to disappear. I asked Rafi, who said she found him boring.”

Henry said, “I went into a bit of a panic. Miriam was busy. I lost my excitement. I knew it would be a big deal for you-for anyone. I followed her from room to room. She seemed completely distracted.”

“Did you talk to her?” He shook his head. “Did she recognise you or Miriam?”

“God, no. Even I haven’t spoken to anyone about it. I tell Miriam everything and hope for the same from her. But this was private.”

Like most people in the house, I’d been drinking since before lunch. There had been coke too, brought around by the staff with drinks, which sobered me up briefly and enabled me to keep on drinking. The wind was fresh and the day was clear. I was beginning to take to the countryside. I had a joint in my pocket, which Henry and I smoked as we trod across the fields. By the time Henry had finished, I was pretty gone, feeling as sad and empty as I had when Ajita, Valentin and Wolf all left me.

He said, “I guess there’s no going back now-if you ever thought about that. And I suspect you did.”

“Yes, I did. My wife still fascinates me.”

“Jamal, I’m worrying about you!”

“You’re a good friend, but don’t let it spoil your day. I guess I should be looking after her. It’s what she always wanted, but she made sure I failed at it, over and over.”

“Will you say something to her?”

“I doubt it. All I heard was that she was speed-dating.”

He laughed. “Thank Christ you never worked as a therapist with couples.”

“It’s lucrative work, I hear. Plenty of demand.”

Henry said, “Mind you, what am I saying? A cursory glance at the early analysts and their disciples and colleagues will show what a bunch of perverts, suicides and nutters they were, apart from Freud. Completely human, then. But at least they knew one true thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You either love or fall sick.”

That night most of us were too coked up to eat much, but Miriam and Henry were hungry, and I sat with them and Ajita at supper. Henry hardly noticed that he was being served by uniformed staff, but Miriam insisted on helping with the washing up.

That Saturday evening, in one of the barns a low stage had been constructed. The staff had set up lights and brought in numerous instruments. Crates of wine and beer as well as bottles of vodka and tequila were placed at the bottom of the stage. People sat around on chairs, and those, like me, who found it difficult to stay upright lay on cushions on the floor.

However close to unconsciousness I might be, I didn’t want to miss Charlie Hero playing an acoustic version of “Kill for Dada,” which he’d first recorded in the 70s with the Condemned.

Alan pushed Mustaq forward. There was much applause and excitement. Mustaq didn’t want to play, but he would obey Alan. So Mustaq, now becoming George, sat at the piano. He was quiet for a moment and then began to doodle, waiting to see what might come. When the notes took shape, they became a terrifyingly honest and personal account of Neil Young’s “Helpless,” as good as the version of that song I preferred, sung by k. d. lang. I was beginning to see why the former Mushy Peas was a famous pop star.

Ajita, now in a little denim skirt, joined him for the chorus with a tambourine, swaying and laughing. When she pulled me up to join her, even I couldn’t resist. My dance moves hadn’t evolved since the 70s. The difference between then and now was the ghost standing between us, her father.

Later, after Ajita and I had smooched-“Smooch, my darling, is a word I haven’t used for some time”-Karim and Charlie harmonised on “Let’s Dance,” Karim playing some groovy bass, and Karen throwing her thong and then her Manolos at him. I think I saw her later with a servant, trying to retrieve a Manolo from a tangle of wires behind the stage.

Ajita had danced with Henry and Miriam, and we shared a bottle of champagne on the lawn as we smoked and cooled down. Then we went back to hear Mustaq play “Everyone Has Their Heart Torn Apart, Sometime,” which he dedicated to me, its only begetter.

Don’t ask me when, but the party turned into a rock’n’roll session with anyone who could play anything jamming, and Mustaq beating the piano like Jerry Lee Lewis. Henry couldn’t wait to get naked, dancing as though swatting away killer bees, as if he’d wasted the 60s and needed to catch up. Miriam danced next to the speakers in bra and pants, wanting everyone to see her tattoos. She’d shown them to Ajita, explaining the idea and provenance of each one. Ajita, appalled and fascinated, had seemed to think, by the end, that her life would be improved by the addition of a “tat.”

I can remember watching Mustaq help his sister out of the room and upstairs, and seeing a haunted, exhausted look on her face, one I’d never seen before. I cannot recall what time the staff carried me up to bed. Apparently, they were busy with bodies all night. I know I couldn’t even spark up my lighter to hold it aloft.

“It was a major catastrophe,” Mustaq laughed, the next day.

I do remember getting up to pee an hour or so after I’d passed out and seeing, as I walked past Karen’s door, her and Karim Amir fucking. At least I thought it was Karen, and maybe it was Karim. Someone else was asleep on the floor at the end of the bed, or maybe they weren’t asleep, because there was moaning from elsewhere in the room.

I stood there a moment, took a quick shower, cleaned my teeth and the blood out of my nose, and went in there with them, falling into a pit of bodies. I can remember sitting propped up against a wall naked, smoking and talking with Karim about South London and the Three Tuns in Beckenham High Street, which now apparently had a Bowie plaque but not a Charlie Hero one.

Charlie himself was going at someone, perhaps one of the waitresses from the town. I can even remember, with some gratitude, Charlie caressing my back from behind when it was my turn, though I’d rather he hadn’t said, “Go on, old fella, ’ave it,” as I knew he was certainly posher than both Karim and me.

The next day, when Karen and I left for London, Ajita was standing in the yard, waving to us. She would stay in the country for a few more days before going to Mustaq’s London house.

While Karen sat in the car, Ajita and I embraced and promised to phone each other later. Then she kissed me on the mouth; I could feel her tongue waiting for me. She pinched and tickled me, as she used to.

“Why are you laughing?”

“You,” she said. “It can’t only be a hangover. You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost. But then I guess you have.”

Karen was gunning the engine irritably and banging her hands on the steering wheel.

As soon as I got in she said, “At least you have the decency to leave with me.”

“What?”

“I know how tricky you are. I sleep with the door open and I saw that woman sneaking out of your room, the first night. You were quick. Busy weekend, eh?”

“Karen, you are crazy.”

“You waited for her all that time and now don’t you like her?”