Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

I was dismayed to see he was carrying my new laptop, a gorgeous little sliver of light I’d bought just before deciding to become someone else. I had been intending to use it in bed. I had always been attracted to the instruments of my trade. Sometimes, merely buying a new pen or computer was enough to get me back to work.

‘That looks good,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ He said to his mother, ‘I’m borrowing this for a while. I’ll return it before Dad gets back. Have you heard from him?’

‘He sent his love,’ she called.

‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘He won’t mind me borrowing this, then. By the way, happy anniversary. Shame to be on your own.’

‘I’ll raise a glass later,’ she said.

I said, ‘Can I ask what anniversary it is?’

‘Not my wedding anniversary,’ she said, ‘but the anniversary of the day I met my husband. He’s away on business at the moment, the fool.’

‘Why fool?’

‘His breathing was painful. He couldn’t walk far. I could see it in his face, but I don’t think he knew how ill he had become. Before he started out on his jaunt across the continent, I had decided we should enjoy the time we had left together. Still, I didn’t want to put him off his pleasures.’

Mike said, ‘Mum, are you okay? Can I go?’

‘Please do.’

He shut the front door.

I asked, ‘Would you like me to get going, too?’

‘But I must offer you some tea. I’d feel bad if I didn’t, after you helped me.’

‘You’re very trusting.’

‘I noticed you looking at the books just now. No burglar or lunatic would do that.’

‘Your boy is a great-looking kid.’

‘He’s doing well. His girlfriend’s pregnant.’

‘Really? How wonderful. Congratulations.’

‘Adam will be back for the birth, I know he will.’

I went upstairs to the bathroom. Coming out, I noticed my study door was open. The books I’d been using before I left were piled on the coffee table, next to the CDs I’d bought but not yet played. I couldn’t resist sitting down at my desk. I looked at the photographs of my children at various ages. I knew where everything was, though my hands were bigger and my arms longer than before. The ink in my favourite fountain pen still flowed. I wrote a few words and shoved the paper in my pocket. I had to tear myself away.

When I returned, I sat beside Margot and poured the tea. I glanced at the wedding ring I’d bought her and said, ‘Where are you from?’

‘Me? You’re asking me?’ she said. ‘Do you want to know?’

‘Why not?’

‘No one’s much interested in women of my age.’

When she told me where she was born, and a little about her parents, I asked other questions about her early life and upbringing. I followed what occurred to me, listening and prompting.

I had heard some of this before, in the years when we were getting to know each other. I had not, though, asked her about it for a long time. How many times can you have the ‘same’ conversation? But the past was no more inert than the present: there were different tones, angles, details. She mentioned people I’d never heard of; she talked about a lover she’d cared for more than she’d previously admitted.

Her story made more sense to me now, or I was able to let more of it in. We drank tea and wine. She was stimulated by my interest, and amazed by how much there was to tell. She wanted to speak; I wanted to listen.

I asked only about her life before she met me. When my name arose and she did speak about me a little, I didn’t follow it up. I wish I’d had the guts to listen to every word — my life judged by my wife, a summing-up. But it would have disturbed me too much.

How she moved me! Listening to her didn’t tell me why I loved her, only that I did love her. I wanted to offer her all that I’d neglected to give in the past few years. How withdrawn and insulated I’d been! It would be different when I returned as myself.

Two hours passed. At last, I said, ‘Now, I really must get going. I should let you get on.’

‘What about you?’ she said. She was shaking her head. ‘I feel as though I’m coming round from a dream. What have we been doing together?’

I went over to the table on which sat a music system and a pile of CDs.

‘Can I play a tune?’

She said, ‘Oh, tell me, why did you ask me all those questions?’

‘Did they bother you?’

‘No, the opposite. They stimulated me… they made me think …’

‘I’m interested in the past. I am thinking of becoming a medieval historian.’

‘Oh. Very good.’ She added, ‘But what you asked was personal, not historical. You are a curious young man, indeed.’

‘Something happened to me,’ I said. ‘I was changed by something. I …’

She waited for me to continue, but I stopped myself. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than a secret, sometimes there’s nothing worse than the truth.

She said, ‘What happened?’

‘No. My girlfriend is waiting for me down the street.’

I put on my wife’s favourite record. I kissed her hands and felt her body against mine as we danced. I knew where to put my hands. In my mind, her shape fitted mine. I didn’t want it to end. Her face was eternity enough for me. Her lips brushed mine and her breath went into my body. For a second, I kissed her. Her eyes followed mine, but I could not look at her. If I was surprised by the seducibility of my wife, I was also shocked by how forgettable, or how disposable, I seemed to be. For years, as children, our parents have us believe they could not live without us. This necessity, however, never applies in the same way again, though perhaps we cannot stop looking for it.

At the door, my wife said, ‘Will you come for tea again?’

‘I know where you are,’ I replied. ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘We could go to an exhibition.’

‘Yes.’

I said goodbye, and reluctantly left my own house. Margot had placed a bag of rubbish outside the front door, ready to be taken to the dustbins. I was annoyed my boy hadn’t done it; he must have had his hands full, carrying my laptop.

I took the rubbish round to the side of the house. From where I stood, through a hole in the fence, I could see the street. There was a car double-parked on the other side of the road, with two men in it. It was a narrow street and irritable drivers were backed up behind the car. Why didn’t they move on? Because the men in the car were watching the house.

I slipped out of the front gate and headed up the road, away from them. It was true: they were following me. I went into my usual paper shop. Outside, the men were waiting in the car. When I continued on my way, they followed me. Who were these men who followed other men?

I knew the streets. Under the railway line, beside the bus garage, was a narrow alleyway through which, years ago, I’d walked the children to school. I turned into it and ran; they couldn’t follow me in the car.

Of course, they wanted me badly and were waiting at the top of the alley. This wasn’t the death I wanted. I walked quickly. Further down the street the three of them got out of the car and stood around me. Their faces were close; I could smell their aftershave. There were a lot of people on the street.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘You’ll find out.’

Another of them murmured, ‘I’ve got a gun.’

One of them had put his hand on my arm. It riled me; I don’t like being held against my will. Yet I gained confidence; the gun, if it was really a gun, had helped me. I didn’t believe they’d shoot me. The last thing they’d want to do was blow up my body.

I started to shout, ‘Help me! Help me!’

As people turned to look, the men tried to pull me into the car, but I kicked and hit out. I heard a police siren. One of the men panicked. People were looking. I was away, and running through the closely packed market stalls. The three of them weren’t going to chase me with guns through the crowd on market day.