Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

‘Oh, would you?’ she said. ‘You’ve been so marvellous, have you, you miserable little git!’

‘Fuck you,’ he told his mother. ‘Fuck off.’

‘You’re terrible,’ she said. ‘Picking an old woman to pieces the day she visits her husband’s grave. I’ve always loved you,’ she said.

‘It was no use to me. You never listened and you never talked to me.’

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I spoke to you, but I couldn’t say it. I cared, but I couldn’t show it. I’ve forgotten why. Can’t you forget all that?’

‘No. It won’t leave me alone.’

‘Just forget it,’ she said, her face creasing in anguish. ‘Forget everything!’

‘Oh, Mother, that’s no good. Nothing is forgotten, even you know that.’

‘Father took me to Venice, and now I want to go again. Before it’s too late — before they have to carry me wheelchair over the Wotsit of Cries.’

‘You’ll go alone?’

‘You won’t take me —’

‘I wouldn’t walk across the road with you’, he said, ‘if I could help it. I can’t stand the sight of you.’

She closed her eyes. ‘No, well … I’ll go with the other old girls.’

He said, ‘You want me to pay for you?’

‘I thought you wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘I might meet a nice chap! A young man! I could get off! I’m a game old bird in me old age!’

She started to cackle.

*

‘Like what?’ Heather asked. ‘What educational ideas are no good?’

‘I think I have believed that if I waited, if I sat quietly at the table, without making a noise or movement — being good — the dish of life would be presented to me.’

He should have added: people want to believe in unconditional love, that once someone has fallen in love with you, their devotion will continue, whether you spend the rest of your life lying on the sofa drinking beer or not. But why should they? If love was not something that could be worked up, it had to be kept alive.

*

Mother said, ‘Children are selfish creatures. Only interested in themselves. You get sick of them. You bloody hate them, screaming, whining, no gratitude. And that’s about it!’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s true. But it’s not the whole story!’

*

The restaurant was almost empty, with a wide window overlooking the street.

Mother drank wine and ate spare ribs with her fingers. The wine reddened her face; her lips, chin and hands became greasy.

‘It’s so lovely, the two of us,’ she said. ‘You were such an affectionate little boy, following me around everywhere. You became quite rough, playing football in the garden and smashing the plants and bushes.’

‘All children are affectionate,’ he said. ‘I’m fed up with it, Mother.’

‘What are you fed up with now?’ she said, as if his complaints would never cease.

‘My job. I feel I’m in a cult there.’

‘A cult? What are you talking about?’

‘The bosses have made themselves into little gods. I am a little god, to some people. Can you believe it? I walk in, people tremble. I could ruin their lives in a moment —’

‘A cult?’ she said, wiping her mouth and dipping her fingers in a bowl of water. ‘Those things they have in America?’

‘It’s like that, but not exactly. It is a cheerleader culture. There are cynics about, but they are all alcoholics. What the bosses want is to display ridiculous little statuettes on their shelves. They want to be written about by other journalists — the little praise of nobodies. Mother, I’m telling you, it’s Nazi and it’s a slave ideology.’

He was shaking; he had become overenthusiastic.

He said, more mildly, ‘Still, work — it’s the same for everyone. Even the Prime Minister must sometimes think, first thing in the morning —’

‘Oh, don’t do it,’ she said. ‘Just don’t.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t understand. Alexandra and the kids wouldn’t like it if I suddenly decided to leave for Thailand. I have four people to support.’

‘You don’t support me,’ she said.

‘Certainly not.’

‘That’s your revenge, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excuse me for saying so, dear. We’re both getting on now. You could drop dead any minute. You’ve been sweating all day. Your face is damp. Is your heart all right?’

She touched his forehead with her napkin.

‘My friend Gerald had a heart attack last month,’ he said.

‘No. Your dad, bless him, retired, and then he was gone. What would your wife and the kids do then?’

‘Thank you, Mother. What I’m afraid of is that I will just walk out of my job or insult someone or go crazy like those gunmen who blaze away at strangers.’

‘You’d be on the news instead of behind it.’ She was enjoying herself. ‘You’d be better off on your own, like me. I’ve got no one bothering me. Peace! I can do what I want.’

‘I want to be bothered by others. It’s called living.’ He went on, ‘Maybe I feel like this because I’ve been away for a week. I’ll go in on Monday and find I don’t have these worries.’

‘You will,’ she said. ‘Once a worry starts —’

‘You’d know about that. But what can I do?’

‘Talk to Alexandra about it. If she’s getting all free and confident about herself, why can’t you?’

‘Yes, perhaps she can support me now.’

*

They were about to order pudding when a motorcyclist buzzed down the street in front of them, turned left into a side street, hit a car, and flew into the air.

The waiters ran to the window. A crowd gathered; a doctor forced his way through. An ambulance arrived. The motorcyclist lay on the ground a long time. At last, he was strapped onto a stretcher and carried to the ambulance, which only travelled a few yards before turning off its blue light and klaxon.

‘That’s his life done,’ said Mother. ‘Cheerio.’

The ruined motorcycle was pushed onto the pavement. The debris was swept up. The traffic resumed.

Harry and Mother put down their knives and forks.

‘Even I can’t eat any more,’ she said.

‘Nor me.’

He asked for the bill.

*

He parked outside the house and walked her to the door.

She made her milky tea. With a plate of chocolate biscuits beside her, she took her seat in front of the television.

The television was talking at her. She would sit there until bedtime.

He kissed her.

‘Goodbye, dear.’ She dipped her biscuit in her tea. ‘Thank you for a lovely day.’

‘What are you going to do now? Nothing?’

‘Have a little rest. It’s not much of a life, is it?’

He noticed a travel agent’s brochure on the table.

He said, ‘I’ll send you a cheque, shall I, for the Venice trip?’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘When will you be going?’

‘As soon as possible. There’s nothing to keep me here.’

*

While Heather was at home, Alexandra rang, but Harry didn’t say she was there. It was part of what a man sometimes did, he thought, to be a buffer between the children and their mother.

In the morning, before she left, Heather said she wanted him to listen to a poem she had written.

He listened, trying not to weep. He could hear the love in it.

Heather had come to cheer him up, to make him feel that his love worked, that it could make her feel better.

*

After Alexandra had rung from the beach, Harry rang Gerald and told him about the ‘imaging’, about the ‘visualisation’, the ‘healing’, the whole thing. Gerald, convalescing, took his call.

‘I used to know a psychoanalyst,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve always fancied talking about myself for a long time to someone. But it’s not what the chaps do. It’s good business, though, people buying into their own pasts — if Alexandra can think like that. Before, women wanted to be nurses. Now, they want to be therapists.’