Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

‘You know one another.’

He said, ‘After a certain age everything happens under the sign of eternity, which is probably the best way to do things. I haven’t got time now, for vacillation.’

‘But you are feeble,’ she said. ‘You don’t fight for yourself. You let people push you around.’

‘Who?’

‘Me. Anthony. Your wife. You were always afraid of her.’

‘That is true,’ he said. ‘I cannot stop wanting to rely on the kindness of others.’

‘You can’t survive on only that.’ She was not looking at him. ‘Your weakness confuses people.’

‘I’m not a fantasy, but a wretched human with weaknesses — and some strengths — like everyone else. But I want to be with you. That I am certain of.’ He paid the bill. ‘I need to go for a walk,’ he said. ‘I want to think about what I’m going to say to Anthony. I’ll see you at the apartment later.’

She took his hand. ‘It would be a shame if your intelligence and wit … if your ideas went to waste. Now kiss me.’

He went out, leaving her with her notebook. He walked about aimlessly in the cold. Soon he was in the café where he was to meet Anthony, an hour before he was due, drinking beer and coffee.

He thought that Anthony would understand the difficulties one might have with a woman. But as a business partner, Ian was not certain that Anthony would be patient. Ian had behaved recklessly; madly even. Anthony had less use for him now. If Ian had jettisoned his own wife, Anthony might do the same to him.

From inside the café Ian saw Anthony’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes. After sending the car away, Anthony checked his hair and brushed himself down. He had a young woman with him, to whom he was giving instructions. She would be his new assistant. Leaving her walking up and down the pavement making calls, Anthony came in.

He was wearing a well-cut dark suit; his hair had been dyed. Anthony was tall and skinny; he drank little. Apart from confusion and an inability to get along with women, he had few vices. Ian had attempted to introduce him to a few. After Anthony’s first Ecstasy pill (provided by Ian, who got them from his postman) they took drugs — mostly Ecstasy, along with cocaine, to keep them up; and cannabis, to bring them down — for a year, which was how long it took them to realise that they couldn’t resurrect the pleas ure they’d had on the first night. Ian now took only tranquillisers.

‘Where is she?’ Anthony asked, looking about. ‘How does she look?’

‘She’s at the apartment. She looks splendid. Only … I told her about Jane.’

Anthony sat down and ordered an omelette. ‘A bloody blackmailing nuisance,’ he murmured.

Ian said, ‘It was making me mad, the fear of telling her. Can you tell me how Jane is?’

He had asked Anthony to look into it. Anthony would know how to find out.

Anthony said, ‘There’s nothing physically wrong with her. Of course, she’s distressed and depressed, but she will survive that. She’s coming out of hospital today.’

‘Do you think I should go and see her?’

‘I don’t know.’

Ian said, ‘Consciousness is proving a little tenacious at the moment. Where are my tranquillisers?’

‘I told the quack they were for me. He wouldn’t give me any. Said I’m tranquil enough.’

‘So you didn’t bring any?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Anthony.’

Anthony opened his briefcase and took out a gadget, a little computer, clearing a space for it on the table. ‘Listen —’ He was busy. Ian’s recent slow pace wasn’t Anthony’s. ‘I need your advice about a director I — we — might use. I think you know him.’

While Ian gave his opinion Anthony typed, rather inaccurately, it seemed to Ian; Anthony’s fingers seemed too fat for the keys. It was a machine Ian knew he would never understand, just as his mother had decided it was too late to bother with videos and computers. Still, Ian wondered whether he was really the fool he liked to take himself for. His ideas weren’t so bad.

He and Anthony switched subjects quickly, as Ian liked to, to football. Ian hadn’t been getting the English papers; he wanted the results. Anthony said he’d been to Stamford Bridge to watch Manchester United play Chelsea.

‘I’m assuming you want to make me jealous,’ Ian said.

‘Why don’t you come next time?’

‘It’s true, I miss London.’

When he could not sleep, Ian liked to imagine he was being driven in a taxi through London. The route took him through the West End and Trafalgar Square, down the Mall, past Buckingham Palace — with Green Park, lit like a grotto, on the right; through the perils of Hyde Park Corner, then past the Minema (showing an obscure Spanish film), and the windows of Harvey Nichols. If you did not know it, what a liberal and individual place you would think London was! He was becoming tired of the deprivations of this little exile.

He started to wonder whether Marina was asleep, or walking in Paris. It occurred to him that she might have left and gone back to London. He wondered if this was a wish on his part, to end his anxiety at last. But he knew it was not what he wanted. He felt like rushing to the apartment to reassure her.

Ian asked, ‘How’s the American project?’

‘Shooting in the summer.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. It wasn’t difficult getting the money, as I told you.’

He felt patronised by Anthony, but he was at ease with him too.

Ian said, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t make those films I liked.’

‘You were breaking up. Then you weren’t around. Why don’t you do them now? There’s money for development.’

‘Marina and I haven’t got anywhere to live.’

Anthony waved out of the window at his assistant, still walking up and down.

‘She’ll find you a flat. If you come back to London I’ll put you in a hotel from tomorrow and there’ll be an apartment from Monday. Right?’ Ian said nothing. Anthony said, ‘You did the right thing by leaving — leaving Jane, and then leaving London.’

‘Jane kept saying I didn’t try hard enough. It’s certainly true that I was … preoccupied elsewhere, some of the time. But I was with her for six years.’

‘Long enough, surely, to know whether you want to be with someone. You’ve done it. It’s over. You’re free,’ Anthony said.

Ian liked the way Anthony made it seem straightforward.

‘I’m full of regret,’ Ian said, ‘for how unhappy I’ve been so much of the time.’

Anthony sighed. ‘You can’t hold on to that unhappiness for ever.’

Ian said, ‘No. I’ve come to believe in romantic love, too. I feel a fool having fallen for the idea. What’s wrong with sublimation? Rather a Rembrandt than a wank, don’t you think?’

‘Why not sublimation as well as copulation?’ said Anthony. ‘Look at Picasso.’ He leaned across the table. ‘How is it with Marina?’

‘It’s the ordeal of my life. Cold turkey, psychosis and death — all at once. I’ve been trying to understand something about myself… and what I might be able to do. I’m clearer now. I don’t want to give up.’

‘Why should you? You only have to look at her to see how passionate she is about you. It’s funny how blind one can be to such obvious things. Ian, there’s a lot happening in the company. I’d like it if you came back. Soon. Monday, say.’ Anthony was looking at him. ‘What do you think?’

‘You really need to know?’

‘Yes.’

Ian realised he hadn’t talked to Marina about it. Only rarely did he ask her advice. He was used to doing everything alone. If he could solicit her help, if he could learn to turn to her, maybe she would feel more involved. Perhaps love was an exchange of problems.